#goat encompassed by coat

[honeyblockm]

25,12,15

25. Have you ever upset yourself with your own writing?

yes. many times. writing process typically swings between getting really emo about the characters and going full sickos mode about it all. things that I would call upsetting would probably be all of I speak as one about to die. mmm tragedy. and the torture scenes in NO SAFE PLACE. especially the part about Lazar. Um. Crumbling like a wet cookie? turns out writing torture deals psychic damage to me, who knew. other fics have been sad for me and lived in my brain for a while but i would not call them upsetting on the same level.

12. Do you have a playlist for your current WIP(s)? Share it!

I don't have playlists for my current WIPs. I haven't really gotten into the habit, though I totally should, but usually my character/relationship playlists serve the same function. Anyways I did make one for the cquackity / karlnapity & cdream slasher wedding fic that is currently. not being worked on at all. it is. entirely made up of songs from Bleed Out and MCR songs.

15. How do you come up with titles for your fics/chapters?

I use a lot of song lyrics! A lot of mountain goats lyrics. 13 out of my 32 works use tmg lyrics for titles. I look for songs that I feel like match the vibe or theme of the fic. The Mountain Goats have many songs with many themes. Otherwise I like using lines from the source text, if the fic in question was inspired by or was an au of something. Silver Dollar is from Arguing with the Ghost of Peter Laughner About His Coney Island Baby Review by TMG. because like. Dead guy. Elegy. gestures vaguely. put on your chairman mao coat because it pleases me to have that as a title and because commandante can be about dream and sapnap actually, if you look at it from the angle i'm standing at. Harlem Roulette can be about fundy and q, etc etc.

Everything Now As Day is a line from the Menelaiad by John Barth and WE ALL THINK YOU'RE A GRAND GIRL is a line from Antigonick by Anne Carson. I speak as one about to die is from Anne Carson's translation of Agamemnon. Kassandra says it :) you don't have to love it is a line from CM Punk's snake promo. left pining for transience is a line from the deeply wonderful Fiona Lu's poem Turing Test. dawn and mourning dove grey and turning from the plow are both lines from a song from the webcomic Sword Interval by Ben Fleuter, since both those fics exist in the SI au. The chapter titles for dawn and mourning dove grey are the names of the entries in the apocalypse log that reveals the circumstances of the worldbuilding and sets the stage for the final arc of the webcomic.

Titles that aren't direct references to something are still made with consideration to the fic itself. sometimes a fic is big enough 2 warrant a very simple and encompassing title as The Death Poem. The fox who traveled to the end of the world is called that bc I was trying very hard to emulate the style of the fairy tales and fables I read growing up, and those are like. Decently straightforward and referring 2 fundy as a fox emphasizes his trickster-ness. NO SAFE PLACE and BED [DIS]ASSEMBLY are like that because i appreciate all caps quite a lot, maybe an ill-advised amount. also sometimes its just the vibes. the vibes call for all caps.

before we cut to Alexandria is. hm. Well I can't recall atm the exact leaps in my thought process but the general gist is that it's a study of a very specific and liminal period of cabinetduo's relationship, set between the larger and Historical events of the election and the red festival and nov16, and Alexandria is this big important city and it's also a place that gets kind of famously destroyed a little but this isn't yet about Alexandria/L'Manberg. The poem doesn't even leave the White House. I also know it was inspired somehow by tmg's album Songs for Pierre Chuvin.

Journeying Into the Center of the Earth To Retrieve Your Dead Ex Boyfriend because that is what the fic is about and though it is not an instruction manual it is still a detailing of a process. and also because the concept was inspired by Carmen Maria Machado's Help Me Follow My Sister Into the Land of the Dead

[ileatherworlds]

The Leather Industry: A Comprehensive Overview

The leather industry, one of the oldest manufacturing sectors, has played a crucial role in human civilization for thousands of years. From early hunters using animal hides for warmth and protection to modern fashion houses creating luxury leather goods, the industry's evolution reflects broader changes in technology, culture, and economics. This article delves into the leather industry's history, production processes, economic significance, and the challenges it faces today.

Historical Background

Leather production dates back to ancient times, with evidence of leather goods found in the tombs of Egyptian pharaohs and among the remains of ancient Greek and Roman civilizations. Initially, leather was primarily used for clothing, footwear, and tools. Over time, it became a symbol of status and wealth, leading to the development of specialized tanning techniques and the rise of leather artisans.

Leather Production Process

The production of leather involves several complex stages, each requiring precision and expertise. The process begins with the selection of raw hides, primarily sourced from cattle, sheep, goats, and pigs. These hides undergo a preservation process, usually through salting or refrigeration, to prevent decay before they reach the tannery.

1. Preparation:

Soaking: The hides are soaked in water to remove dirt and restore moisture.

Liming: The hides are treated with lime to remove hair and fats.

Fleshing: Excess flesh and fat are mechanically removed.

Deliming and Bating: The hides are treated with ammonium salts and enzymes to soften them and prepare them for tanning.

2. Tanning:

Vegetable Tanning: Involves using natural tannins from tree bark and other plant sources, resulting in a firm and durable leather.

Chrome Tanning: The most common method, using chromium salts, produces soft and flexible leather with high water resistance.

Aldehyde Tanning: Produces a softer leather, often used for automotive and upholstery applications.

3. Post-Tanning Operations:

Splitting: The hide is split into layers, with the top layer (grain) used for high-quality leather goods.

Drying: The leather is dried, either naturally or through controlled environments.

Finishing: The leather is dyed, conditioned, and coated to enhance its appearance and durability.

Economic Significance

The leather industry is a major global economic player, contributing significantly to the economies of many countries, particularly in Asia, Europe, and South America. Major leather-producing countries include India, China, Brazil, and Italy. The industry supports millions of jobs worldwide, from farming and rawhide procurement to tanning, manufacturing, and retail.

Leather products encompass a wide range of goods, including footwear, clothing, bags, belts, furniture, and automotive interiors. The global demand for leather goods is driven by factors such as fashion trends, consumer preferences, and economic growth. Luxury leather goods, in particular, command high prices and are associated with prestigious brands and craftsmanship.

Environmental and Ethical Concerns

Despite its economic importance, the leather industry faces significant challenges, particularly regarding environmental and ethical concerns. Tanning, especially chrome tanning, can have severe environmental impacts if not properly managed. The use of toxic chemicals, water pollution, and waste disposal are critical issues that need to be addressed to make the industry more sustainable.

Moreover, the ethical implications of using animal hides in leather production have sparked debate among consumers and activists. The rise of veganism and the growing popularity of alternative materials, such as synthetic leather (often called "vegan leather"), pose challenges to the traditional leather industry.

Innovation and the Future of Leather

In response to these challenges, the leather industry is undergoing significant transformation. Innovations in tanning processes, such as the development of chrome-free and water-efficient methods, are reducing the environmental footprint of leather production. Additionally, advancements in biotechnology are leading to the creation of lab-grown leather, which could revolutionize the industry by offering a sustainable and ethical alternative to traditional leather.

The future of the leather industry will likely be shaped by a combination of tradition and innovation. While there will always be a market for genuine leather, especially in luxury segments, the industry must adapt to changing consumer preferences and environmental regulations. Sustainable practices, transparency, and ethical considerations will play a crucial role in determining the industry's long-term viability.

Conclusion

The leather industry, with its deep historical roots and significant economic impact, is at a crossroads. As it navigates the challenges of sustainability and ethics, the industry must balance tradition with innovation to remain relevant in a rapidly changing world. By embracing new technologies and responding to consumer demands for transparency and responsibility, the leather industry can continue to thrive while minimizing its environmental and ethical footprint.

[pharmaquipt1]

Luxurious Comfort: The Ultimate Guide to Cashmere Clothes

In the world of luxury fashion, few materials evoke the sense of indulgent comfort and timeless elegance quite like cashmere. Renowned for its unparalleled softness, lightweight warmth, and exquisite texture, cashmere has long been synonymous with opulence and refinement. From cozy sweaters to chic dresses, cashmere garments offer a level of luxury that is unmatched by any other fabric. In this ultimate guide, we'll explore the allure of cashmere clothes, delve into the intricacies of cashmere sweaters, and discover why they're a must-have addition to any wardrobe seeking the epitome of comfort and style.

The Allure of Cashmere:

Cashmere is a type of wool that is derived from the soft undercoat of cashmere goats, primarily found in regions such as Mongolia, China, and Kashmir. Known for its fine fibers and exceptional softness, cashmere is considered one of the most luxurious materials in the world of fashion. Its lightweight yet insulating properties make it ideal for creating garments that provide cozy warmth without adding bulk, while its exquisite texture and drape lend a touch of sophistication to any ensemble.

Cashmere Clothes:

A Symbol of Luxury: Cashmere clothes encompass a wide range of garments, from sweaters and cardigans to dresses, scarves, and even socks. What sets cashmere clothes apart is their luxurious feel and timeless appeal, making them a coveted addition to any wardrobe. Whether you're bundling up for a cozy night by the fireplace or making a stylish statement on a chilly day, cashmere clothes offer the perfect blend of comfort and sophistication for every occasion.

Cashmere Sweaters:

The Epitome of Elegance: At the heart of the cashmere wardrobe is the cashmere sweater—a timeless essential that epitomizes luxury and elegance. Cashmere sweaters come in a variety of styles, from classic crewnecks and V-necks to oversized turtlenecks and chic cropped designs. What sets cashmere sweaters apart is their unmatched softness, lightweight warmth, and impeccable craftsmanship, making them a versatile and stylish choice for any season.

Choosing the Perfect Cashmere Sweater:

When it comes to selecting the perfect cashmere sweater, there are several factors to consider, including:

Quality: Opt for cashmere sweaters made from high-quality fibers that are soft, fine, and durable. Look for sweaters with a higher ply count, as this indicates a thicker and more luxurious fabric.

Construction: Pay attention to the construction of the sweater, including the stitching, seams, and finishing details. Well-constructed sweaters will have even stitches, neatly finished edges, and minimal pilling or shedding.

Fit: Choose a cashmere sweater that fits comfortably and flatters your body shape. Whether you prefer a relaxed, oversized fit or a more tailored silhouette, make sure the sweater is not too tight or too loose.

Style: Consider the style and design of the sweater, including neckline, sleeve length, and silhouette. Classic styles such as crewnecks and V-necks are timeless choices that can be dressed up or down, while trendier designs add a modern twist to your wardrobe.

Care: Proper care and maintenance are essential for preserving the beauty and longevity of your cashmere sweater. Follow the manufacturer's instructions for washing and storing your sweater to ensure it stays soft, smooth, and luxurious for years to come.

Styling Cashmere Sweaters:

Cashmere sweaters are incredibly versatile and can be styled in countless ways to suit any occasion. Here are some styling tips to help you make the most of your cashmere sweater:

Casual Chic: Pair a classic crewneck cashmere sweater with jeans and sneakers for a chic and effortless daytime look. Add a statement coat or scarf for added warmth and style.

Office Ready: Layer a V-neck cashmere sweater over a crisp button-down shirt and tailored trousers for a polished and professional ensemble that transitions seamlessly from the office to after-work drinks.

Date Night: Opt for a form-fitting cashmere sweater in a bold color or statement print for a romantic and eye-catching look. Pair with a skirt or trousers and heels for an elegant and sophisticated ensemble.

Weekend Wear: Embrace a cozy and relaxed vibe by pairing an oversized turtleneck cashmere sweater with leggings or joggers for a laid-back weekend look. Add a pair of slippers or ankle boots for extra comfort and style.

Travel Essential: Pack a lightweight cashmere sweater in your carry-on for a stylish and comfortable travel essential that keeps you cozy on long flights or chilly evenings. Layer over a T-shirt or tank top for added warmth and versatility.

