#eugenics for ts

[super-sootica]

Read a take earlier this week that has been living in my head. Certain selective breeding activities in dogs cause major health problems and have for many years. Like breeding for flat faces causing breathing problems, head too small for brain, eyes popping out etc. Here's a small source, feel free to google for more.

Anyway, as you can imagine there's a push to roll back some of these issues, like breed to allow for longer snouts to prevent future offspring from suffering the same. And a poster came back with 'that's eugenics'....let's shelf what eugenics is for a second (guess what, the word human is in the definition)

Using a morality argument to try to push for *checks notes* continued pain and suffering to pets and owners. I am throwing you into a sinkhole.

[enbycrip]

All the craft groups I’m on because I like seeing people’s creations seem to be full of people making blue fucking puzzle pieces and talking about cure rhetoric.

Some of them respond well to having full facts about how fucking awful Autism $peaks, ABA and eugenics are when I drag all the trauma, the eugenicist discourse from medics I dealt with during my pregnancies, the terror I feel about how my wee brother could be treated, and why I personally would shy away from anyone wearing a blue puzzle piece for them. Others apparently would rather scream “hater”. I’ve been called a “TikTok autistic” more times than I can count.

When TS Eliot said “April is the cruellest month”, he had no fucking clue.

I’m so tired.

[loganslowdown4]

Found another shirt for Roman to wear while I was thrifting 😂😂😂😂

Another thought: Roman would be losing his mind at both of these—

Makes me want another ballgown photoshoot for him fr 😭❤️

[antigonenikk]

do i dare//disturb the universe?

chapter 1/2/3/4

pairing: Eugene Sledge/John “Bucky” Egan

tags: crossover, post-war AU

summary: Eugene Sledge and John Egan are both adrift in the wake of the War. They find each other in a small bar in a small corner of Chinatown. And the rest, as they say, is history.

(tw: brief attempted SA)

“At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;

Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,

But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,

Where past and future are gathered.”

…

“Here is a place of disaffection

Time before and time after

In a dim light”

-TS Eliot, Burnt Norton

——————————————————————

All night he thinks about it. John’s smile. He lies in bed thumbing through Four Quartets, trying to concentrate on the page. He can’t for the life of him get past the line, “At the still point of the turning world.” He feels stupid. Around one in the morning he stops thinking at all. Stares at a crack in the wall.

It feels alien to be anything resembling happy. But he is. He feels less lonely, which makes absolutely no sense. He doesn’t know anything about John. He knows he was an officer. He knows he likes jazz. He knows he likes to hear himself talk. The type of information you learn about someone over a dinner party. Not anything you could base a real connection off of. Not like he had with Merriell.

Except that’s not true. He hadn’t really known Merriell any better than he knows John now. Loving someone and knowing them are two very different things. Try as he might never could break through. Walls on top of walls. Every time he got close he was shut out into the cold, Snafu’s mask of cold cruelty coming back with vengeance.

This feels different. John is nothing like Merriell. John’s not like anyone he’s ever met. He can’t figure out why that is. Maybe it’s the way he seems a bit too large for life. Always looking like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. Like he might shoot up ten feet tall and swallow up the whole room. Trying to touch something outside of himself that’s real. Something that reminds him he, himself, is real. Eugene understands the feeling. Seeing it reflected back on the face of another patches over that deep dark hole in his chest that started expanding ever since he first fired his first 60mm mortar.

I’m projecting, he thinks. But the feeling persists. He hears a baby cry next door and falls asleep with a pillow crushing his head into the mattress. He thinks about John’s smile and makes everything else go away.

It takes two weeks for them to meet again.

Eugene spends the days in between loitering around Central Park. He gets up every morning, with a birding manual he picked up at the library and notes every new species he finds in his small moleskin notebook. At first it isn’t about avoidance. Not for that first day at least.

On the first day he writes names down. Mourning Dove. Song Sparrow. Northern Cardinal. Blackpoll Warbler. The thought that he used to hunt these types of creatures for sport fills him with unease, a probing guilt he can’t shake even as their beauty overwhelms him. He thinks again of Four Quartets.

“Here is a place of disaffection.”

He thinks of finding an empty tent, his book of poetry left behind. Sid had thrown it away. Thrown it all away. He remembers how Sid’s friend had ribbed him for carrying a Bible. He remembers asking the man, Lucky maybe, what he believed in.

“I believe in ammunition.”

Two and a half years later the words still stick with him. Lucky, Leckie, had been shipped off at Pelelieu. Was home now, last he heard from Sid. Probably didn’t remember Eugene at all. And yet the words stuck with him through two campaigns, through three countries. Two continents. The truth of them.

Somewhere when the days melted into weeks and he stopped caring about eating with dirty hands. Somewhere around there the law of survival had become his new God. And the law of survival demanded sacrifice at its altar. It demanded violence from its people, it demanded priests of ammunition.

All these beautiful birds, all these fine feathered things. And here he was lumbering amongst them out of sight, a creature of violence. A thing that is tied in horrible knots between two wavering faiths. A thing who hates himself for it.

Here is a place of disaffection. Here.

He has killed birds and now loves them, eats besides a Mourning Dove, tossing it little pieces of sourdough. Thinks. I have loved man and I killed him too. And I enjoyed it.

