#did I need to reread the entire book to reach this conclusion?

[lorethebookworm]

OH MY GOD I JUST RE-READ THE HOUSE ON THE CERULEAN SEA AND HAD A REVELATION

Linus Baker is the literal definition of " I lost focus and had a consensual workplace relationship"

[nedlittle]

top five Classic Literature Tomes to get the most fantastic array of brain rot

the use of the word 'tomes' assumes books over 400 pages, however most of the classics i've truly gone cuckoo bananas over are shorter, but i'll try for some meaty ones

sorry to be the most boring person alive but moby-dick good actually. i DID give it 2.75 when i read it and i did sort of hate the experience but jesus christ herman melville i am going to charge your ghost property tax in my brain!! genuinely a Rich Text. i would love to study it in a class. sometimes a story is a coffin that is also a lifeboat. sometimes fate is a noose tightening around your neck the closer you get to the end of a story you've already lived. sometimes you have to make a story epic to ensure that the people in it did not die in vain, even though they did, and you will too. sometimes a whale is a fish (?) and also a book (?) that is the entire argument for one of the cetology chapters. my favourite incorrect whale fact chapter is the one where ishmael lists approximately two dozen things that are a) white b) scary to prove that the titular whale is not an isolated case. the one about skull dimensions is also an all-timer. read a little context about melville at the time of writing, read his breathtakingly romantic letters to nathaniel hawthorn, then read moby-dick. I SURVIVE MYSELF! MY DEATH AND BURIAL WERE LOCKED UP INSIDE OF MY CHEST! i am actually planning to reread it, once war and peace (& emails) is sufficiently underway. other suggested reading: the whale: in search of giants of the sea by philip hoare; in the heart of the sea: the tragedy of the whaleship essex by nathaniel philbrick; the whale: a love story by mark beauregard

normally this is where i would rec the brothers karamazov because i am a one trick pony however more people should read the idiot. yes you can tell that dostoevsky planned the first section then flee by the seat of his pants for the rest, but it is a Blast. i have previously described it as the world's longest and most high-stakes game of "yes, and?" and i stand by that assessment. it's really just a blast up until the last couple chapters which are a foregone conclusion and you KNOW the end of the story is going, because you've been told how it ends, but you still want it to end differently! incredible mimetic desire on display! myshkin is ostensibly in the centre of two love triangles (nastasya ➡️ myshkin ⬅️ aglaya and myshkin ➡️ nastaya ⬅️ rogozhin) but the actual reality is like. nastaya is playing homoerotic 4d psychosexual mind chest with aglaya while myshkin watches, meanwhile nastaya and rogozhin uh. certainly have something Hinky going on but rogozhin and myshkin are probably the gayest relationship i've personally encountered in dostoevsky. i would need a chart to explain. if you've read any other fedya d there's some familiar territory that could get repetitive, and half the scenes are people in drawing rooms fighting over nothing. it fucks.

it's not long but notes of a crocodile by qiu miaojin is a Thinker. autofiction within autofiction. transgressive both in style and substance. if you're a fan of the bell jar/cassandra at the wedding/special topics I'm calamity physics/media about pretentious literary girls with fucked up brains, then this is a book for you. captures the listlessness of being in your early twenties and seeing no future where you survive and the necessity of queer friendship and grassroots activism and there's a very real anthropomorphic crocodile who is also a metaphor for lesbianism and you WILL cry over the crocodile! fantasy is a cornerstone of hope! the crocodile is allowed to reach out and find a way to live when neither protagonist nor author can find a way.

also not long but there is so much delicious gender in my ántonia. ántonia and jim really ARE queering heterosexuality by being straight in the most gayass t4t way. another book that's enriched by learning about the author's bio and specifically her gender presentation (the intro to the barnes & noble edition makes a great point about how cather is allowed to vocalize her desire for women if her words are in the mouth of a young man--literally, there's a prologue written by an unnamed narrator who isn't not cather telling you 'this happened to my buddy jim'. layers upon layers of authorship. but also jim is a woman and ántonia (tony!) is a man and they take refuge in the assumption of outward-presenting heterosexuality to get real fucky with gender. does lose a little steam once jim goes to college but dear god could cather string a sentence together. every formal description of this book makes it sound unbelievably boring but do it for the gender and the beautiful descriptions of nebraska

plum bun: a novel without a moral by jessie redmon fauset is a good chaser if you've read passing. they were published the same year and tackle similar themes but with vastly different voices and outcomes; nella larsen is beloved and renowned today, but hardly anyone has heard of jessie redmon fauset (i hadn't until someone on here recommended plum bun to me!). personally i prefer plum bun to passing--though only by a slight margin and this is a case of the two cakes rule; they're both good! fauset's prose has such a rich texture that you can really sink into, and the way the early parts unfurl were very reminiscent of a tree grows in brooklyn. also both a Romance and a satire/interrogation of marriage plots if you're a romance rearer. we are WAAAAY overdue for a jessie redmon fauset revival! give my girl her due!

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Shades of Pink

Request: Hi! Can I request a Harry Potter x reader oneshot where the reader is a metamorphomagus (sorry if I mispelled) and her hair changes to a certain color when she's around Harry bc she's in love with him? preferably set during their howarts years, thanks in advance!

A/N: I love this request, I love writing for Harry so much bc he’s so awkward and bumbling! I hope I’ve done it justice and that it meets your expectations! ALSO! Two fics in one night! I’d like to thank the Mamma Mia soundtracks as well as the Moulin Rouge! soundtrack for making this possible. It couldn't be done without you <3 I’d like to take the time it apologise to my taglist for another notification from me, please don’t hate me too much. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy reading! Love to you all! Banner by the incredibly talented @peachesandpinks​

Pairing: Harry Potter x Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing and fluff - lots of fluff.

Word count: 1.9k

In the mornings your hair is a warm brown as the heaviness of sleep still lingers.

By breakfast, it’s turned to a neon pink that draws attention from all tables in the Great Hall. It only gets brighter as you sit down next to Harry.

As a young metamorphmagus, the changes were still unpredictable, and the added combination of hormones and first love made it all the more difficult to hide your feelings.

Falling for Harry felt entirely natural; as if your love for The Chosen One was part of your genetic makeup. It had taken one smile, that was all. He smiled at you in Third Year as you were arguing with Ron, and you were a goner. That had been three years ago; now in your Sixth Year, it was safe to say you were half way in love with the messy-haired teenager.

“What’s caused your hair to change colours this morning?” Hermione asks, taking a bite of her toast, “It was brown when we woke up.”

You stare at your plate as you mumble, “It’s when I get overwhelmed by my feelings. I’m still trying to control it all.”

Hermione’s eyes cast over the two boys sitting with them, clueless to the conversation, “Do you have a crush on someone?” she whispers.

You bite your lower lip, nodding. Hermione has to clasp a hand over her mouth to keep the happy squeak from leaving her lips; she spent so much time with Harry and Ron that it was nice to be involved in a conversation that didn’t revolve around Quidditch.

“Who? Who is it that’s turning your hair pink?”

You let your eyes slip to Harry, sipping at his morning pumpkin juice, nodding along with whatever Ron was saying, without a clue to your feelings. Hermione catches on immediately; they don’t call her the brightest witch of her age for nothing.

“This is perfect!” She almost shouts; ignoring your wide eyes.

“How?”

“He likes you back! He told me the other night!”

You don’t get a chance to reply. Harry’s hand lands on your shoulder, pulling all of your attention to him. If possible, your hair gets even pinker. He smiles at you, “Come on, we don’t want to be late for Potions, it isn’t worth the looks from Slughorn.”

You sigh, taking a last drink of your orange juice, “I suppose not.”

Hermione and Ron strike up a conversation behind you and Harry; Hermione pestering Ron over whether he plans to complete his homework for this week or let it gather dust.

You and Harry walk close together; hands brushing every now and then and you can’t ignore the jolt of electricity sent up your arm sending your heart racing. Alongside your hair changing colour when feelings overwhelmed you, it would also grow at unprecedented rates.

“(Y/N)?” Harry calls.

“Yes?”

“Is your hair supposed to be growing that fast?”

“Merlin’s beard!” You shout, your hands flying to your hair where it was now cascading down your back. You sigh, “No, Harry, it isn’t supposed to be doing that.”

“Oh… alright. Do you need to go sort it out? I’ll tell Slughorn that you’ll be late.”

“That’s sweet of you, Harry but no, I’ll be fine, I just need a minute.”

He nods, stopping in the corridor to wait with you. Ron and Hermione also stop with you; all watching you as you close your eyes and begin to calm yourself down.

Hermione grabs your hand and squeezes once, understanding your current predicament. you were finding it to concentrate with the very reason for your distraction watching you with concern written all over his face.

You refuse to open your eyes as you ask, “How does it look?”

“It’s still neon pink, if that’s what you were concerned about,” Ron says.

You sigh again, opening your eyes, “It’ll stay pink for a while. I was more concerned about the length; I didn’t want to be tripping over it as I walked to class.”

Hermione smiles, squeezing your hand once more before letting it drop, “It’s back to your shoulders.”

“How do you do that?” Harry asks, voice somewhat breathless with wonder.

“It starts to grow out when I become overwhelmed over something. I try to control it by taking deep breaths and thinking of calming things.”

“You’re wonderful,” He blurts out, blushing once he realises what he says.

Ron claps him on the shoulder, failing to hold in his laughter, “You’re proper smooth, you, Potter.”

Hermione smacks him on the arm with her book, “Shut up, Ronald! He’s smoother than you at least.”

Ron splutters as Hermione continues to look at him unimpressed. Harry hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

You clear your throat, ending the argument between the two of them, “We’re late for Potions.”

The four of you fall into silence as you run to the classroom where Slughorn greets with you with five points from Gryffindor each for tardiness and a look of disappointment.

Sitting in your assigned seat, you try to focus on the lesson that Slughorn is delivering but your mind keeps flashing back to the moment that happened not even ten minutes ago. To the look on Harry’s face as he watched you change your appearance.

Catching sight of your face in the glass cupboards, you’re pleased to see that your hair has faded to a baby pink. Much better than the neon pink you were sporting as you entered the classroom. Taking a deep breath, you turn away from your reflection and try to focus on Slughorn and recognising the side effects of Amortentia.

How fitting.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Gryffindor common room is quiet as you lounge on the couch in front of the fire. Your History of Magic essay laid out in front of you. You read over your words, hoping they form a convincing argument surrounding the witch hunts of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and whether it was a purposeful event triggered by other magical creatures to keep muggles off their scent.

You yawn as you read and reread your conclusion; hoping that it sounds strong enough for Professor Binns to mark it as Outstanding. Giving your eyes a break, you look around the common room seeing a few students here and there, all focused on their own work.

You catch eyes with Harry as he lands on the last step of the staircase leading to the dormitories. The way his eyes move upwards tells you that your hair has turned to the neon pink that you’ve become so familiar with these past few years.

Harry smiles at you as he joins you on the couch. You chide yourself as your heart begins to race and your hands become sweaty.

“History of Magic?” Harry asks, reading over the title of your essay.

You nod, moving the pile of parchment so he has room to sit down, “I wanted to get it done while I had the motivation.”

“I should probably take a leaf from your book.” He laughs, thinking of the pile of essays he has yet to complete.

“It’s not a bad idea, Potter. I don’t mind helping you, you know that.”

“I know,” He says, softly.

You turn away from him, focusing on the roaring fire in front of you. Your eyes follow the imaginary shapes the flames make as they devour the logs beneath them.

“I meant what I said this morning,” Harry whispers.

“You did?”

“You’re wonderful and entirely colourful.”

Your feelings start to be too much; your feelings for the boy sat next to you become too much.

“I think I’ve seen your hair about a thousand shades of pink, but I have no clue what it mean.” Harry murmurs, reaching out to grab a strand your hair, curling it around his finger before letting it drop back to your shoulder.

It’s such a loving move that you almost internally combust.

Harry looks you in the eyes, “What does pink mean?”

You cough, clearing your throat, “Truthfully?”

“Truthfully.”

“It means love.”

Harry’s eyes widen, “Love?”

“Yeah, it means love. The brighter the pink gets, the more overwhelmed I am.”

“It’s pink when you talk to me.” He says, making the connection at last.

You start to play with your fingers, refusing to look him in eye, “Yeah, I know.”

“You love me?” He asks, one of his hands reaching to grab one of your hands.

You take a deep breath, meeting his blue-eyes head on, “I do.”

He releases a breath, “Thank Merlin! I’ve liked you for so long.”

“You have?”

Harry nods, wildly, “Since Fourth Year – after the first task in the Triwizard Tournament when you were ready to duel Dumbledore after you saw how injured I was.”

“I would have as well if you’d have let me. I’m still pissed about it.”

Harry grins, “What about you?”

“Since Third Year. It sounds silly, but you smiled at me over breakfast when I was arguing with Ron and I was a goner.”

“It’s not silly at all,” Harry says quietly, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand.

You smile at him, happy that you had finally told him how you felt. You were ecstatic that he felt the same way.

He shuffles closer to you; his thigh now lining up against yours. “I want to try something, if that’s okay?”

You whisper your consent, not daring to speak any louder. Not for the fear of someone hearing, but for the fear of breaking the bubble you find both of you in.

His hand cradles your cheek; his touch soft, as if he’s not entirely certain this is happening. You lean into his touch, savouring the feel of his hand on your face.

His eyes search yours for permission; you nod, a small movement but it’s enough for him. He leans in and presses his lips to yours hesitantly; testing the waters. He doesn’t expect you to gasp against his mouth; your body reacting instinctively to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders to keep him close to you. Harry gets more confident, relishing in your reaction to him. His mouth becomes more insistent, and he starts to press you into the couch. His body hovering over yours; lips still connected. There was nothing but raw emotion in the way Harry’s hands began to travel down your body; committing to memory every dip and curve in your body.

Some distant part of your brain knew that you would have to pull away soon before things could go further, but the feel of his hands and his lips were distracting you perfectly. And you soon found yourself not really caring whether you were creating a scene for the whole common room to watch.

Someone clearing their throat has you pulling away from each other, gasping for air. Looking over the back of the couch, both Ron and Hermione stand a few feet away from the couch; the look on Hermione’s face tells you it was not her that had interrupted.

Ron grins, asking, “Were you enjoying yourself, (Y/N)?”

“I was before we were interrupted,” You frown.

“I love this colour on you by the way, it suits you.” Ron chuckles, pointing to your hair. He pulls Hermione away before you can reply, but she offers you a wide smile as she follows the Weasley out of the room.

You groan, “It’s neon pink isn’t it?”

Harry barks out a laugh, “It is, but guess what?”

“What?” You asks, peeking out from his neck, where you had hidden your face.

Harry kisses you lightly – once, twice, three times, before replying, “It’s my favourite shade of pink.”

*********

General (HP) taglist: @the-hufflefluffwriter @obsessedwithrandomthings @kalimagik @summer-writes @lupins-sweater @slytherinprincess03 @mischiefsemimanaged @soleil-amaryllis @masterofthedarkness @bforbroadway @chaotic-fae-queen @peachesandpinks @nebulablakemurphy @haphazardhufflepuff @siriusly-addicted-to-writing

[docholligay]

Please rant/rave (well, we already know which one it will be here) about Harry Potter!

GEE I HOPE THIS WAS WORTH WAITING FOR

OH MY GOD. The level of hatred I have for Harry Fucking Goddamn Potter, the culture around Harry Fucking Potter, extending its poisonous tentacles even to the concept of young adult fiction, fantasy, and the United Kingdom as a country and people. 

When you being on this, you may think, “Oh, Doc will explain that Harry Potter sucks because JKR hates trans women” and I will say, oh no, dear reader, that is a fantastic reason to hate the author, and I really suggest we all continue to hate her, and perhaps not purchase the QUEEN’S TONNES of officially licensed merchandise and movies and theme parks that give her stupid little fucking hands all that cash, but no, that is not why I hate the work. There are a number of great works done by terrible people, and the further out the lens of history gets the truer this is. 

I hate Harry Potter because it fucking sucks, and mentally stifled an entire fucking generation. 