In Conclusion: Cashmere clothes and cashmere sweaters are the epitome of luxurious comfort and timeless elegance, offering unparalleled softness, lightweight warmth, and exquisite craftsmanship. Whether you're lounging at home, running errands, or attending a special occasion, cashmere garments provide the perfect blend of comfort and sophistication for every aspect of your life. Invest in cashmere clothes and cashmere sweaters and elevate your wardrobe to new heights of luxury and style.

[writer59january13]

Back to you Billy, for ways I whiled away herding ennui

Ah...a flood of memories wash over

this anointed Goatama Boo Da,

whose respected G.O.A.T status

among generic green acres,

which swathed across Highland Manor

analogous to petty coat junction

showcasing, jumpstarting and donning

a bright towering bewitched kid

barren regal deportment

proudly trumpeting himself as Maga hatted apprentice

being mentored courtesy this ole buck,

where attendant goatherd didst ha

intimate diddly squat, hence never did expect me

(an adept harried style swiftly tailored

windswept teary eyed pundit)

sentimentally woke evincing young whipper snapper

metamorphosed into chargé d'affaires

exceeding wildest expectations

to apply goatee

to dab moistened eyes ma

lament tab lee recalling blissfully innocent

kickstarter libidinal oomph pa.

As a kid, this now middle aged old goat

silently bends back disbudding head

as if noggin didst float;

bleats, and thence

blinks back tears to emote,

asper remembrance of things past,

when me papa and late mama didst dote

via gently grooming my tattered raggedy coat

whereat patches of missing fur reveals bloat

head distended abdomen

no longer evinces picture

of mine prime head butting days

when unchecked chutzpah, daring do,

and exploratory forays

found this then runt

strayed far from the madding crowd

upon verdant fresh fields I didst graze

and sought out secluded cool shelter

from hot, humid summer haze,

where abundant bucking bronco energy

resorted, succumbed and tugged via natural

sluggish inertia and predilection to laze,

and oft times dreamt being trapped

within some M. C. Escher maze

given up for lost or...,when

n'er a reply from plaintive bleats,

whence upon awakening

bestowed ablutions to Billy Gotti goat,

(Latin Name Capra aegagrus hircus)

unstinting praise

groggy state elapsed with pleasant waft

of cooler August air

cloven hoofs confidently, gingerly,

and jerkily strode to espy clear

panoramic view when 'ere

afar off in the distance,

an indistinguishable glare to view scenic

quintessential picture dis interfere

foretold a recognized

landmark comprising around

perimeter defined areas

hosting happy hustings

(no...not hustling) ground

encompassing accrued memories

to date within storied mound

caching predominantly pleasant

bouts of playtime, when siblings pound

for Avoirdupois pound

raced each other observed

by Mister Sun at his coterie of sound

clouded pillowy cerulean

celestial garden, which

helped get tension unwound.

Now while doddering, hobbling,

and limping with bum leg

(Battle of the bucks him

Boar skirmish) in old dote age,

which declining physical well being

restricts shenanigans akin to limiting an artist prohibited

to paint with the color beige

to an ever shrinking unseen cage

soon...t'will be sent out to pasture,

whence concluding stage

of existence paid with demise

collected by grim reaper,

who only accepts deceased

as sole (soul surviving) standard wage.

[danteapollo]

ｇｏａｔ　ｉｎ　ａ　ｃｏａｔ

[raeynbowboi]

My Own Fakemon

I’ve always liked the idea of creating my own fake pokemon, but I absolutely and completely suck at drawing, so I kind of just have to describe the pokemon, their types, and their descriptions. The fakemon I’ll be presenting today are largely inspired by Ancient Greece, but like any Pokemon region, they are not all strictly beholden to this theme. My fictional Greek region would be Helatris, made from combining the Greek name for itself (Hellen) + Patrís, meaning homeland or birthplace.

GRASS STARTER

Seedyr >> Caprance >> Lechevre Grass >> Grass/Dark >> Grass/Dark

Ability: Overgrow Hidden: Prankster

Inspired by satyrs of Greek Mythology, it was decided to be a grass type due to the satyr’s association with woods and wilderness. Satyrs also have a reputation for being mischievous, or even deviants, as well as being drunkards. This penchant for naughty misbehavior is what led me to making the later evolutions into Dark types. Their names borrow from Seed + Satyr, Capra (the Genus for goats) + Prance, and Lech (a heartbreaker) + Chevre (French for Goat).

FIRE STARTER

Tauroast >> Furnox >> Minotorch Fire >> Fire/Steel >> Fire/Steel

Ability: Blaze Hidden: Rivalry

Inspired by the Minotaur of Greek Mythology, it was imprisoned in an elaborate labyrinth made by the inventor Daedalus. Its fire-typing is explained as the Minotaur being Bull-headed, mapping onto the Year of the Ox on the Chinese Zodiac. Its Steel-type is a bit of a stretch, but by giving it chains on its wrists and neck, along with iron hooves and metal-coated horns, it should work. After all, Lucario manages to be a steel type just fine enough. Its names come from Tauros the Bull + Roast, Furnace + Ox, and Minotaur + Torch.

WATER STARTER

Undiva >> Neeried >> Sirenade Water >> Water/Ghost >> Water/Ghost

Ability: Torrent Hidden: Soundproof

Finishing out our main starter trio, we have the water-type starter inspired by the tales of the Sirens from the Odyssey. Granted, yes I am aware that they started off as bird women, but Water/Flying would give it a dual weakness to Electric, which is the same reason Minotorch is neither Fire/Rock nor Fire/Ground. Its water typing is rather clear, as sirens are associated with the sea and treacherous waters. Their ghost typing is explained as their ghastly wails and haunting melodies being an otherworldly power, with the forms themselves resembling watery spirits or the drowned women of a shipwreck. Their names are inspired by Undines (Greek elemental spirits of water) + Diva (a famous female opera star), Nereid (a sea nymph) + Eerie, and Siren + Serenade.

Regional Birds

Prinzap >> Hellectros >> Impereagle Electric/Flying >> Electric/Flying >> Electric/Flying

Ability: Lightning Rod, Volt Absorb Hidden Ability: Electric Surge

Inspired by Zeus’ eagle, these electric birds take mild inspiration from the Thunder Bird as well. Their names are derived from Prince + Zap, Hellen + Electros, and Imperial + Eagle.

Socranium >> Platome >> Arischolar Psychic/Flying >> Psychic/Flying >> Psychic/Flying

Ability: Trace/Magic Guard Hidden Ability: Psychic Surge

Based on Athena’s owl, this three stage evolution is heavily inspired by the famous thinkers of Ancient Greece. Its names originate from Greece’s most famous philosophers: Socrates, his pupil Plato, and his pupil Aristotle. The secondary parts of their names come from Cranium, Tome, and Scholar. I did consider the much punnier Aristowl, but felt it was a little too much to sound like a pokemon name.

Other Pokémon

Woolfy >> Fleeceit Dark >> Dark

Ability: Illusion Hidden: Impostor

The first stage would look very much like a normal sleep, though close inspection does reveal it to be a wolf pup under a sheep skin. But the evolved form is even more dastardly, with the wolf much more visible, wearing the sheep skin as a disguise. Going from cute to sinister. Their names come from Wool + Wolfy and Fleece + Deceit.

Ponomino >> Pegazeph Flying >> Flying

Ability: Gale Wings, Guts Hidden: Aerilate

This two stage evolution takes inspiration from the mythical pegasus, with the first stage being a baby horse, and the second stage being fully evolved. In fairness, this could also be a Helatrian Ponyta and Helatrian Rapidash option. The names come from Pony + Palomino (a light, creamy-colored horse), and Pegasus + Zephyr, Embodiment of the West Wind.

Nymaid >> Koremos Fairy/??? >> Fairy/???

Ability: Adaptability Hidden Ability: Magic Guard

This pair of pokemon are based on the nymphs of Greek mythology, and appear in multiple forms based on different climates. Originally, I was just going to use actual types of Nymphs found in Greek Myth, but this felt more encompassing.

Grassland - Fairy/Bug Forest - Fairy/Grass Volcano/Ash - Fairy/Fire River/Sea - Fairy/Water Desert - Fairy/Ground Snow/Ice - Fairy/Ice Ruin/Cave - Fairy/Ghost

For the most part, I based the types on typography of the world. Their names come from Nymph + Maiden and Kórē (meaning girl or maiden in Greek) and Érēmos (meaning wild, uncultivated land in Ancient Greek). They vary by location and only appear on specific terrain tiles or specific routes. And yes, each form has a slightly different level-up moveset, just like Wormadam.

Corvittles >> Raveness Dark/Flying >> Dark/Flying

Ability: Gluttony, Pickpocket Hidden: Gale Wings

This pokemon is based on the Harpies that were sent to curse King Phineus by assuring he never ate another bite of food for the rest of his life. It’s dark and flying due to crows being willing to eat about anything, and many moves such as Thief, Embargo, Knock Off,  Punishment, Snatch, and Pursuit are all great moves for the harpies that so brutally punished a mortal king. Their name combines Corvid (meaning crowlike) + vittles (food, slang for victuals), and Raven + Ess (a common suffix used to denote femininity) and also sounds similar to ravenous (meaning to have a large appetite)

Seerpent >> Oracoil >> Serpythia Psychic/Poison >> Psychic/Poison >> Psychic/Poison

Ability: Forewarn, Anticipation Hidden: Telepathy

Inspired by the Oracle of Delphi, also known as the Pythia, she was created when the god Apollo slew the Python, and she emerged from the dead snake. The pokemon uses design elements of the greek monsters the Gorgon or the Lamia to incorporate the serpentine origins of the oracle by making the evolution line a mix of fortune teller and snake. It’s also an underrepresented type combo, as Galarian Slowbro and Galarian Slowking are the other other pokemon that share this typing. The names combine Serpent + Seer, Oracle + Coil, and Serpent + Pythia. The Oracle of Delphi was always a woman, so this pokemon would be 100% female.

That’s all I have for you guys, but if this does really well, who knows. Maybe I’ll do a part 2. And if someone feels like drawing these fakemon, don’t forget to link it back to this post.

[sunshinesukuna]

all the colors of love

pairing: oikawa x reader

genre: fluff to angst

summary: oikawa is able to see other people’s feelings as colors. what color are you on your wedding day?

wc: 1.6k

insp: the gifted - claire (star. ramida jiranorraphat)

big thanks to @writeiolite​ for beta-ing this <333

for the haikyuuwriters june prompt event: marriage

Oikawa's world has always been colorful. Literally. There was purple for fear, like Kageyama's first match at Kitagawa. Kageyama’s trembling fists and pale face when he stepped up onto the court was enough to push Oikawa to give his kouhai a slap on the back and some words of encouragement. The purple around Kageyama dissipated shortly after.

Blue for sadness, like the smidge of azure around Kyoutani whenever he lost a challenge to Iwaizumi. Yellow for happiness whenever the team won an exceptionally hard rally during matches, or whenever his friends had their tests handed back with 100’s at the top. 

There were other colors too. Like the green around you whenever you saw his fangirls flocking around you. He always thought you looked cute whenever you were jealous. Or the red that time the referee was clearly playing favorites and even Iwaizumi and Oikawa combined couldn't hold you back from giving the ref a piece of your mind.

Personally, his favourite was pink. Pink like when he woke up next to you, his eyes only a crack open to trick you into thinking he was sleeping so you would continue kissing his chest. Pink like when he opened your laptop to find him as your wallpaper. And how could he forget the magnificent pink around you when he got on one knee and popped the question?

Oikawa walks through the hall where everyone is gathered towards the room where he was going to get ready. Everyone around him is multicolored, as usual. Your father earlier was purple from head to toe. Well that’s to be expected, his only daughter is getting married. Oikawa would have felt the same if he were your father. 