John flew a plane. That he knows. It’s not the same. Killing from afar and not knowing. Different from watching the life leave another’s eyes. And wanting more. Feeling that deep wrath take hold of you. John, for all his great size and large smile and air of danger is just like the rest of them, the doves that fly about his head heedless to the fact that they are in the company of a hunter. That he could snap their neck in an instant. With complete and utter disregard for their right to life. It’s better for everybody if he stays away. That way he won’t get hurt. Eugene lies down amongst the sound of birdsong, and rustling leaves.

And so; for the next two weeks, he dedicates himself to the careful art of avoidance.

————————————————————

John is admittedly very, very drunk. He didn’t mean to be. It just happened. The night had started at the pictures. But he started to itch. Needed to get out. Halfway through Gene Tierney crying to the ghost of a dead Sea Captain he was legging it to the bar. It had been two weeks since he had seen Eugene. He had tried to find him, but the kid was damned slippery. Like a cat burglar. Turned sideways and just disappeared into the shadows. Couldn’t spot him at Church or at the Grocer’s or even on the block outside their buildings.

As shameful as it was to admit. John didn’t have many people to talk to these days. Not any who would want to talk to him. Gale had promised him. In the Stalag. That he would be worth knowing. That someone would think he was worth knowing, the version of himself he had deteriorated into. But that was a lie. A sick of a lie as any Buck had told him. No one wanted to know the new John. Not even John himself. If he could run out of himself into the street. Find a new face a new set of skin to step into. Someone, anyone else. But he was trapped.

And then came the disgust. Self-pity was the recourse of the cowardly. It wasn’t for soldiers. It wasn’t for men who had led others into battle and survived to tell the tale. His father never acted with self-pity. No, he got up and he shut his trap and he went to work twelve hours a day without a singular complaint. He would feel sick if he could see John now. His father’s cross around his neck burns.

Instead of self-pity John got too drunk and lost his money at dice and took the long way home, down darkened alleys. Hoping for something. Maybe. Hoping for a chance to feel someone else’s skin beneath his own.

And then he heard it. Soft noise, the sound of someone speaking. A southern drawl. He picked up his pace. Something inside him recognized the voice even from blocks away. Little cat burglar wasn’t gonna slip through his fingers this time.

He rounded the corner and had to stop for a second. Eugene was there, pushed up against the wall, broken glass bottle to his neck. His lip was bloody and so was his eye. But he looked completely calm. Soft brown eyes had become a cold, dead black. Their gaze met above the assailant’s head. John could hear the man as if through water, “Fucking faggot—“

And then John was leaping forward. Grabbing the man by the back of his collar and slamming him into the ground. The action came so naturally he barely even registered he was doing it at all. He looked up, trying to assess the damage. To see how bad Eugene was hurt. But Gene wasn’t looking at him. Instead he was stepping forward, slowly. And leaning down into the shitty little punk’s face. And then he was hitting him. With those cold dead eyes not looking at anything not wanting anything in particular. Like a walking ghost he hit the man without feeling, again and again. Until a tooth came loose and hit Eugene in the face. And then John was grabbing him instead, holding his bony spine steady against his chest, wrapping his arms around his stomach as Eugene struggled to get free. Shouting out in rage, battling against him. If John were any shorter, he would have been forced to let go. Instead he held on for dear life. He held on as the robber ran out of the alleyway. As Eugene finally realized where he was and went limp. As he collapsed and took John with him. As John sat there in complete darkness, until he felt brave enough to raise a hand and drag it through Eugene’s hair, like he might have for his little sister.

Like a damn bursting Eugene began to cry. John let him have his privacy. Was going to. But then Eugene grabbed onto him. And it had been so long since anyone wanted to hold him, since a person had touched him with anything but violence in mind, that he found himself grabbing back. Pulling Eugene into his lap and running his hand again through dark red hair.

He didn’t have anything to say. He was never good at comforting people. His mother would say it was one of his worst habits. Instead of speaking they sat there and he imagined the swing outside his childhood home to pass the time.

How he would sit there waiting for his father every day after work. Time passed slow back then. There was the worry of course that if John didn’t wait then his dad wouldn’t come home at all. But it was an easy worry. The worry any child might have. And for a while there his dad did come home every day. And the relief of it all, of not being left behind, left him smiling for hours. The two of them would swing back and forth, back and forth, watching the cows in the distance. Not speaking.

Time passed slow then. But now everything seemed to last forever. The good and the bad.

Eugene pulled away from him, hand over his face. John recognized the emotion. The shame over crying in front of a stranger was hitting him fast. He didn’t want to see Gene ashamed. Drunk and dizzy and quick he stood up and grabbed Gene with him.

“Listen, kid. I ain’t gonna make it home alone. Probably fuckin’ brain myself. Be obliged if you could, you know, help a fella out.”

Eugene dragged a bloody hand across his nose and eyes and then grew a bit colder again. Wasn’t a cruel cold feeling though. Not like before. More like the feeling of cool water from Lake Erie. Soothing. Sure of itself. Still water that you could wade in up to your waist without fear of being dragged into a riptide. Lake Erie was always John’s favorite.

“Alright.”

————————————————————

He didn’t know how he did it. But he’d got Eugene back up to his apartment. Drunken giddiness was coursing through him. He could see the kid sat on the rotting wood, next to John’s camping cot and pile of blankets, flipping through his copy of Maltese Falcon. John grabbed a passably clean glass and filled it with water.

He looked at home. If you could call a place like this a home. A cave seemed more accurate.

“You like detective stories?”

John sat the glass in front of him. Sat himself crisscross so they could really get a look at each other. Gene’s hands were bruising but it didn’t seem to bother him. His eye was swelling.

“What can I say? I’m a man of taste.”

After a silence he forced himself not to break Eugene answered.

“Thank you. I…I’m sorry.”

It didn’t seem like he had anything to be sorry for. Not really.

“Don’t be. No harm in fighting back when someone’s robbing you—“

“He wasn’t—“

“Wasn’t what?”

Eugene looked frustrated.

“He wasn’t robbing me.”

It took a second, watching the blush rise up on Eugene’s neck, to realize what he meant. Oh. Oh shit. He had thought or hoped maybe, that they were of the same sort. But not in any real way. His type were few and far between. And he was pretty shit at finding them. And none of them had ever…and then he realized what Eugene was implying.

“He. Was he hurting you?”

————————————————————

Eugene felt small, sitting on the floor, worn paperback in his hands. John was pacing, reeking of whiskey and lavender scented aftershave and cement. He had just wanted to go to a place where he could….just without worrying about being judged for it. He liked going to the queer bars. It was one of the few times he felt truly honest and at home inside his own skin. He’d gone outside for a smoke, trying to avoid this ginger asshole who kept trying to chat him up. Except that hadn’t worked out very well. Instead he ended up pinned to the wall by that same prick, screaming in his face when he wouldn’t bend over and give in like he wanted him to. He was a goddamn Marine. He wasn’t gonna let himself go down without a fight. He would have had the guy too. He knows he would have. Could have killed him if John hadn’t turned up.

John runs his hand through his hair and sits down again across from him. He grabs Eugene’s wrist, softly. It reminds him of being back in between those large wooden church doors. The touch this time is so soft he doesn’t even think to flinch.

“Are you okay?”

The fear. Being alone in an apartment with someone so much better than you in every conceivable way. Someone so beautiful. Someone you could tell should hate you for your very nature. John was a ladies man. Even if they had maybe sort of flirted one time a few weeks ago. Or he looked like one. But he didn’t seem disgusted with Eugene. He held his wrist gently. Wasn’t afraid to touch him.

“You…I don’t.”

It was hard to put into words. John shuffled closer, put his fingers to Eugene’s eye. All the air in his chest choked out. He couldn’t breathe. That line from Four Quartets. At the center point of the turning world.

“I should get you ice but I don’t have any.”

“You’re not disgusted by me?”

Eugene placed his hand above John’s wrist, lightly. He couldn’t help himself. Now they were connected. Wrist to eye to wrist and back again. Knees touching.

“It would be pretty hard to be disgusted by you when I’m the same way.”

Men like John… they weren’t like him. He didn’t get to be lucky like this.

“I’m okay.”

John didn’t believe him. That was obvious. He fussed over him the rest of the night like a mother hen. Tucked extra blankets around him and kept forcing glasses of tepid water in his hands. Cleaned off his split lip with a damp rag. Eugene had to physically hold himself back at that. Just because they were both homosexual didn’t mean John would want someone like him, anyways. He didn’t try to but he ended up falling asleep on John’s shoulder. Listening to the man read from the Maltese Falcon.

“He said: "I'm going to send you over. The chances are you'll get off with life. That means you'll be out again in twenty years. You're an angel. I'll wait for you." He cleared his throat. "If they hang you I'll always remember you….”

Words like ammunition and survival seemed so far away when you were warm, and comfortable, and you could feel another person’s stubble on your cheek scratching, the ever lively traffic outside a calming white noise.

[hypermania]

wdym eugene isn't held accountable? doesn't he fuck up the bullets so that they can beat negan? what's there to be held accountable for when all he did was help them?

eugene did fuck up the bullets but it wasn't like it was some elaborate selfless scheme. it was a last minute opportunity that cost him nothing. and it came after months and months of him willingly working for negan and doing things that got hundreds of people killed.

it's not eugene's fault that negan took him and it's perfectly in character for eugene to behave the way he did. he's a survivor and a coward and those two things together make him such an interesting character. i like that he stuck his head in the sand and pretended like he wasn't actually doing anything bad by cooperating with negan. but the thing is that what he was doing was bad. his plan to get negan and the other saviors out of the sanctuary alone is the reason there was as much bloodshed as there was. when rosita and daryl tried to kidnap him back, he ran away from them, and it wasn't because he was on a mission to sabotage the bullets. it was because he wanted to keep working for the saviors.

like?? i get that there were small moments of decency (like what he did for sasha) and that he ultimately did the right thing but it wasn't some huge moment of character development. he didn't do the right thing because it was the right thing. he did it because the opportunity presented itself, it cost him nothing, and in the end it would yield the best result for him. and i LIKE that. it's so perfectly in character and it's good storytelling.

the problem is that the show never ever reckons with any of it. he is automatically forgiven for everything by everyone and then given the upgrade treatment to Actually Badass Fighter and, most infuriatingly, treated as the character who finally deserves a happy ending. i'm sorry but?? what??? are you kidding me?? he is consistently one of the most selfish characters and his reward for that is getting everything he's ever wanted. how is that satisfying in any way? his narrative arc post-the saviors should've been about him trying to atone for the things he did, for the way he's always put his wants and needs above everything else.

i would've liked to see him be the one to get bit saving coco. let him finally do something actually selfless—save the life of the child that the woman he's always been in love with had with somebody else. even the way that eugene finally moved on from rosita drives me bonkers. he didn't let her go. he just found something shinier.

anyway. this all sounds like i hate eugene and i don't. i think he's such a good character, but he's a good character in large part because he's not a good person. and the show never works through that. they just sweep it under the rug in the last few seasons and i hate it.

[eluvion]

i just found out that buck v bell was never overturned. anti-canon my ass.

[ssparksflyy]

BELLS' 500 FOLLOWER + BIRTHDAY EVENT ! ✷༉‧₊˚.

HEYYY POOKIE SHMOOKS THANK YOU SOSO MUCH FOR 500 FOLLOWERSSS ♡ i seriously appreciate every single one of you, you keep me motivated and i thank you for allowing me to post my silly little posts and for supporting me sm :) i meant to do this event when i reached 400 followers.. but when i reached it, a lot of people were announcing events so i decided to wait a bit so they could get the attention they deserved :) now with 500 (nd my birthday coming up) i decided to finally do this event as a way to get me up a running again after the break i took :D i hope you enjoy this event and once again , thank you so much !! ily !!!

CERAMIC UNICORNS —

ill make you a moodboard based off your blog, a character, a ship, anything you'd like !!

CMON BLONDIE ! —

(moots only !) where we would go on a friendly date ♡

FLOATING LANTERNS —

ill write you a short blurb (romantic or platonic) for whoever u wish

FLYNN RIDER EUGENE FITZHERBERT —

(moots only !) what duo do i think we are most like ?

FRYING PAN —

ill assign you a random poster from the many i want to hang in my room >ᴗ<

HERE COMES THE SMOLDER —

ill give you an outfit based on you blog's aesthetic ! (include clothing preferences if u want something a little more specific ♡)

MAGIC HAIR —

ill give u a random animal crossing villager i think ur most like (cause i recently started playing again hehe)

MAXIMUS' APPLES —

ill tell you what taylor swift era u remind me of most !

MOTHER KNOWS BEST —

ill give you a 10 song playlist (on spotify) based on your acc, a character, a ship, whatever you'd like :)

PASCAL'S PALS —

ill assign you a plushie i think best fits you ♡

THE LOST PRINCESS —

ill give you a ts song + lyrics that best fits ur vibe !!

THE SNUGGLY DUCKLING —

i'll tell u what pjo cabin i think ur in !! ( warning: im stupid :) )

JULY 26 —

(moots only!) ill give u a small love letter to send overseas to you while you fight bravely in the war and i stay home with our two children hoping and praying you'll return safely (its just a love letter lmao)

i literally copied my 200 follower event layout which was inspired by @flowers-for-em so credits to my lovely lovely emma !!

i ask that you keep it to 2 requests per ask please :)

this event will be ending august 15 !

i try to complete requests as quickly as possible but i do ask that you remain patient ( this has never been an issue on my blog but i thought id still mention it ♡♡ )

i hope you enjoy !!

ah yes. the tagging of the mutuals. ( in no particular order but lmk if u wanna be added or taken off !! )

@mqshido @riordanness @hope92100 @jgracie @hopelesslyromanticshark

@flowers-for-em @pinkdiorluvr @lastolympus @s1utlvr @brodieland

@over-the-oceancall @sunnitheapollokid @cinemaconrad @chxcolatefrogs @pumpkinbxtch

@kozumesphone @satelitis @stvrlighttgabss @juneberrie @waitingonher

@maybxlle @alexwritingspot @missedyour21st @leovaldezluvr @jvpiterzs

@aezuria @puffoz @mqstermindswift @aryxchse @colettesonpluto @starrynightmovietheatre

[romancemedia]

Eugene and Lance Fistbumps (2x14 vs. TS vs. 3x12)

[mythicalgeek]

Here's a fun challenge for all the Taylor swift fans out there... see how many of TS song's you can match with your favorite ships

You belong with me - Penelope and Colin

Cardigan - Anne and Gilbert

Invisible string - Ariel and Eric

Encanted - Ella and Kit

Long live- Rapunzel and Eugene/ Flynn rider

Willow - Elora and Graydon

The great war - Katniss and Peeta

Peace - Zuko and Katara

My tears ricochet - Ben Solo and Rey

Long story short - Emma Swan and Killian/ Hook

[pilferingapples]

started re-watching LM 2K with some friends who also make terrible life choices

went in honestly thinking , Hey! maybe I am forgetting things! Maybe it's not as bad as I remember it being!

well 1.5 hours into this 8 hour fever dream and I can say. I was forgetting things all right! quite a lot of things! but whoo boy I owe Past Me an apology, this is bad and every new Thing I Had Blocked Out Of My Mind makes it worse

Thoughts, While I Have Them:

why does it start literally on fire

I'll give John Malkovert this: he does seem disturbingly horny for the idea of inherent traits and inborn social hierarchy. Beeblevert didn't really seem to know what to do with his phrenology displays; Malkovert whispers to them lovingly at night and probably licks them. This guy feels about eugenics like Grantaire feels about Enjolras. This guy is messed up.

( ...filmmakers know that when they've got someone with lots of human skull measurements and phrenology and Types of Human displays, they're saying that character is into eugenics, right? I'm not saying it's a bad move, it can be very accurate and telling ,but like. They get what that's doing there, right? RIGHT???)

The dialogue...is bad.... it's so bad...

"yellow is the color of happiness"

this timeline is a shambles. Fantine doesn't have Cosette until after Tholomyes is gone, and then apparently holds out for YEARS in Paris, since Cosette is if anything a little older than her book age when Fantine meets the Ts; meanwhile Valjean doesn't get out of prison until AFTER Fantine has moved to M-sur-M. Which of course means there's no factory for her to work at!

...but then after Valjean (very intentionally) steals from Petit Gervais, we cut to Fantine working in the factory. The Nettle Cloth factory . Which means Fantine was doing SOMETHING before Valjean showed up to Disrupt the industry with his Tech Breakthrough but like. What. If she was doing something else then why doesn't she go do that some more after she's fired? Because she very much doesn't, she goes right to attempting sex work...badly

like trying it with Javert first Badly

and then he threatens to arrest her but doesn't?? who is this man, what kind of Javert is he ffs . Letting a Poor go unarrested? Seriously this doesn't even scan with his characterization in this series

Instead he starts stalking Fantine and giving her Helpful Hints. He comes in right after she has a client?? and tells her to go to the circus??

She goes and finds the dentist and tries to get him to pull TEN of her teeth bc for no reason he's giving 4 francs a tooth instead of 20 for the fronts. The dentist is the only character in this show with sense and says NO THAT'S TOO MANY TEETH, and he just cuts her hair instead And listen we've got another Fantine with Mostly Straight Brown Hair , it's not even that long, and I'm sorry but there's NO WAY that's worth more than teeth, why do adaptations keep doing this

also why do they keep making Fantine so passive, so dependent on people telling her what to do? She makes bad choices sometimes--often even!-- but she Makes Decisions and fast, she goes all in without any pushing, that is a defining part of Fantine's character! but everything she does here gotta be because someone told her she Should

another one where Javert inexplicably goes to M sur M to see Cosette. Why? What possible reason for this?? he almost seems like he has a weird crush on Fantine rather than JVJ but that's. That's incoherent, for this character. even in this series!!

I've written so much and haven't even gotten to Valjean officiating a wedding for, apparently, a famous former sex worker in the town ? this is mentioned once and I don't think it'll ever be relevant again

1.5 hours in, Points For: a very cute little donkey, Petit Gervais having his Marmot, some very nice architecture, Baptistine existing

Unpoints for: everyone's bafflingly inconsistent characterization, the absolute mess of a timeline, Myriel still living in the palace but letting homeless people sleep on the floor?? , lots of very pointless Walking Around Time , Thenardier Sex , why do directors think I want to see them get it on, Please Stop

[talesofpassingtime]

Essential Readings for a Serious Writer

(revised)

Literature is a dialogue between story-tellers that has gone on for about six thousand years. Unless an author knows the conversation thus far, it is nearly impossible for that poorly read author to contribute anything meaningful to the dialogue. Serious writing requires serious reading. All great authors have been great readers.

Pre-19th Century

Homer, The Iliad, The Odyssey

Sophocles, works

Aeschylus, works

Euripides, works

Virgil, The Aeneid

Boccaccio, The Decameron

Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales, Troilus and Cressida

1001 Nights

Dante, The Divine Comedy

Cervantes, Don Quixote

Shakespeare

King James Bible

Spencer, The Fairie Queen

Milton, Paradise Lost, Paradise Found, Samson Agonistes

19th Century

Goethe, Faust, Sorrows of Young Werther

British Poets - Byron, Shelley, Keats, Coleridge, Burns, Blake, Wordsworth, Browning, Tennyson, Yeats

Pushkin, Eugene Onegin

Gogol, Dead Souls

Turgenyev, Fathers and Sons

Dostoevsky, works

Tolstoy, works

Hardy, works

Dickens, works

Galdos, Fortunata & Jacinta

Mary Ann Evans (George Eliot), Works

Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre

Jane Austin, works

Melville, works

Hawthorne, works

Poe, works

Stoker, Dracula

Hugo, works

Dumas, works

Zola, works

Balzac, works

Flaubert, works

Scott, works

20th Century

Woolf, works

Joyce, works

Lawrence, works

Hardy, works

Proust, La Recherche de la Temps Perdu

Musil, Man without Qualities, Young Torless

Mann, works

Boll, works

Nabokov, works

TS Eliot, works

Martin Amis, works

Gaddis, works

Pynchon, works

Durrell, works

Byatt, works

Burroughs, works

Faulkner, works

Hemingway, works

Fitzgerald, works

O'Neill, works

Anouilh, works

Grass, works

Garcia Marquez, works

Chekov, works

Ibsen, works

Shaw, works

Shepard, works

Fante, works

Maugham, works

Delillo, works

McElroy, Women and Men

Kundera, works

Anderson, Winesburg Ohio

Henry Miller, works

Barnes, works

Broch, works

Nadas, works

Genet, works

Gide, works

Tennessee Williams, works

Bellow, works

A few words of advice:

Reading chronologically makes later allusions to earlier works available. Know your Homer, your Aeschylus, your Virgil. Lots of things won’t make sense at all if you don’t.

Reading all the important works of literature is the work of a lifetime, so don’t fret about how few you’ve read. What matters most is what you read next, because nothing will influence your writing more than what you are currently reading. 

Reading is writing.

Memorize Shakespeare, the plays, the sonnets, the poems. You won’t regret a word. Nothing is more important to a writer’s education than Shakespeare.

I am only including works and authors I have read in this list. It will continue to evolve as I continue to read. I’m sure there are many thousands of important authors still unlisted. As well, sometimes we learn the best lessons from terrible writers. Reading is too important to only read well.

[ms-all-sunday]

if wci wasnt fumbled so badly re: eugenics, i feel like reiju could be the best character ever, but as it stands, im unsure whether im supposed to read her and sanjis relationship as codependent or supposed to believe her when she says some eugenics bullshit. its once again the coin flip of i have no idea what oda is even doing with the vinsmokes at all, im being kind of generous towards him because i believe oda is a good writer, but like. wci is a generational fumble. easily post ts at its lowest and a low point for the series as a whole

[malarkgirlypop]

MALARKEY MY LOVE!

Please could I ask you 10,11,12 and 23 for the positivity game?

Kate I love you so much. Thank you for everything 💕

EUGENE MY SWEET!

10 - an oc that you can't get enough of?

Now I need to catch up on some reading! But I stumbled across this little old blog and something just caught my eye! @next-autopsy OC Birdie, now I don't like to brag but I called the love interest very early on! And I just loved the story and have been hooked ever since!

11 - songs that you associate with a certain character?

Well I have made a whole playlist for the boys bruh I just scrolled through my whole feed, I can't find it! But anyway a song I associate with my man Donald would have to be Shortline RY X, I feel like every time I write a scene with him and Em this is playing.

12 - songs that you associate with certain mutuals?

IM GOING TO MAKE THEM ALL SAD DEAL WITH IT!

@footprintsinthesxnd I associate you with the song Bigger than the whole sky , you are a TS fan, and this song even tho sad it's soft and gently just like you. I love to sing it in the car, when I'm happy or sad. The lyrics are so poetic just like you, my love.

@next-autopsy IDK why but Karma Police I love this song so much, it's in my sad playlist but it gives me sad angry vibes, I feel like you would just jam to this. I feel this in my bones for you. I can't explain it. You are momma bear and you will fight for all of us, this song is you.

@panzershrike-pretz You are my sunshine and I don't think I have to say much more. You are a ray of sun on a cloudy day. You make me happy!

@sweetxvanixlla Only the vocals on this song are so haunting and beautiful, idk why it reminds me of you, just a vibe. I love this song so much never fails to make me cry, and I literally sent photos of me crying to you so! ahaha!

@xxluckystrike Chemtrails makes us bawl, sorry to have told you that was her dad ahaha. I love this song so much and I love you too! I listen to the song and think of you cause we talked about it ahaha!

@samwinchesterslostshoe I'm your man I love this song for you, I know you like this song for you. The lyrics are so good, and it just suits you!

@whollyjoly Come into my arms oml this so is sweet, awwww I love it and IDK why but it goes with you! Come and take my hand, is so you coded, you are a helping hand that picks us up when we fall.

23 - what's your fav wip of yours?

Can I say MEDIC! Because MEDIC! I love it she is my baby, makes me cry so hard and then laugh and im the maniac that is writing it!

[versaversa]

[antigonenikk]

do i dare // disturb the universe?

chapter 1/2/?

pairing: john “bucky” egan/eugene sledge

summary: Eugene Sledge and John Egan are both adrift in the wake of the War. They find each other in a small bar in a small corner of Chinatown. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Chapter 2: april is the cruelest month

“April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.”

——————————————————————

New York isn’t what he was expecting. He’d never been of course. He’d been to San Diego technically, for all that being stuck inside the barracks for two days before shipping out again to Alabama counter as “being in a city.” But the only real city he’d ever lived in had been Peking. He’d developed an idea subconsciously that New York would be the same. That the streets would smell of wood burning coal and fry-oil, that there would be streets crowded with sprawling marketplaces. That there would be labyrinthian alleyways and war torn buildings and giant palace complexes.

New York was not the same. The people seemed alien to him. Just as alien as the ones back home in Alabama. Their faces looked through him, leaving him a deep sense of panic that he had turned invisible. That he was a ghost. The streets smelled of baking bread and wet asphalt, and the noise of thousands of people all speaking English at once overlapped and brought him back to Pavuvu. When they’d all been living on top of one another, trying to pretend the world wasn’t ending.

It was unfamiliar. But it wasn’t all bad. He’d quickly found a place near Times Square, lured in by the neon lights and the friendly crossdressers prowling for rough trade. It felt liberating, to be here, to be alive and not in hiding. He’d remember what Shelton had told him. About the Red Light District down in New Orleans. How boys would cruise by the dockyards. He hadn’t believed it, not really. But it was true. There were people like him. Hundreds of them.

He didn’t dare touch anybody. Didn’t go out at night with desire on his mind. The wound of waking up cold and alone on that overnight train still stung a bit too deep. And besides, he’d always been a bit of a hopeless romantic at heart. The idea of cruising made him feel uncomfortable. Akin to jumping into the line of fire just to feel something. Instead he spent his days trying to figure out how to spend his unemployment. He had six more months of it left. And then it was pick a college or get a job. The possibility that he would choose wrong. That he’d waste the sum he’d earned through unwilling murder made him sweat. So he distracted himself. Spent hours at the bookstore, wandered the streets of lower Manhattan. Always somehow made his way to Chinatown by nightfall. And wasn’t that a gas. He thought he’d find something familiar there, but instead of Mandarin everyone was speaking Cantonese. And there were no families in sight. Just worn down men like himself. He’d found a bar though. A little place that reminded him of where he, Shelton and Burgie would go when they got Rec Passes. A hole in the wall with cheap beer and soft music. He’d sit in the corner sipping on drink after drink until it hit midnight. Then he’d drift over to the streets, empty as they could be, and try to clear his mind. Replace it with the sound of his feet moving one two three four. Marching easy like at base camp when they got far enough away from the huts. It didn’t seem to matter at night that you were lonely. With the sun gone down there was no one left to see. Almost like it never had happened at all. None of it.

That night he was feeling sorer than usual. He’d been at the butcher’s earlier when a car backfired. And he recalled with humiliation how he’d dropped to the floor like a sack of bricks, hands reaching for a sidearm that wasn’t there anymore. It had felt like eyes were on him. Like the whole store was staring. And so he’d ran out, kept running until his lungs started to ache. And spent the next hour curled in an alleyway for better cover, packing and repacking his pipe, not seeing much of anything at all. Now he was trying to return to normalcy. Beat down the shame. A glass of bitter Tsingtao in front of him. The place was filling up quick for a weeknight. And suddenly it just wasn’t worth it. Didn’t feel right. He wanted to be alone and to wallow and to curse at fucking everything that had led him to this point. He felt the inner lining of his jacket for his little Bible and tried to breathe. Getting up he strode towards the door, going for calm, hand on the book the entire time gripping.

And then his feet were knocked from underneath him and he landed hard onto his palms, hard. Groaning, he felt rage growing quick inside of him, begging for a release. He turned his head and felt himself torn between completely annoyance and unwilling attraction at the blue eyes and smiling face that stared down at him. He settled for an unimpressed scoff.

——————————————————————

New York was….well. It was. In a lot of ways it was like London. The only real city he’d had time to experience. The buildings were just as tall. Although these ones weren’t bombed out. Destroyed by the hand of some dumbass kid playing God, little toy soldiers collapsing into coffins. The buildings in New York were tall, and filled with pomposity. Just like the people. At first he barely noticed it. Off from Port Authority he’d made his way to Manhattan. Everyone was getting hitched and moving to the damn suburbs, so it hadn’t been hard to find a studio in a less than glamorous spot of town. After finally finding a place (a whole fucking week of living in a dirty ass hotel was starting to get to him) he holed up. Bought half a liquor store’s worth of booze, a carton of cigarettes and a month’s worth of canned food and just did nothing. Slept with a blanket on the cold floor, unable to bear the thought of buying a mattress. He checked the taps every few hours to make sure he still had water. He checked the cupboards four times a day to make sure he had enough food. And he let the panic run its course. Let it flood into and through him. He was all on his own now for the first time in five years. It felt alien. To not have someone lying beside you. To have enough to eat and drink. To be able to hear yourself really think. The silence rang heavy and weighed on him. And after two weeks he decided being a hermit wasn’t for him after all. And so he set out on the town. But man, he couldn’t stand most of the people.

He knew people now. Knew of people at least. Knew which bars were cheap, which folks were generous and would let him mooch. Knew the name of the baker and the grocer and the butcher and knew the price of a loaf of bread to the letter. But friends were off the table. It felt like everyone in the city was looking down on him. Looking at his sunken cheeks and his dead eyes and his twitching arm. Couldn’t stand it. So he rode the subway instead. The novelty of it hadn’t warn off. And even though his feet ached like a bitch he’d make a game of picking a random direction and just walking. Up the subway steps and through the alleyways, the long meandering streets. It felt a bit like the March. A bit like home. But that thought made him feel….But he didn’t think about the March, so it was fine. He played darts at bars all over the city. Got drunk as all hell and made a fool of himself. Listened to enough jazz to make his ears bleed. God. The jazz. Really that was the only time he was happy. He’d pick a spot. Any club in town. And fuck were there a lot of them. He’d sit and he’d watch the bands play. Good bands. Bad bands. God awful bands. It didn’t matter. The music sang through him. Made him want to bust up and dance and laugh and cry that he was alive at all. He lived for the nights. Lived for the music. That was reason enough to while away the days. Even if he didn’t have Buck anymore. Even if he was a shell of the man who was once a respected Major, he had the music.

That night he’d made a detour. Figured it would be funny to head down to Chinatown. See if Chinese drink had anything on Irish Whiskey. See if Chinese music had anything on American. He picked a small place, lit up with quaint little red lanterns that reminded him of the fireflies back home in Wisconsin. Except he didn’t think about Wisconsin. So he sat and smoked half a pack of cigarettes. One by one. Sipping on the oddly bitter beer the bartender had handed him, the name of which he couldn’t pronounce.

He could feel himself relaxing finally, a hazy buzz coming over him, when he turned and saw the Little Doll. Didn’t know how else to describe him. The kid, couldn’t be older than twenty one, was hunched over in the corner. His hair gleaming bright red beneath the lights. His face was an unearthly sort of white. The kind of white that reminded him of his sister’s dolls. He used to touch their cheeks when he was little. Amazed at how pure and clean the porcelain looked. Amazed that anything could be so untouched by living. The boy didn’t look untouched by living. His eyes were big and downturned and achingly empty. Cow’s eyes. Doll’s eyes. Sad little things. John heard him talking to another patron briefly and had to do a double take. The kid could actually speak Chinese. After that he tried to not look at all. But the buzz was gone. All that was left was a restless feeling. The need to constantly look over his shoulder and check that the Little Doll was still there. He felt giddy and stupid and old.

He got up to leave, drowning the rest of his piss poor drink in one go, and stumbled on the next step, watching as if in slow motion as the Doll tripped over his foot and went sprawling. Fuck. That had to have hurt. John felt himself grinning for a reason he couldn’t explain. For a moment he was a kid back on the school yard, getting ready to pull at some girl’s pigtails. He cleared his throat and reached his hand out determined to help, maybe. And then Doll turned around and he was met with the nastiest little look he’d ever gotten outside of when he’d dumped a whole bucket of ice-water over Buck’s head their second week into Basic. And he couldn’t help it. Really. He started to laugh.

He felt his hand shoved away with more power than he would have expected as Doll sprung up, glare still fixed to his pretty face, sneering out in a deep southern drawl, “Get outta my way, puhlease.”

He could feel the patented John Egan grin, the one that annoyed Buck to hell and back, making its way across his face as if it belonged there, even though it had been MIA for two years now. There was no way in hell he was about to do that.

[thecookieverse]

Cookieverse: Organizations and Businesses

CREAM

Known fully as the "Corporation for Resolving Evil and Atrocious Misdeeds". The Cookieverse’s equivalent to WOOHP. A spy agency dedicated to fighting crime and protecting cookies all over the world.

Known Members:

Chocolate Trifle Cookie (Jerry Lewis, Leader and Founder)

Poppy Seed Cookie (Clover)

Veggie Chip Cookie (TS!Sam)

Wonton Cookie (Alex)

Cookies Next Door (CND)

An organization of child Cookies fighting against controlling and abusive adults.

Known Members

Lemon Meringue Cookie (Rachel McKenzie/Numbuh 362, Supreme Leader)

Soda Bread Cookie (Fanny Fulbright/Numbuh 86, Head of Decommissioning)

Strawberry Fool Cookie (Nigel Uno/Numbuh 1, Leader of Sector V)

Chili Dog Cookie (Hoagie P. Gilligan Jr./Numbuh 2, 2x4 Technology Officer of Sector V)

Matcha Choco Cookie (Kuki Sanban/Numbuh 3)

Hokey Pokey Cookie (Wallabee “Wally” Beetles/Numbuh 4)

Salted Caramel Cookie (Abigail Lincoln/Numbuh 5)

Hot Dog Cookie (Chili Dog Cookie’s elder sister; Secret benefactor of the organization)

Cookies of Darkness

Known Members:

Affogato Cookie

Black Forest Cookie (Dr. Heinz Doofenshmirtz)

Cobalt Cookie (Scarlett)

Dark Enchantress Cookie (Founder/Leader)

Licorice Cookie

Mistletoe Cookie (Icy)

Nightshade Cookie (Darcy)

Poison Mushroom Cookie

Pomegranate Cookie (Second-in-Command)

Red Velvet Cookie

Tarator Cookie (Vendetta)

Zephyr Lily Cookie (Stormy)

Former Members:

Dark Choco Cookie (Defected)

Orange Velvet Cookie (Funkin Blaze, defected)

Pound Cake Cookie (Ralph, defected)

Aloe Cookie's Laboratory

Known Residents:

Aloe Cookie

Blueberry Fudge Cookie (Jenny Wakeman/XJ-9)

Clam Cookie (Cyborg)

Cyborg Cookie

Ion Cookie Robot

Marshmallow Creme Cookie (Baymax)

Succulent Cookie (Calculester)

The Hex Girls

A band of eco-goth Cookies with a dark magic theme. Black Rose Cookie and Black Sesame Cookie are big fans of them.

Rosemary Cookie (Thorn)

Sage Cookie (Luna)

Thyme Cookie (HG!Dusk)

The Krispy Krab

A burger restaurant owned by Crab Burger Cookie

Calamari Cookie (Squidward Tentacles; Cashier)

Crab Burger Cookie (Eugene Krabs; Owner and Operator)

Sponge Cake Cookie (SpongeBob SquarePants; Fry Cook)

The Stroop Stop

The diner owned and operated by Waffle Cone Cookie

Soft Serve Cookie (Funkin!Dusk; Part-time greeter)

Waffle Cone Cookie (Vince; Owner and Operator)