“Well, Doc, Harry Potter was really there for me when--” Oh my god I could not fucking care LESS about your personal emotion connection to “orphan wizard boy turns out to be a rich aristocrat yet somehow less woke than Cinderella though” I have personally emotional connections to hot fucking garbage pails of media properties, and if someone came barreling through talking about the myriad ways in which they were horrible, I would be like, “Oh, you aren’t fucking wrong, pal” 

Harry Potter gained wild ass popularity in part due to its magnificent sorting system of Smart, Brave, Evil, and Other, because there’s nothing liberals like more than being able to put everyone’s personality into an easily labeled box, which is why astrology is so popular, or for the intellectuals, Myers-Briggs, which is just as fake but with the veneer of science. This allowed people to give into the tribalism they so desperately liked to pretend they did not possess, and also allow them to write thinkpieces about “The misunderstood Hufflepuff” or “Slytherins aren’t all bad!” or really anything that allows them to write a very real piece about their very imagined oppression for being a part of a totally fake house in a children’s book. Excellent use of your sociology degree, Kai, I thought the addition of phrases like, ‘Content of socialization” and “axes of oppression” really spoke to the struggles you face when wearing a green and silver scarf. 

The other reason it became popular is that it’s essentially wallpaper paste formed into characters. I have read all of the books, and I could not tell you even remotely what Harry’s defining personality traits are other than “protagonist”. In American, at least, a large part of it was the fascination with all things British, with the idea of boarding school and prefects and uniforms that aren’t inexplicably chinos and polo shirts for nine year olds. It allowed children to project onto something so bland that it could be anything. And for children, THAT’S FINE. There is a great deal of bland media made for children, but what I’m speaking to is the fandom, which is largely well over the age of 18. 

Because if we look at the books, are they...actually good? Was it good, or did I experience it as a child? I mean, honestly, on a literary level, are they, or was it just like we all watched Friends, we did it because everyone else was doing it, because I have a distinct memory of a series that involves such greats as “magical geegaws with poorly defined rules that are quickly forgotten despite being able to solve later problems quickly” or “Everyone loves Harry or is a bad guy, or secretly loved Harry all along” 

Oh, speaking of, man, if this was an actual well-written book, wouldn’t it have been wild to have Snape’s whole thing be to teach us that sometimes people do good things for the wrong reasons? Instead of naming your fucking child after the guy who ‘protected you’ because he still wanted to bone your mom? “After all this time” “Always.” 

While all this could have been explained, we have Quidditch added into the mix instead because 20 pages of the goddamn Puppy Bowl is exactly what I was looking for while I was waiting for JK to move the goddamn ball on literally any of these actual magical concepts. 

Harry Potter is a fucking trust fund baby, star quarterback, who grows up to be a cop and marries his high school sweetheart. (Speaking of, why were we shocked that JKR turned out to be a piece of shit when this was and always has been the conclusion of Harry Potter? Why are liberals so fucking into this series that upholds structures like it ain’t no one’s business? It’s a series that opines that those beneath us “Muggles” should be kept in the dark from us) Literally, he finds out he is a wizard and has a dragon-guarded fucking VAULT OF CASH. At 11. It’s such a series for little tyrants, you are special from birth and need do nothing to prove it, here is a letter certifying as such. Oh, not only are you rich and the greatest seeker and have excellent quips, but also your parents were not only rebels, but the best of rebels, and so deeply involved that your parents were killed by the big bad personally, again, because you are so special. His mother’s love literally saves his ass over and over again, because he was SO SPECIAL. He fought Voldemort FROM THE BEGINNING, and WON.  It’s literally the most privilege baby fantasy in the world. 

“But Doooooooooooc, it’s for chiiiiiiiiiiiiiiildren” 

A) Yeah, and you’re 32, you’re making my fucking point about Harry Potter setting an entire generation up for intellectual failure to launch. 

B) Okay, and? I can think of a bunch of kids’ books off the top of my head that in no way require specialness to be given by birth so as to roll out the red carpet for master protagonist. The Hunger Games. Watership Down. A Series of Unfortunate Events. The Chronicles of FUCKING NARNIA, about which I have only a small handful of particularly kind things to say. I’ve never read Percy Jackson, but it’s my understanding that despite his being a literal demigod, the attitudes of the supporting cast are allowed to fall between the extremes of “Appreciates Percy” and “naughty or will learn” Harry does nothing to improve himself even after knowing that he is HUNTED BY THE BIG BAD! “I won’t do this because I don’t like Snape”. So There” which, again, if this series were written with the slightest bit of care or know-how, could be a humbling fucking plot point! BUT NO THAT WOULD BE NAUGHTY. 

But the real reason I hate Harry Potter so much has everything to do with the fandom surrounding it, and how it intellectually stunted a generation of adults. The promise of Harry Potter was that it was supposed to make a new generation of readers, and so the popularity of them was pushed, and so there was discussion of teaching them in schools, but I tell you fucking what, I know a whole lot more folks who grew up reading Harry Potter that never advanced beyond reading YA, or even just rereading the entire series every year and that’s pretty much them done and dusted. 

In the attempt to recapture whatever it was about Harry Potter that attracted children (A lot of it was your peers doing it. I read them all as they came out, and it was literally the equivalent of watching the game so you could talk at the water cooler. That was never going to be recaptured) people, who by this time were likely in their teens, kept getting recommended stuff at the same and same level. No one ever felt pushed to read things that are challenging, to read things that have some of the concepts or themes of Harry Potter but maybe complicate. I know FAR more adults who read adult books that aren’t into Harry Potter, even if they were as children, than the reverse. 

But Doc, why is reading only books meant for 14 year olds a problem??? I mean I suppose I can’t convince you that comfort is not the job of literature or of life, it is the job of an easy chair, because Americans especially are decadent as fuck about being comfy cozy all the time and if anything causes them distress or pain it should be immediately avoided. But Maybe I can convince you that you’re fucking up these books for actual ass children who deserve to have their own writing section without adults bringing their fucking asses into it. They deserve their own spaces. There’s a number of YA editors who have talked about the difficult space YA now occupies because since Potter’s blowup, it’s no longer a niche category, but basically “adult easy reads” and so they have been buying books that are more about the tastes of adult buyers than of literal 14 year olds. 

Is that not...sad? To anyone else? Honestly, and this is not part of the essay because it’s a broader reaching problem, but CHILDREN’S MEDIA IS NOT FOR US. CHILDREN’S MEDIA IS NOT FOR US. CHILDREN’S MEDIA IS FOR FUCKING CHILDREN. The fucking 40-23 set really needs to get their shit together and grow up a little bit and engage in some fucking adult media, and maybe, if we support what we’re actually looking for FOR ADULTS, it will come to us. No one is saying you can’t read Harry Potter or watch some Cartoon Network show, but like, search your heart and come the fuck on. Engage in something more complex. If not for yourselves, for the kids getting shoved into simplified adult stories. It should not be about us. 

ANYWAY, my larger point is that it was Harry Potter, a badly written series about a magical boy who was chosen and magic and also rich and also a favorite of the headmaster and also more clever than most adults and also spoke the same magical snake language as the big bad and was also star quarterback, but at least there was a system in which you could buy a scarf in block colors and feel like you belonged to a team. 

(But not a sports team! lol handegg! I’m cool I don’t get into sports! Except Quidditch.) 

[snicketstrange]

Rereading The End Chapter 13

Chapter 13: From the moment the Baudelaire teeth bit down on the apple—first Violet's, and then Klaus's, and then Sunny's—the stalks and caps of the Medusoid Mycelium began to shrink, and within moments all traces of the dreaded mushroom had withered away, and the children could breathe clearly and easily. The hybrid apple almost instantly cures the disease caused by the deadly fungus MM. This leads me to the conclusion that Kit's death was unnecessary. Kit could have been saved if the moment Beatrice Jr had her umbilical cord cut, she ate an apple. I don't know why Violet didn't even think about it, even if it didn't work out, I think it would be good for someone to have mentioned the possibility of saving Kit. "Stockpot," Sunny said, and walked to the rack of pots on the ceiling, where the snake helped her take down an enormous metal pot that could hold a great number of apples and in fact had been used to make an enormous vat of applesauce a number of years previously." This passage makes me even more certain that Lemony had read the island book, for how else would he know that precisely that cauldron was the same one that had been used to make a particular dessert years before? Certainly he read the island book and was able to compare information previously written in the book with the new information written by the Baudelaires. "Who was playing the violin in the candlelit restaurant when the Baudelaire parents first laid eyes on one another..." This description bothers me a lot. This seems to indicate that Bertrand and Beatrice met for the first time in a restaurant, however, I believed that one of the people cited by Lemony as B in the VFD school on TBL in Lemony's childhood was Bertrand. But to think that Bertrand Baudelaire first met Beatrice a few years after she met Lemony makes more sense given that Lemony apparently didn't trust Bertrand very much. In ATWQ, the way S. talks to Lemony about Bertrand seems to indicate that Lemony didn't know Bertrand personally or at least wasn't intimate with him. Ish suggests that all islanders leave the island after being poisoned. I always imagined that Ish actually believed he could save everyone by getting to the factory that produced the poison's thinner. But rereading the chapter today, I realized that his plan was to let everyone die. Those people had failed to produce a peaceful community, and he himself had failed as a facilitator. As I said, Olaf had triumphed. Ish apparently acknowledged his defeat. But for some reason, this motivated him to let everyone die except himself. And just as some cult leaders led all the faithful to commit collective suicide by making them believe that this was the way to achieve salvation, Ish also made his faithful commit collective suicide. The deadly MM fungus wouldn't spread across the world, and Ish knew it. He would make sure everyone was dead before they reached shore.  I'm sorry for Friday... Ish has become a child killer. Friday chose to die rather than withdraw from her family's religious sect even though she was smart enough to realize that her decision would result in her own death. Daniel Handler makes the dangerous message in Ish's words very clear: "Your mother is right, Friday," Ishmael said firmly. "You should respect your parent's wishes."  This time it wasn't a suggestion: it was something Ish said Friday should do. Ish didn't want to lose any of his faithful. Ish knew that apples could heal the island people, because he had read about it in the island book. He ate the apple himself to save himself. He really decided to kill the entire colony. And everyone followed him blindly to death. But did they survive through the apple that Ink brought to them? I truly believe Daniel Handler inserted that hope here just to lessen how dark the story was. He left that question unanswered. Lemony Snicket doesn't know if they died or not. But I'm pretty sure Daniel Handler knows they're dead. People refused to eat the apple, even when they were poisoned, even with the arguments of the Baudelaires. Why would they change their minds when a serpent that doesn't speak came to the vessel? Ish didn't want people to eat the apple, he wanted them to die. Do you really think Ish would let one of the islanders eat the apple when the snake arrived? Also, how much time did the islanders have before they passed out from lack of air? The Baudelaires were infected at the same time and had almost no strength... So, in a few minutes the chance of saving the islanders through a single apple brought by a mute animal would become close to zero, considering that the only person who would still be awake and with strength would be Ish himself, who evidently didn't want anyone to eat the apple. Now let's talk about Kit again. "How reliable is Snicket a narrator?" I think this question is asked many times and there are still people who will defend one side or the other of the issue. However now I realized that maybe we were asking the right question about the wrong Snicket. Kit Snicket needs to be re-evaluated with regard to her narration being trustworthy or not. It is true that the certainty of death often makes a person very trustworthy. But there's an important detail about this: Kit wasn't sure she was going to die. Kit believed that survival was possible, precisely because the cure was so close to her. "I hope I'm half as good a mother as yours was, Violet," she said. "You will be," Klaus said. "I don't know," (Kit said)  I believe Kit's plan was to have the baby and then be a good mother to her. Despite that, she also knew she could die. Therefore, as death was not an absolute certainty, total honesty was perhaps not the only option. Now let's get back to what we actually know: 1 - Kit claimed that the Queequeg was attacked. 2 - Fernald went to Hector's mobile home with the object of attacking it and according to Lemony Snicket that's what he did. (See TPP chapter 8)- 3 - According to Olaf, the Carmelite Submarine was stolen by Fernald and Fiona. (See TPP chapter 9 In other words, while Fernald was fighting the Quagmires he had already betrayed Olaf and he had already stolen Olaf's submarine along with Fiona. Come to think of it, realize how unlikely it is that what Kit said was true. She said: "I failed you," Kit Said Sadly, and Coughed. "Quigley Managed to Reach the Self-Sustaining Hot Air Mobile Home, Just as I Hoped He Would, and Helping His Siblings and Hector Catch the Treacherous Eagles in an Enormous Net, while I met Captain Widdershins and his stepchildren." Then there's Quigley's difficult move to self-sustaining hot air mobile home. How did he do it? We don't know... But in the world of asoue amazing things are possible. But after that Kit claims that Captain W was already with his stepchildren. This contradicts Lemony's claim that Fernald was the enemy who had led the eagles to the self-sustaining hot air mobile home. So if Lemony isn't lying, (and I don't see any reason for Lemony to lie about these details when he could have just omitted it) Kit is lying. Fernald wouldn't have stolen the Carmelita along with Fiona, then gone to the self -sustaining hot air mobile home, used the eagles to attack them, then left the eagles there, returned to the submarine, met Captain W, regretted it, found Kit and then abandoned the Carmelita and then went along with Kit to help to the Quagmires. I mean... Is this possible? Yes. But this is very unlikely. Especially since Kit claimed to have been attacked. Did Kit Snicket have reason to lie? I believe so. The reason is that her hypocrisy had been exposed. When she spoke out against the mutiny, two islanders had shown the Baudelaires that she herself was also a violent woman. Now she needed to invent a story to preserve her image. In fact, even if she died there that day, she certainly wanted the Baudelaires to tell her daughter good stories about Kit Snicket. In other words, Kit wanted the Baudelaires to portray her from the best angle. So Kit Snicket lied. She denied having been attacked and taken part in a match against Fernald. If there's any truth to Kit's story, I think it's more likely that Submarine Q detected Submarine C via sonar. (After all, we saw in TGG that this is quite possible). Submarine C attacked Submarine Q. (Submarine C has tentacles that can be used as weapons at short ranges, as we saw in TGG). Kit hurt her feet in this attack, as she claimed to have happened. Fernald was on Submarine C along with Fiona. And the eagles were nearby causing problems for the self-sustaining hot air mobile home, which was right above. Then yes, the house fell on them. Then things can make sense. Both submarine C and submarine Q were hit. And then Fernald and Fiona were seen by Kit for the first time, in the water. I hope several kids also got off the C-sub in time, and Kit didn't mention them to avoid needing to give details about the fight she had with C-sub. "From the depths of the sea a mysterious figure approaching—almost like a question mark, rising out of the water." As we saw in TGG, this question-mark entity had been behind Submarine C for a long time. It was submarine C that attracted her.  An important note: I am not saying that this was Daniel Handler's intention. He probably just got confused by generating these contradictions. I am saying that, given what is written, I think this is the best explanation. "All I heard," she said, "was one of the Quagmires calling Violet's name." That phrase always made me dream. Now I understand that DH's goal was probably to somehow strengthen the love triangle between Ducan, Violet and Quigley. But he did it at such an awkward moment that it made me imagine other, more interesting things. And do you know? I still have a right to imagine. In my headcanon, one of the Quagmires saw a woman inside looking like Violet. And he got confused, thinking she was the girl. And so he asks out loud, "Violet?" to which Kit interpreted that he was screaming for Violet. And that's my big plot Twist from asoue. Beatrice was alive all along, and not even Lemony Snicket knows it. That might not be true, but for me it's the perfect ending. Chapter 13, on the other hand, goes against my selfish desires. It's a chapter devoted to accepting death, and my headcanon is the exact opposite of that. The Baudelaires and Kit mourn the death of the people they loved. And they cry a lot more than all the previous descriptions. I think Daniel Handler abandoned all ideas about the possibility that one of the Baudelaire parents could have survived, although he honestly thought about it at some point. But as I've already explained, Headcanon are valid when the author decides to let the story have a life of its own. But I have to recognize that the story is better if you just accept how the story looks. Death is surprisingly simple. So I don't think the great unknown represents death. I think the great unknown represents the open ending of asoue and uncertainty about the fate of some characters. In the end, it doesn't matter whether the Baudelaires' parents survived or not. The fact is, they never met again in recorded history. Just like they've never met the Quagmires again. All these characters are in the great unknown. And like the publication of the end, the Baudelaires themselves are symbolically in the great unknown, as it doesn't matter whether or not they survived their departure from the island: in the end we won't have access to new official adventures about them. But the beauty of the unknown is that it stimulates the imagination. And it's interesting that in my imagination, Beatrice was already inside the great unknown when one of the Quagmires saw her. So, in my own Headcanon, Beatrice's fate is uncertain. As much as I want to escape from allegories to interpret asoue, the allegory is present even though the entity in the form of a question mark is a physical entity: the name given to the entity and its shape make it a walking allegory, just like the ants are a walking allegory for organization and work. We keep thinking: if it was God who created animals like these, would he want to teach us a lesson? And if Daniel Handler is the god of asoue, did he want to teach a lesson with the question-mark entity? I think the answer is yes in both cases. So, in a universe created by someone's creativity, entities can be both physical entities and allegories at the same time. So, I think that's what TGU is. And I don't see any more problems with that. It is an interesting fact to note that Kit believed her both brothers were dead. In LSTUA we notice that Kit was trying to exonerate Lemony of the Baudelaire arson charge, even though she knew he might already be dead, which may indicate that she believed Lemony could have died in the fire itself. Kit claims that the Baudelaire family and the Snicket family needed to stay away from each other, not just Lemony and Beatrice needed to stay away from each other. These mysterious motives must surely have been detailed in the letter Beatrice wrote to Lemony.  So I don't think the wedding was canceled because Beatrice fell in love with someone else.  I don't think the wedding was definitely canceled because they were life-threatening.  I think there are organizational reasons for the Snickets and the Baudelaires to keep away from each other. Now the scene of Olaf's death. I have to say: what an epic scene! Whether it was Olaf who killed Beatrice and Bertrand we will never know for sure, but he never admitted it even when he believed he would die. He didn't seem to be willing to hide facts at the time. He seemed to me to list the things he managed to do. And Olaf always liked to brag about his murders. So for me the fire was accidental. Oalf bit the apple in order to recover from the MM fungus. He, like Kit and Ish, apparently knew that apples cure the disease caused by the fungus. He at first refused. Had he accepted death? I think so. Now: What was the relationship between Kit and Olaf? Everything indicates that it had been an old relationship. Something like a first love. Olaf did not apologize. He didn't think he was wrong. He wasn't sorry for his villainy. Kit survived for more than an hour, I am sure of it, before Beatrice could be born. A mother's willpower is really impressive. This excerpt below is for me one of the most important: "The Baudelaires would sit together in the two large reading chairs and take turns reading out loud from the book their parents had left behind, and sometimes they would flip to the back of the book, and add a few lines to the history themselves. reading and writing, the siblings found many answers for which they had been looking, although each answer, of course, only brought forth another mystery, as there were many details of the Baudelaires' lives that seemed like a strange, unreadable shape of some great unknown." This is clear proof that the Baudelaires left their own history on the island. Not only did Klaus write about it, but all three Baudelaires did, including Sunny who must have had enough time to learn to write. And Lemony knows they wrote it. I can only conclude that Lemony knows what they wrote, and it is on this basis that Lemony makes a narrative from the Baudelaires' point of view, even including an exact record of what they thought and talked privately. Another evidence that Lemony read this book is seen in the following excerpt: "As the night grew later the ould drop off to sleep, just as their parents did, in the chairs in the secret space beneath the roots of the bitter apple tree." Lemony knew details of what had happened to the Baudelaires' parents, which evidently happened when they were on the island. They themselves had written these events in the same book. Now, regarding the final section of the chapter: "In many ways, the lives of the Baudelaire orphans that year is not unlike my own, now that I have concluded my investigation. Like Violet, like Klaus, and like Sunny, I visit certain grave, and often spend my mornings standing on a brae, staring out at the same sea. It is not the whole story, of course, but it is enough. Under the circumstances, it is the best for which you can hope." I think it's pretty clear that Lemony wrote this passage while he was on the island. Lemony was visiting the same graves as he waited for an opportunity to leave the island. I will still read TBL again. So I know that Lemony wrote the letter to the editor of TBL after he learned of Beatrice Jr.'s existence. After he learned of her existence, Lemony searched for the items cited in TBL. So after that he went to the island and finished writing TE on the island. As I said, it is very likely that at this time the island was already inhabited by very nice people who did not allow apples to be removed from the island.

[skelanonymous]

Song Prompt 2

I basically took this as “think on your mistakes, go forward, it’ll be okay”

@a-weird-tree

Words:4.2k

Song(s): It’s Alright - Mother Mother/Panic Room - Au/ra

Skeleton: Nightmare

-

“I’m here if you need me.” 

Nightmare wished the last words he’d heard didn’t have to be from Dream, even if it made a lot of poetic sense considering the task he was on.

The ashen landscape hadn’t changed in the millenia he’d been gone. Nothing different from the day he left, only a statue no longer standing by her side, even the grass dead and non-growing. Time had left this place, following his brother in its frozen state, though the life of this place hadn’t been returned like it had to Dream.

So many bodies. The lack of time had halted the rot, blood stained dirt muddy and thick near his sneakers. The gentle pull from his soul made him sigh before standing up straight to walk into the mass of buildings off east of the hill.

Walking over the uneven cobblestone (made by hand by an older stonesmith who’d been teaching his son at the time), his eye slid over the multiple empty homes. Shops with goods still lining the shelves, broken glass shattered across the wooden floorboards, countertops in disarray from the frantic fleeing they’d attempted, it fell on his chest like an anvil, breath stolen. He pushed past it to step around behind the counter.

He’d only needed to browse for a moment before finding what he was looking for. He grabbed it with his hands, gathering some provisions in a bag before heading back out to his new home.

From the top of the hill, the field expanded westward for a mile uninterrupted. That’s where he’d have to start.

With a blank face, he forced the shovel into the dirt and hauled out the first of many piles. He couldn’t do a full six feet with his hands, but three would give them rest. No animal could dig them out, all had long since gone, so that’d have to be enough.

The shovel was clumsy in his grasp. His hands ached with the work of it before even the first grave had been dug, not used to ignoring his tentacles, where his strength and power were most potent, but no. They had been laid low by his corruption. If he was to find any sense of recompense in the act, it had to be his own two hands by which he sent them to peace.

Shovelful by shovelful, the dirt to the side grew larger than the hole until the first was done. 

The first was going to be the hardest to get here.

When the idea had first occurred, it’d been before the truce. He had too much to do, his own corruption as valuable an ally in his fight as any of the others, perhaps moreso. Too much was left to fight for that required its defense.

He had brushed the idea aside completely until the truce had been first drafted. But the truce was fresh, easily broken with a word. Animosity did not dissolve within a fortnight, nor did camaraderie grow, even under the promise of fresh sunlight and clean water. He couldn’t send his best soldier home when war could break out at any second. As weary as it made him, he had carried this longer than he had existed at this point, five times more spent in this shadow than under the shade of his mother. The memories were faded and grey at the edges. He could live without them.

Days to weeks, months to years, all of his company had learned to move on. He’d held none back from their progress. The peace in their eyes made his own ache, but he wished them the best. The last had been Dust, his the hardest to truly relieve. Time truly could heal all wounds.

“I think I’m gunna go to Horror’s timeline...Now that’s the shortage is over, it’s pretty quiet there.” Dust had shuffled in the main hall. He looked so uncomfortable, Nightmare trying to pull his own aura back into himself.

“And Horror is there.” Nightmare took a step back, gesturing to the door with a kind bow. “You’ll do well with him. You suit each other.”

Dust blushed purple, eyelights flicking around, before resettling on Nightmare with sorrow in the lines of his face.

“You could come too.” He looked him in the face, desperate. “Being alone isn’t good for people bo-Nightmare.” Dust fiddled with his sleeves.

“I would impede your progress Dust. My part in your life has come to a conclusion, and I am at peace with that.” Nightmare hoped the smile was reassuring. Dust had fought against the psychosis, no sanity came as hard fought as Dust’s, he deserved the rest.  “I have always survived, you don’t have to worry about me.” 

“They ask me about you all the time, you know.” He inched closer to the door. A compromise. 

“And I ask you about them. We spent a long time together.” Nightmare hadn’t seen any of them since they left the castle. He knew his aura was poison to their progress, an ever present reminder of all they tried to move forward from. He missed them more than he could say. “But even now, you can’t help but call me boss. You have fewer nightmares when you sleep in other timelines. You can’t be here, and I can’t go there with you.”

“We would give up all our progress if it meant seeing you not stay here alone for the rest of your life.” Dust’s eyes watered. “We all wanted you to make it out of here. Being the last means that I failed too.”

“You didn’t fail.” Night wanted so badly to reassure him, but he was negativity, his touch would rob the little strength he had to leave. “I don’t know if I can be saved.”  The truth hurt to say. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin. How does one unlearn all that you are?”

“You don’t have enough faith in yourself. Please.” Dust had held out his hand, the other on the door.

Nightmare knew if he reached out, Dust would turn to him and try to save him from himself. But no. Night pulled his hands to his chest.

“Go. He’s waiting for you.” Dust had left with a slammed door.

Then silence. 

Silence for months, nothing but dust and books for friends. He’d kept to his castle, afraid of even glancing at them from portals, of bringing as much misfortune as he had to wherever he touched.

The idea had come back to him on the anniversary of Dust’s departure. He’d sent out a small summon to his brother, who’d come the instant he’d been called, fearing the worst.

“Brother?!”

“I’m right here Dream. I’m not in peril.” He looked up from his book, seated on a bench. Nightmare took to reading in the courtyard most days. He’d gotten through every book once before, this was one of his favorites to reread. “Though I’m thankful for your haste if I was.”

“I mean, yeah! No one’s heard from you in a while. I was starting to think…”Dream shook his head. “So what do you need? Anything I can do to help.” He held out his golden glove to Night. He had taken it so hesitantly, his brother the only person who he couldn’t affect but unused to contact after so long.

“I have things to show you.”

He’d brought him through the castle. He led him to every magical artifact, the secret chambers that hid anything placed within them, and a copy of the key to his treasured library. His entire legacy, every tool, things that could not be replaced.

“I think that’s everything. I’m entrusting this knowledge to you Dream. It felt important you know. The others deserve to not be called upon.”

“I agree but why would I need to call them? It’s your castle. I can just ask you.” Dream looked him over with worried eyes. “Right?” Nightmare sighed.

“No.” He held up a hand before Dream could yell. “I am going to be away from the castle. I do not know for how long.”

“Doing what?! Because telling me about ALL of this means this is a long trip!” Night could see all of Blue’s influence in him, almost professionally assessing him to see what they could work through. He was eternally grateful to Blue for his services but not for the inquisition he’d face for this decision.

“It most likely will be very long.” Nightmare didn’t elaborate.

“What are you planning?” Dream grabbed his shoulders, full brotherly concern on display. Night smiled at him. Dream panicked harder. “Nightmare, please don’t do anything drastic. Everyone really cares about you.” Night chuckled but it didn’t reach his tired eyes.

“Unfortunately, drastic is the only way I know.” He flicked Dream on his crown, nose scrunched up with the twang. “I don’t plan on dying in some corner of the world. I’m not a wounded animal.” Nightmare held the trembling hands in front of him. “I just need to go find something.”

“Well let’s go look toge-”

“Alone.”

“Nightmare.” He pleaded with his eyes. “You’ve been alone for so long already. Who was the last person you saw besides me?”

“Dust.” He didn’t shy away from the shock.

“That was a YEAR ago.” Dream pulled him towards the nearest door. “You just need to-”

“Dream.” He’d never felt so tired. It’d been many moons since he’d pulled this card, he only hoped his brother would understand. “Daydream, please.”

The fight drained from Dream in an instant. His eyes softened to tears, so much younger in that moment than Nightmare had seen since he’d awoken from that statue. Nightmare wiped a few away, meeting his eyes with renewed effort, resigned but ready.

“I need this. You’re the only one I can trust with the multiverse. I need you to carry it for both of us. I’m sorry to set it upon your shoulders.”

And Dream, the kind person he was, didn’t hesitate.

“I can handle it Nighty.” He pulled him into a hug. “So you keep looking until you find what you need to. I’ve got stuff handled here, and plenty of help if I get a little overwhelmed. Just...come back.” He’d waved Nightmare off into his portal with a smile.

“I’m here if you need me.”

The first body was the last. She’d been young, the last child, protected at the expense of the adults around her at every turn. He couldn’t even recall her name now. He found her in the forest, picking up her broken body as carefully as he feasibly could using only his arms. He started the sad march towards the hole.

He laid her in the earth with dignity. He cleaned off her face, finding a dropped toy nearby that felt familiar when he saw it, which he tucked into her arms.

Nightmare reflected on her death.

“The last of those bastards. Any last words?!” She’d only screamed. He cut her down painfully, multiple stabs with sharpened corruption, watching her bleed out to satisfy his own need for vengeance, served a hundred times over before this last death. His body fought his revulsion but he let the feeling flow. He’d been despicable.

A flash of memory from that night. It was gone before he could catch it.

He waited another few moments before taking up the shovel again. He covered her as quietly as he’d dug the grave, slow painful work on his hands that he trudged forward through. After the last bit of dirt had settled, he found a stone and placed it at the head.

Then he walked to the right and started again.

Nightmare managed three graves by the time he could not continue. He’d gotten the two people he’d felled just before the girl. He grieved each, laying them to rest, stumbling and pained, but he wanted to do this the right way.

When he could no longer continue, he pulled an apple from the provisions he’d grabbed.

He put it back.

Nightmare made his home by the tree, laying by her stump. He’d spent so many nights here, but the stars didn’t jog his memory at all. Nothing remained of before, none of what mattered to him. His mother was dead, Dream off running the multiverse, he himself changed, what could he even recognize?

He didn’t recall drifting off, though the nightmares that played across his mind meant he had to have slept. 

Night grabbed a bit of bread, looked up at the unchanging sky, and got to work again.

For weeks, the same pattern: wake, eat, lay the villagers to rest, consider the apple, sleep restlessly. Night’s corruption claimed his mind first, and many lives after. He owed them all the proper burial they’d been denied for centuries now.

Each dream got more vivid. The first taste of corruption, the first few to fall, turning Dream to stone, it got clearer each day. It wasn’t doing wonders to his sanity. Part of him wondered if this was the best chance of recovery, or of losing it completely and killing either the multiverse or himself. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he’d walk to the river in the forest.

The sound of running water was louder than his thoughts in the silence of the universe. He walked along it with his hands in his pockets and would imagine the castle.

Who accompanied him changed each day. Killer smiled but often made jokes at his expense or that of the dead. Dust’s hallucination acted as his own, egging him on to find more to kill. Horror’s mentioned the feast lying around, endlessly held edible by the lack of passing time. 

Error only visited once, his silence drowning out the brook. Nightmare left early and didn’t finish a single grave.

On a particularly productive day (he’d gotten through five), Dream accompanied him, and that’s when he remembered something from long ago. His voice complained, but he still knew the words.

The old folk song travelled across the world. The villagers had taught them at first, but Nightmare had sung Dream to sleep so much, he looked into so many more songs. He serenaded his phantom Dream from his small walk and slept peacefully for a single night.

The next day, his voice acted on its own.

He hummed while digging. He sang to the dead as he moved them, as an eulogy after their entombment, and went back to humming when he filled them and moved to the next. The silence of the world invited many demons, the lilt of a song brought back warmth of the past he’d long since lost. He remembered telling the others he didn’t sing; whether it was a lie or he truly forgot, he didn’t know.

The amount of graves was starting to stretch out far from the tree stump. He’d been at this for months, and now, the dead left numbered in double digits.

As he reached the last thirty, he leaned back onto the tall stump and realized nothing had blocked him. His unused tentacles had unformed, not needed and no longer reflex. Night breathed a sigh of relief up at the steady sky. Maybe he had a chance after all.

That night, when he considered the apple, he managed to put it up to his mouth. Not bite into, but it was progress, like so much else.

The second to last day ended as usual at first. He’d begun to sing songs he’d heard in other universes, voice strong from use. His hands had gotten so much better at holding the metal handle. His arms had regained strength, and bit by bit, the color was finally starting to leak back into the sky. This universe was healing. It had waited for him to return.

He only had one grave left. The village elder, the first to fall, the leader of the attacks against him. Night had never known his name besides Elder. 

His vengeance should’ve started and ended with him. 

No, that wasn’t the way to think anymore. Night had become what they feared, even if it was at their insistence, and a restless afterlife and the death of all his kin falling on him was punishment enough. He dug into the earth, humming the village tune, when the phantom heckled from behind.

“How dare you sing our song when you forsook us, monster.” Nightmare didn’t rise to the bait. He was not so lost as to not know reality from his own manifestations of guilt.

“Your brother was always the better one. I bet you killed him too.” Purposefully wrong, trying to pull him into this argument, he kept digging. Nightmare knew better than he did then. Young Nightmare had risen to many challenges he needn't be bothered with, but age brings wisdom, his past self having no ability to act out of the script he’d been forced to follow. He finished the grave with a wipe of his forehead.

“What do you think this does? Do you think this makes up for what you took? Our lives are not returned with this worthless ceremony.”

“Nothing will make up for what I took. I can only hope to be better going forward and to give back all that I am able.” Nightmare moved the body, staring directly at the ground, avoiding the phantom’s glares. “This place can move forward, and maybe then I can begin to.”

“As long as you are a monster, your mind will never leave this place, beast.”

“On that, we agree.” Nightmare bowed to his grave before beginning to fill it, the final task of his penance here. “But it can’t be killed easily.” The elder’s phantom considered him, before speaking carefully.

“Things borne of ourselves are the hardest to kill. We often choose to remove outside influences over those within.” Nightmare was struck with the memory of attending the elder’s many sermons. He had been a teacher as well, often giving lessons to the population for free. “But I can see its vice grip on you has loosened. What have you brought to kill it?”

“Nothing but myself and an apple.”

“Then I pray it is enough.” Nightmare finished the grave, dropping the shovel down for the last time.

“Me too.” 

The final headstone set down, he turned towards the tree stump.

Nightmare did nothing in half measures. He’d come prepared to die here if he needed to. So much of the night of the corruption was lost to the sludge, memory melted away by the power, only the spark of his brother’s positivity clear as a direct opposition to his own. But this corruption was magic, and all magic had a counter, an equal and opposite. Much of spellcraft found counters in the reverse, but how does one reverse something as horrifying as that night?

It was crude, but he tried. Night had said goodbye to Dream. He buried the villagers in reverse of the order he’d killed them. Now, he reached into the bag.

One crisp apple. It only took one to be lost.

He took it with trembling hands. It was so easy to raise to his teeth, almost calling for him to bite into the succulent skin. He closed his eye and bit down.

The corruption was acrid in his mouth. It tasted of the poison it was, but its darker temptation of power had made him bite into it again, and again, and again, until nothing remained. Anything to stop the judgement, the finger pointing, the thrown rocks, never having a place except by Dream’s side, and Dream had so many places he could fit effortlessly.

His eye flicked up to his brother, standing just under the tree, full of now blackened apples, his mouth full of the sludge he’d become, a pang of sadness at the horror on Dream’s face.

“Remember me as I was.” Then he’d grabbed the second. By the sixth, the tentacles had come alive on his back, ready to maim that which came to attack, but when he turned around, he was back in the dead world alone. His mind still pulsed with the event as if he’d lived it only a moment ago, and he couldn’t waste this opportunity.

“RAHHHHHH!” His vision blurred on the grass, tentacles furious digging a hole where no bodies lay. His body felt full, stuffed with corruption like a balloon, singeing his nerves from everything that ran black, pouring from his face directly into the hole that now was the right size. With a moment of clarity, he shoved his fingers down his throat.

He wretched endlessly, thick black corruption pouring out of him in heaves, unable to catch his breath while it left his body. It pooled and filled the hole. So much corruption, in such excess of all the magic in Nightmare’s body, his arms shook trying to hold him up. His soul burned raw, so much being torn from his entire being that it threatened to destabilize. He collapsed on his side, still spewing the poison until he passed out, unable to continue.

-

He came to gasping. His hands leapt to his throat instantly to soothe the burn. It stung, but looking forward, there was no liquid in the hole he’d collapsed beside, though what was inside was worse.

One black apple, unassuming in the otherwise empty hole. Night almost didn’t touch it.

When he reached for it, his eyes caught his hand. Pure ivory, matching the ivory arm, visible with both of his eyes.

He was free.

That aided his hand. He grabbed the apple, unafraid. Nightmare would not make the same mistake twice.

A glance around revealed more color than he’d remember seeing in ages. Flecks of green among the grass, the sky bright with a sun he hadn’t seen in eons, and a breeze of wind from time returning after so long gone. The world freed from stone could move forward, and now so could he.

His first order of business was clothes, his own ruined many times over by now. His corruption had held the poor things together, but sleeping on rocks hadn’t been kind to the soft hoodie. 

Picking through the village felt less somber now. These items would wear away with time, and he could use them. He grabbed some boots, loose pants, a purple tunic, and a worn leather bag to wear over his shoulder. Inside, a few provisions, the black apple, and a few books for his collection amongst the village, he had refused to set foot here before now.

Where to go now? He was free from his corruption, but not from himself. Nightmare himself was still an entire project he’d have to work at.

Though with his corruption lifted, it felt invigorating to have a fate of his own again.

First order of business was probably Dream. He’d left him alone for a long time, though the strange flow of time had made him lose track of exactly how much. He pulled on his magic to generate a portal.

“Fuck!” He’d reset himself back to the start. Of course he had little to work with. He’d have to ask Dream for a lift home when he got there. After a quick straightening of his back, he stepped through to wherever Dream was. He’d pulled on their connection to form the portal instead of picking a place. He walked down some sort of hallway he didn’t recognize, reaching the end of it to turn towards the noise.

Lots of eyes on him, he’d walked into a party. Probably Blue’s based on the amount and varying universes of the guests. He waved awkwardly.

“Um, hi.” He heard something shatter.

“Nightmare?” From the crowd, his brother squeezed out, bolting straight for him. Nightmare held his arms open and braced for impact.

“Yes Dream.” He managed to stay standing at his brother’s hug, but only just. He squeezed him hard enough to crack his back. “Be careful, you’re the more powerful one now.”

“I don’t care about that!” He clung to him and sobbed openly, which was really soaking up Night’s tunic, but he owed him this, rubbing his back through the tears. “I was so w-worrieeeeeed!”

“Well now you can stop worrying.” Nightmare chuckled at his over emotional brother. Then he felt the hand on his back.

“Is that really you boss?” Horror’s deep baritone reverberated down through his hand, shaking Night’s more fragile form. He mentally forgave Dream’s reaction when he turned to look at him. His hand rose to rest on Horror’s cheek, tracing under his chin to get a good look at him as he used to. His own eyes watered for the first time in decades.

“You look so well Horror. I’m...so happy...to see you.” He cried through it, holding him tight to feel the now sturdy bones underneath. He missed his boys so much. He didn’t even flinch at the sudden touch to his back, hearing Dust’s soft murmurs.

“We’re happy to see you too Nightmare.”

His soul, full of this feeling of reunion and relief, let loose tension it no longer had to hold. The future held much trial and tribulation, but it held equal amounts of moments like this, bonding and joy over simple celebrations.

Nothing but his own future.

[nanstgeorge]

possible acotar book six foreshadowing:

so basically i love reading through theories and im gonna be a menace until i find out why tamlin’s glamour didn’t work on nesta in acotar considering that this was human nesta being able to see through faerie magic. it’s important to remember that this is sjm we’re talking about and is someone who loves hinting at future important concepts. so i started by going back to the beginning and rereading acotar for possible hints. was it really because nesta had an iron will that strong or is this more contribution to the archeron prophecy?

in acotar, lucien tells feyre that that iron doesn’t do anything to faeries but ash does.

we then read a bit about how tamlin glamoured the archeron family in order to prevent them from coming after feyre. of course, we all know that nesta does.

then feyre goes through her thoughts on the glamour and the implications of that (which honestly makes me wonder how many red flags tamlin had during that first book lmao) and we already know that nesta did in fact remember feyre.

but what really gets me interested is that we know elain and papa archeron might have been glamoured but did it not work on nesta for reasons beyond her iron will, beyond herself? tamlin explained to feyre that his glamour didn’t work on not just non-members of his court but people who belonged to elements. we all know that she has a strong will but maybe this was something else entirely.

tamlin was keeping feyre from her two sisters and that’s as detrimental to not just feyre, but to destiny. maybe nesta not seeing the glamour was the cauldron manipulating the situation so she could bring feyre back? of course it’s important to mention that if this were the cauldron interfering, perhaps feyre wouldn’t have been glamoured originally at spring court? perhaps elain would’ve been able to see through the glamour along with nesta? but we all know that nesta has an affinity for protecting elain AND in acosf, she gives back some of her powers to the cauldron in order to protect feyre; rendering her with a connection to the mother. in conclusion, it NEEDED to be nesta who did this.

there are countless snippets throughout the series of nesta being “made differently” from the rest of the humans so that to me, is further proof that they were always destined to be high fae. destined to fulfill a prophecy that can only occur when all three sisters reunite. (all credit to this masterpiece https://psychee92.tumblr.com/post/644320594759925760/foreshadowing-elains-future-journey-thanks-to)

we have already seen nesta and feyre’s journeys and have knowledge that they aren’t even complete yet. they aren’t not complete for further reasons beyond their own personal arcs but also because the archeron sisters are the arc. since the beginning, i truly believe that the story has been about these three sisters and it cannot conclude without elain pursuing her own journey.

acotar has been a series about character growth and overcoming trauma, grief, and everything in-between. the archeron sisters have been broken down and every book has documented them mending their wounds. acowar ended with feyre finally being together with nesta and feyre in the archeron house but they were still mentally at odds. acosf concluded with nesta overcoming one of her biggest roadblocks which was her grief with her father and the three sisters are almost completely united at his grave. but an important thing to keep in mind is that there still has yet to be a conversation between all three of them about their childhood. until this is truly tackled, with elain as a vocal part of the discussion, we cannot reach the end.

[sophia-sol]

Return of the Thief, by Megan Whalen Turner

It's.....it's weird to think that the series is finally over??? Like what the heck! I've known and loved it as an incomplete series for so long and to think that the end has been reached feels unreal.

(all the rest is behind a read more for a) some spoilers and b) me being grouchy oops, don’t read if that’s not something you’d like to see)

I did a bit of a break-neck reread of most of the series leading up to the release date of Return of the Thief because I wanted to make sure I'd have the previous events clear in my mind to follow what happened at the end. Rereading the other books made me think about how in all the other books in this series with a first-person narrator, that narrator is the focus of the book, but in this one.....he isn't, entirely. It's a lot about Eugenides instead. This makes sense both for the needs of the book and for the kind of person Pheris has had to become (prefers being invisible when possible), but it makes me sad because I got invested in Pheris, and I feel like there isn't enough narrative focus on the conclusion of his emotional arc! Like, Costis and Sophos and Kamet each got their own arc in the book they narrate - the plot was highly influenced by Eugenides, yes, but the narrator had a satisfying conclusion of his own. They weren't just about Eugenides through the eyes of someone else. But this one feels a little too much like it IS that. The first bit is about Pheris and then in book 2 he lets himself fade into the background for a lot of it. I think a lot of readers are in this series for Eugenides, and like, don't get me wrong I do find him a fascinating character, but he's not the be-all and end-all. I wanted more Pheris! As Eugenides becomes more and more the powerful and god-touched Annux over the course of the series, I think he's best in the narrative in smaller doses. I don't like the way he overshadows so much else of what's going on in this book. I feel the same about the gods - best in the narrative in smaller doses, and too present in this particular book. Although actually I think the problem for me is that they are present in the wrong way? skygiants's review was helpful for me in figuring this out! It feels like Eugenides and co are just like, uncomplicatedly allied with the gods now, instead of the more difficult relationships with the gods in the previous books. I want something more uncomfortable out of my fictional god experience! I also uh. Am possibly too anti-royalty for this series all about royalty, it turns out? I thought the end was going to shake things up more politically! The end of Conspiracy of Kings was more in line with the thrust of the series than I had wanted to think, with its in-earnest-seeming discussion about there being a different morality for rulers. And then the series end turns out to be Yay happy monarchy with extra monarchy on top! And like, I'm generally fine with fantasies about monarchs as long as the narrative doesn't focus on that, but as soon as you make the narrative be at all about questions of monarchy and rulership then sweeping the issues under the rug for a pro-monarchy ending doesn't satisfy me. The amount that Eugenides is uncomfortable with the idea of having huge amounts of political power doesn't actually make it any better that he has it and uses it however he sees fit. I think I would be happier if the book made it clear that the person Eugenides became is not fully admirable, even though it's what he felt he had to become in order to save his country, instead of continuing to encourage the reader to sympathise with him for how hard it is to be Eugenides. The bit at the end where the narrative is all like, isn't it so funny and cute how Eugenides is incapable of asking for things instead of demanding things...UNCOMFORTABLE. For the record, there are lots of things I love about this book too! (The Erondites family drama! Pheris and Relius's mentor-mentee relationship! Pheris!!!) But when I feel that the whole focus and thematic thrust of the book is off, that's kind of a pervasive issue. Also the end felt a bit too much like it was deliberately tying everything up tidily and conservatively, giving the lead couples children (and naming the kids after other people, so that their role is just to tie into emotions about pre-existing characters instead of being their own individuals) and pairing off many of the other characters and making sure nobody we really cared about died, even though SO MANY people died in that war! It gives the horrifying nature of the war less weight imo. It's not that I wanted any of them to die, but if you're going to choose to deliberately write a seemingly-unwinnable war with terrible casualties against a vast army, it just....feels weird that they all make it through, like they're too ~special~ to die. I do particularly appreciate though that neither character in the one newly confirmed queer couple - Teleus/Relius omg! - ends up actually dead. IDK. Maybe I'm just grouchy because no book could possibly have lived up to the high expectations I had for the end of this series, and maybe I'll like this book better on reread. And maybe I missed some nuances in my rush to find out what happened next and I'll change my mind about all of the above when I reread, or when I read more fannish analysis! Anyway in conclusion Thick as Thieves continues to be the best forever the end.

[ladylynse]

Down the Rabbit Hole: Wirt had heard a lot of stories about college, but somehow, he still wasn’t prepared for one of his roommate’s crazy friends to smuggle a hatchet into their dorm room. Future fic/college AU. Crossover with Over the Garden Wall, Danny Phantom, Gravity Falls, and Trollhunters.

Part II! (Part I; also on FF/AO3)

Wirt spent almost every free moment he had in the library.

In hindsight, it was rather inevitable that he’d run into Wendy’s roommate.

She found him first, sliding into a seat across from him and quietly clearing her throat. When he looked up, she pointed at the text he was reading. “That one’s hardly a reliable source,” she said.

He forced a laugh. “It’s paranormal science. Nothing’s going to be a reliable source.”

Her features lost their hint of a smile, falling into a tight frown. “That one’s pseudoscience, not science. If you’ve seen something—”

“I never said I saw anything!”

She raised her eyebrows, purposefully darting her eyes around. He didn’t need to turn his head to know people were staring. This was the fifth floor. It had the most uncomfortable chairs. People didn’t tend to stick around and chat here; the lower floors were more popular for group projects that slid into conversational procrastination. Usually, ringing (or buzzing or dinging) phones or sneezes were the only things heard above murmured conversation, the hum of laptops, and rustling paper.

He sunk into his seat and lowered his voice. “Look, this is just for an assignment. It’s not whatever you’re thinking.”

“You can talk to me, you know. I won’t think you’re crazy.”

Didn’t mean he didn’t think she was crazy.

“Hey.” She waited until he met her eyes before continuing, “I’ve seen things that most people wouldn’t believe are real. And, no, it wasn’t just a one-off thing or something I ate. So if you need someone to talk to who won’t judge you, I’m all ears.”

“Thanks, but there’s nothing to talk about.” Wirt gathered up his books, ignored the hurt look on Jazz’s face, and hoped it wasn’t too obvious that he was running away.

XXXXXXXX

When Toby tossed a new pair of socks onto his bed when Wirt was trying to finish his paper on Machiavelli, Wirt just looked over at Toby. He didn’t even need to move the socks from the book they’d landed on; Toby knew the question for what it was. “I think I lost a pair last time I did the laundry,” he said. “Figured I should repay you.”

They weren’t pink and fuzzy, so it wasn’t payback for something he couldn’t remember doing. It was true that Wirt hadn’t been able to find a few of his socks, but he’d assumed they’d just gotten shoved under something and would turn up eventually.

Sure, they hadn’t magically reappeared after yesterday when it had been his turn to do their laundry (they’d started taking turns because neither of them particularly liked scrounging for quarters or hauling everything to the machines), but he’d just kinda thought that he’d…missed them. He was missing a few singles, not a pair, so it had seemed more likely.

“Nana wouldn’t let me live it down otherwise,” Toby added.

“Uh, right.” Wirt could believe that. Toby’s Nana seemed big on doing the right thing, even if he wasn’t wholly convinced she always knew what the right thing was. At least, he was thankful for the cookies she’d sent them. The clean underwear ‘in case they got hit by a bus or into worse trouble’ had been a little more…questionable. “Thanks.”

“Oh, and Wendy says to stop avoiding her and ignoring her texts. She needs to talk to you.”

“I’m not avoiding her!”

Toby snorted. “I might’ve believed that if you’d come back with ‘about what?’, but whatever. She mentioned something about her roommate. Maybe that’s why.”

“Her roommate is nuts,” Wirt muttered, not caring about being charitable right now. It was…rough. Every assignment in class seemed to be due at all once, and he had trouble focusing on any of them with this…this…whatever it was hanging over his head.

He had seen something.

He was pretty sure it wasn’t something related to the Unknown, but that was only because he hadn’t recognized it. And because he was also pretty sure it was something Toby was involved in, and Toby….

Toby was weird, and the Unknown had been weird, but this felt…different.

Maybe he was just jumping to conclusions, though. There had to be a perfectly rational explanation for what he’d seen. Maybe it had been a dream, and the paper had just been Toby’s study notes. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d fallen asleep reading them. Or maybe it did have something to do with the Unknown after all. Somehow. He’d had nothing to do with it for years. Maybe he’d managed to forget what it felt like. He still had the journal with him where he’d written the entire experience down and had actually reread it in preparation for that creative writing assignment, but he’d never found the right words to recreate the feeling the Unknown had given him. Not really.

But…but if it did have something to do with the Unknown, why nothing until now?

Maybe Toby wasn’t even the target. Maybe things were just…reaching out. For him.

Or maybe Toby had ended up in the Unknown once, too, and managed to escape?

No, he couldn’t have. He would have said something. Probably. Because he had to know it was far too unlikely that Wirt could just pull all that out of his hat if he’d been through a very similar experience.

But if it wasn’t the Unknown, what else was there?

…Maybe he really had seen an animal? Just a trained one? There could have been someone outside the window to remove the screen and send in…whatever it had been. A racoon with weird colouration? Or something else that could climb like that? And be trained to carry messages?

Maybe it was a robot. Just…a quiet robot. With random sounds programmed into it so no one got close enough to figure out what it was when it was sent out.

Or maybe Toby had another friend who was so good at that kind of thing that they were working on artificial intelligence and this entire thing was just a series of test runs.

Given the friends of Toby’s that Wirt had met, he was not about to rule out that possibility. Heck, for all he knew, it could be Jazz. She apparently had weapons stashed all over the place. Maybe she had advanced tech, too. That Wendy had found, since Jazz apparently couldn’t hide stuff from her. Wendy could have commandeered something and was using it to send messages to Toby in the middle of the night. Just because she could. He wouldn’t put that past her, either.

Toby snorted. “I don’t think Wendy would argue with you there. She still can’t believe Jazz practically lives in the library. But seriously. Talk to her. Or just go over there. She got out of class at four. She should be back by now. You don’t even have to text or call first.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to finish this.” Wirt made a vague gesture towards the laptop and the mess of books that had overtaken his bed.

“You’ve been working on it since before I got back from my lab. Take a break.”

“I don’t have time for a break!”

“You’ll be more productive if you take one. Isn’t that what they say?”

Wirt rolled his eyes. “A five minute break and a fifteen minute walk to Wendy’s are very different things. Especially when you factor in a conversation and the walk back.”

“You still need a break. And the walk will do you good.”

Wirt argued.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised he lost.

XXXXXXX

“About time,” Wendy said, stepping back to let him in. She and Jazz were renting a tiny, two-bedroom apartment just off campus. It was cheap and showed its age, all chipped paint, worn carpet, creaking floors, and a musty smell that wasn’t quite overwhelmed by the fumes from the fast-food joint next door. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and if they wanted to be close enough to walk to campus, they’d have had limited options. Given the convenience, Wirt didn’t want to know how much the two of them had to cough up for rent each month.

“Um….”

“It wouldn’t kill you to reply to your text messages, you know.”

“I was…busy.”

“And avoiding me.”

“And me,” Jazz piped up as she walked out to join them in the tiny entryway. “What do you want to drink, Wirt?”

“Uh….”

“I’ll get you some water.” She disappeared back the way she’d come, presumably to the kitchen. Wirt slid off his shoes and shrugged off his coat, which Wendy hung in the closet.

Two steps took him to the entryway of the kitchen, and if he didn’t turn, he’d head straight for the living room. He hesitated until Wendy pushed him gently from behind, prodding him forward. “Comfy chairs,” she said.

The chairs would feel more comfortable if he wasn’t walking into an interrogation. Jazz fished out a coaster from beneath a psychology text book and set a glass of water down on it beside him, and she sat in the chair on the other side of the end table. Wendy snagged a rolling chair from a desk, wheeling it over to join them. Neither of the girls spoke.

“Um. I wasn’t, uh, avoiding you guys.”

Jazz’s eyebrows shot up. “Weren’t you? Really, Wirt, you can tell me. I grew up in Amity Park. I have seen unbelievable.”

That might be so, but he’d never heard of Amity Park.

Wendy stretched, cracking her knuckles. “Gravity Falls isn’t without its stories, either.”

He stared at them. “Wait. This isn’t still about that story I wrote about the Unknown, is it?”

“I don’t know, is it?” Jazz asked, turning the question back on him. “I rather thought it was about whatever you were researching in the library. Clearly, though, if the Unknown is involved—”

Why had he ever opened his mouth? He knew what her major was. “It’s not.” That was unconvincing even to his own ears.

“But you brought it up.”

“She mentioned stories!” He pointed at Wendy, desperate for an out. She was just smirking and enjoying the show.

“But you immediately thought of the Unknown.”

Wirt was pretty sure Jazz had handed him the shovel and he was halfway into digging his own grave. “Because someone would never let that drop. A couple someones, actually.”

“So Wendy and Toby have mentioned it recently?”

“Well, yeah.” Wirt stopped.

Thought about it for a moment.

They hadn’t.

Not for a couple of weeks, at the very least. He wasn’t even sure he’d heard them harp on about it since he’d seen the whatever-it-was. He hadn’t been spending a lot of time with either of them, too focused on figuring out what the heck he’d seen and not failing his classes in the meantime.

And from the look on Jazz’s face, she knew that perfectly well.

“Okay, so maybe not,” amended Wirt, even though he knew he was well past six feet under, “but it’s definitely been too often for something that should have been forgotten. Seriously. It was just a creative writing assignment. No one’s made a big deal about any of the others.”

“Maybe the others had a different sort of truth to them than this one did.”

Wirt frowned. “Wait, you haven’t read it, have you?” She shouldn’t have. He’d never shown her. But he didn’t trust Wendy.

“I know enough about it,” Jazz said, which wasn’t really an answer because she could know enough about it if Wendy had told her or if Wendy—or, heck, maybe even Toby—had broken into his laptop and emailed her the file or copied it to a flash drive or something.

“It’s. Just. A. Story.” He was tired of repeating himself.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Jazz said, leaning back in her chair. Wirt blinked. “How about I tell you a story, though?”

“Wait, what?”

“Can I tell you a story?”

He didn’t have time for this. That essay wasn’t going to finish itself. But…. “Like, a story story or—?”

Jazz smiled. “A ghost story.”

He couldn’t tell if she was kidding. A quick glance at Wendy confirmed she hadn’t expected this, either. Still, she looked…interested, leaning forward and finally focusing on Jazz instead of him.

“Amity Park has its share of ghost stories,” Jazz added when he didn’t stop her.

He still couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. Was she just making stuff up to try to get him to talk? He hadn’t framed the Unknown as a ghost story for his assignment, but in hindsight it could’ve been read like that. And she had caught him looking up different types of ghosts….

“They say the veil is thin there,” Jazz said, a quirk about her lips hinting at some inside joke. Wendy didn’t seem to get it, either. Frankly, Wirt was surprised she didn’t know the whole story already. He’d kinda figured she’d have gotten it out of Jazz by now—especially if she’d found Jazz’s hidden weapons in less than a week.

…Was this why Jazz had weapons in the first place?

“Natural portals are abundant. Not between this world and the next, but between our world and the Ghost Zone, the realm where ghosts dwell—the ones not trapped on our plane of existence, anyway. One day, a pair of well-meaning scientists decided to set up shop and tear through the veil to create a doorway so that they could better study the world of ghosts. It wasn’t until after they’d succeeded that they realized the dangers of the other side.”

A ghost zone? Why not just call it the afterlife? Wirt opened his mouth, but Jazz held up a hand to silence him. “The people of the town adapted and even grew to accept the daily disruptions of ghost attacks.”

Daily? She was definitely making this up. He just had no idea why.

“But then one day, the Fright Knight arrived, heralding the return of his king and issuing a royal decree. Some of the people tried to fight back, and the entire town was punished for their efforts, completely subsumed by the Ghost Zone. The scientists were able to erect a protective barrier with the help of others, but they could not reverse the town’s transportation. They had been taken to another realm, and the town could not be restored by ordinary human means. Not alone.”

“Wait. You’re telling me an entire town got sucked into a different world?” Even for a story, it was a stretch. She had to know how that sounded. One or two people, even a larger group, sure. Fine. But an entire town? “I thought you were a psych major, not creative writing.” Although maybe this was why she wasn’t in creative writing. She had the basics down, but she went a little too far, even for the whole suspension of belief thing. The best ghost stories were the ones that could feasibly happen, that couldn’t quite be explained away by logic or circumstance.

Now, what had happened to him and Greg? Okay, so maybe it didn’t sound feasible to someone who thought it was just a story, but it had only been them, not everyone else who’d been in the graveyard. And the struggle of two people surviving a place like the Unknown made for a better story than an entire group who brought various eclectic skills to the table. Stories were better when there was a sense of risk, not a certainty of eventual triumph.

Sure, the fact the town couldn’t be restored ‘by ordinary human means alone’ or whatever was probably meant to build suspense, but she wasn’t—

“Trust me, she’s a psych major,” Wendy said. “Now stop interrupting. Was there some kind of prophecy? There must have been if you couldn’t just fight your way out, right?”

Why…why was Wendy talking like this was something that had really happened to Jazz? Like it was a normal thing? Like she’d gone through something similar where there had been a prophecy, and it had been important, since without it, she—and whoever else—couldn’t fight her way out? Jazz had straight up said it was a ghost story.

Her names could use work—Ghost Zone? Fright Knight?—but then again, they might not be her names. If she wasn’t making this up, if she had heard the story as a kid or at summer camp or something, then it would be easier to keep the names the same rather than change them and forget what she’d called things mid-story.

He wasn’t convinced she wasn’t trying to make some point with this, though. When Wendy had read his story, she’d wondered if he’d been talking about death. About the afterlife. He couldn’t blame her, given that he’d still called it the Unknown, but—

“To start everything,” Jazz allowed. “Prophesized power begins this story, really. Greed for it awakened the king from his slumber in the first place.”

Okay, so probably not making it up on the spot unless she was really good at that kind of thing. He didn’t know her well enough to tell. He couldn’t think on his feet half as well as Greg, but it was a good skill to have, and if she was planning on being a psychologist, it would make sense that she could adapt to whatever was thrown at her better than other people.

“But the prophecy didn’t end it? Didn’t hint at a way to defeat the king?”

“Only what must be done was known, not how it would be accomplished.”

“Well, teamwork, obviously,” Wirt said. That’s how these things went. Especially when there was a townful of people to help.

“More calling truces, uniting foes against a common enemy, and fighting for survival and a way of life as much as for friends and family, but yes. Teamwork. Pariah Dark could never have been defeated by any one person alone, nor even by a small group.”

Maybe this was some old camp story and she’d just changed it to a town from a bunch of campers to make that fact less obvious. It had a moral to it and everything. Work together, help each other out. Maybe even unite against an opposing cabin despite initial opposition within. Jazz might’ve spent a summer as a counsellor somewhere. It would’ve given her an opportunity to work with kids from various backgrounds, which would stand up as good experience when she got to job hunting.

And it would explain why she seemed to know this story so well.

“But sometimes it’s a small group or one person who makes all the difference in the world,” Wendy said softly. “When it comes down to the wire and greater risks need to be taken. Sometimes, only one person can choose to make that sacrifice, even when others want to help.”

Jazz raised her eyebrows, and Wendy’s defensive barrier immediately fell back into place as she sat up. “What? Wirt’s the only one allowed to predict how this went down?”

Seriously, why was she saying that like it had happened?

“Of course not,” Jazz said. “I just…hadn’t realized.”

Hadn’t realized what?

“Anyway, keep going.”

No. Wait. Hadn’t realized what? What was he missing?

“It’s like you said. They came together, friend and foe alike, and helped turn the tide. There was even one who sacrificed more than the rest, and, really, it is that smaller group you mentioned that ensured he didn’t lose everything in the process.” Jazz shrugged. “But it’s just a story.”

“But….” No. She wanted him to ask. She must. That’s why she’d cut things off so abruptly. If he asked, he’d be playing right into whatever trap she’d set. Because there had to be something. He’d walked into enough of them already to know that.

Maybe Wendy didn’t believe this as much as she seemed to and was just playing off Jazz. To get to him. And get him to…something. He wasn’t even sure. What did they want, for him to admit that the Unknown wasn’t just a story? Why? So they could laugh at him for believing such a thing? That didn’t make sense. They weren’t cruel.

So what were they really after?

Wirt suddenly realized Jazz and Wendy were staring at him, waiting for him to continue. He swallowed. “Um, I mean, stories, ah, sometimes have a bit of truth in them, and….” And something. He didn’t know where he’d been going with that. Nowhere, probably.

Jazz smiled. “Exactly.”

Wait.

“What’s the truth in your story, Wirt?”

He’d walked right into that, hadn’t he?

Maybe he could still pull this off and convince them to drop it for good. “That I had fun imagining it?” he offered. He needed them to believe him when he said it was just a story.

“Ideas come from somewhere,” Wendy pointed out.

Of course she wouldn’t drop it. That would be too easy. “Yeah, a dream, but who knows before that. I just remembered some of what I’d been dreaming about and made up what I didn’t.”

For a split second, identical expressions of fear passed over the girls’ faces.

And then they both managed to school their expressions into a more normal response, mainly boredom (Wendy) and allowance (Jazz).

He had no idea what they’d been thinking.

He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know.

He had a feeling he’d find out eventually, though. One way or another. He just wished he knew now whether or not they were in this together. They probably were—Jazz was still more acquaintance than friend in his book, since he didn’t know her that well, despite whatever this was—but if they were, why hadn’t Jazz filled Wendy in on her plan? And if they weren’t, why would Jazz bother with any of this in the first place?

This didn’t make sense.

Wirt drained half his water, just so he didn’t have to fill the silence, but that only gave Jazz the opportunity to ask, “Do you dream like that often?”

“What?” It was a weird question. “You mean like where I remember it, right? Aren’t we supposed to dream every night even if we don’t remember them?”

Jazz just smiled.

“Well…no? I don’t usually remember my dreams. I guess I just woke up at the right time with this one.”

They looked relieved.

Why did they both look relieved?

“Do you ever have lucid dreams?” pressed Jazz. “Where you’re aware that you’re dreaming and can take control of it?”

He had no idea where this line of questioning was supposed to be going. “No. I mean, maybe once, just kinda steering away from a nightmare if that counts, but I don’t know for sure. Nothing that I really remember.”

“How often do you have nightmares?”

That one came from Wendy, and it was seemed to add credence to the idea that they were working together after all. “Not really often? I don’t remember the last one I had.” Because he was certain that he’d really seen something, that it hadn’t just been a nightmare. It couldn’t have been. Not when the note had been there the next morning. “C’mon, guys, what’s this about? You have to know how weird all this sounds.”

“This is your standard for weird, then,” Jazz said, as if that clarified something.

“Well, yeah? It would be anyone’s standard, wouldn’t it?”

Wendy glanced at Jazz. “Kinda makes him seem sweet and innocent for thinking that, doesn’t it?”

Okay, that confirmed it. They were in this together. And trolling him. They had to be.

Wirt got to his feet. “Look, this has been…fun, I guess, but I really need to finish my essay. Are you satisfied that I’m not avoiding you now?”

“Answer your text messages like the normal person you claim to be,” Wendy shot back, “and then I’ll believe that.”

Wirt rolled his eyes. “Fine, but don’t expect instant responses. Like I said, I’m busy.”

“Aren’t we all?” Jazz was smiling again as she rose to join him, but he couldn’t see falsehood hidden behind it. Maybe she was just a genuinely cheerful person. Or, more likely, she was deeply amused by his reaction to all of this. “Thanks, Wirt. You’ve been a great help.”

A great help for what?

“A good sport,” Wendy agreed. She didn’t move from her chair. “Don’t be a stranger, Wirt. You and Toby can come over for supper on the weekend if you want. I’m teaching Jazz to cook, but I promise she’s past the point of accidentally poisoning you.”

“I’m not that bad.”

Wendy snorted. “You ate raw pierogies and then asked me if they were supposed to be that hard.”

“That was one time.”

“Yeah? Well, just because you cut the mouldy part off the tomatoes—or anything else—it doesn’t mean the rest is fine.”

“Um. I think I’ll pass on your home cooking,” Wirt said, overriding Jazz’s mutters about not being used to food lasting long enough to spoil like that. “I’m on the meal plan anyway, just like everyone else in res.”

“Like that’s any better. I may not eat there, but I’ve heard stories.”

“It’s better than your food was at the beginning of the year,” Wendy pointed out. “And don’t even get me started on your scavenging skills. If you were left on your own in the woods, you’d eat something poisonous the minute you started looking for food.”

Jazz frowned but didn’t deny it, which probably meant her scavenging skills were on par with his. “Just face it, Wendy. We’re not all going to survive the apocalypse,” joked Wirt.

She glared at him. “At least Jazz can hit a target.”

“That took me a while,” allowed Jazz, “but ghost hunting pays off.”

No. She was kidding. He knew that. He’d started it. He’d opened the door with the apocalypse quip. Of course she’d walked through it. She was friends with Wendy. Roommates. Which had to rub off. That comment had nothing to do with her old campfire story.

…Right?

-|-

Next or see more fics

[terramythos]

Review: The Obelisk Gate by N. K. Jemisin (The Broken Earth #2)

Length: 391 pages. 

Genre/Tags: Fantasy, Science Fiction, Apocalyptic, Post-post-post Apocalyptic, Female Protagonist, Antagonist POV, First-Person, Second-Person, Third-Person, Gray Morality, Dark, Great Worldbuilding, Great Character Development, LGBT Characters, Diverse Cast, Trilogy

Warning(s): Like before, this is not a happy book. Child death, abuse/torture, graphic violence and gore, major body horror, and a whole lot of murder. References to slavery. Pretty par for the course at this point.

My Rating: 4.5/5

**WARNING: THIS REVIEW (INCLUDING THE SUMMARY) CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE FIFTH SEASON. IF YOU WANT A SPOILER FREE REVIEW, PLEASE READ MY FIFTH SEASON REVIEW (X), OR, BETTER YET, JUST READ THE BOOK.** 

My Summary:

A Fifth Season is well and truly underway, but unlike the dozens of others humanity has weathered through the ages, this one threatens to cast the world into ash and darkness for a million years, ending life as we know it. Essun’s search for her missing daughter has gone cold as she discovers Castrima, a strange underground city built into a geode, led by— bizarrely— a feral orogene. It is here she finds Alabaster— once her friend, mentor, not-quite-lover, and most powerful orogene alive— on his deathbed. He tore open the giant Rift in the center of the continent, kicking off all the death and destruction since the Season began. His actions and goals seem incomprehensible. Then, he tasks Essun with the impossible: use the power of the obelisks--the ancient, floating relics of a bygone era--to return Father Earth’s missing child. 

But stranger forces are at work. The stone-eaters— immortal, statue-like humanoid creatures--have taken a sudden interest in humanity, and orogenes in particular. Essun herself is trailed by Hoa, the story’s narrator, a stone-eater wearing the disguise of a human child. He assures her that not all of his kind want the same thing, that he is on her side, but what does that really mean? 

Meanwhile, Essun’s daughter Nassun grapples with the reality of her life— one in which the world is ending and everyone thinks of her as a monster. She will soon come to realize that love comes cloaked in pain— with dire implications for those around her.

There is a thing you will not see happening, yet that is going to impact the rest of your life. Imagine it. Imagine me. You know what I am, you think, both with your thinking mind and the animal, instinctive part of you. You see a stone body clothed in flesh, and even though you never really believed I was human, you did think of me as a child. You still think it, though Alabaster has told you the truth— that I haven’t been a child since before your language existed. Perhaps I was never a child. 

You should imagine me as what I truly am among my kind, then: old, and powerful, and greatly feared. A legend. A monster.

Minor spoilers and my thoughts follow. 

As I mentioned in my Fifth Season writeup (x), this is a hard series to summarize and review. By their nature, these books are full of unexpected and strange twists, and half the joy of reading them is discovering new things about the world and characters. So, it’s difficult to get specific without spoiling a lot. At the same time, it’s impossible to describe any context for this book without spoiling some of The Fifth Season, so… fuck it.

Did I like this one as much as The Fifth Season? I don’t think so— it’s still great, and much better than most of what I’ve read— but I tend to struggle with second books. The Obelisk Gate is very heavy on characterization and worldbuilding, and it definitely feels like setup for the third book, which might explain part of my reaction. That being said, as middle books go, this one has plenty going on and a lot of interesting drama. The writing itself is exquisite and very entertaining to read. There’s all sorts of lore details that shed a new light on the events and characters of the first book. And, well, there’s a very good chance I’ll look at this one in a new light based on book 3. I’m willing to bet these are very interesting to reread when one knows all the little twists and turns.

(As an aside, I randomly guessed a Big Twist in this one while reading The Fifth Season. So… go me, I guess).

Like The Fifth Season, this book follows three central characters. There’s Essun, of course, who once more serves as the main protagonist. But joining her now are Nassun— her missing daughter— and (of all characters), Schaffa, the main antagonistic figure from the previous book. These latter two offer a very different and interesting perspective on things. For example, early on you learn Nassun HATES her mother, which seems totally at odds with what we know to this point. Schaffa is also an interesting choice— we don’t see his perspective much, but we learn a lot about him and the Guardians in general. Why the fuck are they so creepy? Why do they smile all the time? Boy, you’re about to find out, and it’s not gonna be great.

One thing that continues from The Fifth Season which I really dig is the narrative style. I didn’t want to mention it in my previous review, but the whole story is technically in first-person, narrated by Hoa. He shifts into second-person when describing Essun’s life, whereas Nassun/Schaffa are both third-person. In The Fifth Season, Hoa seems like an odd choice of narrator, as he’s a fairly minor character, but that changes big time in The Obelisk Gate. There’s also small interludes from his perspective (my quote is one of them). Toward the end of this entry, he occasionally lapses out of second-person entirely for the Essun passages. This never felt jarring— in fact, in context it made sense. Or maybe Zero Escape numbed me to that type of thing.

And I super don’t want to spoil why, but Hoa’s an unreliable narrator. Which is great. I love unreliable narrators so, so much. You can probably pick it up in the first book, but this one really gets into the nitty gritty of it.

The stone-eaters in general are super interesting. They’re certainly not par for the course compared to typical fantasy races. In The Fifth Season they’re just sort of bizarre background characters, except at one or two key points. But you learn quite a bit about them in this one. Something I find especially interesting is that they don’t fall into the trap of “X fantasy race wants Y thing”. In fact, Hoa’s quite direct when he says his kind have many differing goals, much like the humans they follow around. I don’t think we get the full implications of that in this entry, but I bet it’s going to be an interesting thing to explore in the next book.

As for the characters, The Obelisk Gate doesn’t introduce very many new ones. I think Nassun is the only one who really qualifies outside of the very minor. Instead, the story focuses on active character development, or glimpses how certain characters have changed over the years. And everyone does (or HAS done) some real questionable shit. There’s certainly a sense of gray morality in the previous book, but this one drives it home. EVERYONE is morally gray. Fucking everyone.

Alabaster, my fave from last book, isn’t doing so great in this one, but he’s still the snarky asshole I liked in The Fifth Season. Schaffa gets some real unexpected development. Ykka, the rogue orogene leader of Castrima, is pretty interesting as well; she’s introduced in the previous book but you really don’t see much of her until this one. I continue to find Tonkee fucking hilarious (thanks for making the weird feral scientist trans, by the way). Nassun was absolutely not who I expected her to be at all, and she’s definitely set up to play an interesting role in the future.

Of them all, though, I think Hoa’s my fave this time around. As I’ve mentioned, he has a much more prominent role in this one and is just super intriguing. Definitely looking forward to his role in the conclusion. 

I’ll state for the record that The Fifth Season put me on an emotional rollercoaster. The Obelisk Gate is no different. I feel so invested in these characters, flaws and all, and I’m interested to see where each of them ends up as we reach for the conclusion. 

So where does that leave us? Well, kind of in the awkward place of a middle book. I really enjoyed this one, even if not as much as The Fifth Season. I think it’s a crime that this trilogy has practically no fan following, because it’s excellent. Maybe one of the best fantasy series I’ve read? I guess we’ll see with the next book. Either way, please read these books.  I need more people to talk to about them! 

[davidmann95]

This weeks comics?

So much to cover, and just so we’re all clear upfront, SPOILERS ahead.

Sideways Annual #1: I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive the cover for simply reading “All-out Action, guest-starring Superman” rather than the declaration of “The Champion of the Oppressed is BACK–JUST WHEN THE WORLD NEEDS HIM MOST!” it demanded, but otherwise what a delightful comic. It’s a mess in so many ways given Morrison’s working with what DiDio laid down for him (which he seems to demonstrate hilarious contempt for when he almost literally drops a bridge on the no-hoper who’d been set up as the arc villain before he can do anything) and jumping on mid-stream to boot, but it’s basically just an extended excuse for him to put dialogue in Superman and the Seven Soldiers’ mouths again and remind everyone how rad his takes on them are, and thereby shame us for abandoning the former. Plus give us a taste of what his voice for Spider-Man would be, which it turns out is a perfectly fine one in spite of his past professed skepticism that he could pull it off. And above all to assure us with a smile and the proper send-off (a particularly satisfying one for me personally given my arachnophobia) we never got before that even if we never see our pal cop-punching, bank-busting, casual Fridays Superman again, he’ll be out there, along with all the other cast-off good Superman ideas, helping out wherever he can.

Also, who else caught the nudge and wink about the Tailor, and how that tells devoted Seven Soldiers fans just how much of role Morrison really played in saving his take on Superman?

Batman #60: Batman is…Batman is weird lately. I honestly don’t have anything else to say about this issue, except that the bit with Alfred cleaning was obviously killer.

The Unexpected #6: So Ronan Cliquet is bad, right? Like, we can all agree that dude is just bringing nothing to the table? I’ve never seen pages so plain look so simultaneously cramped and barren. This book has been such a damn disappointment: clearly promises were made about how much space Orlando would have to work on this that have been entirely broken, he’s cutting past what was clearly intended to be dozens of issues of buildup and fleshing-out of the concept to the grand finale, and he’s already obviously and understandably checked out. This should have been one of those “hey, you never heard of _____, but it was quietly one of DC’s best books for awhile there!” titles you learn about 20 years after the fact, but it was stillborn and unable to explore even the slightest sliver of its potential. It’s almost reached a point where it can make me think its coming conclusion is a mercy killing, but then, said conclusion is the problem.

Justice League #11: The debut of the Super-eyepatch! Otherwise, while it’s definitely not my favorite issue thus far of Snyder’s Justice League, it might be the one that feels the most well-realized in terms of getting his vision on the page thanks to Francis Manapul. I desperately hope he sticks on the book past Drowned Earth, because as much as I absolutely love what Jorge Jimenez and Jim Cheung are doing, his vision feels the most in line with the, as Snyder put it, ‘magisterial’ tone this title is going for a lot of the time.

The Green Lantern #1: Not my favorite Morrison title of the week in spite of its lack of clutter and outside influence, to the point where I’d honestly say it initially left me pretty cold, but much as with Morrison’s last major #1 in Action Comics, a reread did wonders for me once I knew what sort of tone I’d be grappling with. I do think it was oddly structured in a way that didn’t benefit it, leading with the mundane-flavored-with-cosmic with the alien beat cops rather than Hal’s more grounded perspective leading into the awe-inspiring, but given it sets up an immediate contrast with his ‘civilian life’, I’d call it a calculated risk that didn’t quite pay off. Hal himself is interestingly realized, this blunt, bored dude who only really comes alive when he’s on the clock, who’s as hyper-competent at his job as you’d think the Greatest Green Lantern Of Them All would be but almost seems to be sleepwalking through his days. It’s when we reach Oa with the mission statement for the Corps that the book really comes together, meshing up the beautiful design sense, an evocation of some of Morrison’s past recurring themes and elements, and raw high concept into the most powerful evocation of the basic idea of Green Lantern’s Deal I’ve ever read. And Liam Sharp mostly does justice by it; I know some find his style off-putting and his anatomy wonky, but he sells the what-if-GL-was-a-2000AD-strip sensibility, and his work has a framing and structure and a tangible, doughy 3Dishness that recalls the flavor of some of Morirson’s best prior collaborations. Not that, to be clear, I don’t think plenty of those prior collaborators couldn’t have done a much better job with this, but I think this’ll pan out just fine.

On top of that a couple minor notes: I suspect David Uzumeri might have been right regarding the possibility that this could be the book where Morrison delves into the basic question of whether superheroes are by nature cops, and thereby police brutality (Maxim Tox and Hal himself both have some startlingly severe moments in here) and the moral feasibility of the whole business. Rather than rethinking his process in his time away, Morrison’s storytelling tics are as prominently on display here as just about anything he’s ever done. And I was genuinely shocked to see the acknowledgement of Manhattan in here - a landmark chapter in The Last War In Albion in the making if ever there was one - right alongside addressing Snyder’s Justice League, making this to my knowledge the only book in the company’s lineup to acknowledge both contenders to the throne of DC’s current actual Important Cosmic-Scale Story. I suppose Lantern is the place where that makes sense, but both bring interesting elements of their own, as with the Source Wall Morrison’s going right on in and acknowledging how other creators have brought his ideas and spirit to the forefront of the DCU in the last several years, and with Manhattan, having a Grant Morrison DC Comic acknowledge the presence of Watchmen characters as parts of the grand scheme of things makes that whole bizarre business feel real in a way even Doomsday Clock itself hasn’t for me.

Adventures of the Super Sons #4: What a charmer! I harped a lot on Pete Tomasi by and large sucking on Superman, because by and large he sucked on Superman, but put that dude on just the right project to play into his strengths and he absolutely shines.

The Dreaming #3: Wound up in my pull file since I’d unsubscribed so recently, and decided to give it one last chance. It’s pretty and confident in what it’s doing and I’m sure lots of people are rightfully getting a lot out of it, but I’m not one of them and it won’t be getting another shot.

Border Town #3: It feels odd to think this given how much positive attention it’s been getting and how well it’s sold for a modern Vertigo book, but Border Town absolutely still feels like the sleeper hit of 2018. It so feels like the sort of comic that I usually can acknowledge the quality of but doesn’t do it for me personally, so I keep picking it up expecting to not quite gel with a given issue, but each time I’m dead damn wrong. It’s brimming with energy and personality on every level, and it’s still early enough that I can’t possibly recommend enough that anyone who hasn’t given it a chance yet jump onboard.

The Wicked + The Divine: The Funnies: Speaking of titles that I can acknowledge the quality of but rarely do it for me, I’ve followed W + D from the beginning on the understanding that the fairly subdued joys I take from it on a month-by-month basis will be eclipsed by the scale of my love for it on a full reread, as was the case with the team’s Young Avengers. But boy did this one buck that trend, because it was a hoot. Honestly couldn’t tell you which was my favorite short, because like half the book is made up of front-runners.

Death of the Inhumans #5: Because Death of Some Inhumans, But Don’t Worry Not Any of the Good Ones, Other than Maximus wouldn’t have shifted as much copy. Donny Cates is establishing himself as a solid mid-tier superhero writer alongside your Tim Seeleys and James Tynions, and Ariel Olivetti’s a treat, but I have to call this one a miss.

Shatterstar #2: As I expected it didn’t grab me as much as the first issue since the tenants aren’t front-and-center, but I’m still digging it to a truly startling extent!

Marvel Knights #1: Okay? I mean, I liked it (aside from the unbelievably poorly-chosen ‘I can sort of see even though I’m blind’ line - had to be a dozen better ways of putting that), but aside from that it’s gritty and involves some of the characters with notable history in the imprint, I have no idea why this is the Marvel Knights 20th Anniversary book as opposed to just a random Marvel miniseries that I suppose could be published under that imprint if you wanted. The conceit feels so odd for the intended purpose.

The Immortal Hulk #8: This book is SO FUCKING GOOD ALL OF THE TIME AT EVERYTHING AND YOU ALL NEED TO BUY IT AND TELL YOUR FRIENDS ABOUT IT. CHRIST. Still the best super-shit on the stands.

DC Nation #6: Yanick Paquette needs to write Batman explaining science so as to teach us how to better fight crime for as long as he lives, if not in fact longer.

[capoteholmes]

Twenty Rules for Writing Detective Stories By S.S. Van Dine

1. The reader must have equal opportunity with the detective for solving the mystery. All clues must be plainly stated and described.

2. No wilful tricks or deceptions may be played on the reader other than those played legitimately by the criminal on the detective himself.

3. There must be no love interest in the story. To introduce amour is to clutter up a purely intellectual experience with irrelevant sentiment. The business in hand is to bring a criminal to the bar of justice, not to bring a lovelorn couple to the hymeneal altar.

4. The detective himself, or one of the official investigators, should never turn out to be the culprit. This is bald trickery, on a par with offering some one a bright penny for a five-dollar gold piece. It's false pretenses.

5. The culprit must be determined by logical deductions--not by accident or coincidence or unmotivated confession. To solve a criminal problem in this latter fashion is like sending the reader on a deliberate wild-goose chase, and then telling him, after he has failed, that you had the object of his search up your sleeve all the time. Such an author is no better than a practical joker.

6. The detective novel must have a detective in it; and a detective is not a detective unless he detects. His function is to gather clues that will eventually lead to the person who did the dirty work in the first chapter; and if the detective does not reach his conclusions through an analysis of those clues, he has no more solved his problem than the schoolboy who gets his answer out of the back of the arithmetic.

7. There simply must be a corpse in a detective novel, and the deader the corpse the better. No lesser crime than murder will suffice. Three hundred pages is far too much pother for a crime other than murder. After all, the reader's trouble and expenditure of energy must be rewarded. Americans are essentially humane, and therefore a tiptop murder arouses their sense of vengeance and horror. They wish to bring the perpetrator to justice; and when "murder most foul, as in the best it is," has been committed, the chase is on with all the righteous enthusiasm of which the thrice gentle reader is capable.

8. The problem of the crime must be solved by strictly naturalistic means. Such methods for learning the truth as slate-writing, ouija-boards, mind-reading, spiritualistic sÈances, crystal-gazing, and the like, are taboo. A reader has a chance when matching his wits with a rationalistic detective, but if he must compete with the world of spirits and go chasing about the fourth dimension of metaphysics, he is defeated ab initio.

9. There must be but one detective--that is, but one protagonist of deduction--one deus ex machine. To bring the minds of three or four, or sometimes a gang of detectives to bear on a problem is not only to disperse the interest and break the direct thread of logic, but to take an unfair advantage of the reader, who, at the outset, pits his mind against that of the detective and proceeds to do mental battle. If there is more than one detective the reader doesn't know who his co-deductor is. It's like making the reader run a race with a relay team.

10. The culprit must turn out to be a person who has played a more or less prominent part in the story--that is, a person with whom the reader is familiar and in whom he takes an interest. For a writer to fasten the crime, in the final chapter, on a stranger or person who has played a wholly unimportant part in the tale, is to confess to his inability to match wits with the reader.

11. Servants--such as butlers, footmen, valets, game-keepers, cooks, and the like--must not be chosen by the author as the culprit. This is begging a noble question. It is a too easy solution. It is unsatisfactory, and makes the reader feel that his time has been wasted. The culprit must be a decidedly worth-while person--one that wouldn't ordinarily come under suspicion; for if the crime was the sordid work of a menial, the author would have had no business to embalm it in book-form.

12. There must be but one culprit, no matter how many murders are committed. The culprit may, of course, have a minor helper or co-plotter; but the entire onus must rest on one pair of shoulders: the entire indignation of the reader must be permitted to concentrate on a single black nature.

13. Secret societies, camorras, mafias, et al., have no place in a detective story. Here the author gets into adventure fiction and secret-service romance. A fascinating and truly beautiful murder is irremediably spoiled by any such wholesale culpability. To be sure, the murderer in a detective novel should be given a sporting chance, but it is going too far to grant him a secret society (with its ubiquitous havens, mass protection, etc.) to fall back on. No high-class, self-respecting murderer would want such odds in his jousting-bout with the police.

14. The method of murder, and the means of detecting it, must be rational and scientific. That is to say, pseudo-science and purely imaginative and speculative devices are not to be tolerated in the roman policier. For instance, the murder of a victim by a newly found element--a super-radium, let us say--is not a legitimate problem. Nor may a rare and unknown drug, which has its existence only in the author's imagination, be administered. A detective-story writer must limit himself, toxicologically speaking, to the pharmacopoeia. Once an author soars into the realm of fantasy, in the Jules Verne manner, he is outside the bounds of detective fiction, cavorting in the uncharted reaches of adventure.

15. The truth of the problem must at all times be apparent--provided the reader is shrewd enough to see it. By this I mean that if the reader, after learning the explanation for the crime, should reread the book, he would see that the solution had, in a sense, been staring him in the face--that all the clues really pointed to the culprit--and that, if he had been as clever as the detective, he could have solved the mystery himself without going on to the final chapter. That the clever reader does often thus solve the problem goes without saying. And one of my basic theories of detective fiction is that, if a detective story is fairly and legitimately constructed, it is impossible to keep the solution from all readers. There will inevitably be a certain number of them just as shrewd as the author; and if the author has shown the proper sportsmanship and honesty in his statement and projection of the crime and its clues, these perspicacious readers will be able, by analysis, elimination and logic, to put their finger on the culprit as soon as the detective does. And herein lies the zest of the game. Herein we have an explanation for the fact that readers who would spurn the ordinary "popular" novel will read detective stories unblushingly.

16. A detective novel should contain no long descriptive passages, no literary dallying with side-issues, no subtly worked-out character analyses, no "atmospheric" preoccupations. Such matters have no vital place in a record of crime and deduction. They hold up the action, and introduce issues irrelevant to the main purpose, which is to state a problem, analyze it, and bring it to a successful conclusion. To be sure, there must be a sufficient descriptiveness and character delineation to give the novel verisimilitude; but when an author of a detective story has reached that literary point where he has created a gripping sense of reality and enlisted the reader's interest and sympathy in the characters and the problem, he has gone as far in the purely "literary" technique as is legitimate and compatible with the needs of a criminal-problem document. A detective story is a grim business, and the reader goes to it, not for literary furbelows and style and beautiful descriptions and the projection of moods, but for mental stimulation and intellectual activity--just as he goes to a ball game or to a cross-word puzzle. Lectures between innings at the Polo Grounds on the beauties of nature would scarcely enhance the interest in the struggle between two contesting baseball nines; and dissertations on etymology and orthography interspersed in the definitions of a cross-word puzzle would tend only to irritate the solver bent on making the words interlock correctly.

17. A professional criminal must never be shouldered with the guilt of a crime in a detective story. Crimes by house-breakers and bandits are the province of the police department--not of authors and brilliant amateur detectives. Such crimes belong to the routine work of the Homicide Bureaus. A really fascinating crime is one committed by a pillar of a church, or a spinster noted for her charities.

18. A crime in a detective story must never turn out to be an accident or a suicide. To end an odyssey of sleuthing with such an anti-climax is to play an unpardonable trick on the reader. If a book-buyer should demand his two dollars back on the ground that the crime was a fake, any court with a sense of justice would decide in his favor and add a stinging reprimand to the author who thus hoodwinked a trusting and kind-hearted reader.

19. The motives for all crimes in detective stories should be personal. International plottings and war politics belong in a different category of fiction--in secret-service tales, for instance. But a murder story must be kept gem¸tlich, so to speak. It must reflect the reader's everyday experiences, and give him a certain outlet for his own repressed desires and emotions.

20. And (to give my Credo an even score of items) I herewith list a few of the devices which no self-respecting detective-story writer will now avail himself of. They have been employed too often, and are familiar to all true lovers of literary crime. To use them is a confession of the author's ineptitude and lack of originality.

Determining the identity of the culprit by comparing the butt of a cigarette left at the scene of the crime with the brand smoked by a suspect.

The bogus spiritualistic sÈance to frighten the culprit into giving himself away.

Forged finger-prints.

The dummy-figure alibi.

The dog that does not bark and thereby reveals the fact that the intruder is familiar.

The final pinning of the crime on a twin, or a relative who looks exactly like the suspected, but innocent, person.

The hypodermic syringe and the knockout drops.

The commission of the murder in a locked room after the police have actually broken in.

The word-association test for guilt.

The cipher, or code letter, which is eventually unravelled by the sleuth.

[delcat177]

Expanding on the PNW Gothic post

@mephrum said: I got really creeped out til I reread and realized they did ask your name at some point before saying it. Anyway, weirdness aside I hope it was a pleasant experience.

@kai-leng  said: Put salt at your door.

You are both the sweetest cinnamon buns <3  I actually wasn’t (very) scared, I more realized if I cut out details of a weird experience it didn’t make a bad spoopy post, but thank you for your caring!  Here’s the whole story:

I was on the bus on my way back from volunteering and someone got on the bus and sat in front of me, except they turned around immediately, said “Oh, hello” in the tone of someone greeting a coworker and reached out to shake my hand.  I imagine most people would be freaked out by this, but I’m faceblind and autistic and those factors combined get me into this kind of situation a lot--I simultaneously have a hard time understanding if someone’s behavior is strange or if it’s social protocol I’m not familiar with, and at the same time I’m trying to figure that out, I’m frantically flipping through my mental Rolodex going “oh God where do I know this person from whose name did I forget do they know I don’t recognize them help me baby Jesus”. 

So I shook hands back and said hi, trying to figure out the most inoffensive way to say “are you that barista at the Starbucks in Safeway I like”.  They commented on my umbrella, which, being the Umbra Staff from my Taako cosplay and thus awesome, I get a lot of comments on.  My headphones were still half on at this point and I was hoping the conversation would be brief, so I just said “Thanks, it’s a flamingo.”

“Oh...flamingos are traditionally pink, aren’t they.”

It was at this point that I realized both that this was not my favorite barista and that I had possibly missed a stop and ended up in Twin Peaks.

Me: Um, yeah. Them: What’s your name? Me: (thinking) [Just stop having this conversation Del you can do this] Del. Them: Oh, I see. ...Adele? Me: [Del please love yourself] No, uh, just Del. Them: What are you listening to? Me: [blease] Hamilton.  ...the musical? Them: Oh.  Is that like Broadway or something? Me: [pls] Uh, yeah, something like that. Them: Oh...is it goofy? Me: [okay maybe they’re autistic too or have a developmental delay or something maybe I should just be kind this is okay right] Um, uh...I don’t think so?  I mean...I like it. Them: Well, as long as it’s not goofy.

They said “goofy” the way people from the nutball fundie churches I grew up in said “dark-sided”.  I was actively fending off dissociating from sheer surrealism at this point and didn’t respond.

Them: I saw a goofy musical once, it was Candid by [my brain sucks at names]. Me: Oh, I haven’t heard of that one. Them: (as if sharing a dark secret) I watched it about twenty minutes but...it was real goofy. Me: Well, uh...huh, I’ll have to check that out, Candid huh? (suddenly recognizing intersection) THISISMYSTOP (YANKS CORD) Them: Oh, well, okay then.  Bye, Del. Me: (gathering up my stuff and nodding to them) Uh, bye. Them: (as I step off the bus, speaking confidently and knowingly, as if this is the foregone conclusion to events) See you soon! Me: (standing on curb, poleaxed) [was that weird] Me: [I think that was weird] Me: [that was weird] Me: [maybe I’m the weird one] Me: [fuck it I’ll ask Megan if it’s weird]

I then went about the afternoon’s errands, went home, got completely baked and told Megan the entire story, at which point she confirmed that I had taken the David Lynch bus home.  We repeated “Flamingos are traditionally pink” at each other off and on for the rest of the evening.  It wasn’t until after she left for work and the wind was howling in the fireplace that the sheer creep factor hit me and I pared it down into a little spine tingler.

I have checked and there is no musical, on-Broadway or off-, named Candid.  There is a musical version of Candide, the book by Voltaire Mom was always quoting, as well as multiple stage plays.  I do not know if they are goofy--I would not define Candide as such, but I also don’t think my definition of “goofy” is the same as the knowing stranger’s.  I also am not ruling out that whatever dimension I crossed paths with has a goofy musical called Candid.

tl;dr I really need to stop taking my headphones off on the bus except sometimes I help people find their stops and that’s worth it y’know

[ayearofpike]

Final Friends, Book 3: The Graduation

Pocket Books, 1989 238 pages, 25 chapters + epilogue, 10-page introduction ISBN 0-671-73680-9 LOC: CPB Box no. 1779 vol. 23 OCLC: 670303406 Released December 10, 1988 (per B&N)

When we last left our friends, they were all going their separate ways in the wake of the tragic accident that paralyzed the homecoming queen. Now, six months later, they’re brought back together for Tabb High’s graduation ceremony, and the after-party cruise to Catalina. It creates a deadline by which the kids need to find Alice’s killer before they’re apart for good. This last party is the end of all possibility – an end made more pressing by someone’s goal to make sure the ship never reaches the island.

I think I was more confused by this than was actually warranted when I read it at 13 or whatever I was, because the very idea of familial death, the anxiety and personal blame that someone might go through in the wake of it, and treatment by electroshock and its effects were just not something I could relate to or even try to empathize with. Because – 

Well, let’s just tell the damn story in reverse: it was Polly. She accidentally distracted Alice into falling off a ladder at the party, and the blow to the head killed her. But Polly had shocked herself trying to change a light bulb earlier, and presumably the shock manifested some of the guilt over the death of her parents that her previous ECT had helped her suppress. Yes, Polly was in the car that went off the cliff, and was distracting her father right before the accident! So to keep herself from being blamed for Alice’s death (maybe more to herself than to anyone else) she staged a suicide: posed her sister with the gun in her mouth, muffled the gunshot so that it would look real, then went outside and fired a shotgun blast near the bedroom window so the final revelers would hear it and think it was Alice.

What about Maria’s fall from the parade float? That was Polly too. See, she expected Jessica to win homecoming queen, but also subconsciously blamed her for the party happening in the first place and thereby Alice’s death. So she compromised the queen’s platform, expecting Jessica to climb up there, break it, and break herself. Because Maria was so much smaller, it took a second ascension for the boards to finally give. She also stole Sara’s homecoming dance money to keep it safe, because she was worried Sara would do just what she did and leave her purse somewhere and lose it. Oh, and she chopped down the varsity tree, maybe because Russ wanted to but also because she wanted to punish Bill and Clair and The Rock and the other pretty people who’d started the fight at the party that preceded Alice’s death.

The thing is, she wasn’t even fully aware she was doing these things. Just before something terrible happened, Polly would see Clark, who would offer hints and threats against her classmates. We slowly learn that she’s been imagining him: his strangeness and his closeness to her pushed him into the role, in her mind, of her angry avenging side, one that she didn’t always have total control over. She tells Michael and Jessica both that Clark is somehow responsible for these things, even though they know on some level that he can’t be. Like, here Polly swears up and down that Clark is on the boat, but a) Michael went to his house right before coming on board and didn’t encounter Clark on the way, and b) Jessica was one of the first three people on the ship, with Polly being another, and she knows that Polly came aboard alone. Plus, there aren’t many places for this weirdo to hide; all the staterooms save three (for the first three girls) are locked, and Michael inspects the whole rest of the ship to no avail.

He starts to suspect that Polly isn’t telling the whole truth (actually, while he’s at Clark’s house), but doesn’t confront her with it until the whole group is gathered below decks in the engine room to try to smoke out the real killer. Maria’s on board with this too. She’s been in a rehab facility since her accident – lots of time to think about Michael’s perspective and realize that if Alice was killed, it was probably the same person who tampered with the float and left her paralyzed from the waist down. So she pretty much uses Nick to scare everyone into showing up for the gathering.

Now, I understood a lot more about how the Final Friends got to this point on this reread, but that doesn’t mean that I necessarily agreed with how it went down. Like, Michael pretty much stern-voiced the mental illness out of Polly. He barked at her about what he suspected had happened and how she was making Clark up in her mind, and that “his” malicious anger at the group was coming from somewhere inside Polly. And, ta-da, she suddenly remembered everything and had clarity. Which, like ... that’s not how it works. I feel like we’re all aware in 2018 that you can’t just decide to not be crazy, to say nothing of whether someone else can do it in seconds. And, sure, the ECT she underwent as a child might have contributed to this mental state in some way, but the procedure typically stems from the fact that mental issues are there in the first place. (See also Carrie Fisher’s defense of her own experience with it.)

It doesn’t really matter, though. Not only does Polly remember doing this stuff, she takes ownership of it and is prepared to follow through. So the bomb “Clark” planted in a locker against the hull? Yeah, literally a bomb! Well, construction explosive from Polly’s company, set to blow at 2 am when everyone was asleep and maximize casualties on the sinking ship. She protects it with the shotgun that “Clark” strategically planted for her to find. So it blows up and the ship starts sinking, but the friends get off the boat and into a lifeboat. But then Polly produces another bomb from her jacket! She’s already gone from blaming the others to blaming herself, and she’s ready to put an end to it. So everyone bails. Except Jessica.

Sure, this is partly because Jessica can’t swim and has a broken arm besides and there are no life vests left. But, realistically, if she’d said so, someone else would have given theirs up. The truth is Jessica knows, somewhere deep down, that she’s the only one who can help Polly right now. Michael’s just yelling and unsympathetic; Jessica’s known Polly her whole life, and she knows Polly didn’t try to kill her parents, and she knows Polly didn’t try to kill Alice. Polly also knows Jessica can’t swim (which was part of the rationale behind “Clark” sinking the ship), but as they talk Polly starts to realize that someone does care about her, and that she’s not beyond help. So at the last second she throws the bomb overboard.

So everybody’s alive! And has a happy ending? Let’s wrap up the loose ends.

Did Michael and Jessica end up together? Yes, finally. But not before Jessica all but gave up on him and tried to seduce Bill, who ran away and called her a slut. Apparently, he did the same thing to Clair at the party, and that plus his defense of The Rock and his attempts to hang with Michael outside of school lead them to draw the conclusion that Bill is gay. I mean, there are more explanations for what happened, and I’m not totally sure Pike did justice to homosexuality in this book, but remember, 1989. We can build more nuance into our understanding because we’re more empathetic to this stuff now.

What about Clair? Did she really have an abortion? She did, in fact. But wait! If she didn’t fuck Bill, whose was it? No surprise, if you were paying attention: it was Bubba, somehow. Yeah, the repulsive little troll managed to weasel his way into her panties, and when trouble arose he took care of it – and pretty much instantly regretted it. So the experience brought him and Clair closer together, and when they get back to the mainland they’re going to drive to Vegas and get married. WHAT. Just one more example in fiction of gross-ass weirdos getting girls way beyond their means.

Did Nick and The Rock ever bury the hatchet? That actually happened in Book 2. Nick realized that The Rock had mistaken him for a dealer in his old hood, took him to meet the dude, then saved his life when The Rock tried to flex and almost got got. The experience taught The Rock to know his role and shut his mouth, otherwise someone might lay the smack down on his roody-poo candy ass.

But Maria’s stuck paralyzed, right? No, actually. She’s been in the rehab facility learning to walk again. But she didn’t tell anybody because her plan was to gather the gang together, stand up and walk across the room, and see who looked most guilty or upset to figure out who’d sabotaged the float. Turned out that she was at least able to get the gun from Polly, but by then her plan was already tits-up. Also: she’s going to marry Nick at the same time Bubba and Clair get married, so she doesn’t get deported! Yay immigration laws!

What about Sara and Russ? They’re working through their bullshit. It seems that even though Sara is totally head over heels for this dude, she can’t ever just say so, and takes it for granted that he wants her too and understands her snark. Which he doesn’t! I mean, he does want her, but when she’s jokingly mean to him he takes it at face value and assumes he’s off her short list. They finally manage to have a conversation about it, but us adults know we can’t magically fix everything by talking once.

Was anybody actually hurt by the bomb? Well, Jessica broke her arm in the explosion, and The Rock was trapped in the engine room but managed to swim out the hole and get to safety. Otherwise, everyone was fine, thanks to (get this) Kats. This wasn’t entirely altruistic, though; he was going to prank everyone into the lifeboats by setting smoke bombs and making them think the ship was going down. Fortunately (?), this happened just before Polly’s big badaboom, so Kats comes out a hero.

Wait a sec – if Sara lost the money in Book 2, how did they pay for all this shit? Gambling! Bubba is a lifelong Lakers fan, and the night of the party is also Game 7 of the NBA finals. He put a bet on the game that would be big enough to cover the student government’s debts for the entire year, including this cruise. Alas, the Lakers lose on a desperation 3-pointer that clangs off the rim. It’s a good thing Bubba bet on the Celtics.

And with that, we’re through Pike’s first multi-book series. Confusing? Convoluted? Not really – more like a soap opera where you have to keep track of multiple storylines to get the whole picture. It’s got its problems, but it continues to do that Pike thing of reaching for something more than most teen books gave us at the time, and so I’m going to keep on reading.

[hannahwaterman]

Semester Review and Reflection

To conclude this semester, I want to write a critical analysis and reflection of the body of work I have made. 

I believe that within my physical, Covid-induced limitations, I have conducted an exceptional degree of experimentation. I have clearly evidenced that I have produced a titanic body of work, using a huge range of styles and techniques. In my digital work, I have used several programs, such as ProCreate, Illustrator, Lightroom, Photoshop, Premiere and InDesign. I have also used inks, paints, pencils, objects, tape and scalpels to design work on paper where appropriate. I have used film and digital photography, photo editing techniques, illustration, video and video editing, typographic designs, painting on canvas, layout and page design skills. I have full confidence that I have gone above and beyond what was expected of me in order to exemplify my ability to visually experiment, try new things, teach myself techniques and work in a diverse range of methods. I created confident and authoritative final products and when I have not achieved this I have critically analysed my shortcomings.

I adhered to task specifications to a very high standard, reread and rewrote briefs, as I have evidenced in my blog. I showed that I understood what was expected of me. I sought and received continued feedback, guidance, reassurance and support from tutors to ensure I was meeting these specifications. I have thought carefully about the way that my work shall be viewed and considered ease of access and readability throughout the entire process. In my writing and my inclusion of images I have worked to take the viewer along with me on the journey of each project, rationalising my decisions and telling the story of my response to the brief, in a structure that makes sense. The thought and time that has gone into the layout of this blog alone evidences that I have considered audience and reception all throughout my work, and I have been striving to make it highly legible and easy to follow. 

I am confident that I have shown boldness, originality, and an ability to synthesise ideas to reach relevant and exciting visual conclusions. I created and used an extremely broad spectrum of research to synthesise inspiration into original and informed ideas. Context, audience, style, tone and voice have been considered in my work throughout. I have displayed a high level of knowledge of my subject. I have been decisive and detail oriented, and made good judgements critically and analytically. One example of this is during the Type and Language project, I made outcomes in many many different styles that I was very happy with. However, I created the final product in a very stripped back and edited down manner, in order to think about purpose, audience and market in a way that made more sense. 

I have put in many many man hours and evidenced personal responsibility, good timekeeping, and initiative. I have self taught many skills and techniques, and sought material independently to improve my work and learning. For example, this term I used ProCreate to make a lot of my work, and all my ProCreate knowledge is self taught - it is an atypical program to use for graphic design work, but I’ve made use of the very simple UI as a way to improve my workflow and increase my creative output. I also was critical enough to know when this limited me: for example, in the Documenting project, I began learning code for my generative design project, but I knew that I did not have the resource, nor was I yet ready, to create a good final product by coding. 

Next semester I want to work on making my layout skills better, spend more time on my final products, and think more critically and selectively about outcomes. I want to work on my photography skills in a meaningful way, learning more about how digital cameras work. I want to improve my Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop skills. In the next few year or two I want to begin using AfterEffects and learning motion graphics because it is a very highly desired skill in the design industry and it pays very well. My shortcomings this semester I think are that I could have tried a larger and more delicate and detailed range of layout styles. I could also improve my typesetting and utilise this more within my work. I try not to feel too bad about work I do because self deprecating is useless, but I also can see quite plainly where my shortcomings have been visually. I do need to keep improving my page design and layout skills, and become more confident at using type at smaller scales, and fitting more information on pages - something my PDF lacked. However, I do believe I have identified many places where I fell short in my actions. I hope to get some robust feedback from this semester that I can act on meaningfully next time around. 

I cannot say I am yet sure what the direction is my design work will go in. I have created a small typographic work every day this year so far, and posted it on my instagram (disgustinggirlart). I am getting better at typography and it is something I have sought to improve. I see myself doing page design in the future and I think I would like to design or contribute to zines in the upcoming months. In the months leading up to summer, I will be creating a portfolio to send to design studios to try and get some intern work, either paid or unpaid. I really want some work experience as it will push me to finessing and finishing my work faster and in a more detail oriented way. I will continue to seek feedback from tutors wherever I can, and I will also soon be seeking feedback from outside university by these studios I will email, or any other professionals I can get myself into an email conversation with. I would like to build a larger range of books, magazines, and online resources for me to learn about graphic design techniques. I will also be continuing to design a small typographic work every day this year if I can manage to keep it going! 

Thanks for viewing my semester portfolio, and thank you for being great tutors this semester. I have really enjoyed myself. 

[huielanguageliteracy]

Module 10 Literacy Post

Observation Notes

*The tutoring and teaching section I observed focused on numerical mathematics problems rather than literacy development due to the specific room I was placed in as well as the day of the week on which I observed. Therefore, the following notes will refer to a mathematics lesson rather than a literacy lesson.

 1.      What do you notice about student behaviors?

a.      Students were given a number of math problems that correlated with problems they were solving in their own respective classrooms. Both students in the room were operating at a 6th grade level.

b.      Students did problems individually then worked with the tutor to double check their work and learn why their answers were either correct, incorrect, or partially correct.

c.      Students usually responded with simple answers that only identified their responses to each question. If the answers they provided were incorrect, students often would explain how they got that answer, or they would quickly review their work to see if they were able to identify their mistake(s) on their own.

d.      Students were working through a combination of problem types including: converting improper fractions to mixed fraction, reducing fractions, converting percentages to decimals, and converting percentages to fractions.

2.      How did the teachers address those behaviors?

a.      The teacher provided numerous opportunities for students to respond as well as checks for understanding that ensured that students not only knew the answers to each problem, but also how to get to the correct answer and why the method of answering the question worked for each problem.

b.      The teacher/ tutor demonstrated the problem on a virtual whiteboard while verbally explaining each step and allowing the student to answer each question or step rather than giving them the answers.

c.      The teacher re-iterated what each student said as they worked through the problem to make sure they understood each comment as well as helping to teach the other students who were watching the problems being solved.

d.      The teacher asked the students supplemental questions to draw out the student’s thinking and understanding. Again, this ensured that the students were reaching conclusions and answering the questions on their own rather than giving them the correct answers.

e.      The teacher made sure to review academic language as it appeared within each problem.

3.      Skills and Strategies Required for Comprehending Narrative Text

a.      Before Reading:

  i.     Predicting – Using the context of what has already been read to guess what will happen later in the story. “Predicting helps readers … begin to understand that reading is more than just reading words correctly.”

 ii.     Setting a Purpose – “After reading the title of a text, readers should ask themselves what genre the text belongs to.”

b.      During Reading:

i.       Making Inferences – Teacher should ask open-ended questions in order to aid students in this process.

ii.      Connecting prior knowledge to texts – “There are three types of background knowledge: literary background, world knowledge, and life experiences.”

iii.    Self-monitoring – “The ability of readers to figure out if something sounds right.”

iv.    Generating visual images – “Readers should visualize the scene so vividly that they can almost hear the surrounding noises and smell the scents.”

c.      After Reading:

  i.     Retelling story elements – “ The readers ability to name the main characters, state the problem, and relate events that lead to the climax and resolution.”

 ii.     Drawing conclusions – “Students who comprehend the stories draw conclusions based on textual clues or previous experiences.” – These conclusions usually answer the question “why?”

 iii.     Elaborating on the author’s intent – Why did the author make the choices they did? Why did the author choose to write this text? “Teach students to consider the author’s perspective as well as other perspectives by examining stories written from opposing points of view.”

4.      Skills and Strategies Required for Informational Texts:

a.      Text Structure – Informational texts are structured differently than a narrative text, so there are organizational patterns in informative texts that a reader should understand:

   i.     Description (enumeration) – to begin, first, secondly, next, etc.

  ii.     Time frame (chronology) – not long after, now, before, following, etc.

 iii.     Compare/ Contrast – however, but, as well as, on the other hand, etc.

 iv.     Cause/ Effect & Problem/ Solution – because, since, therefore, consequently, etc.

 v.     Persuasion/ Argument – consequently, specifically, next, finally, etc.

 vi.     Listing – “authors may merely list all of the things that fall into a particular category.”

 vii.     Classification/ Hierarchy – “to show relationships among concepts.”

b.      Prior Knowledge – “includes all of life’s experiences… that take students out of their immediate surroundings to help them develop a broader view of the world in which they live.”

c.      Technical Words & Word Choice – this includes “the academic and domain – specific vocabulary used in informational texts.” In order to comprehend this type of vocabulary, students will need context clues in order to understand the greater context that informs it.

d.      Diagrams and Graphics – these can help students comprehend the context of the text.

e.      Setting a Purpose – teachers should “pose a non-specific question that encourages students to comprehend the entire text.” Otherwise, students may skim the parts of the text that do not directly answer a more specifically posed question.

5.      5 Possible Activities to Support Comprehension:

a.      Partner Reading and Content Too (PRC2) – “two English learners collaborate on reading a text together. The teacher is the silent observer and cheerleader. First, the partners preview the book. Then, the partners read a two-page spread silently. Then each partner rereads his page again and writes two questions to ask [their] partner. The two students discuss the information and answer the questions.”

b.      Read – Aloud – “A teacher can show students how informational texts differ from narrative text and what strategies she uses to make sense of expository text.”

c.      Dramatizing informational texts – Have students act out a portion of a text through a skit, song, or dance. This is especially helpful for kinesthetic learners.

d.      Request – In this activity, the teacher and the students all read the same text. Then, the students ask question that could be answered through the text, and the teacher responds. These questions must be asked in a comprehensible way.

e.      Checklist – Students will read a text, and the teacher will provide pre-meditated statements about the text that could be answered with either yes or no. Then, after the student has identified the true and false statements, go back and re-word the false statements to make them true.

Resource/ Text: DeVries, B. A. (2004). Literacy assessment and intervention for the elementary classroom. Scottsdale, AZ: Holcomb Hathaway.