On the other hand, your mother was positively pretty in both the pink dress and the pink aura that surrounded her. She had always loved Oikawa just a little bit more than she did her own daughter.

“Oi, if you trip out there, we’re going to laugh at you and ask the photographer to get a good shot of the pimple on your chin,” Mattsun says. Makki and Iwaizumi snigger at the joke as they adjust their suits.

“It’s my wedding day! Can’t you all let me live a little?” Oikawa says. 

“That’s what she said,” Makki mutters to the other two. They chuckle. Oikawa shoots them a dirty glare.

“I feel bad for (Y/N),” Mattsun says. He doesn’t mean it, of course, but says it with enough animosity that would make your mother gasp.

“Yeah, if she’s gone after the ceremony, we’ve kidnapped her and let her live the rest of her life in New Zealand with 13 goats and a cow,” Makki replies. Oikawa rolls his eyes. He continues bouncing on his toes as he waits for the ceremony to start. 

“Tooru!” his sister calls from outside the door. “Five more minutes.”

All four of them rise up from their seats. As best man, Iwaizumi stays behind to go to the altar with Oikawa while Makki and Mattsun go off to meet up with the bridal procession. Before going out, they give him a clap on the back.

“We believe in you,” they say unanimously, “captain.” Oikawa can't help but smile a little at his old title.

At long last, he stands in front of the aisle. Oikawa takes a deep breath and a glance at Iwaizumi. Oikawa’s heart rate is enough to make him sweat bullets even when he’s standing in a well-ventilated room. Iwaizumi gives him a thumbs up. The yellow around his old friend calms his nerves a little, along with the small wiggle of his legs he does before something important. 

The walk to the altar is brisk and clean. He catches glimpses of the colors of the people around him. Some sparks of green and blue here and there, but mostly, the hall is decorated in beautiful hues of pink and yellow. 

Oikawa nods at your uncle, the one officiating the ceremony, when he gets to the altar. As stated in your family tradition, the groom may not see the bride until she reaches the altar. So he turns back and waits, with bated breath and a rapidly tapping foot.

The doors open with a loud groan as the bridal party steps inside. The music starts. Tiny footsteps that belong to your smaller cousins spread flowers along the aisle. People coo left and right at the appearance of these wonderfully cute creatures, like cupids straight out of a renaissance painting. Maybe someday he could call one of them his own — your own.

A hush falls over the crowd. The bride has arrived. 

“Whoa,” Iwaizumi mutters next to him. Oikawa glances to his side. His best man drips in pink from head to toe, lips parted and his eyes on you. If even the stoic Iwaizumi could react like that, then how would Oikawa fare? Not well, certainly. 

“How does she look, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asks. Iwaizumi shakes his head, as if to clear his thoughts. Oikawa takes a closer look at his long time friend. Something is off about Iwaizumi.The pink that once wrapped around Iwaizumi so harmoniously was now replaced by a harsh green. 

Oikawa squinted a bit. He rubbed his eyes. No amount of eye picking would change the green lights that radiated off of Iwaizumi. He could swear that Iwaizumi entered the hall absolutely coated in yellow. So where was it now?

The sound of footsteps from behind Oikawa becomes louder and louder and snaps him out of his thoughts. It doesn’t matter, Oikawa thinks. Maybe he’s just having some spur of the moment feelings. 

When the footsteps finally stop behind him, he knows it’s time. Your bridesmaids and his groomsmen are starting to take their places. All that’s left is to turn back and see you in your wedding dress. 

What shade of pink would you be? Your mother had a magnificent rosy hue whenever she looked at your father. Oikawa’s nephew turned a much darker shade of magenta whenever he saw the girl with the pigtails at school. Would the tinge around you change as soon as you said your vows? 

Everyone’s in place now. Oikawa clears his throat. He turns back, left foot first, like he practiced so many times. The smile on his lips wants so much to burst free, but he suppresses it for when he sees you. Oikawa turns his head to see...

The darkest blue he’s ever seen. 

Dark isn’t even enough to encompass all of it. People are always colorful, no matter what they’re feeling. The strongest emotions always have the brightest shades. But here you were, looking at Oikawa, on your wedding day, in your wedding dress in the gloomiest color he’s ever laid eyes on.

What’s worse is that you’re smiling. You're in your wedding dress, the brightest smile he's ever seen on your face, but with the darkest colors surrounding you. The smile even reaches your eyes. 

His jaw hangs open, but everyone is smiling even wider. They must think he’s in awe at your beauty or something else. Oikawa feels his hand quiver as he reaches out to you. Your skin is as soft as ever as you take his hand in yours. He wants to pull away, to never see you again, to bury the memory somewhere no one will ever reach it. But he also knows that the second he does that, he’ll come back to you wanting even more. 

Oikawa blinks away the burning in his eyes during the vows. Knowing that the words that come out of your mouth could, or possibly were, big, fat lies. Then what has it been all this time? Had it been any other person, he would have slapped the daylights out of them, but this was you. The whole reason why this was complicated. You. 

Nothing can come out of his mouth when he opens it for the vows. Oikawa clears his throat a little and laughs it off. Some of the members in the audience laugh with them. He shoots them, and you, a dazzling smile. 

It’s how he’s created his whole image, right? Ward tears off with a smile. Laugh off the lump in your throat before it gets too noticeable. Fold your arms to hide your shaking hands so you look frightening instead of frightened.

When his vows end, all he can do is stare at you. Stare at the murky black that juxtaposes with a smile that could light up a room. 

The hardest words he’s ever had to say in Oikawa’s whole life turn out to be “I do.” He chokes it out while looking up at the mosaics on the ceiling as to not break the dam holding his stability together. You giggle at his antics. If only you knew better. 

“I pronounce you man and wife.”

And out of the corner of his eye, he sees a pink spot emerge from the murky black. It grows bigger and bigger, completely overtaking the black until not a speck is left.  His heart races, finally thinking that it was just last moment jitters. The pink grows until the black is almost gone. Yes, you truly do love Oikawa with all your heart. 

But you’re not looking at Oikawa. You're looking at Oikawa’s best man. 

[faewhump]

Unseelie Pet: 18. Chapter

Although Alex successfully managed to escape the Court, things aren’t going too well for him. 

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Content warnings: death threats, beating, broken bones, blood, victim blaming, victim self-blame

Tagging: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @galaxywhump @whumpsideblog @slaintetowhump @thewhiteraven73 @frnkieroismydaddy @u-n-o-f-f-i-c-i-a-l @insanitywishes

“Darerca? What – what are you doing here?” Alex stammered and took half a step backwards. He was in shock, he hadn’t expected her, but from the way she’d greeted him it appeared that she’d been expecting him…

“You mean why aren’t I at the Court meeting?” Her grin widened, and she slowly walked closer. “Because I was waiting for you, idiot.”

“What? Why? How did you – “

“How did I know you’d be coming?” she interrupted. “Well, who did you think deposited that handy iron for you?”

Alex’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wait – you did that? Why? Are you – are you trying to help me?” It seemed unbelievable, Darerca had always hated him, she’d been one of Rían’s vassals that had enjoyed torturing him the most. So why would she help him escape now? Hadn’t she gloated about his humiliation just a short while ago?

“Help you?” She laughed. “Oh, you are too cute – This isn’t a rescue mission, stupid, it’s a trap. Your little escape attempt ends here, because I am going to kill you.”

Fear rose in Alex, his feet felt frozen in place when he realised the dreadful mistake he’d made. The iron nail, the Court meeting – everything had been too perfect, but not because of luck, but because Darerca had carefully planned it that way. He’d been so blinded by the possibility of escape that he’d run straight into her trap.

“What, kill me just so?” Alex asked, trying to stall for time while he fervently searched for a way out. “Didn’t you say last time that you wanted to torture me as punishment for running away? Why the change of heart now?”

Darerca tsked. “I’m going to kill you, but no one said it would be fast or painless.” She continued to stalk closer, her powerful claws bared and prepared to strike.

Alex stepped further backwards and threw a look over his shoulder, quickly calculating his chances of survival if he chose to run. Unfortunately, they seemed to be close to zero, the faerie would easily outrun him before he reached the palace. And even if he somehow made it back, there probably wouldn’t be a way to keep Malachi from finding out what had happened, and in that case Malachi might as well be the one who ended up killing him after all.

Sometimes the best defence lies in attack, Alex thought and grimly gripped the iron nail tighter. Then, before Darerca noticed his change of tactics, he suddenly darted towards her and aimed for the heart. She shouted in surprise and tried to evade him but wasn’t fast enough, Alex threw himself against her with all his weight and tried not to recoil from the sickening sensation of the nail sliding deep into her left shoulder. Darerca screamed.

Her hand slammed against Alex’s head, the force of the strike threw him to the ground and the sharp nails left deep scratches. She pulled the now bloody nail out of her shoulder, swearing loudly at the pain, while Alex tried to scramble back to his feet. His head swam, and he could feel the blood dripping from the burning scratches. Finally, he managed to stand up and turned to run.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Darerca hissed, and moving faster than it should be possible she grabbed his arm, yanked him back and drove her fist into his stomach.

Alex’s breath left him in a rush, and he gasped, his middle exploded in pain, and he was unable to gather himself before she punched him again. He doubled over, helplessly holding his stomach in an attempt to protect it, leaving a wide opening for Darerca to aim at his head instead. One of her curled horns connected with his skull as she headbutted him, and Alex’s vision blacked out for a moment. When he came back to his senses he was lying on the forest floor, his head throbbed, and his stomach ached.

“You obnoxious human, how dare you attack me?” Darerca spat, anger contorting her voice. Alex got to his hands and knees in an attempt to stand up, but she kicked him over onto his back.

“You always were this audacious, never knew your proper place!” She stomped down on his chest with her goat like hoof, and Alex’s scream drowned out the crack of his ribs. He curled onto his side, unable to stop the flow of hot tears streaming from his eyes and cried out when she kicked him again.

“And yet Rían liked you somehow, even after you betrayed him he continued to favour you!” More merciless kicks and blows rained down on Alex, he gave up on trying to stand up and just curled himself into a ball in an attempt to protect his vulnerable stomach and head. “When I saw you as Malachi’s pet I thought justice was finally being served, but apparently he coddles you too!”

A particularly hard kick to his legs sprained one of Alex’s ankles.

“I don’t get it, what is it that they like about you? You’re just a worthless human, stupid, slow and weak, nothing special, and yet Rían favoured you over me! Me, who has been his loyal vassal for much longer than you’ve even been alive, who always followed his orders and stayed by his side, and yet! He prefers some stray human without manners, even though it’s worthless!” she shouted, driving her hoof into Alex’s flank. “Do you hear me? You’re worthless!”

Alex shrieked at the sharp, stunning pain, a detached part of him deducing that she must have hit his kidney. His entire body was filled with agony, he didn’t even know how many bones were broken already, nor how long this would go on before she had kicked him to death. There was no way he could escape this, there was nothing he could do to fight her, he had no chance…

“M-Malachi,” Alex whimpered, deeply wishing for the Fae to come and save him. “Malachi, please!”

Darerca laughed. “What, do you really think he would take you back now?” she sneered and yanked him up by the hair. “After you tried to run? Don’t you know he killed his last pet after it tried that?”

Alex’s screams reached a new height as his nose shattered under her fist in searing white pain, and she didn’t give him any time to collect himself before punching him across the jaw. Then she threw him back to the ground and continued kicking him mercilessly, shouting abuse and threats that didn’t register to him through his agony. He had no sense of time as his world was purely dominated by pain, blacking out occasionally just to come back without much relief.

The agony was so all-encompassing that he didn’t even notice when the kicks stopped. There was a flurry of motion and noises around, but Alex was unable to make sense of it, when suddenly he felt something lifting him up. He cried out at the pain the movement caused, his broken ribs screamed at the strain it put on them.

“Shhh, pet, it’s alright,” a soothing voice murmured as strong arms cradled his body carefully.

“Malachi,” Alex groaned, relief rushed through him and he weakly twisted his fingers into the fabric of the Fae’s clothes.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you,” Malachi said reassuringly. “You’re safe now.”

Something jostled Alex, and he thought he heard the low buzz of wings at the edge of his perception. Still crying and sobbing from both pain and relief he clung to Malachi, unwilling to ever let him go again. He didn’t notice where they were going, all he knew was that he eventually was placed down on something soft, and he whined when Malachi let him go. He was alone and then he wasn’t, a gentle female voice was there and then suddenly the pain stopped.

When he eventually opened his eyes he saw an embroidered baldachin above and slowly realised that he was back in his bed. He was safe. Tears welled up into his eyes when he remembered what had happened, he’d been so stupid and had fallen for Darerca’s trap, she’d almost kicked and beaten him to death before Malachi had saved him.

Malachi. He turned his head and there he was, Malachi was here, and he was safe. Whimpering Alex stretched out his arms, it didn’t hurt anymore, but he was in shock and wanted nothing more than for the Fae to comfort him. However, Malachi did not react. The expression on his face held none of its usual fondness and was purely one of anger and disappointment.

“So,” Malachi said coldly. “You tried to run away from me again.”

Alex’s eyes widened, and he realised that he had messed up, Malachi was angry, and it was his fault.

What, do you really think he would take you back now?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I’m so sorry,” he babbled and began to cry. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have, please, I know and I’m so sorry.”

“If you already knew, then why did you do it anyways?” Malachi asked dispassionately.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I didn’t really want to, but I thought I had to, I’m sorry.” He grabbed onto Malachi’s coat, pulling himself closer. “I – I felt that if I didn’t do it now, I never would, and that it was the right thing to do, but it wasn’t, I’m sorry –“

“No, it truly wasn’t the right thing to do, and not only because it was nothing but a trap and you almost got yourself killed. If one of my servants hadn’t had the presence of mind to alert me to your flight, it would have been too late.”

“Th-thank – thank you f-for saving me,” Alex sobbed, the disappointment in Malachi’s voice was killing him.

“You’re welcome, pet, although I am not sure whether you actually deserve it,” Malachi said flatly and stood up. “You were very, very bad, and I am quite upset. Angry, yes, but mostly disappointed and betrayed. Since you apparently long to be away from me, I will follow your wishes and leave you alone so that you can think about your opinions and actions without distractions.”

“No!” Alex chocked, desperately trying to hold on to Malachi. “Please, please don’t leave me, please don’t, I’m sorry, I promise I’ll be good, I’m so sorry, I promise –“

If Malachi was moved by Alex’s begging in any way, he didn’t show it. He merely pried Alex’s fingers off his hem, shoved him back onto the bed and turned to leave. Alex kept calling after him, apologising again and again, begging Malachi to please not leave him alone and promising that he would never, ever attempt to escape again. Eventually, he realised that there was no use, Malachi wasn’t coming back, and he dropped back to the bed, curled up and cried.

[mullersturtleneck]

The Dress

Yes hello I’m apparently not done writing about the wedding, I have a lot of soft feelings. Also, Annika and I are meeting tomorrow and I still can’t even believe it, so have a fic to celebrate. -Danielle

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              They’ve come on a Sunday morning, Orpheus and Eurydice, to the tiny house on a large plot of land. It’s a lazy sort of day, the drive out calling for old songs on the radio to be sung at full volume, the excitement of the news they have to share on both their lips although Orpheus is sure that their Christmas night won’t be such big news to their audience at all. His Amma’s house feels like a safe-haven; there is an immediate sense of peace when they walk up the path made of mismatched, hand-painted brick, covered in snow that’s been carefully shoveled away. Demeter greets them with unmatched joy and ushers the young couple in from the cold, taking their coats and scarves and draping them along the wooden banister of the staircase. A baby goat romps around, its hooves clicking on the wood, and Eurydice bends down to pet it with a restrained, confused sort of affection. Orpheus laughs.

              “That’s Sunny, the new baby.” It’s half an explanation Eurydice accepts, Demeter calling them from the kitchen and wrapping them both in a tight embrace. She looks over Eurydice with careful eyes and the young girl takes the hint, nodding and placing a hand over her stomach in reassurance. Everything is more than alright.

              “We have good news!” Orpheus begins before they can even settle, Demeter bringing them cups of tea. Eurydice holds hers gently, feeling the warmth radiate through her mug. Orpheus sets his immediately on the counter, thanking his grandmother before gesturing to Eurydice with pride.

              Eurydice sits at the kitchen island, grinning wildly as Demeter takes her hand, examining the flash of the little diamond against the light. Orpheus rambles animatedly, a truly lively retelling of the night just a few days before; “I didn’t know what was happening-she said she had something to tell me and I thought it might be something bad but I wasn’t sure, I was mostly just nervous. And then she told me she was pregnant, and I know that you knew it-you always know-but isn’t it amazing?”

              Eurydice chuckles, shakes her head as she watches Orpheus pace around the kitchen, gathering wildly, stopping only to lay his head on Eurydice’s shoulder. He brushes his cheek against hers, gently wraps his arms around her middle.

              “Do you like it, Amma?” Orpheus gestures to the ring, a sort of whispered softness to his voice as he looks at it, in awe himself that it���s on her finger. “I bought it from the guy you said-the one who makes his own bands. He was really nice, he said to tell you hi. He helped me pick it out. I was a little lost, but you were right-I knew when I saw it.”

              Demeter feels the warmth of her grandson’s words, the security that comes from Eurydice, who basks quietly in his embrace. The newly engaged couple, bursting with silent, intimate pride over the anticipation of the daughter she can so clearly see in their future, spend a moment suspended in this pose. She shows her approval by nodding, squeezing Eurydice’s hand.

              “It’s truly wonderful, Orpheus.”

              “And he thinks I’m going to let him ‘replace it with something bigger’ when he can. Tell him he’s crazy, please. This is what I want.”

              “While we’re here,” Orpheus blushes, diverting the subject as the positive attention, while welcome, becomes far too encompassing for his humble heart. “I’m going to get the eggs for you.”

              He unwraps himself from Eurydice and moves to the kitchen counter to grab an old wicker basket, laying an old cloth in it before stumbling nervously out the door. Demeter watches him go-watches Eurydice grin, looking after his retreating figure as he makes his way toward the coop. It’s a task he’s been at since he was just barely able to walk, when Demeter begged for a chance to watch him. Every Sunday morning they’d come, Persephone and Hermes, toting a wide-eyed Orpheus. He’d spend his time trailing after her, running his hands gently along her rows of crops. He’d pluck cherry tomatoes from the vine as soon as they were ripe, popping them in his mouth and puffing his cheeks out.

              Getting the eggs was his favorite job-he’d bend to greet each chicken, the toddler singing songs to them about the names he gave them, or even while he was removing the eggs from their nests. “Thank you for your eggs, thank you for your eggs, hi-ho-dairy-o thank you for your eggs.”

              It’s a song Demeter can still see on his lips before his figure retreats past their vantage point.

              Eurydice shifts in her seat then, a soft smile still engulfing her features in a beautiful sort of peace. She runs her hand gently through her cropped hair, looks around the kitchen with curiosity at the knick knacks that line the shelves, not unlike the strangely sensical amount that Orpheus keeps in his-their apartment. There are little things-the way she seems to speak with the entirety of her heart, the way she makes Eurydice feel immediately at home-Orpheus is surely a product of her in his own way, there is no denying their similarities.

              Demeter moves to the space in front of her, catching her attention as she taps her fingers twice on the counter. It’s a gentle sort of gesture, as most of the older woman’s quirks seem to be. She tilts her head slightly at Eurydice, lets out an involuntary hum.

              “Do you have any plans for the wedding yet?”

              “Not yet,” Eurydice responds, moving her hand to her unchanged stomach. “We want to wait until after the baby is born, give ourselves some time to adjust to it all. Well, he would get married tomorrow if he had the choice. I want to wait-plan.”

              “He’s a rare kind of soul-always has been. I really hope that you know that all of this has made him the happiest he has ever been. He can barely contain himself-if it were his choice, he’d have told everyone he knows by now.”

              Eurydice laughs-yes, she knows this. She can feel it in the way he dances around her, wakes up with his arms around her stomach, caressing the invisible changes. She feels it in the way he kisses her good morning; lingering, unwilling to leave her side without trying his hardest to procrastinate. And when he tells her he’s proud of her, leans on the bar and sends her copious amounts of seltzer as she studies, takes frequent breaks to sit beside her and ask how she’s doing…Eurydice is well educated on his kindness, even when she finds it hard to believe that this open, honest love is hers.

              “Any ideas for a dress?”

              “God no,” she laughs. “The more I think about it, the more I think I should wait. I don’t want to choose something when I know what’s about to happen to my body.”

              Demeter shrugs, a dimpled lift of her lips and a lift of her hand.

              “Why don’t you try one on right now? Nothing major, just a little something I have laying around. Maybe it’ll give you an idea of what you want.”

              Eurydice agrees, takes Demeter’s outstretched hand and follows her up the creaking staircase to a tiny, pantry-sized room holding a sewing machine, baskets of yarn, and curtain rods across the walls to store rows of old clothing. She rifles through the mass of denim and bohemian patterns until she comes across a white dress, sheer fabric mixed with smaller, opaque bits. When she moves it from the rod, holds it up to show it off, Eurydice gasps. Intricately sewn into the difficult fabric is a glimmering gold thread-simple, yet absolutely glowing with the reflection of the sun. They are constellations-gatherings of stars and lines into simple shapes, some she recognizes while others feel foreign and wonderous.

              She reaches out a finger to trace the threading, mouth slightly agape in wonder. Demeter watches carefully, prods her once more.

              “Just try it on-you never know.”

              She does know.

              The moment Eurydice feels the fabric on her body, looks down at the mixture of pure white and soft gold, she feels a tug in her chest, a slight skip in her heart. She opens the bathroom door to find Demeter in immediate tears, grabbing her hands and holding her at arm’s length.

              “It’s yours. I knew it was yours, but seeing it on you…really, it’s something magical.” Eurydice is at a loss for words. She moves down the hallway, an ethereal being, consumed with the feeling of suspension between reality and a dream. When she finds the full-length mirror, Demeter has begun the same sort of rambling often heard through Orpheus’s lips, although hers is lighter and more controlled.

              “I’m not saying that It has to be yours-you can make your own choices. I just felt in my heart while I was working on those constellations that this dress would belong to someone special.”

              “You-you made these?”

              “I did, a long time ago.”

The day is beautiful; mid-spring, the weather just turning to warmth and continual sunshine. The winter’s snow has long since melted, making way for canvas shoes and well-worn sandals. Birds chirp thankfully, and a few soft clouds paint the sky in picturesque beauty. These days are her favorite; Demeter, who walks with an ambling gait down the old dirt road connecting bits of her small town. There is a purpose, but time is not a battle in this life, merely a reminder of when the day will turn dark and the chickens will need feeding.

              The girl, young in the softened features of her face, runs her hand absent-mindedly over her protruding stomach as she reaches the center of town. She isn’t too far away-a spring baby is what she’ll have-the first day, when the earth reaches the point of equity and evenness. Having the comfort of both knowledge and belief in her soul helps the pregnancy pass peacefully helps Demeter connect with the baby that will become her magnificent little girl. It’s been a strange journey thus far; she hadn’t been brushed off by the people in this small community, but she’s been asked, time and time again, exactly what she’s going to do as a single mother.

              “Easy,” she’d reply, with her well-known grin of boundless optimism. “I’m going to live.”

              Living has been simple-peaceful. In the time since she’s known she was pregnant, Demeter has gotten to know herself as more than a single entity, falling into the path she was meant to take. She feels whole, new. The aching in her bones serve as a reminder to her that this is real-that the yearning and the waiting are about to be repaid in a lifetime of unparalleled love. It helps her move forward, sit with the choice of a life without the family she’d grown up with; the mother back in the city, unwilling to move past her own comfort zone and living to shame her for making the same mistake that she’d made. But living this pregnancy at nineteen years old is not a mistake to Demeter-neither is her move to the rural town, or the new command over the tiny farm she’s learning to manage through her nana’s thorough journaling.

              Today, Demeter walks through town with the confidence she’d gained upon meeting its people, making herself known as someone who enjoys the slower pacing of life. She comes across the same thrift shop she’s frequented since she moved to town-tiny, indistinct apart from the racks of clothing brought outside its entrance, meant to draw people in. Demeter doesn’t need the draw-she finds herself here at least once a week, leafing through clothing and books with careful precision. She chats with the owners-an older couple who’d been good friends with her grandmother and in turn take care of Demeter, her spitting image. When she enters the shop, an overwhelming amount of peace surrounds her. She settles herself in it for a moment, humming softly to the baby in her protruding belly, and begins her journey.

              It doesn’t take long for her to find it.

              There’s a dress hanging between a woolen trench coat and an old army jacket, a delicate sort of thing against two harsher fabrics. She feels the light weight of chiffon, sheer and magnificent, and holds it between her fingers as if it will break. She brings the dress out to hold it in front of her, examines the way it falls so gently from its hanger. It’s simple-pure white, flowing sleeves and only a slight bit of shape at the waist. Once Demeter holds it in her hands, however, she can’t seem to let it go.

              “Found something you like today?” The older woman, with white hair braided behind her head, brings a finger to the dress in her hands.

              “There’s something…special about this dress.” She can’t quite place her words, brought to a stunned silence even more so by the simplicity of it all. To her plain eye, it’s just another white dress. But to her heart, there is more within it that she’s yet to place.

              “Why don’t you take it?” The shopkeeper grins, closing both her hands over Demeter’s. The young girl’s eyes widen, and she shakes her head. But before she can say much more the dress is folded and placed in her canvas bag, and she’s back outside the shop. “I’m sure you’ll make use of it yet.”

              The words of the older woman ring through her mind as she continues her errands, the light weight of the seemingly magical dress feeling heavier with the knowledge that it is there. She stops to gather a few more things; nails for the garden bed, feed for the chickens. When Demeter returns home, she finds a small parcel on her porch-a little box, wrapped in cloth and addressed to her with only a card from her neighbor, thanking her for bringing over a small assortment of her own crop.

              “We thought you might be able to make use of this-it doesn’t really have a place in our collection.”

              Sitting on the porch, Demeter opens the box to find the sun shining down on some glimmering gold thread-beautiful, unique. It captures the light and keeps it within itself, radiates its warmth. She holds the spool, turns it over in her hands, entranced by the softness of it all. Where it could be a flashy show of overpowering glimmer there is simply a glow about it-something special, something different.

              She thinks about the spool of thread as she finishes her day’s work-repairs a row of stakes in the garden, feeds the chickens and collects their eggs. When the day is done her feet are aching, her back pinching from the combined weight of the physical labor and the work of growing a baby. She starts a small fire in the woodstove and makes a cup of tea, reflecting on the day at hand. In her lap, she holds the white dress from the shop; there’s no way it will fit her now, not in this state. Looking at it, she knows that it’s not meant for her-no, this dress is not her style, her taste. But the pull toward it was not mistaken, this she believes in the same way that her soul told her she was meant to have this journey of joyful solitude in the country.

              She remembers the gold thread.

              Demeter rises from the couch, still feeling the aching in her bones, and gathers her supplies in a peaceful sort of hurry. The day has fallen so neatly into place, so carefully, that she begins to understand that coincidence has only ever been a disguise for truth in her life. So she sits, dress in hand, and threads the gold through a small needle. She decides to begin at the heart, looking around for inspiration.

              And there, open on the rickety, hand-made side table next to the couch, is the book she’s been thumbing through, open to the last page she’d been reading before bed the night before.

              Demeter finds an immediate release of the soreness of her muscles through this gentle exercise, through the patient work of embroidering tiny stars and lines. She finishes the night by tying off her thread, admiring the handiwork she could still use a bit of practice at. At the heart of the dress, from the inspiration of the latest book she’s gotten from the thrift shop, the Orpheus constellation stands out amongst the white.

              “I would love to wear this dress.” It’s an immediate decision; Eurydice turns in the mirror, the gold constellations-more than the Orpheus it had started with-stand out as stories to be told. “Are you serious?”

              “Of course I am-it was made for you. I don’t believe that pattern over your heart was put there by accident.”

              Eurydice is not one to cry openly-has never been. The show of emotions has been seen only as a sign of weakness throughout her life, and she’d become very good at storing everything away. Since Orpheus, however, that visage has been harder to keep. Whether it’s the feeling of loving and being loved or the hormones within her body, Eurydice finds herself tearing up as she stares at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She can barely look away, doesn’t want to spare a moment away from the reality of it all.

              “Demeter, I.”

              “-Hush, flower. You know you can call me Amma.”

              “Amma,” Eurydice corrects herself, soft alto stumbling over the familial intimacy of the name. “I can’t thank you enough. It’s beautiful.”

              The months come and go in a blur; Eurydice is a victim of time, organizing her life with careful detail so that she does not fall behind on any aspect of her work. Demeter lives slowly. The young couple comes to visit once a week, Eurydice taking in every bit of Demeter’s child-birthing knowledge as she attempts to teach her grandson some skills in handiness. She helps Eurydice find her footing; describes birth plans and various options, keeps an honest forum of open questions that the young, occasionally frightened girl uses often.

              In the summer, just before Melody is born, Demeter offers her house for a wedding venue.

              “It may not be what you’re looking for,” she shrugs, pouring glasses of lemonade for Orpheus and a very pregnant Eurydice. “But it’s home.” They’re sold on this, Demeter bringing up a pad of paper and a pen to draw out ideas for the yard, little ways they can spruce it up to make it fit their needs.

              When Melody is born, their weekly visits to Amma’s turn into time spent at their own home, Demeter making the trek into the city to watch lovingly as Eurydice holds her chubby-cheeked daughter in her arms, cradles her and kisses the top of her head, feels that motherly love driving her to keep her eyes trained only on the baby. The older woman talks her through the little things; taking care of herself, making meals to freeze from her latest harvest so they don’t have to worry about cooking. She’s the visitor who stays; who uses her knowledge as a doula to be sure that Eurydice remains physically healthy, who answers her questions with a sort of truth decipherable through her own sort of cosmic, fate-driven speech.

              It’s the second Sunday after Melody’s birth that Demeter asks Orpheus to run out and get something at the store-she isn’t even sure what it is, or if they truly need it, but he leaves without a second thought. Demeter sits herself next to Eurydice on the couch-the young mother, not much older than she was when she’d had Persephone, looking exhausted yet bubbling over with love for her child.

              “I have something to show you,” She says, pulling the long white dress from inside of her bag. Eurydice gasps; the wonder of the dress she’ll wear in just a few months has not yet worn off-she’s not sure it ever will.

              “I’m not going to do any alterations yet, but I did make a little change.” Truthfully, she’d added the masterfully stitched shape a while back, the day that Eurydice had tried the dress on and she’d known the soul of the chubby-cheeked infant still inside of her. She’s stitched it on the hip of the dress, a placement unmistakable to the bond the first of their children will have with Eurydice.

              The young girl runs her fingers along the artfully-made constellation, tipping her head in an attempt to understand just what it might mean.

              “Leo,” Demeter explains, putting a thin, delicate hand on Melody’s back. “For her. This little one, attached to your hip, the way it was meant to be.”

              There’s a moment of silence-of natural pause, adoration as Eurydice fully admires the hard work that has gone into each pull of thread through difficult, sheer fabric. Then, it comes to her-swiftly, easily, somewhat surprisingly against the lack of tradition in her own heart. With this family-with the feeling of love surrounding her without pause-there is no better time to begin honoring the things she never thought she’d have.

              “Will you walk me down the aisle?” She’s not unsure of the question, but her past holds back the tone of her voice, mutes it to a wobbling sort of whisper. “Persephone already is, but I just-I think I want everyone to know how much you both mean to me, everything you’ve done for me. I didn’t have a woman to look up to for most of my life. I didn’t get that privilege. Now, I have two. And I want my daughter to live with these examples of women who’ve spent their lives lifting other people up-the women who found me and guided me and let me into their family with open arms. I need Melody to know that her family might seem a little makeshift on the outside, but that you all mean so much more to me than blood ever could.”

              Demeter, tiny freckled body and a head full of wild curls, shakes her head yes before wrapping herself around Eurydice and Melody, kissing the cheek of her grandson’s soon-to-be wife and holding the back of her head. This moment-the tender stillness of it all-is something she never saw coming, and something she will never forget.

[catsafarithewriter]

"I met them in an alley one and since then I cant seem to get rid of them" with the lovely lost ladies? If that inspires you

A/N: You know, I fully expected this prompt to be applied to Muta, but this direction was a really fun surprise. One lovely lost ladies ficlet coming up!

[I’m still open to prompts! Send me any from these three prompt lists.]

It was easy, sometimes, to forget that Louise was only mostly cat.

In some things it didn’t matter. She still purred when when pleased, her fur rose when angry, and Persephone had been explicitly banned from ever wielding a laser pointer again. 

Still, there were occasions when the reality slapped Persephone like a dead fish to the face and she had to remind herself that Louise wasn’t just not mortal, but not entirely cat either. 

Like today. 

Persephone inhaled slowly through her nose, her paws clasped against her chin in a fashion she had originally adopted when dealing with short-sighted advisors. It wasn’t a manner she often had to indulge in around her wife. 

“What,” she asked eventually, when the flight or fight response had been forcibly subdued, “is that?”

Louise glanced to the creature at her side and, if she had any inkling as to the situation, her brain hadn’t seen fit to inform her face yet. “I’m not actually sure,” she admitted. “I’ve named him George.”

Persephone exhaled, and this time the breath whistled through her paws. “You’ve named a ten-foot snake-monster George.”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“Why–” Persephone inhaled sharply again as the feline instinct to scram reared its ugly head, and she was forced to take several shaky steps back in order to preserve her dignity. “What is it doing here?”

“Following me, it seems. I met him in an alley and I can’t seem to get rid of him.”

“We’re in the middle of volcanic wastelands!” Persephone cried, the absurdity of the situation finally getting to her. “Where did you find an alley in the five minutes I turned my back on you?”

Louise’s eyes lit up - not the reaction Persephone had been expecting - and she grabbed her wife’s paw. “You have to see this.” She dragged Persephone through the maze of towering rock formations while the sound of the snake-monster slithering behind them followed. They came to a halt where the canyon abruptly opened out. 

“Voila!” Louise released Persephone to gesture dramatically to the stone archway dominating the entrance, and the stone buildings that lay beyond it. “Queen Persephone of the Cat Kingdom, I present to you the Lost City of Igneus!” She bowed to an invisible audience. “Thank you, thank you, oh you’re too kind…”

Persephone drifted past Louise, too accustomed to her wife’s dramatics to spare much more than a congratulatory pat. “It’s real,” she breathed. “It’s really real.”

“Did you ever doubt me?”

“Well, there was a moment with the fissure vent…”

“We escaped unharmed, didn’t we?”

“Say that to my coat,” Persephone reminded her, but offhandedly. She laid a paw against the stone foundations of the archway, eyes exploring the engravings etched along its surface, and an encompassing calmness filled her and settled into her lungs, a deep-rooted contentedness that this was the life she had chosen. 

Louise stepped up beside her, and for a moment Persephone thought she might be having the same wanderlust, but then she drew her wide-brimmed hat across her face and said, “It’s quiet.” Head and hat tilted to one side. “Too quiet.”

Persephone snorted and the previous grandeur was eclipsed by humour. “Come on, I didn’t venture into this oven of a world just so I could stand at the gateway of a lost city.” But as she stepped through and onto the dusty street, she had to admit there was an uncomfortably heavy silence that blanketed the city. 

“Are you getting adventure vibes?” Louise asked. “I’m getting adventure vibes.”

“The only vibes I’m getting is creep vibes from the monster you’ve decided to adopt.”

Her wife gave a mock gasp. “Don’t go calling George a monster!” 

“Louise, he’s a ten-foot snake-thing with glowing red eyes.”

“Nobody’s perfect.” 

“Pretty sure he still has blood on his teeth.”

“It might be strawberry jam.”

“In the middle of a volcanic wasteland?”

“Which makes it unlikely, but not impossible.” A warm breeze wafted through the deserted city, and Louise lifted her head to inhale its heat haze scent. “I am right though. This place is abandoned.”

Persephone stopped by the empty doorway of a grand domed building, a space where a door had once been gaping before her. She slipped inside. The arches of the dome remained, but patches of sunlight filtered down through the gaps worn by years of neglect and shimmered in natural spotlights. Only the stone remained now. 

Persephone’s pawsteps echoed across the expansive room. “The scale and space of this building probably means it was used to house large numbers of people,” she murmured, more to herself than Louise. “A public place, most likely. The location implies it was important, centring the settlement like this. A town hall, maybe? Hard to tell with only the walls left, and it’s not as if we’re familiar with the culture of this world, so...” She trailed off, sensing Louise’s gaze on her. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. Just admiring my wife being clever.”

“Were your flirting attempts always this obvious?” Still, Persephone didn’t protest as Louise’s arms circled her, instead leaning back into the embrace. “Lou, Louise, I’m trying to work something out here.” 

“I can’t help it. I’m attracted to smart pretty ladies. It overrides my common sense.” 

“What common sense?” Persephone muttered, but she still leant further back and planted a kiss on her wife’s cheek. Her eyes lingered on her love, and then drifted to the snake monster that continued to linger in the doorway. “This would be so much more romantic if your pet monster wasn’t watching right now,” she whispered. 

“His name is George,” Louise mumbled. 

Persephone’s gaze moved uneasily past the creature, and she abruptly straightened, shrugging out of the embrace. “There’s writing on the walls.” She kissed Louise as apology for the sudden mood shift, and beelined for the nearest section of wall. 

Louise rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “This is what I get for marrying a queen who actually paid attention in class.”

“There’s markings all across the room,” Persephone said excitedly, bringing out a notebook and flicking through the pages. “They’re pretty worn away, but the alphabet combined with the vowel to consonant distribution implies it has roots in dragonese, with a grammar that I’ve seen in some variations of dwarvian languages...”

“Can you read it?”

“I can possibly guess at a few words that overlap from other languages, but that’s no guarantee they’ll actually mean the same thing.” Persephone trailed a paw up along the faded lines of writing. “For instance, this could either be a law concerning landowner boundaries, or...” She trailed off, her nose wrinkling. “Oh.” 

“What does it say?”

“Landowner boundaries. Definitely.”

“Sephie, you can’t just say that and not tell me.”

“Oh, look. This section is about how to settle inheritance disputes,” Persephone said quickly. “This whole room must have originally been covered with the laws of the land. Maybe this was a courtroom?”

Louise narrowed her eyes but didn’t argue too much as Persephone moved to another section of wall, already attempting to roughly translate another line. She drifted across the room, listening as Persephone called out some of the odder quirks of translation. 

“Apparently it was illegal to own more than two goats,” Persephone called. “Wait, that can’t be right...”

“Maybe they had really scary goats.”

“That might be two horns. Horns? No, that’s not right either...”

Louise came to the far end of the hall, absent-mindedly patting George on the head as he slithered up to her, and stopped. Here there were the same faint markings, but a set that were far newer were engraved across the centre. “Hey, honey...?”

“I think I’ve got it! This whole section is about the military and weapons - it must be referring to a kind of weapon, perhaps one made out of a horn?”

“Persephone!”

“Okay, I’m coming!” She hurried over, her eyes bright and her arms full trying to keep her note-taking in some semblance of order, and halted as she reached the same wall. “Oh, Bast.” 

“My adventure senses are tingling.”

Persephone approached the writing, not giving Louise any response except in giving the snake monster a wide berth. “That’s... that’s something.”

“I knew it.”

“It’s... It’s mostly in the same language, the grammar has mostly survived, but the spelling has changed.”

“Which means...?”

“Which means we’re looking at writing made much later than the laws, maybe a hundred years later. Maybe more. A bit like comparing Old Cat against Modern Cat hieroglyphics. Same language, same people... but to have defaced a building that was clearly a cultural centre of the city... I think we may be looking at one of the last things the people of the Lost City of Igneus left.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Well, there’s all that, and then there’s the fact the first word is translated from every dragonese dialect as ‘danger’.” Persephone glanced back. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

“Ancient lost city mysterious abandoned? This is what I was made for.”

“You would have thought your artisan would have made you out of sturdier stuff than wood then,” Persephone muttered, but she went back to the engraving. “Warning,” she roughly translated. “Beware the red... oh...”

“Oh?” Louise echoed. “This better not be a thinly-veiled euphemism again.”

“I never said the landowner laws were,” Persephone protested. 

“You didn’t need to. So, what’s the verdict? Where do we go looking for adventure and danger?”

“We don’t need to. We’ve already found it. Or, rather, you have.” Persephone tilted her head back to Louise. “It says ‘beware the red-eyed serpent.’”

They both turned to look at George. 

George smiled and smoke began pouring out of his mouth. 

“Oh,” Louise said. “Oops.”

[missromantic-x]

Peter Pan and Captain Hook

Shin Soukoku Week Day 4: AU My best piece, hands down. Oh goodness I love how this turned out. The shimmering blue waters of Neverland kissed the golden lips of the sand. Peridot coconut trees swayed in the light sea breeze. Seagulls screeched on the shore, and their shedded cream-white feathers drifted along the beach. Mermaids lazily say upon the rocks, picking lilies for their elegant flower crowns. Their scales refracted a thousand rainbows. The native children tackled each other with stray branches they’d found on the edges of the dense forest surrounding their campground. The sound of laughter and song filled the endless sapphire blue sky. Salt encompassed the air with the twinge of adventure. And there was Atsushi Pan, lounging in the midst of all the grandeur. He laughed to himself, remembering how he’d reached the land through the residual glitter from a dream. He believed he’d been eighteen at the time, but time on Neverland wasn’t sensical, per se, so his memories could have been slightly off. On a night when he’d been trapped alone in the orphanage cellar, one of many normal nights back there, a spunky little fairy had greeted him. According to her, she had come from a far away place called Neverland, where children never grew old and joy was at the end of every corner. But that beautiful peace was disturbed by the devastatingly handsome yet terribly brutal young pirate Captain Rashomon and his motley crew of scoundrels from the mainland. She had been looking for a strong boy to fight the evildoers, and, due to their tough upbringing and will to live and let others live with them, orphaned boys were the best pick. Well aware that he was getting kicked out of the orphanage thanks to his birthday being that day and eighteen-year-olds being legal adults, he gleefully took the fairy’s hand, and pledged that he would be the best hero the island ever wanted. The fairy, whose name he learned was Higuchi Bell, wasn’t wrong when she’d said Captain Rashomon was devastatingly handsome. He looked like the kind of man the female caretakers at the orphanage would be more than willing to spend a night with. He held a regal and mysterious air to him, despite his place as an outlaw. (Then again, Neverland didn’t have any laws.) However, the most notable thing about the captain was his magical blade. See, his right hand had been cut off, supposedly by his old leader on the mainland. In its place was the strangest thing: a piece of black cloth. But this was a magical cloth, one that could extend infinitely and acted almost like a cat’s tail in the sense that he treated it like a part of his own body. This fabric could become a whip or a sword or a combination of both if he so desired. However, Higuchi hadn’t been completely honest about Rashomon’s intentions. He most certainly wasn’t evil, moreso at a loss. He’d worked previously with another pirate whom had drowned at sea, and with that pirate’s body was his most treasured thing. None knew what it was. Regardless, he did pillage the land in search of it, and that was more than enough to call the inhabitants attention. Atsushi stretched out like a cat after a nap, yawning a bit. He’d heard three gunshots in the distance: those were a signature sound of pirates. Pressing himself off the ground, the brittle sand crunching under the sudden force, he leapt into the sky and flew towards the noise. As normal, Rashomon was alone. A small wooden rowboat sat at his feet, and if Atsushi squinted, he could see the Jolly Roger in the distance. But mostly, his eyes were drawn to the pirate. Today, he wore a dark red velvet tailcoat with black swirls, with gold embellishments on the pockets and the edges. His undershirt and jabot were a pure white, a stark contrast to his black pants. Over his left hand was a white glove, and his right hand had changed itself to look like a second glove. On his left cheek, there were elegant face-painted silver swirls that matched his eyes. He looked so beautiful it was hard to remember their supposed rivalry. It also made Atsushi’s leaf-patterned green tunic and black pants look even more basic. The cloth on Rashomon’s arm stretched out to Atsushi, and dumped him into the boat. Once he was settled with a job well done, he hopped in as well and began to row toward the hidden inlet they had discovered during their first battle. Ever since then, it was their self-declared battle space, as well as a place for other secret things. They landed without a hitch, and both climbed out of the boat wordlessly. A small smile crept up the captain’s lips as he brushed aside the palm fronds to reveal the special place. A small gasp came from Atsushi’s mouth as he took in the sight. Lining the entrance and the edges of the roofless cavern were pastel red candles that shimmered with tangerine flames. In the center lay an expensive-looking blanket with a flower centerpiece of yellow and violet. And on that blanket…Atsushi breathed in deeply through his nose…was what had to be the most delicious-smelling feast he’d had in long time. He caught scents of cinnamon, freshly grilled chicken, goat cheese, earthy vegetables, and newly squeezed lemon. “Did you set this all up for me?” queried Atsushi tentatively, unsure if he was dreaming. He never could discern the two in this place. Rashomon’s face was cleaner than a slate. “It is the best I can do for my rival. I would hate to win a fight due to having the unfair advantage of being well-fed, and since I have this food, I may as well share it.” This made Atsushi smile. Every time they did things like this, they were always coming up with excuses like this. They both knew that no secrecy was necessary in the hidden cave, but it was an odd habit the two could not break. Rashomon sat down on the blanket, and Atsushi sat on the opposite end. They ate in silence for a while. Then a thought came to Atsushi’s mind that was completely nonsensical but wildly addictive at the same time. Blushing madly, he whispered, his voice trembling a bit, “I do not think that some outlaw would set up such a nice meal for me. Surely he has poisoned the dish with something foul. In order to make sure he has no unfair advantages, I will pass the poison onto him.” Rashomon looked up from his food, clearly startled, but then he began to smile gingerly. “Ah! To think you have known me for this long and still do not trust me! I shall gladly prove to you that you are incorrect.” He rose from his seat and sat beside Atsushi. The cloth on his hand took hold of the hero’s chin to pull him in closer. Atsushi’s heart beat like a caged bird in his chest, and his stomach tickled with butterflies. He leaned in, still shocked that he had initiated this. At that second, their lips met. He could taste all the flavors of the ocean, from the waves to the driftwood floating in its depths. He could smell the lingering scent of seawater and jasmines. He could feel the curves of those perfect lips on his own. “I forgot how deadly the poison is,” Rashomon murmured. “Once one has a taste, they must have a second.” His fingers tangled themselves in Atsushi’s silver hair. “Alas,” Atsushi mumbled. “The poison has taken full effect on me as well.” He wrapped his own arms around Rashomon’s back, the soft fabric of his coat twisting in his tight grasp. At last, they broke the kiss. The two fell backward, their fall softened by the feathery grass behind them. Atsushi turned his head to look at the pirate. He looked so happy and peaceful, his face finally void of his hardened expression. Now, it was one of pure bliss. Rashomon’s beautiful eyelids fluttered, his dark eyelashes following in suit. “The second effect of the poison is one that makes you lose your sanity. Sometimes it results in people calling each other by their first names, no matter their status.” The sun fell between Neverland’s snow-peaked mountains, and the sky became an ombré shade of yellow and purple. “Then what is the final step of this poison?” He shifted to face Atsushi. “The afflicted say insane things, such as ‘I love you, Atsushi Nakajima,’” “I love you, too, Ryūnosuke Akutagawa.” They kissed again. “You know,” Atsushi began, “I’ve heard that you’re a little sickly and overtired.” Ryūnosuke raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t want to win a fight just because you got frostbite or because you because too fatigued and lost your balance. And, they say that people stay together to get warmer, and sleep to get less tired,” he rationalized. “Fine,” Ryūnosuke agreed. “We should be able to spar without issues tomorrow.”

[pastorjdo3]

Help is on the Way!

For behold, the Lord is coming forth from His place. He will come down and tread on the high places of earth. The mountains will melt under Him, And the valley will be split, Like wax before the fire, Like water poured down a steep place. Micah 1:3-4

“Help is on the way”, Ms. Doubtfire yelled as she rushed through the restaurant to perform the Heimlich on a chocking person.   Though the children of Israel are not dining at the worlds finest establishment, they find themselves stumbling and chocking from what they consumed quickly without consideration.

Not taking the time to chew, they consumed what they encountered, breaking covenant with God, inviting others to the table, to receive praise and adoration as well as sacrifice and worship.  Their practices quickly caught up to them, much like our practices have caught up to us.  No, they aren’t the first to dabble in spiritualism.  They aren’t the first to have other gods, and formed idols to which they pray to and seek, but they were the first to realize they had made a costly mistake.

Micah says, “Look!  The Lord is coming from his dwelling place; he comes down and treads the high places of the earth.  The mountains melt beneath him and the valleys split apart, like wax before the fire, like water rushing down a slope.” Micah 1:3-4

As Ms. Doubtfire displays a burst of energy, weaving through tables and patrons, leaping over a half wall and sprints to the back of the man, getting in position, he prepares to dislodge the blockage by applying pressure; I imagined the Lord leaving His place of comfort to deal with His children. He descends from the mountain, as we choke and gag on the foolishness we have consumed.

He’s tried many ways to dislodge the blockage!

Nope; they wouldn’t listen to the Prophets!  He sent word via representatives, left His law by which to abide by, and given oral tradition to teach and correct; but they stopped up their ears, ignoring the words and advice of those in authority, and inadvertently pushed the call button to request the stewardess.  And He is coming.

I read this passage, shaking in my boots. Much like a child in the wrong, sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for mom or dad to enter the room (I initially typed “my room” 🙂 ) with pain or punishment (possibly both).

Micah says, He’s coming from heaven; and the heat that exudes from His person melts the mountains beneath Him.  It’s as thought God is stepping out of bed, and the mountains are toys on the bedroom floor, He grabs His house coat, puts on His slippers, and begins His decent to confront His children.

All the while, His children continue to play, breaking the law, and ignoring the sound from the mouth of the prophet. They ignore Proclamations, sleeping through the Sabbath, and have their Ear Pods in during the reading of the scripture. The Torah, more a history book, than the Word of God given to His chosen people, they sit arrogantly in exiles, settling for miracles and handouts, rather than living the best life God described for them.

Micah says, the valleys, that are already separated naturally, aren’t big enough for the feet of our God! As He continues His course to discipline His children, Micah says the valleys which have held together now separate, as though the heat from God burns so great, that the rock established mountains melt like wax. The temperature is so great, and that it melts so quickly, that wax takes on the consistency of water and rushes down as though cascading off of ledge like a flowing stream.

This God, Micah says, is on the way, and is going to discipline His children, and yet, foolishness continues.  Sadly, we are like the children of Israel.  We know that God is coming and the sky will be parted much like Willis Reed  entering game 7 and hitting his first two shots.

Yes, He is our God, and He is coming to us, but he is not bearing a crown, He is bring correction! The first appearance, He came not to condemn, but to save, but this second trip, He’s dividing sheep from goats!

Yes, again; help is on the way, but we forget that God chastises whom He loves.  We forget that healing is not only encompassed in Him, but so is judgement and wrath. While we all jubilantly sing about seeing Him face to face, The Prophet Micah reminds us descriptively of how powerful and all encompassing our God is.

Only few saw Him and lived.  He had to hide His face from most, and just reward them with His presence. It is this God that will return.  This God that will speak.  This God that will Judge.  This God that will Congratulate.  And This God that will Condemn.

Why do we carry on as though we have nothing to fear?  We cut off salvation like a box top, We confess Him as Lord, as though we are participating in insider trading.  And while measuring our relationship with Him, it will be revealed that most of our interaction with Him was a ponzi scheme.   We enter relationship with Him not to grow with Him, or to Build His Kingdom, but that we can access His resources and build a Kingdom of our own.  

Foolishly many of us think we are winning because we have amassed some earthly trinkets,  but will realize in the end, that it rains on the just and the unjust, and the blessing you received weren’t favor, but His mercy and grace poured out on an His creation.

Help is on the way!  I saw our Lord, like Ms. Doubtfire running through the obstacles, and dislodging the blockage that is within us, because in the end, every knee shall bow, and every tongue shall confess, that He is Lord!

#PastorJDO3

[slugmanslime]

I’ll Tell You What I Want! (Ch. 1)

hey guys its late im so SO tired but i sat down and wrote this bc its been on my mind all day tell me what you think im exhausted i love you all  this is a fairytale AU, based loosely off of Rumpelstiltskin, so just bear that in mind 

EDIT: I am reposting this because I changed a crucial point of the storyline and I think it is way better now.

Pairings: Bog King/Marianne, Dawn/Sunny Warnings: Eventual Infidelity, Violence, Possible Smut, Heartbreak, Bog is a bitter Magic Hoe Word Count: 2660 Chapter: 1 / ???

The kingdom of Hearthmark was sprawling, dotted with villages, markets, valleys and meadows as far as the eye can see. For a millenium, the Fallow family had ruled Hearthmark with a gentle and knowing hand, negotiating their way out of wars and arbitrating expansive treaties that brought harmony to the kingdom, and fruitful years of trade to the markets. Heathmark’s economy flourished, the kingdom expanded, and the people thrived under King Dagda and Queen Carmen’s rule. The citizens of Heathmark lived in harmony with each other, harvesting their plentiful crops as they kept each other company year in and year out as life was plentiful and plain and happy.

Bog hated plentiful and plain and happy.

Bog King, Bog of the Black Oak, sorcerer and heir to a legend, was one of the only denizen’s of the Dark Forest encompassed the perimeter of Hearthmark that acted as a natural border between the gentle people, the supernatural, and the burdens of warm and unrest roiling in other countries. The gloomy woods were filled with fascinating but often dangerous mythical creatures that would prefer not to be disturbed, Bog being one of them. Once upon a time, Bog’s parents were seen as useful to the kingdom, and his mother Griselda, along with him and his father, lived a comfortable life in service of the crown. But those years were long gone, as was his father, taken too soon by an illness that not even Griselda the Great could cure. Bog’s mother, a powerful witch with a secretly kind heart, was his only constant company now, something that he couldn’t help but appreciate and yet he loathed, especially at times such as this.

“Bog, deary, you realize that the winter solstice is tomorrow? You really oughta check the hens, you know how they despise the cold!” Griselda’s voice grated through his thoughts, stirring him away from the shelf of ingredients he was organizing. She herself was busy  clucking around their little cottage, dusting and folding articles of light clothing away into an empty closet. She was busy preparing them for the coming winter storms, and had spent the past two weeks jarring vegetables, patching thick coats and pants, and ensuring that their chickens and goats were well prepared for the weather. Not to be left out, Bog was there to do her heavy lifting and any other menial task he could be cowed into. Heaving a great sigh, Bog gathered his coat and shrugged it on, snatching a basket from beside the doorway when a flurry of sudden knocks stopped the pair in their tracks. Bog paused and glanced over his shoulder to meet Griselda’s curious stare, before the knocking interrupted them once more, sounding increasingly urgent.

A visitor… in the Dark Forest? A visitor? Travelling through this kind of weather? These questions and more bounced around his head as he dropped the basket and opted for the enchanted staff he kept by the door for protection.

With his guard up, Bog unlatched the door, revealing the most petite, anxious, and beautiful young woman he had ever laid eyes on. Perhaps that was speaking too rashly, but then again, Bog didn't have much experience with the outside world. The young women dropped her fist to her side limply, clearly unsure of her intentions after being met with such an imposing figure. They engaged in a staring contest, challenging and questioning in the same moment. The young lady was obviously bundled against the cold but carried nothing with her but a small satchel, speaking to her confidence that she could make this trip a short one.

Removing the small cap she had donned for the trip, the visitor gazed at him with a look brimming with excitement tempered by uncertainty, causing him to quirk an unruly brow. A halo of chocolate curls framed her face in cute pixie licks, with searching hazel eyes framed in long lashes stabbing him straight through his chest with the intensity that they trained on him. The lovely stranger was dressed in finely tailored traveler’s clothes and thick boots absolutely caked with snow, speaking to her wealth and making the sorcerer even more curious about what she possibly thought to gain by making a dangerous trip out here.It was the dead of night now, and it had been snowing since dawn.

Bog swallowed thickly, forcing himself to read into a situation that he had seen one to many times. She was a lovely thing, and they were known to be skilled with magic. Why else would someone as fragile and important as herself journey to their home, unless it was with a request for their services? A scowl of disappointment colored his features and he regarded her in a manner that mirrored the chilly weather she had just traversed.

“Aye, traveller, don’ go knockin down me door now. Winter approaches swiftly. Ye must be lost, so far from the Hearth.” Tall and broad Bog leaned against his staff in the doorway, exuding contempt and trying to appear bored. His figure was lean from tending to their crops and livestock, and he towered over the petite woman shivering before him.

“Sir, please… I’m not lost, if you would tell me your name. I am Marianne Fallow… Crown Princess of Hearthmark. I come with an urgent request… please, hear me.” Having finally revealed herself, Marianne pressed her hands together against her chest breathlessly. She carried an aura with her, one of strength but innocence, as if she sought out the best in people. Her eyes were clear and bright, full of good intentions without the life experience to judge them. It nearly made Bog sick to his stomach. Before he could turn her away, his mother’s voice drifted from inside.

“Bog, who is it? Don’t just stand there, it’s cold as all get out, bring them inside!”

The already-exhausted sorcerer growled in frustration but after one last tense moment of silence, he took a step back and motion for her to enter. “Please, do come in.” Of course, while it might have been phrased nicely, the implorement was dripping with sarcasm. Marianne eyes flashed with something hot but she only warred with herself for a moment before schooling her expression into something polite and appreciative as she crept inside the cottage.

Griselda did a double take when she saw the princess and nearly tripped over herself trying to make introductions. The witch was tiny, withered with age, but that did nothing to curb her enthusiasm at having someone as pretty and tough as Marianne in her home. How hard it was to play matchmaker when her son insisted they hole themselves up out here in these god-forsaken woods! Grinning widely, she took Marianne’s hand and drew her closer to the fireplace as she drenched her in a torrent of conversation.

“Oh goodness me, deary, you must be frozen to the core a delicate little thing like you out in this cold! Come by the fire, let’s get you warmed up. Are you hungry deary, I’ve got a delicious stew on right now, it’ll be done here in just a few minutes. Where are you from, what brings you here at this time of year, oooh it must be something important, I know it! Haven’t you--”

“MAM. The lady can’t get a word in edgewise with all yer yammerin’. Let her speak, please.” Bog had taken residence against the door, his back pressed to it with slender arms crossed over his chest. The staff stood at his side like a loyal guard, ready for action at any moment. Dark ebony locks, a curious shade between tawny and black, curled upon his head like a crown of thorns while sharp blue eyes reminiscent of a clear sky in summer burned a hole through his (unwanted) guest. Marianne was bewitched for a moment, taken aback by just how young and… strong, this legendary sorcerer was. She took a deep breath to collect her thoughts, forcefully tearing her eyes away from his in an attempt to gather courage, and she spoke.

“Bog… as in Bog of the Black Oak?” Marianne had to ask without looking, lest she lose her train of thought again, and instead turned her eyes on his mother. “And his sorceress mother, Griselda the Great?”

They had very different reactions, with Bog hissing in disdain and Griselda preening under Marianne’s curiosity. Hoisting himself off of the door, Bog stalked between the two women over to the fire and crouched to add another log. Distrust drew his body taught, and it grated on his nerves to have his back to this stranger. With every word she spoke, his assumptions were proved right, and boy did that put him in a bad mood. He was so young when he left Hearthmark (relatively speaking) that he found it hard to remember what a sense of community felt like, what friendship and comradery felt like.  Griselda was privy enough to her son’s attitude’s to know that he was upset, and she placed her other hand on his shoulder. Bog seemed to visibly relax, if only minutely, and Marianne watched the exchange quietly. This Bog man, he was not very similar to the stories she had heard as a child. The firelight softened the harsh edge of his cheekbones and jaw, making him look almost afraid. This couldn’t be the man so hungry for power that he was banished to the Dark Forest…  

“I come to… request your services. Your feats are that of legend and I am humbled that you invited me into your home… Thank you very much for your kindness.” Marianne smiled softly, squeezing the hand that Griselda still held.

“My courage fails me, it seems. I have fallen in love with the man of my dreams, but I can’t seem to find my words when I’m around him, he is far too charming! Roland is a knight in service of my father, and is loved dearly by our subjects… myself included.” She took a moment and blushed very prettily as she looked for the proper words to convey her desire. “I would just hope that you might help me win his heart. Anything that you ask of me in return, you may have it.”

Griselda pondered Marianne’s request silently, glancing between the princess and her son, who was regarding the fire with a stony expression. The princess claimed to be in love, but it sounded more like infatuation to her. Not to mention… love potions were the reason that she and her son were here in the first place.

Bog clenched and unclenched his fists while the cogs in his brain turned. How could it be that a princess, especially one as lovely and forthcoming as her, could not win the love of someone, knight or not? Marianne was obviously kind if she would thank two strangers for keeping her warm even if they did it begrudgingly; she had to care a great deal for this knight as well if she was here, alone, in this weather. And yet, anything that they asked… in return for a love potion? A small but very bitter part of Bog’s heart thrummed at the thought, and paused to pick his words carefully before turning to the princess. The sorcerer stayed crouched, the shadows shifting on his face making him appear otherworldly and gaunt; Marianne’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of him.

“You said anything, princess, is that what ye meant?” His eyes bored into hers with almost hypnotic amounts of energy. Marianne felt a wave of unease course through her but she stood her ground, nodding when her words failed her.

“There is a potion that I can craft, somethin’ guaranteed to win this knight’s… affection. I will teach ye how to use it. When yer lover is exposed to it’s magic, it’s nigh impossible fer them to not fall in love with the first person they see.” Bog stood, the flames returning its previously hoarded light to the cottage. “However… everythin’ comes at a price, me lady.” A wicked grin lit up his features, sharpening his electric blue stare that seemed to paralyze and terrorize Marianne for a moment.

“By using this potion, the one person ye hold closest to yer heart will be stripped of their ability to find love. Oh, aye, they will love their family, their friends, but…” Bog’s smile faded, a haunted look of sadness brushing over his features. “When someone falls in love with them, they cannot requite it, no matter how much they might want to. They will be damned to a life of fleeting, meaningless romance, leaving a string of broken hearts behind them as they suffer from an emptiness they cannot name nor fight.”

His monologue made her heart squeeze and her blood run cold. Marianne was stunned that someone could request something so utterly heartless, but an image of Roland rose unbidden in her mind’s eye. Gods above, he was so perfect; his smile, his golden hair, the way that he carried himself with such pride and confidence. A perfect romance in exchange for a loveless life for the person she cared most about? How could Marianne agree to something so heinous? Selfish… that’s what this goal was. Marianne would be queen one day-- is this something that she could live with on top of the stressors of managing a kingdom.

There was only one person this could affect… She let out a shuddering sigh, dropping her head and cradling it with her hands. There was no way… Dawn was such a bubbly, gorgeous person. If it was the last thing that she did, Marianne would make sure that Dawn could find someone to spend her life with.

Bog could see her resolve faltering and aimed to encourage her previously line of thinking. Griselda was… quiet for once; he did not dwell on that fact for very long. “Marianne… ye love Roland, donch ye? Yah know that the two of ye can be so happy… if yah just say yes.” That almost made Griselda peep-- this was going too far! She knew that Bog had been hurt before but this was something truly terrible. She kept her mouth firmly shut, thinking hard about the situation. Yes… yes, she could remedy this. Love is a tricky game, but one that she knew how to play well.

Marianne steeled herself and lifted her head, standing with her back ramrod straight anf fists clenched at her side. “Let me make this clear… You will make me a love potion, one guaranteed to work on Roland. But once I use it… the one dearest to me will never find love again?” Her heart was in her throat, and speaking the words around it was painful.

“Aye, Princess, that’d be the gist. So… what say ye?” Bog stood directly before her, offering his hand for a pact.

Marianne studied him for a moment, trying to clear her mind and buy herself some time. Bog of the Black Oak was not very sociable, but had enough wits about him to keep his manners in company. He did not take kindly to strangers, but still opened his home to her. Bog was stiff and uncertain when near her, as if he was not used to being close to people, or having friendly conversations. He was very different from his mother, who was endearing and lively even in her old age. Despite having very little experience with magic, the princess had a sense of naive confidence that she could make this deal work to her advantage. She couldn’t admit to herself that she was afraid, but pressured, having come so far and being unwilling to leave empty handed.

Marianne calmly placed her gloved hand in his grip, squeezing as they shook.

Dawn, please forgive me. I promise to make this right.

“Bog of the Black Oak… we have a deal.”

[easyhairstylesbest]

Dylan Farrow Would Like to Reintroduce Herself

Coat, Max Mara.

PHOTOGRAPHED BY VALERIE CHIANG

Scouring the fantasy section of her favorite bookstore near the Connecticut farm where she grew up, Dylan Farrow would pick out anything that “promised me dragons,” she says. She loved the fire and destruction of mythical beasts; conspiracy theories involving families plotting against their own kin; and the way women, children, and other small creatures wielded magical powers that made them stronger in those make-believe worlds than they were in our own. “I think it started out as an escape route,” she says. “For any fans of fantasy, whether they’re in my position or not, it’s fun escapism, a way to step outside of yourself and your problems, and, I don’t know, think about dragons for a while.” She pauses to clarify: “I’m not trying to escape who I am—I’m fine with who I am. I mean, it’s taken me a while to get here, but I can say with [some] degree of certainty that I’m okay.”

Still, the first time we talked, late last year, it hadn’t quite sunk in for her that she had her own debut young adult fantasy fiction novel, Hush, on bookshelves like the ones she’d perused as a teenager. In a lot of ways, the release of Hush has served as a debut for the 35-year-old author as well, in her new life as a full-time writer and working mother, defined by no one but herself. After all, for most of her life, Dylan has been known mostly in relation to the salacious scandals that have swirled around her famous family. She became a public figure not by choice, but rather because she was Mia Farrow’s daughter, or Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist Ronan Farrow’s sister. “I don’t feel like I have a father,” she says, but at one point her father was Woody Allen, Mia’s boyfriend of about a decade, who’d adopted Dylan as a child. Later, of course, Allen would go on to have an affair with, and then marry, her sister, Soon-Yi Previn. “There’s no support group for people whose sisters marry their fathers,” she says. “Or is he my brother-in-law? And is she my stepmom? I’ve got to joke about it!”

Dylan playing dress-up with Mia in the early 1990s.

Courtesy of Dylan Farrow

Then there’s the other scandal that she’ll likely never fully escape, now the subject of an HBO investigative documentary series, Allen v. Farrow. In 1992, when Dylan was seven—the same year the Soon-Yi affair blew up—she told her mother that Allen had taken her into an attic crawl space and sexually molested her, as Mia would testify in the ensuing custody battle. It was part of a pattern that Dylan later said went on for as long as she could remember, of Allen getting into bed with her wearing only his underwear, or putting his head in her naked lap. The custody fight was vicious and tore their family apart, estranged Allen from most of his children permanently, and became such a public tabloid spectacle that Dylan remembers having to be sneaked out of the back of her New York City apartment building with a blanket over her head so she could get to school without being snapped by the paparazzi. She still has PTSD from the ordeal.

A report by the Yale-New Haven Hospital Child Sexual Abuse Clinic, whose methods the judge in the custody case questioned as unreliable, concluded that Dylan was not sexually abused and that Dylan was either disturbed and made it up or had been manipulated by her mother. The judge gave Mia full custody, finding that the testimony proved “that Mr. Allen’s behavior toward Dylan was grossly inappropriate and that measures must be taken to protect her.” Allen appealed, but the appellate court agreed with the trial judge’s custody ruling. Although it gave more weight to the Yale-New Haven report, the appeals court found that the overall evidence, while “inconclusive,” “suggest[ed] that the abuse did occur.” New York State child welfare investigators later announced that they’d found no credible evidence of abuse. Several months after the custody decision was announced, a Connecticut state’s attorney announced that he had probable cause to criminally charge Allen but was declining to file charges to spare Dylan the trauma of a court appearance. Criminal charges have never been filed against Allen in the matter, and he continues to maintain his innocence. (Allen declined a request to comment for this article, but he has vociferously and repeatedly denied having molested her, and has pointed to investigations that cleared him of wrongdoing.)

“Believe it or not, the stuff that I wrote about in that essay does not encompass the entirety of my existence.”

If you know Dylan’s name now, though, it’s probably because in 2014, well before the #MeToo movement, she wrote a New York Times essay about that abuse, calling out Hollywood actors and asking whether they’d be so quick to celebrate Allen’s work had their own daughter been “led into an attic” by him. It wasn’t until her brother Ronan helped expose the misdeeds of Harvey Weinstein that Dylan’s accusations were given much credence. Dylan had emerged from obscurity to become a staunch advocate for survivors of sexual assault. But now she’s ready to emerge from that as simply a writer. “Believe it or not, the stuff that I wrote about in that essay does not encompass the entirety of my existence,” she says. “It’s a small part of 35 years of living.”

In fact, Dylan isn’t even Dylan Farrow’s name anymore. When she was eight, she changed it to a name she prefers to keep private, in order to psychologically distance herself from the events of those tumultuous years. But she’s been using Dylan as a sort of pen name, starting with the 2014 essay, to avoid confusion given that Dylan is the name in all the court documents. