#anxious people paperback

[corroded-hellfire]

Prompt Day 4: Eddie

Word Count: 994

Rating: G

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

CW: Language

Summary: A collection of Eddie's reaction to different parts of the book A Court of Thorns and Roses. Inspired by those wives who filmed their husbands' reactions to the books and provided me with hours of entertainment.

@corrodedcoffinfest

A sigh and the closing of a book has you looking away from your own book and over at your husband on the other end of the couch. Your eyes dip down to Eddie’s lap where your copy of A Court of Thorns and Roses lays shut. A look back up at Eddie’s face, staring towards the carpet while in thought, gives you no further clues as to why he has stopped reading.

“What’s up, Eds?” you ask.

He lets out another sigh and drops his hands to the cover of the paperback that’s balancing on his thighs. 

“What the actual fuck?” he starts off. “Feyre kills a wolf—because apparently, she’s the only one supporting her family! So, it’s some faerie wolf and it’s supposed to be a life for a life kind of thing? But then this fucking creature busts down the door all viciously and then is like, ‘nah I’ll just have you come live with me instead.’ What?”

As hard as you try to contain your amusement, a small giggle slips out. You tilt your head as you look at your husband, confusion creased on his forehead.

“You haven’t seen anything yet, babe.”

“This book has some weird as shit names for creatures,” is how Eddie greets you when you step into the bedroom, just out of the shower with a towel wrapped around you. 

“Says the Dungeon Master,” you tease as you walk towards your dresser. “There are no demogorgons in that book.”

“No,” Eddie counters, “just the Suriel. Nagas. The Spring Court is a goddamn death trap! And that’s even before we met this other guy who I just know is gonna cause chaos in some way later. Rhysand. Dude seems dark and I can’t say I hate it.”

You focus on keeping your jaw clenched tightly as you change into one of Eddie’s old t-shirts. If this was the other way around, Eddie would’ve already slipped up and spoiled something as big as Rhys’s role in the series, but you knew watching this all unfold before you would be well worth it.

“Feyre is getting all the feels for Tamlin, too.” Eddie looks over and gives you a cheesy grin. “Is that how you felt about me when we first met?”

“No,” you say with an over dramatic sigh. “Maybe you should’ve barged into my home and whisked me away to a magical escape room and I would’ve. But you missed your chance.”

You sit down on the couch after dinner and it’s not thirty seconds before your husband has his head in your lap and gazes at you with those doe brown eyes. 

“Hello to you, too,” you say, immediately reaching down to play with his hair. 

“Lucien is a cool dude,” Eddie says. “I like him a lot. I hope he doesn’t die.”

“You’ll just have to keep reading to find out,” you tease. 

Eddie raises his arm in the air and it’s the first time you notice he has the book in his hand.

“Gonna start now,” he says. “I think some shit’s about to go down.”

It’s impossible not to watch Eddie’s face as he finishes up reading the first book. The man has always been one of the most expressive people you know and that includes while reading as well. His facial expressions provide grade A entertainment. 

Finally, Eddie closes the book and drops it on the couch cushion beside him. He releases a long breath, followed by an even longer inhale. 

“So Rhys did have reasons,” he starts, nodding his head as he speaks. “He wasn’t just the asshole we were led to believe he was. I actually think I like him the best. Tamlin’s alright and I do like Lucien a lot. But I felt more of a connection with Rhys.”

You listen to him, a smile on your face. The whole time he’s been reading the book you’ve been anxious to see what he’ll think of the end.

“A lot happens, doesn’t it?” you ask.

“Hits the ground running,” Eddie agrees. “Feyre’s tests were brutal. That worm maze was badass though! And I’m glad Amarantha is dead. God, what a bitch.”

“What part were you reading where your nostrils were flaring?” you ask with a giggle. “You looked pissed.”

Eddie thinks for a moment, then his head lifts and he snaps his fingers.

“That was when, ugh,” Eddie pauses, an irritated groan rumbling from his chest, “when Tamlin doesn’t do a fucking thing to help Feyre! Holy shit. Just sits there on the throne except when he gets to make out with her. Jesus Christ. If that were you, I would’ve been out of that goddamn seat and taking anyone down I had to to keep you safe.”

His impassioned words make your heart flutter.

“My High Lord,” you coo.

Your husband seems to like that, a smirk growing on his face as he noticeably looks you up and down.

“You know,” Eddie drawls. “I do have those pointed Elven ears. They could definitely be fae ears.”

Slowly, you push yourself up out of your chair and saunter over to the couch. Eddie leans back as you climb into his lap, straddling his thighs. 

“Eddie Munson, High Lord of the Hellfire Court,” you say, wrapping your arms around your husband’s neck. 

“Mmm,” Eddie hums, angling his head down to press a few kisses along your throat. “Maybe then you could wear the ears and be my Feyre, let me cover your body in paint.”

“Technically she was still a human at that point so she wouldn’t have the pointed ears,” you say softly into his ear. 

Eddie’s fingers dig into your sides, tickling you until a shriek squeaks from your lips.

“Had to ruin the moment with your nerd knowledge, huh?” Eddie asks with a playful smirk. 

A smug grin lights up your face as you answer him.

“About time you got a taste of your own medicine, Munson.”

[writeintrees]

I’m in an Anthology!

I can finally announce my contribution to Trans & Disabled: An Anthology of Identities & Experiences! This collection was compiled and edited by Alex Iantaffi and contains many beautiful and varied works.

My story is called “A Love Story” by Milo Cooper. I enjoy how the meaning of the words changes as the story continues, so I’m choosing not to explain exactly what it’s about. Its tone is hopeful and yearning.

The anthology can currently be found in a few places. The paperback can be bought directly from Jessica Kingsley Publishers, the paperback and (weirdly expensive) ebook from Barnes and Noble, the paperback from many shops i’ve never heard of like Femme Fire Books/Roscoe Books/Magers & Quinn Booksellers/Better World Books, and the paperback and kindle versions are on Amazon. Rather than buy from Amazon, I prefer to ask for my local bookstore to order a book for me. They need the money much more than a huge company does. An audiobook will be recorded soonish.

!!!! I am excited and anxious in equal parts; this story is vulnerable and was initially written in 2019 on a night where painsomnia was really getting to me. I hope people feel hopeful because of and seen by this anthology!

[lemon-russ]

So I've been writing a Cato x OC thing that was just a dumb thing I was having fun with, and decided to share with the class. I will note this is the result of listening to a lot of olde timey emo pop punk and wanting to make an OC that is not perfect. Or good. She's a train wreck. Also this is 40k. And prob not incredibly lore accurate in places but I got excited about hive cities and tried.

Anyway big ol warning on this that it is not supposed to be smut (but I can't control the winds if it works it works) and is 100% just me listening to angsty music and wanting to write someone in shitty situations. So going to be a bit more on serious and bleaker side. Also, Yes the OC is the same one from wolf mother but slightly altered, I am lazy and like this one. Idk why I feel I need to defend myself for pretty clean grimdark fanfic when I normally write tropey smut but here we are lol

Thanks @squishyowl for the dividers! Taglist: @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye

Letting People Down Is My Thing (Ch. 1)

|ch.1| Next> Ao3

Song: Just One Yesterday - Fall Out Boy (a lot of this is going to be heavy on old FOB I'm not sorry)

Cato x Fem OC

CW: Drugs, Alcohol, PTSD/ Trauma, General dourness (will have others as it goes please check CW every time!)

Summary: Ex-Imperial Guard captain Wren Vaille gets a summons to meet with Guilliman out of the blue.

Word count: 2,451

Wren trudged through the cluttered, cramped roads of the hive city. She lit up something- she wasn’t entirely sure what but it was in her pocket- and took a drag, shoving her hands in her pockets and shuffling around the rowdy denizens of the street.

Whatever it was, it took the edge off her anxious mind for a minute. She let out a long smokey breath and found her way to a tiny door in an alley, unable to fully open without hitting the building next to it. She squeezed in, pulling it closed hard behind her. It didnt fully close, but nothing in the hive city of the outer palace worked right anyways. She scootched around her neighbor, in her usual place sitting on the floor and blocking the tiny hall.

“Can I get a drag of that?” The old woman croaked as Wren stepped over her. She rolled her eyes, “Don't you have your own?” She grumbled, scooting to her door and entering the passcode on the datapad next to it.

“Still could use a drag.” The old woman mumbled, but pulled something out of her own pocket to smoke anyways. Wren sighed and hipchecked her door to get it open.

She kicked it closed and rearmed the locks, clicking on the light to her tiny, windowless home. Her bed was shoved to the wall, blocked in by her food cabinet. What once was a closet now served as a small bathroom, and took up the area at the foot of the bed, jutting out in a small square. The little free space outside of that had a small table and a rickety chair.

All things considered, a pretty nice place for living in the outer palace hive city. Benefits of a good military savings and some greased palms.

She ashed her mystery roll in a broken cup on the table, smothering it for later. She crawled on her bed and kicked back, grabbing a packet of soylen viridian and tearing it open with her teeth. She ate the goop, squeezing it out of the pouch, and dug her newest acquirement out of her ratty coat pocket- a paperback book on bionics repair. She settled back, kicking her bionic leg up on the counter while she started reading.

The light flickered, and she groaned. Power outages were common in this part of the city. Surely enough, her little lightbulb flickered off. She sighed and pulled a lighter out to light her way to the switch and turn it off- she'd get charged for the power connection even when it went out if she left the connection on.

She flicked her lighter closed, laying back on her bed and sighing, staring at the black ceiling. The only light came from the small glowing indicators on her whirring leg. The blinking green illuminated her little hovel dimly, just enough to make out the shapes of her garbage packed shelves.

In the hall, there was a noise from the old woman. “Watch where you're goin!” She grumbled at someone.

“Don't sit in the hall in the dark then-” the stranger’s voice snapped back before they knocked on Wren's door.

She frowned, freezing, hoping they would go away if she seemed like she wasn’t home.

“Wren Vaille?” They said, knocking more. “Message for Wren Vaille.”

She grimaced. On one hand, this was a pretty common scam, get someone to open their door and rob them. On the other hand, she was curious.

She sighed, scooting over the bed and feeling her way the couple steps to the door. “From who?” She called.

“It's got the Imperial seal- I'm not ‘sposed to open it. Gotta get your signature too.”

She groaned. “Fine. Don't try anything though.” She grumbled, fumbling her hand over a small shelf and taking the knife she had there. She held it in the non visible hand and opened her door.

The messenger looked tired and bored. He carried a small lamp for light, likely used to working in blackouts. He handed her a thick, wax sealed envelope. Her brow raised, and she took it and signed off on his paper.

“’Sposed to tell you you got a transport ticket in there for tomorrow. Someone wants to see you in the inner palace.” he adds, turning to leave.

She frowned and looked at the letter. She closed the door and flicked her lighter open again to read it. Sure enough, it had an imperial seal- specifically, and Ultramarines seal.

She grimaced and cracked the wax.

His lord Guilliman, Lord Reagent, requests your audience while his visits the inner imperial city. Enclosed are instructions and passage tickets for the meeting. Please pack for an extended stay away.

She reread it a few times, then inspected the tickets and passport papers. They seemed real. But why was the primarch of the Ultramarines reaching out to an Ex-Guard captain?

She let out a sigh, head falling back. She felt her way to the table and relit the mystery roll, the dim glow of the embers dancing in the dark of her powerless apartment.

She just got settled here, and now she was pretty sure whatever she was getting called for was going to mean her place would be considered abandoned and reassigned. She flopped back on her bed, what she was pretty sure now was an obscura laced lho-stick hanging from her mouth, and tossed the papers on the counter. Every time she started to settle in, something had to come rattle her cage again.

____________________________________

The next morning she wore her old Guard pack, stuffed full of what little she cared about that was also not illegal to own. The rest of her belongings, the things too illicit and cubersome, were packed away in her little hidey-hole safe she had in the back of an abandoned factory building. She'd found the small lockable room spelunking collapsed hive one day, and now used it as storage.

She waited at the station for the rail transport, taking a quick swig from her small flask to fight off the hangover of whatever she was smoking yesterday. She read over the papers again. Everything checked out. She was to take the rail to a landing pad, where a thunderhawk would fly her to wherever it was Guilliman wanted to meet her at.

What it didn’t include was why.

She assumed nothing good. Rather, nothing good for her. She wasn't in trouble, they'd have simply arrested her. But she was in trouble, as in, they were going to put her in the way of trouble, or they wouldn’t be going through all this.

The rail ride was crowded and bumpy, but she made it to the ship bay in one piece.

As she approached, a few serfs in ultramarine clothes greeted her, checking her papers and ushering her onto the ship.

She settled into a seat in the cargo area, strapping herself in well. Last time she'd been in one of these had been a little too eventful, but she doubted ‘scared of flying’ would count as a reason to blow off a primarch.

She ran a hand through her short hair nervously, sneaking another sip from her flask. A nearby serf gave her a judging look and Wren returned it with a what are you looking at scowl, making the serf huff and turn away. Wren took another swig just to annoy the serf.

The turbulence of the thunderhawk taking off was thankfully dulled enough by her drink that she could focus on other things and not panic while they flew.

When they landed again, now in a part of the Imperial palace where the sky was visible and there was still gold on the walls, she walked quickly out of the ship on shaky legs, heading to a banister and leaning over it while taking deep breaths. She lit up a lho-stick and took a few deep pulls, letting her head fall back as she tried to relax the shaking.

The serfs gave her looks as they went about unpacking the thunderhawk. Wren didn't care. She hated flying.

“Wren?” A familiar voice broke her from her trance, and she whirled around.

She dropped her lho-stick, color draining from her face. “…Cato.” She rasped, swallowing with a suddenly dry throat. She stood a bit straighter, hands finding her pockets nervously. “It's been… a while.” She says, clearing her throat.

He looked at her in shock, eyeing her up and down with a look of mixed surprise and disgust.

“What the hell happened to you?” He asked.

She frowned. “What do you mean? I had a bomb dropped on me.“ she retorted, bristling a bit.

He snapped his mouth closed, frowning in return. “You know I didn't mean that. I was there for that part. I mean-” he gestured up and down at her. “This. You look like you lost half your weight.” He grimaced. “And you reek of smoke and booze.”

She scowled back at him. “Gee, great to see you too.” She grumbled.

Cato rolled his eyes. “Please, don't pretend you don't know you look insane. What happened to your hair?”

She frowned, running her hand through her short hair. “Ok, now youre just being mean. I thought this was a good look.” She huffed, shaking out her hair as it fell over her eyes a bit.

He sighed. “Lets get you into clothes that don’t stink of… whatever you've been doing. And a shower, before we meet with Guilliman.”

_________________________

She was left to go change and shower in the communal showers for serfs, and is given a new uniform to wear. She would have asked why a retired captain is getting a uniform, but she understood what was happening here. Though the uniform did not have any of the patches or badges that would indicate a rank, so at least they didn't outright want to force her to be a captain again. It did seem however, she was being brought back to the Imperial Guard in at least some manner.

She toweled her hair, and dressed, then awkwardly met Cato back in the hall.

He eyed her over, grimacing. “I'd say better, but somehow you look worse in nice clothes. The contrast, I think.”

She scowled. “Can you lay off? I don't look that bad, you just haven't seen me in a few years.” She huffed.

He started leading her down the hall. “Okay, but a couple years doesn't account for looking like an obscura addled zombie.” He said.

Wren groaned. “Glad to see you're as pleasant as ever. What am I here for anyways? And why did the send you? Surely they know our, you know, history.” She grumbled.

Cato huffed. “Guilliman's been looking for someone good with strategy and diplomacy. There's a few planets we're in a stalemate with. We want their workforce to maintain the farms and mines, and they're being difficult, but not so bad that we want to just go in and raze it.” He explained.

She stopped, mouth twisting and brow scrunching in confusion. “Wait, what? Then what the hell am I doing here?”

He stopped and turned back to her with a tight frown. “You're here, because I reccomend you.”

Her brow shot to her hairline. “Why? I'm not a diplomat, and, well, I don't think we were on… get each other jobs terms?”

He kept his composure. “Because I know you're good at de-escalating fights like you were in the Guard, and I knew you probably had nothing else going on.” He said, turning to walk again.

She frowned and jogged a bit to keep up with his long strides. “You don't know that- I have a ton going on. You're actually really interrupting my routine-” she protests, and almost runs into his back as he stops dead.

He turns back to her, looking unamused. “Uh huh. You have a flourishing carreer in the lower cities then?”

She pursed her lips. “Maybe I do, you don't know.”

He sighed, and reached his hand to her waist, slipping between the buttons of her jacket.

“H-hey-!” She startled, but he slipped his hand further under her jacket of her uniform and returned it with her flask dangling between his finger and thumb.

“I think I can guess what you do all day, Vaille.” He said tiredly, tossing the container in a waste chute.

“HEY-!” She squeaked, scrambling for the chute. It was too late, her amasec was already probably a half mile down the hivecity trash network.

Cato sighed. “Please, have a little dignity Wren. Scrambling after booze like a starved rat.” He chided, making her huff and blush, stomping back to him.

“You can't just throw out my shit!” She snapped. He rolled his eyes.

“And you're not supposed to have alcohol or drugs inside the palace proper.” He said dryly, looking at her with disappointment. “Seriously, what happened to you? Even after your recovery you weren't like… this.” He said bitterly.

Her scowl faltered and she had to look away from his face. “You're being an ass and over exaggerating, like you always do.” She mumbled. She tried to sound stern, but it was hard when she felt the heat climbing her cheeks.

Sure it'd been a rough year. And last year was rough too. But she had plans, she was getting back on her feet. She'd cut back already, and was out doing things in the day now. She was doing just fine- thriving for lower hivecity standards, even.

“Just- lets get this over with so Guilliman can ask if you've lost your mind and I can go home.” She mumbled, continuing down the hall.

Cato sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Right. I'm sure I'll have a lot to explain for after for wasting his time. Emperor forbid I assumed you could hold it together for 3 years…” he replied tiredly as he followed.

[a-big-apple]

ok locked tomb fam, we’re getting closer to october and the original release date for Alecto, and i’ve been seeing an uptick in anxious/aggravated fans in the tags wondering when we’ll get any new info. waiting is very hard, i feel it too, so i wanted to share some things i have gleaned about publishing through a masters degree and a decade of bookselling!

the book is not coming out in october. the marketing would have started months ago if it was—and there’s no way that the final book in a series as on the radar as TLT would have less marketing than the previous books did. the galley isn’t out there yet either, as far as i’ve seen. i think a fall or winter release is extremely unlikely at this point.

book publishing, for the most part, is not willy nilly. marketing has to thread the needle between starting too early (risking losing the attention of the casually interested) and starting too late to build a good buzz. release dates have to take into account what other books are coming out at the same time—not just what Tor is putting out, but likely what their parent company, macmillan, is putting out. i know this is capitalism at work, but this is the system we live in: they don’t want similar or similarly big books in the same company or imprint competing with each other, it can hurt sales all around. 

Tamsyn said in an interview back in december ‘22 that Alecto was written, but editing had not begun yet. editing takes a lot of time, and marketing steps are frequently linked up—announcing a release date hinges on how close the book is to being ready, especially since the original release date is no longer applicable, and getting books ready for print takes a lot of time and a lot of steps!

the biggest times of year for book releases, especially highly anticipated books, are Oct/Nov before holiday shopping starts, and Mar/Apr/May. obviously that’s not true for every book, but this is a big book for Tor, and big books get better spots in the release calendar. if i had to make an educated guess, i would wager Alecto will probably come out in spring ‘24, and we won’t start to see announcements or marketing until after the official release of the Nona paperback on Sept 12. again, this is sales driven: news about Alecto could muddy the waters for the Nona paperback and impede sales, especially since there’s new content in there. i think it’s likely we’ll hear something a little later in the fall.

i’m not as plugged into publishing as i used to be, so i am fully prepared to be wrong about any of this—it’s just assumptions based on what i’ve experienced of the book industry.

either way though, a point i want to make is that nobody at Tor is witholding information from us maliciously. there are a million moving parts in making and marketing a book (and i’m sorry, but huge Hollywood movie releases that are topically resonant but not actually related do not have any effect on publishing schedules). most of those moving parts are human beings: Tamsyn, trying to tie up the series under enormous pressure, still during a pandemic; her editor, who has other books to edit at the same time, and surely wants to do this work justice; Moira Quirk, hopefully, bringing her genius to recording the audiobook; copy editors, designers, marketing people, all of whom are people, many of whom are overworked and underpaid in an industry that is largely not unionized. 

they’re not trying to fuck with us. i understand where these impulses come from, but getting angry, begging, pestering, none of that is going to change the plain fact that you can’t market a book until you have an almost-ready book, and Alecto is one that Tor will want to put the best tactics and timing behind. be patient a little longer. fuck corporations and capitalism, but have empathy for the individuals who will put Alecto in our hands from within a very flawed system. Tor has a long and successful history in speculative fiction publishing, they know what they’re doing.

[notjustjavierpena]

WIP tag!

Thanks for the first tag in a long time @yxtkiwiyxt ! I really want to do more of these but I forget so easily or get anxious about tagging people 😭

RULES: Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!

Pft! I love you too much to follow the rules and regulations. Here are three snippets. I am working on three pieces of writing these days out of 28 WIPs:

Dark Sugardaddy!joel:

Joel arrives home a few hours later. You wake up from the sound of his car crunching the gravel of his driveway, announcing his arrival like an impending hurricane that has consciousness to be merciful but only if it likes. You imagine the scene in your head; the sight of the car coming to a jarring halt, the door being opened and a single foot hitting the solid ground. 

Husband!javi:

You spot small pieces of who he is everywhere; a stack of sociology books, paperback horror books with titles in both English and Spanish. The most worn down and loved one is El Resplandor which you guess to be The Shining. There’s also a corkboard on the wall with ticket stubs and polaroids, a framed photograph on the desk that you haven’t had the courage or chance to look at yet, beside it a figurine of La Virgen de Guadalupe that’s been tipped over in what seems to be frustration. Your smile drops a little as you feel the weight of the unfairness he must have felt. 

Bfd!joel (Swelter):

You lift your legs to rest them on the dashboard, crossing your ankles and rolling the seat back to get comfortable but Joel gives you less than ten seconds before he makes a sound of disapproval.  “No,” he simply says, nodding towards your feet in the window without taking his eyes off of the road.  “I’m not a dog,” you huff but still plant your feet on the floor once again anyway.  “Woof,” he retorts with a smirk. 

Tags (no pressure obviously): @smok3r7 @pedroshotwifey @mermaidgirl30 @endlessthxxghts @beskarandblasters @morallyinept @5oh5

[cranberrymoons]

backseat love affair

prompt: high school or college au (@steddieholidaydrabbles) word count: 1,000 exactly, according to wordcounter.net 😭 (one thing about me, you give me an upper limit of a thousand words, i will make sure i get there) rating: e (18+) cw: good old fashioned fuckin' in the backseat (semi-public sex) tags: flirting, car sex, riding

[read on ao3 or below]

They share an American Lit class. That’s how they meet.

They probably never would have met otherwise: it’s a big campus, and they run in different circles, but they do meet, sort of, in the sense that Steve gets distracted during discussion rounds from day one, watching the anxious fidget of the guy’s hands as he makes some point that Steve’s brain doesn’t even have space to process because his thoughts are just one big haze of clunky rings, tight jeans, doe eyes, sharp tongue, long fingers and –

And anyway.

It’s late one night a couple weeks into the semester before Steve sees him outside of class for the first time. It��s a Thursday, and the little corner bar where he bartends three nights a week is packed – like really fucking packed, he’s making money hand over fist even with the shitty single dollar tips people are coughing up – and he turns around after pouring a row of vodka cranberries, and there he is, shouldered in at the end of the bar.

It takes him a second to realize who he is out of context, without the frayed edges of a composition book or a bent paperback in his hands, without the travel mug of sugar-sweet coffee at his elbow. But it’s him, sure as anything: hair pulled on top of his head in the heat of the bar, incomprehensible band tee and a grin of his own overtaking his face as he stares at Steve, eyes traveling up his legs and over his chest.

“I got that one,” he says to Robin, whose turn it technically is. 

She casts a look in the direction of his eyeline as she pulls a beer, then rolls her eyes at him.

“You better not disappear just to suck dick again,” she says, loud enough to be heard over the thump of the bass, which means she’s also loud enough that all the people in their immediate vicinity hear, too. “We’re too busy for that shit tonight.”

“I won’t,” he says, dropping a dish towel over his shoulder. “As if I’d let you take all the tips.”

She gives him a sarcastic smile as she turns away in search of the next person who needs a drink, and Steve moves to the end where the guy is waiting. He bends forward from his side of the bar, leaning toward him with his elbows pressed against the sticky surface of it. He’s technically supposed to just lipread when it’s this loud in here, but –

“Hey,” he says, close to his ear. “Carson’s class, right? I’m Steve.”

“Eddie,” Eddie says. His eyes trail over Steve again, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Cute shorts.”

“Thanks,” Steve laughs. They were a pair of jeans that already made his ass look good even before he turned them into cutoffs. “They help with the tips.” He pops his hip out a little more, leaning into it. “What’ll it be?”

Eddie’s eyes draw back to his face slowly, teeth dragging over his bottom lip. “To drink, or…?”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “For now.”

—

An hour later, he’s on top of Eddie in the backseat of his car, bouncing on his cock with Eddie’s hands digging matching five-point bruises into his hips. His breath comes in a series of short, sharp gasps as Eddie’s hips thrust up to meet his, knocking him forward where he balances himself with a hand braced against the window, slipping down the glass to grip at the armrest on the door.

Eddie tilts his head up and licks into his mouth, hot breath panting out over his lips as he fucks up into him, hard and fast and –

Steve comes on a shout, knuckles clenching as it rolls down his spine, hands shaking as he threads his fingers through the wispy hair at the back of Eddie’s neck and kisses him, drawing his tongue into his mouth as Eddie holds him in place on top of his cock and thrusts up into him, chasing his own release.

The noise he makes as he stiffens and comes almost makes Steve want to go again.

He laughs, loose and boneless in Eddie’s lap, heart still beating wildly in his chest, and then he kisses him again, just because, slow and deep and licking at the backs of his teeth. Eddie chases after his mouth when he draws back, sitting up with him and slipping a hand down his back to press against the base of his spine, holding him close. The change in position shifts Eddie’s cock where it’s still buried inside him, and Steve inhales sharply, smiling against his mouth.

“Fuck,” Eddie gasps when it’s over. “Jesus Christ.”

“I know,” he says, ears ringing from the lingering noise of the bar and also the – “That was…”

“Yeah.” Eddie laughs too, wiping a hand over his face. “Yeah.”

Steve exhales heavily, shifting in his lap to pull off his cock, then he slumps back against the door on the opposite side, their legs overlapping, and they stay there for a long moment as they catch their breath in comfortable silence. At last, reluctantly, Steve takes a breath and says,

“I should get back.”

Eddie smiles, slow and sweet as he watches him fish around for his clothes. “Can I have your number before you go?”

Steve lifts his hips off the seat as he pulls his shorts back on, then tugs his shirt back over his head. He leans forward for another kiss, which draws out, Eddie’s tongue as distracting as all his other little fidgety movements. 

“Tomorrow,” Steve says, finally pulling himself away. “In class.”

—

When he gets back inside, clothes rumpled, red mark high on his throat, Robin glares at him. He laughs, still flushed, still buzzing, and rakes a hand back through his hair.

“I was on my break,” he says. “You can do whatever you want when you're on yours.”

“Whoever I want, more like.”

[sixty-silver-wishes]

Original short story: On the Train

Georgia settled into her seat, her luggage stowed by her feet and a book lying unopened on her lap. It was a paperback romance novel- not the sort she found interesting, but that was why she’d chosen it in the first place. Mysteries and horror novels were all very well, but trains made Georgia anxious, as did any public transport, and a dull, predictable paperback was just what she needed to keep her mind off of things. She glanced at the cover, feeling her face heat up; she should have known better than to have something like this out in public. The picture was ridiculous- a man with plausibly photoedited muscles wearing nothing but a Scottish kilt leaned over a lady in a vaguely Medieval dress, which may have very well been from the discount section at a Halloween store. The title of the book, in flowery pink letters, was Decadence in Dublin- despite, Georgia noted, the Scottish kilt. It was quite an amusing cover, although sitting in the train compartment with nothing but the Photoshopped lovers for company, Georgia felt the opposite of amused.

What if someone came into her train compartment and saw her reading it? What sort of things would they think of her? They’d think she was one of those silly women, she thought, who actually enjoyed paperback romance novels. I’ll have to make a point of not enjoying it, then, she thought, and wondered how to do that without coming across as childishly conceited. Or, worse, suppose one of the sorts of women who did like books like Decadence in Dublin came in, and Georgia would be forced into feigning interest out of politeness. What if they tried to talk to her about it? What then?

Suppose I don’t read it at all, she thought, but then she would have nothing to do but look out the window as the train was moving, and she would much rather subject herself to uninspired romantic drivel than focus on the lurching machinery beneath her, the dizzying blur of the outside world and the faint amalgamated chatter of the people outside the compartment. Sighing, she opened the book to the first page, gearing up to read all about Emerald MacMaureen and her unwilling betrothal to Prince Tobias O’Greenheart. 

It was going to be a very, very long train ride.

As Georgia turned the page, she felt herself shift, and the train slowly pulled away from the station like a lumbering beast. She inhaled sharply, and directed her focus back to the book, but was interrupted once again when she saw her compartment door slide open. Startling, she dropped the romance novel onto her lap, looking to see a young girl standing opposite her.

She couldn’t have been any older than ten or eleven, and appeared to be at that brutal, awkward stage of life where little girls thought all sorts of things about themselves that they ought not to, like whether they were too fat or too skinny or if they needed to wear makeup or if they’d be popular or if the boys liked them or if they were too old to play dress-up or believe in Santa Claus or if they’d ever get married one day or how many children they’d have once they were old enough. Georgia, at least, had all of those thoughts at that age. But the girl didn’t seem like the type to have any of those thoughts cross her mind, not even once. Her teeth were crooked, and her eyes were wild like two trapped fireflies. Dirt smudged her face, and her unicorn t-shirt was stained- with what, Georgia couldn’t tell.

“I’m sitting here,” the girl declared.

Georgia blinked. “I’m sorry?” “I said, I’m sitting here,” she said again. Before Georgia could respond, the girl marched into her compartment and sat down in the seat across from hers. 

Georgia looked down at her book, then at the girl. “Are you with your parents?” she asked.

The girl took out an opened chocolate bar from her pocket, crinkled away some of the wrapper, and noisily bit into it. 

Where are her manners? Georgia thought, watching her lick chocolate off of her fingers. Maybe she didn’t hear me. 

“Are you with your parents?” she repeated.

The girl looked up from the chocolate bar, visibly annoyed. She shoved it back into her pocket, as if Georgia was interrupting a particularly important engagement.

“I’m by myself,” she said.

“By yourself?”

“Duh,” the girl answered. “That’s what I just said.”

“Where are you going? Will you meet them there?”

“I’m not telling,” the girl said. “You’re a stranger.”

Georgia figured she couldn’t blame her for that; despite how confident and brash she seemed, it must have been very scary to be a child traveling alone. Hell, I’m scared to travel alone, she thought, and gripped the romance novel a little tighter.

“I’m sorry,” she attempted. “I was just worried about you; I won’t bother you anymore.”

The girl grinned, displaying gaps in her chocolate-stained teeth. “Course you won’t,” she said. “You never did.”

Georgia wasn’t sure how to respond, so she went back to her book. The girl pulled her chocolate bar back out of her pocket, and continued to gnaw at it. Georgia found herself growing annoyed; the girl’s lips smacked loudly, and the noise from the candy wrapper made it hard to concentrate.

I’m sure she’s not such a bad kid, she tried to reason with herself. It’s a big decision, going by train on your own, especially at that age. That’s not a good age to be at. She peered over her book to the girl once again, who didn’t seem to be paying her any mind. She’d finished the chocolate bar, and was preoccupied with picking at a loose thread from her shirt.

“Fine, I guess I’ll tell you,” the girl said, breaking the silence. “I’m going to my dad’s house. We’re going fishing on the lake for his birthday.” “Oh,” Georgia smiled. “That sounds nice.”

“Then we’re going to the movies,” the girl continued, “and then he’s taking me to the zoo. And then we’re getting dinner and then we’re going to grandma’s and then we’re going to the Civil War memorial and then we’re going to probably go fishing again, and then…” She reached for the chocolate bar again, remembered the empty wrapper, and defeatedly tossed it aside. “And then we’re going back to his house.”

Divorced parents, Georgia thought. Or at least, they live apart, if it’s just her dad. “I hope you’ll have a good time,” she said.

“Yeah,” the girl answered, and began fiddling with her shirt again. She pulled a sequin off the unicorn’s horn, then absentmindedly popped it in her mouth. Georgia averted her eyes once again, back to the romance book.

She’s having a busy week, Georgia thought. But at least she won’t be all alone. Sounds like she’ll have fun.

They passed through a tunnel, and once they were out the other side, the sun shone through the window on the girl’s hair. It was a pretty bright yellow, thick and tangled, the kind that everyone envied but nobody wanted to deal with. The girl chewed the sequin thoughtfully, although it obviously wasn’t a worthy substitute for the chocolate bar.

“I have a question,” she blurted.

Georgia put the book down. “Yes?” The girl smiled at her- the kind of smile a child beams when receiving the birthday gift they’ve begged for all year. A proper bath, a toothbrush, and a comb, and she would have looked downright cherubic. She wiggled impatiently in her seat, looking up at Georgia with her wide, innocuous blue eyes.

“How do you kill a man?”

Georgia felt her jaw drop open, and she blinked several times. The little girl kicked her feet in the air, rocking back and forth on her palms. 

“What did you just say?” Georgia said.

“They always use poison in the movies,” the girl said thoughtfully, “but poison doesn’t seem like a lot of fun. There’s no blood. He has a big toolbox- I could go in there and find a hammer, and I can beat him over the head with it over and over until his head breaks open, and then I can hit his brain with it too, until it’s all mushy- oh! Or maybe, I could find a saw…”

Georgia stared at the girl, dumbfounded and unable to think of what to say.

“I can also break up a bunch of glass,” the girl continued, “reeeeal small so nobody can tell. And then I can mix it in his food so he eats it and gets lots and lots of little cuts on the inside, but he can’t scream because of all the glass in his throat-”

“You don’t mean…” Georgia began, pressed against her seat, “you don’t mean your father, do you?”

The girl gave her a half-guilty, half-incriminating look, like she was accusing Georgia of ruining her fun. “Yeah, I guess so,” she shrugged. “There’s not really anyone else I want to kill.” She may be abused, Georgia thought. It would make sense- her strange behavior, why she was on the train alone, her sudden veer into graphic violence- children could have odd ways of processing horrible things they were too young to understand, and that may have been the explanation to everything.

“Are you…” Georgia paused, figuring she should choose her next words carefully. “Are things… difficult at home? You can talk to me about it; it’s all right. We can find someone to help you if you feel unsafe.”

The girl narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her nose, the side of her lip curling in a mix of disgust and confusion. “You think he’s mean to me, don’t you?” she asked.

Georgia shifted uncomfortably. “You were saying some pretty scary things,” she said.

“Hm,” the girl said, as if it hadn’t occurred to her. “I guess it would be scary, at least for someone like you.”

“You shouldn’t talk like that,” Georgia scolded, the barb incensing the slightest tinder of bravery within her. “If people hear you saying those things, you could get in serious trouble.”

“I knew you’d say that,” the girl said, folding her arms and pouting. “People like you always say that.”

I really should let someone know, Georgia thought. Someone who can figure out what’s actually going on. She wasn’t sure if it would be for the girl’s safety, or for her own. 

“Why would you…” she began. “Why would you want to- to do that?”

The girl looked up. Her pout transformed into a crooked smile, sunshine beaming through the gaps in her teeth. Georgia held her breath, bracing herself for the answer.

 “Because I don’t like fishing,” the girl said, in the same tone one would use to deliver the punchline to a joke.

Georgia, feeling herself prickle with sweat, laughed nervously. The girl laughed too, high and hiccupy and punctuated with snorting. And because the train was moving, and because she was so scared, Georgia kept laughing as well, and so did the girl. Georgia felt the paperback romance fall off her lap. The girl screeched with mirth, showing all her missing teeth. And they both laughed so hard and so loudly, tears streamed down their cheeks and they felt their sides hurt and each forgot exactly what it was they were laughing about in the first place.

[jadejedi]

Fantasy Book Review: A Taste of Gold and Iron by Alexandra Rowland

JJ's rating: 5/5

How feral did it make me: 5/5

My book reviews

I’ve been reading (or listening) to a lot more books this year than normal, and I have realized that I need an outlet to talk about them. I considered making a goodreads account, but hey I already have this! So I will be reviewing the books I’ve read this year, and depending on how long it takes me, I might just start reviewing all my favorite reads. I'm probably going to add links to my blog to make them easier to find.

Let’s get into it. This book is so good. SO GOOD. I listened to it on audiobook, which normally means while I’m at work, driving, or at home doing chores, but I literally listened to the last 2 hours of this book at home doing absolutely nothing, just on the edge of my damn seat! 

Here’s a quick summary: the very anxious Prince Kadou accidentally causes a serious incident that leaves multiple of his personal guards dead or injured. In the aftermath, he is assigned a new guard by the sultan who is known for being an uptight rule follower. As their personalities clash, they have to solve a mystery and learn to work together…

I want to preface this review by saying that this is definitely a romance novel with a fantasy setting. The world building, especially for the main country this novel takes place in, is great and extremely vivid without unnecessary info dumps. The main plot of the story is perfectly serviceable, if a tad predictable, but it 1000% does what it needs to do for the romance. 

But, the romance. THE ROMANCE. This book was advertised as an “enemies to lovers slow burn romance” and it 100% delivers on both. Now, when some people think “enemies to lovers” or (even better imo) “enemies to friends to lovers”, they imagine that at least one of the parties involved is a horrible villain and the relationship is probably abusive in some way. I’m sure there are plenty of books out there where that is absolutely the case, but Rowland gets what makes that trope so good. It’s about two characters who are both good people, but initially clash. It’s the mutual hatred born out of a fundamental misunderstanding of the other’s character, it’s the eventual begrudging respect, it’s THE YEARNING. THE PINING. 

Both of these characters are so wonderful. We get both POV’s throughout: Kadou’s anxious desire to do what’s best for his country and not fuck anything up, and Evemere’s steadfast, noble determination to understand what makes the prince the way he is. 

I don’t want to give too much more away, but this book is filled with ALL the delightful romance tropes you could ever desire. 

Can we talk about pacing?? Pacing is so, so important, especially when writing a slow burn romance, and this author GETS. IT. Sometimes if the romance is resolved too early, all the tension goes out of the story, because if it’s a romance novel, we’re here for the romance, not the plot. But in this story the whole novel is centered around the romance, and the pacing just works so, so well. 

Also, the way that queerness is written into this story is wonderful. Third gender pronouns abound and  same sex attraction is fully accepted, and it’s really refreshing. Also, there are multiple female characters who play significant roles in the story who are fleshed out characters, which I feel is sometimes lacking in M/M romances. 

I have not been able to stop thinking about this book since I finished it like four days ago. I listened to the audio book, which had an excellent narrator, but have also ordered the paperback with my favorite version of the cover. Please, do yourself the favor and read this one. Also, if you do read it, the author published a 10,000 word fanfic epilogue on AO3. It’s called What spring does with the cherry trees, and it’s a goddamn delight. 

[alexsfictionaddiction]

Review: Murder Mindfully by Karsten Dusse

I had no idea that this book had been adapted by Netflix when I requested it but having read it, I'm interested in seeing how they've done it. It's a pretty unique storyline and considering, I'm not a big fan of organised crime stories, I found it very readable.

Bjorn's wife Katharina is going to leave him if he can't get a better work/life balance. As they have a young daughter together, Bjorn is determined to right this. It turns out that a mindfulness class is the answer to Bjorn learning to slow down, breathe and focus on what really matters. So, when his crime boss client starts to interfere with family time, Bjorn calmly 'deals' with him and the aftermath with more than a healthy dose of violence.

Each chapter is prefaced by an extract from Bjorn's mindfulness leader's book. The excerpt echoes what's to come in the following pages and Bjorn repeatedly refers to the book throughout the story. It was a really effective grounding technique and in a clever way, it really centred mindfulness as a discipline amongst a crazy, bloody narrative.

The humour is that kind of blunt, honest brand that is perhaps quite European. It reminded me of the comedy in Jonas Jonasson's or Fredrik Backman's books, despite it not being Swedish (Karsten Dusse is German). It had that same quirky style and delivery and it was present throughout. I think it was this cheeky, sarcastic tone that kept me as interested as I was.

Most of the characters are scary, dangerous people but it was really amusing to see these little glimpses of the children that they once were. These men have killed, stolen and lied and yet they still actually just want to be acknowledged and accepted.

At its heart, Murder Mindfully is a story about family and a father trying to do his best for a child he adores. Emily is perhaps the wisest character in the book and she provides a real, good reason for Bjorn doing the ridiculous, crazy things he does. I'm sure a lot of parents will agree with the sentiment that they would do anything for their children, even cause chaos amongst organised crime communities.

Murder Mindfully is a quirky, fast-paced thriller with more than a lot of comedy. If you like Anxious People by Fredrik Backman, I think you'll like this a lot. It's got guns, very high stakes, some bad people and a glowing kernel of wholesomeness.

Murder Mindfully by Karsten Dusse is available in eBook and audiobook format now and will be published in paperback by Faber & Faber on 2nd January 2025.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Somehow, Through the Storm

Summary:

Living in the slums of the Warehouse District, Kaz and Inej are struggling to cling on to life through a seemingly unending winter. Wrapped up in a stranger's overcomplicated marriage contract that he is convinced is key to solving the merciless weather, Kaz remains busy and distracted for days on end, putting everything else at risk. So when a storm ravages the city and sweeps Inej into danger, the offer of safety, food, and a place to stay is an overwhelming one - no matter the cost. Terrified of mounting threats, Inej signs a contract - not knowing she would land herself trapped at the Menagerie. Kaz signs a contract that states if he can walk all the way through the city and back to the Warehouse District with Inej behind him, never looking back at her, they will both go free. But this is the Barrel, the darkest part of the city where the rules of physics can change with the stroke of a pen; the journey back will not be the same as journey there…

This is a Hadestown-inspired reimagining of the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, casting Kaz and Inej as our main characters and heavily featuring our beloved Crows, set in an alternate version of the Grishaverse with a different magic system based entirely on contracts.

Tags: @lunarthecorvus @marielaure @multi-fandom-bi @igotthisaccountunderduress @thelibraryofalexandriastillburns @devoted-people-hater @spraypaintstainonawhitewall

If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list let me know <3

Warnings for this chapter: child abuse, ptsd, panic attacks, abuse, manipulation, implied potentially forced marriage, mistreatment of mental health issues, grief, referenced child death/child fake death/believed loss of child

AO3 link:

Chapter 11 - Wylan

“You know how those muses are: sometimes they abandon you. And this poor boy, he wore his heart out on his sleeve. You might say he was naive to the ways of the world,”

- Any Way the Wind Blows, Hadestown

Wylan really wasn’t sure that this was a good idea. He was standing outside a tall, slender building, with a brightly lit cafe pouring out from the ground floor and into the small, gated courtyard ahead of it. The low white fence that surrounded it must have been recently repainted, because it was brighter and cleaner than anything else on the street, and he found his anxious mind wandering to the metal compounds that would have been used to develop the paint; titanium dioxide, maybe, or zinc oxide. Wylan knew less of the exact process than he would have liked to, but he knew that underground mining of zinc yielded zinc sulphide - but maybe surface mining was different? He wished he knew. Did his father’s mines bring up zinc? Maybe it didn’t matter; maybe you could use Materialniks for that sort of thing. Wylan wished he knew that too. He seemed to know an awful lot less than he wanted to about everything. 

The cafe was busy, tables full inside and out - apparently the coffee here was good enough to brave the weather - and the chatter of the different groups filled the crisp morning air. A girl huddled in the folds of a heavy coat sat with her feet tucked up onto the little metal chair she was cosying on, the mug in front of her steaming into the air, a slightly worn paperback clutched between her fingers. The book must have been good, because she hadn’t touched her drink since she’d sat down several minutes ago. 

It was only on that thought that Wylan realised he’d been standing here, clutching his bag close against him and not moving, for several minutes. He knew that he should probably go inside, not least because if he stayed still in this weather without a proper coat for much longer he would probably find frost growing on his skin, but his feet didn’t seem to be answering his call. This really didn’t feel like a good idea. But it also felt significantly like he was running out of other options. 

Well, Wylan had thought with a sigh as he studied Kaz Brekker from across the table yesterday, I’ve spent worse mornings. For the first few moments neither of them had said anything; Kaz closed the door behind him and Wylan awkwardly gestured to the chairs that sat either side of his rickety little table. The room he was staying in was small, but he appreciated the privacy; few of the hostels had single rooms, less that cost little enough for him to stay. It was a squat building, three floors but wider than it was tall, with windows that came loose in their frames to let in the wind and rain, damp festering in the walls and what might have been - or definitely was, if Wylan wasn’t trying to be overly optimistic about it - mould growing along the ceilings. The single blessing, up until recently, had been that nobody knew he was here. Still, it was affordable on the pittance that Wylan was dragging in since managing to secure a job stirring vats of dye at a tannery farther North in the Warehouse District. The hours were long, the pay was horrendous, and the lack of protective clothing for spending hours leaning over dizzying chemicals probably meant he would die of poisoning long before he had to fret over the mould, or even the next lot of rent. Wylan was less concerned about that than he maybe should have been. He was already dead, after all. 

Kaz had placed the letter on the table and it lay ominously in between them, like a dead animal that had not yet been skinned and gutted for supper. The seal was still intact, the red laurel glinting up at them, a thousand times brighter than it should’ve been in Wylan’s eyes. For a moment he was comforted to think it impossible for anyone to have seen the contents of the envelope, if the seal and paper were still unbroken, but then he noticed the irregularity along the closest edge of the wax. It was subtle, but Wylan had spent too long staring at that thing not to recognise changes to the shape: the seal had been removed. Steam, maybe? Or a heated blade slid beneath it? That seemed the most likely. Clever, he thought, even in and amongst the panicked jumble swimming about inside his head. 

“You read it,” he said, glumly, not looking up at Kaz. 

“You didn’t,” 

“No,” Wylan replied, before releasing a light sigh and leaning back slightly in his chair. He still didn’t reach for the letter, nor did he ask Kaz what it had said, but one distracted hand floated to lay his fingers over the scars around his neck, “What business?”

And now he was standing outside a cafe, a contract and… other things sitting heavy in his satchel. Why had he agreed to this? I’m here for her, he promised himself, as he tightened his grip on the strap of his bag. I’m here for her. 

There was a young family sitting at one of the tables near the fence; a baby in a sling against its mother’s chest and two small boys laughing as they chased each other round the table. Wylan had already heard the mother telling them to slow down before someone hurt themselves, and now one of them, by the looks of him the younger of the pair, tripped on his shoelace and planted headfirst into the grass. He was maybe four years old and immediately began to cry as he tried to stumble back onto his feet; his brother, who was maybe six or seven, Wylan guessed, grabbed his arm to pull him up before their father bent down and scooped the younger boy up into his arms. The mother was on her feet, one hand clutched close to the sling to keep the baby still as she took hold of the six year old’s hand and led him back to the table, shooting a brief, exasperated look at her husband that made Wylan’s stomach clench. But then she was smiling, brushing hair out of her son’s eyes as he settled on his chair and pushing a small plate of cookies first to the sniffling middle child, and then the eldest. Wylan couldn’t hear what any of them were saying at first, but as he finally forced himself to step forwards and through the door the elder boy had settled back into his seat and the younger was sitting on his father’s lap as he said to them both calmly: 

“Let’s think of a game we can play sitting down, yes?”

The easy simplicity of it hit him like a blow to the stomach but then he was inside and the door had swung shut behind him, striking their voices clean dead in the air. 

There was a small queue at the counter and Wylan hovered at the back of it nervously for a moment before he convinced himself to walk straight to the back of the room, where Kaz had told him to go. He felt like he was doing something wrong as he slipped through the door - also freshly repainted but this time a pinkish colour; how did they make that? Iron oxide pigments mixed with white, maybe? It sounded expensive - and began to traverse the narrow staircase tucked around a corner behind it. As though someone would burst in at any moment and start yelling, demanding to know what he was doing there. 

“I have some questions I was hoping you could answer,” Kaz had said, after Wylan asked him. 

“Well, ask them,” he replied, “But I’m not promising you any answers,”

Kaz had given a sort of half shrug of agreement, and then said: 

“Why death? Of all options, it seems the hardest to undo,”

Wylan frowned. 

“Excuse me?”

“Why did they do it? You had been hidden from the public eye for years after the plague outbreaks. Why bother faking your death when that was already working?” 

“I don’t- I mean…”

“I see where they might have been coming from,” Kaz continued, “Someone was looking for you, maybe, so your parents claimed you were already gone to keep you safe. Someone who wanted to use you to threaten your father; it’s hardly inconceivable. But why dead, why not missing? It’s a lot easier to stage the dramatic, unexpected return of an abductee than it is a resurrection. And why-?”

“What do you mean?” Wylan finally interrupted, “Death?”

Kaz frowned. 

“Your parents told the world you were dead,”

Wylan felt as though the air had been pulled straight out of his lungs. 

“People know?” he whispered. 

“People believe,” said Kaz, watching him with heightened suspicion, “that an accident befell you at your family home six years ago, and that it resulted in your untimely death. People being people, they know nothing,”

Something uncomfortable, something that wasn’t quite pain but that Wylan lacked the words to describe accurately otherwise, prickled through the marks around his neck. He raised a hand as though to quiet them, pressing his cold fingers against the ropey scar tissue. 

Wylan considered what had happened when was twelve to be a kind of death. His tiny snippet of the world had ended, and it was easier to be a ghost in the remains than it was a survivor. And besides, they called them Wraiths for a reason, didn’t they? But when Kaz had said that, a horrible, squirming coldness had wormed its way through Wylan’s stomach; the thought that people knew the truth, that the threat his father had held over him for years on end come to life. 

But Kaz meant actually dead. The world thought Wylan was long buried. 

“But…”

“What did they tell you?” asked Kaz, frowning. 

“Nothing. I mean, he said - I don’t know, I thought…” Wylan’s words curdled in his mouth. 

He wasn’t sure that Kaz had even noticed that he’d spoken. 

“What’s brought you here now, then? Idealist? Revolutionary? Just foolish, maybe. Done with the walls of your gilded cage?”

“I don’t-”

“And I assume all this business with your mother has a similar motive. Was it that way from the start? She’s barely been seen in public since her recovery, and that contract-”

“Her recovery?” Wylan has been very busy studying his shirt cuffs, but now his gaze hot up, “What do you mean, recovery?”

“All that illness she had after the accident,” Kaz’s eyes slipped to Wylan’s scars as he added: “Near death experience? Your parents capitalised on it?” but Wylan wasn’t listening anymore. 

“What illness?”

Kaz stopped and looked at Wylan properly, maybe for the first time. 

“When was the last time you saw your parents?”

“I… I saw my father a few months ago,” he swallowed, “But I haven’t… I thought… He told me…” 

Wylan couldn’t breathe. Oh fuck, he really couldn’t breathe. 

“You have their marriage contract with you,” Kaz’s voice was low, “Have you read it?”

Wylan didn’t even have capacity left to wonder who the hell Kaz knew about the contract, he just shook his head. He didn’t even know what it was; he’d grabbed it from a stack of papers almost at random, because he knew it was supposed to only be family documents in that cabinet and he recognised the mark of a Grisha-draft contract etched across it, but he hadn’t so much as dared to look at the thing since he’d reached the Warehouse District. But their marriage contract? That couldn’t be right, surely? Kaz must have misunderstood, or - or - 

“Wylan?”

No, it couldn’t be right. His mother would not have signed that. His father wouldn’t have made her. Would he? That wouldn’t make sense. The marriage contract would have come before - 

“Wylan,”

Wylan blinked so tightly it was almost painful for his skin as he flinched upright, digging his fingers into his palms. 

“I said-”

“What illness?” Wylan blurted, because he didn’t care anything at all about whatever else Kaz might have to say. 

Kaz leaned back in his chair slightly, surveying him as though presenting a challenge and feeling intrigued by what his reaction might be when he said: 

“I wouldn’t know. The rumour was she lost her mind; that when you died the grief drove her mad,”

Please, let me see her, just once, pl-

She does not want to see you. 

“The grief?” Wylan whispered, trying not to choke on the word.

She does not want to see you. 

“I assumed when I learned you were alive,” said Kaz, slowly, a new kind of caution creeping into the edges of his voice that Wylan could already feel himself growing defensive beneath the shadow of, “That the rumours were ill-founded, and that she had been struck by some other sickness, but…” 

“She thinks I’m dead?” his voice barely existed, “That’s what you’re telling me? My mother thinks I’m dead,”

She does not want to see you. 

She does not want you. 

She does not want you. 

“I need you to leave,” Wylan managed, abruptly, hardly believing the words had made their way out of his chest and into existence, “Please.” 

Only a moment passed before Kaz stood up.

“I undo people’s contracts for them,” he said, after a moment, “For the right price. Come to the cafe on Bloemstraat tomorrow, where we met before, and meet me in the upper rooms. Bring the contract. You sign on to the demo work I asked for, and I’ll see if there’s anything I can do for your mother,”

Wylan looked up at him, slowly, trying to suppress the shaking of his hands even as he kept that hidden underneath the table.

“Do you… do you think she’s…?” he breathed, “That she’s…?”

He couldn’t finish the thought but it didn’t matter; no-one in Ketterdam wouldn’t have known what he meant with those words. 

“Bring me the contract tomorrow,” came Kaz’s words, somehow crisp even through the grating rasp of his voice, “And I suppose we’ll find out,”

And then he was gone. The door closed and within moments Wylan, barely even aware that he was doing it, had slid off his chair and cocooned himself in his own arms, knees pressed tightly to his chest, hiding beneath the table like a lonely child. 

She does not want you. 

She does not want you. 

[thelesbianpoirot]

can you share some of those social anxiety strategies some tips&tricks perhaps

People's memory aren't that great. They can hardly recall the face of a perpetrator of a crime when it is vitally important, very few people will recall, what you look or sound like. So if you did something super embarrassing in front of a stranger/customer, you will just be anonymous woman to them, not Jessica Jones, age 22, from 21st street New York.

Practice what you are going to say. For my job, I got put on phones, I literally wrote down a script of most asked questions, and read it off, and then eventually I could adlib the rest. This works for most phone convos, like ordering things online or reporting a problem to the light/water company.

Be nice and polite to people, and they will be nice to you, especially if you fuck up, they will forgive the mistakes of a person who was kind to them, then someone who was standoffish. Social anxiety can be view as standoffish/rude, so try to always greet people, acknowledge people, say their names, even when you feel like you're bothering them, or you're trembling.

Go to places, theatre, restaurant, bar, ALONE, anxious people often like to rely on friends or family to interact with the world, just using people as a crutch, and start being people okay with yourself exist. Start by putting in headphones, but work your way up to eating a meal in silence, by yourself, in public.

Force yourself to interact with people in a controlled environment at first before branching out. Volunteer, join a club, go to event, something you are interested in. PICK a single place. One day a week you do to a book club or old folks home, or a bar, and strike up a conversation with ONE person on the bus. Just a minimum of one. That last three minutes or more. Throw up afterwards if you have to, but GRIT AND BEAR IT!

Admit to people you're anxious, "I never do stuff like this, i'm anxious, if I say something wrong please tell me."

STOP FOCUSING ON YOURSELF, anxiety is often the result of self absorption, it sounds mean, but for me, when I am feeling most anxious, I am worried about how I look, how I sound, and making myself an exception from others in my head, "Damn I sound stupider than everyone else." Humans are very predictable, you're more alike people than you are different, if you are scared, chances are the person you are interacting with might be too. You're two terrified mammals in an interaction trying to come out alive, you are not alone.

Dress comfortably and practically, if you are wearing anything that makes you feel physically uncomfortable and self conscious, it will cause anxiety in everything you do, if you're at work, don't overdo it with the accessories, you're there to collect a checque, not wow people. Create a uniform if you must, a generic comfortable things that are WORK CLOTHES, check your appearance once before you leave the house, and never again until you are home. Stop looking at yourself and just be.

You have to become methodical of interaction before it is natural. In my head, I had a step by step plan for approaching a stranger. 1. GREETING. (hey) 2. Asking how they are? (if someone I see frequently/coworker) 3. Compliment (That is a really nice watch/earring/anything non-physical) (italicized is option but nice) 4. The objective. ( Are you busy? I don't know how to work the fax machine, can you please show me). (Do you know where I can get lunch?) (I didn't understand that instruction) (Is that your blue honda in that parking spot, It's my spot, and I don't want to get in trouble by parking in someone else's). 5. Closer. (Thanks for all your help) (do you have any suggestions for me?) (I hope that is okay) (sorry for the trouble,) (I have to go, I have to (insert tasks) bye!) Soon or later you'll find yourself sounding more natural, but you must push through the cringe of robotic rehearsed conversations.

Ask yourself: Why am I scared? Why am I anxious when talking to my coworkers? Reason it out: - I am afraid of saying the wrong thing. - I am afraid they will laugh at me - I am afraid they will dislike me. Find the root of anxiety about various tasks. And tackle things at the root. I hated being laughed at because of bullying at school, and at home, I had to become okay with that. I didn't care if people didn't like me, but I did not want to be a joke, which made me realize I was taken myself too serious.

CBT - I am not a big fan of therapy, but I believe in CBT for anxiety, it is practical, and stuff you can do at home. You will find a lot of resources online. CBT anxiety worksheets, toolkit, self aids key words. https://psychcentral.com/anxiety/cbt-for-anxiety#cbt-worksheets

SELF HELP BOOKS: I also hate bullshit self help books, but I will admit, I read this book cover to cover:

How to Win Friends & Influence People (Dale Carnegie Books) Paperback – October 1, 1998

(it's an old book so you can find PDFs online) https://www.pdfdrive.com/

Set various missions with goals.

I have more advice in me, but I just got off a long shift and I am exhausted.

[donnerpartyofone]

@brbnightmares it's especially bad with fiction and YA. It echoes the whiny complaints of how any depiction of a fat person is "glorifying obesity." I have definitely seen some anti-soc stuff represented in a way I don't like, but depicting it in a narrative is not an endorsement. I am not an anti content warning person at all, but people who call out for actual handholding in the narrative is ridiculous. very disappointing to see so many readers like this especially.

I'm gonna stop torturing people by reblogging my own post now, but I do want to liberate this stuff from the comments, so: Yes, you're absolutely right. Like considering the whole political history of gatekeeping around education and printed matter and everything, reading has become almost synonymous with personal liberation--I always think about John Waters saying, "If you go home with somebody and they don't have books, don't fuck'em!" And yet we still get young people who seem to love to read and write, but they crave to be regulated and censored; is it some kind of submission kink? That might be the nicest thing I can think about it.

Tangentially: When I was a kid my intellectual hippie parents were EXTREMELY anxious about my horror obsession. They were concerned about the grimy content of what I was interested in, and they were also concerned about the brain-rotting powers of screen entertainment. But, they would let me read anything I wanted, I think because they understood that reading is a good thing pretty much no matter what, and probably they also couldn't stand to imagine themselves censoring the written word. The funny thing is that since the word is free from the expense and complication of building special effects and getting past the MPAA, I read WAY more fucked up shit in pulp paperbacks than I could ever have encountered in 99% of all movies. But of course, it didn't turn me against my own moral sense vis-a-vis the real world, nobody's pets started disappearing in our neighborhood after I began spending hours at the library. What I remember about the experience is feeling things, not to be so corny; like fear, loathing, existential dread, and ambivalence may not be desirable real-world experiences, but books that challenge you emotionally make you grow. They literally change your mind for the better, even the bad ones can. And now it feels like there's this thing going on where people don't want to be challenged, they see adversity and unease as something contaminating and unfair, like we're all entitled to a frictionless, idealized existence even in the nonsense world of social media. Which I think wouldn't even be good for you.

It feels like we've gone from the dubious thing of people coveting the valor that is supposedly conveyed by victimhood and oppression, to people literally just wanting to be babies, and to be treated like babies. And I don't know, not to like waaaaay over-hyperbolize everything, but people need to remember that the reason fascism takes root so quickly and easily is that being told what to do, what to read, what to think, and to have every possibility of your life dogmatically restricted--to have all of your personal responsibility taken away from you and placed in someone else's hands--can be incredibly comforting.

PS I worry about trigger warnings re: *gestures vaguely* all of this. I will tag for types of real-life trauma and violence that I don't think are fair to spontaneously foist on unsuspecting followers, BUT: I often think of a time when this popular true crime blogger answered an ask where the person was asking her to tag her posts for needles. And like, I'm pretty sure the context was that she had posted the famous x-ray of sadomasochistic child murderer Albert Fish's colon with like twenty pins jammed up it. So the blogger very judiciously responded with something like, you know, "I'm sorry to have bothered you, but I'm not going to tag images of pins and needles. My blog is de facto full of disturbing and violent content, and the items you are describing are things that you might encounter in ordinary, benign situations in real life. If your aversion to them is so powerful that you can't even look at them, then frankly, that's something you're going to have to deal with privately, and you might want to avoid this blog in general." I loved her for that.

[enparallel]

I have been tagged to answer book questions by @boxboxlewis!!!! it’s an honor to be nominated! ty ty ty!!

An estimate of how many physical books I own: about 450, mostly collected 2005-2015

Favorite author: terrifying question. Historically I progressed through Madeleine L’Engle, Kurt Vonnegut, Ursula Le Guin, Geoff Dyer…lately though when I really love a book I almost hide from the rest of the author’s work, in case it’s not as good or heaven forfend BETTER. My current instant preorder list is Bryan Washington, Brandon Taylor, and Isaac Fellman! The last authors to knock my socks off were Olga Tokarczuk and Sayaka Murata! Perhaps I will never love cleanly again!

A popular book I've never read and never intend to read: Game of Thrones.

A popular book I thought was just meh:

Fourth Wing, Black Cake.

Longest book I own: Bulfinch's Mythology 

Longest series I own all the books to: apparently Lloyd Alexander's Prydain series

Prettiest book I own: 1940s copy of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s collected sonnets

A book or series I wish more people knew about: Leonora Carrington's Hearing Trumpet and its cranky batshit joyous old ladies

Book I'm reading now: The Chinese Groove, Kathryn Ma (our protagonist is so loveable and disastrous and funny, I am so anxious for him)

Book that's been on my TBR list for a while but I still haven't got around to it: My library hold on A Sense of Wonder comes up every month or so and I keep throwing it back, to get bigger or be less about basketball or something

Do you have any books in a language other than English: poetry anthologies in Spanish and French left over from college language classes. Also the xeroxed course packets, that's where the spicy stuff is

Paperback, hardcover, or ebook?: I read 95% ebooks borrowed from the library, on my phone, I love it, it suits my degraded lifestyle. The perfect format is a slightly floppy trade paperback printed on recycled paper. Hardcovers hurt my face when I drop them.

I want to tag people but I am nervous of tumblr etiquette so: if you are reading this I have tagged you with the laserbeam of my heart. Please tell me about your books.

[sylphmacabre]

Work In Progress Wednesday - 15 March 2023

Well, the people have spoken, as far as my poll results show, so please enjoy what I have so far for the opening of Chapter 22 of A CITIZEN OF THE UNIVERSE AND A GENTLEMAN TO BOOT.

Jack flew back from the Pole, worries and thoughts buzzing in his head. The Bennett house was quiet and dark, so he let himself in via the window of the bedroom that Emily had given him years ago, rather than through the back door through the kitchen. He didn’t want to risk Abby barking and waking the whole household up.

He lay down on top of the comforter on his bed, looking at the spiraling fractals he’d painted on the wall when he’d first moved in.  Their patterns soothed his mind in ways that none of the Guardians, other than Sandy, would not have understood.

His busy brain kept circling around the notion of counterpoints.  Personality-wise, Sandy seemed to be Jack’s opposite. Slow, self-assured, and thoughtful, as compared to Jack’s never-ending energy and anxious restlessness.

Pitch Black, on the other hand… Pitch had at least a veneer of self-assurance, with that same restlessness that plagued Jack not terribly far under the surface. At least that’s what Pitch had been demonstrating these last few days / weeks.

Jack sighed heavily. No point in delaying the inevitable. Even if the humans were asleep, chances were that a certain spirit currently housed in the attic of the Bennett house was wide awake.

And, if not actively plotting the takeover of the world, at least was probably antsy to go back to spooking people.  Or something. Recalling that the only time he’d seen Pitch even nominally relaxed was when he was petting his chief Nightmare at the Tooth Palace where they'd first met, Jack thought to himself, He needs an evil cat to stroke.

He found himself walking up the stairs rather than flying, but his staff was still in his hand. He used the crook to gently tap on Pitch’s closed door.

“Come in, Frost,” was the reply, delivered in a flat tone. Jack turned the doorknob and entered the room, feeling awkward.  How did Pitch DO THAT… put Jack at a disadvantage with three words, even when Pitch was ill and weakened? Was that what millennia of solitude do to spirits… give them time to settle into cynicism?

Pitch sat on the couch-bed, a paperback book open facedown on his lap. He waved a hand towards the desk, anticipating Jack’s need to perch somewhere. Jack took the perch, but held his staff across his body, as if expecting Pitch to snap it and break it again.

[dollycas]

#FlashbackFriday - Oklahoma's Gold by Kathryn Long #Review / #Giveaway @authorkathryn.long

On Flashback Fridays I will share with you the books I was not able to review when they were first released that have been screaming at me from my To-Be-Read bookshelf. I purchased this book after enjoying other books by Kathryn Long/Bailee Abbott. I read it now for the July Alphabet Soup Mini Challenge and my Literary Escapes Challenge. Oklahoma's Gold Romantic Suspense Setting - Oklahoma Publisher ‏ : ‎ Road Not Taken (July 22, 2011) Paperback ‏ : ‎ 226 pages ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1463751036 ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1463751036 Kindle ASIN ‏ : ‎ B005E82QV4 Oklahoma's Gold is a fast-paced suspenseful mystery that leads its characters on a challenging journey into the past only to discover its mysterious connection to the present. Set in the rustic, southwestern town of Chickasha, Oklahoma, this novel tells a tale of murder and romance with heartwarming, southern character and a bit of cultural, Native American flare. Heroine Jess Clinton is a strongly spirited young woman, whose recent tragedy has left her vulnerable, but also guarded. Coming to this small, southern town, hoping to make a new start, Jess soon discovers Chickasha is not the calm scene she expected. Her Uncle Fred has been brutally beaten, the Indian ranchers have experienced repeated vandalism on their land, and a modern-day medicine man is warning how evil spirits have come to Chickasha to avenge a wrongdoing from the past, as well as one from the present. Jess, along with the good people of Chickasha, must work quickly to find answers before their peaceful, little community is destroyed. Dollycas's Thoughts Following the death of their parents twenty-year-old Jess Clinton, her fourteen-year-old brother David "Deek", and her sister Melissa "Missy" travel from Ohio to Oklahoma to live with their Uncle Fred. All were anxious about living on a ranch after living in a big city but when they arrived in Chickasha they learned their Uncle Fred had been brutally attacked and was in the hospital in a coma. They also learned that Native American ranchers' lands have been vandalized and a modern-day medicine man asserts that evil spirits have come to town to retaliate for past crimes.  Chickasha is nothing like they expected. Jess quickly makes friends and with them, she tries to save the community that welcomed her and her siblings with open arms. ____ The community of Chickasha includes many Native Americans, Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek, and Seminole tribes, and they are being targeted. Jess is truly ignorant about their ways and traditions but after a few missteps, she is willing to learn. Enter Daniel, the ranch foreman for Uncle Fred's good friend Emma. He is descended from the Cherokee and Emma was proud to hire him after he returned from college. He was horse-savvy, strong, independent, loyal to Emma, and sweet on Jess. It was Emma who took in the Clinton children with their uncle in the hospital. She is a strong, smart woman who doesn't back down. Ms. Long's characters are very well-crafted and continue to grow as the story proceeds. I do wish Missy and Deek had larger roles in the story. Someone is really dishing out trouble and when Jess and Daniel try to figure out who they find themselves in danger. It was interesting to meet many town residents and how some had to be handled differently due to their heritage and things that had happened in the past. And the current happenings were connected to happenings from the past, so the story had a nice flow. I enjoyed following along to wherever the clues led. After several twists and dangerous moments, Daniel and Jess make a big decision not supported by others. Jess then makes a mistake that could be very costly but she makes a realization and major discovery that helps all the clues fall into place but she isn't safe. Not at all.  Then she gets help in a cool way, but did it really happen? The author includes a Prologue, three Interludes, and an Epilogue that adds eerie feelings to the story. At first, I was unsure about them but they worked as intriguing moments in the right places. Oklahoma's Gold was released in 2011 and reading it now was refreshing. There were few cell phones, CB radios were used to communicate with each other,  teenagers outside and having fun on the ranch in different ways, and old-fashioned legwork was needed to solve the mystery. This is a stand-alone book with an expected ending filled with unexpected drama to move the story along. It was a great escape. *This book was from my private library. Your Escape Into A Good Book Travel Agent   About the Author Kathryn Long is a native Ohioan who spends her days plotting murder and writing mysteries. She’s a member of Sisters in Crime as well as of International Thriller Writers. She’s actively involved in the writing and publishing worlds and stays up to date on her social media platforms. Kathryn lives with her husband and furry friend Max in the quiet suburbs of Green, Ohio. The B&B series also includes Boarding with Murder and Snowed Under Murder. Inspiration for the storyline comes from her classic movie obsession, particularly Arsenic and Old Lace, and her love for Cary Grant. Kathryn also writes the PAINT BY MURDER mystery series under the name Bailee Abbott. Author Links Website – Facebook – Twitter  Written as Bailee Abbott This post contains affiliate links. If you make a purchase using my links, I will receive a small commission from the sale at no cost to you. Thank you for supporting Escape With Dollycas. I am giving away a Kindle review copy! The contest is open to anyone over 18 years old. Duplicate entries will be deleted. Void where prohibited. You do not have to be a follower to enter but I hope you will find something you like here and become a follower. Followers Will Receive 2 Bonus Entries For Each Way They Follow. Plus 2 Bonus Entries For Following My Facebook Fan Page. Add this book to your WANT TO READ shelf on GoodReads for 3 Bonus Entries. Pin this giveaway to Pinterest for 3 Bonus Entries. If you share the giveaway on Threads, X, or Facebook or anywhere you will receive 5 Bonus Entries For Each Link. The  Contest Will End June 10, 2024, at 11:59 PM CST The Winner Will Be Chosen Using Random.org The Winner Will Be Notified By Email and Will Be Posted Here In The Sidebar. Click Here For Entry Form *This book was from my private library. Read the full article

[desirepathzine]

Revisiting Just Kids

Patti Smith's first published memoir, Just Kids, has cemented its status as one of the greats. Enchantingly told, an endearing portrait of two artists, Smith and her lifelong twinflame Robert Mapplethorpe, coming of age in late 60s/early 70s New York, while also chronicling the legendary Chelsea Hotel.

Every time I go to an art museum, it's in the gift shop. Every time I see a BookTok video recommending memoirs, it's usually there. When Patti sang Summertime Sadness by Lana Del Rey at a concert a few weeks ago, the pinned comment referred everyone to read Just Kids.

Just Kids entered my life shortly after its publication in 2010, when I was twelve years old. I was a kid fascinated by punk, The Runaways were my favorite, but I knew that everybody I loved honored and respected Patti Smith, even though her music didn't really mesh with what I had going on at the time. But she was the godmother of punk and I needed to know what the big deal was. I had read a few of the more shocking and exploitative rockstar memoirs, perhaps a little too early for a largely very sheltered 12 year old. I was anticipating something with stories about life on the road, the dangerous life of making punk rock (I was 12, let her dream), and lots of stories about other legendary musicians and artists.

I picked up Just Kids shortly after my birthday expecting to be scandalized and fascinated. That's not the kind of book it ended up revealing itself to be.

Instead it was a sweet, poignant, minutely remembered, and very moving story about two people who were meant to experience life and art together. I wept openly several times reading it. Even at 12, not quite grasping everything I was reading (I would not look at a Mapplethorpe photograph for many years after reading this book, I was too young!) But it opened up the possibility within me that art was going to be something that I was going to live for too, and that it could happen.

I'm 26 now. And I'm about to move out of my childhood bedroom, something I had meant to do earlier in my life, but. It was 2020 when I graduated college and that didn't work out. I'm moving back to a big city, with a steady normal 9-5 to stay alive, but that's not what drew me back to the city. Art did, and does, and will continue to do so.

As I've been packing and sorting and paying too much money to do things necessary for my survival, I decided to do my re-read of Just Kids that I inevitably do every few years. I think the last time was in the twilight days of the covid lockdowns, when I was waking up at 2pm and going to bed whenever I could get my brain to quiet enough to let me rest. I remember reading it while rehearsing for my church's Hanging of the Green performance in high school, a fellow choir member chastising me for its back cover, which featured Robert and Patti kissing in a photobooth. I brought it with me on my last trip to New Orleans, but was too busy traversing the city to begin the re-read, so it sat in my backpack observing our hotel room quietly.

I finished it last night, sitting around boxes packed of everything I have accumulated in my life that is worth taking with me to the next chapter. The ending, with Robert passed and Patti left to tell their story, always gets me, but it really touched me in a way that felt like I'd finally grown into myself as an adult, as an artist, and as someone who was willing to do anything they could to create what they needed to create.

I have been anxious, afraid, overwhelmed; all of the big emotions that come with going out into the world on your own. Just Kids has been a balm on me, in many ways.

Because the book has been in my life for so long, there is an immediate sense of nostalgia when I pick up my old copy, the first paperback edition with the simple black and white cover, still somehow holding together despite all the places I've taken it and all the times I've read it. There is a comfort to its worn out pages. I know exactly where all of my favorite passages and photographs are, it is dogeared and loved. So as an object that has been in my life for so long, there is something comforting about seeing it in my backpack or feeling it in my hands again.

Just Kids also soothes my fears about going out into the world in a real way. It's not that nothing bad or strange or upsetting happens within the book, in fact many things do, but it is the fact that there is perseverance, friendship, romance, and magic in the world that can outweigh the fears and hardships of survival.

But mostly, it reassures me. Patti and Robert's devotion to their art, to each other, to pursuing their artistic heights, and to the community of friends that surrounded them and would support them in return, it's beautiful. I can get tunnel vision when going into a new task or situation. When I audition for a new show, I always think it's going to be me alone in front of a table of people who are there to judge me. I always forget about the camaraderie of those in the audition greenroom with you, of the stage managers that make sure your blazer collar is smoothed down, the ADs who make sure the water stays supplied, and that those people judging you at the table are just people at the end of the day trying to do what you're doing: create something great. It's been the same with moving and working: I picture myself alone at a desk and thrown into the waters of my new work. But that's not how it will be. There will be people. There will be community. I'm already connected to the arts community, as well as the musical subcultures in the city where I will move. I go to their goth nights, I go to exhibition openings at the museum, and there are at least two waiters at my favorite cafe who know my drink order when I stop by for the carb up for a night of dancing.

Art cannot be made alone. I will not be alone. Just Kids reminds me of that.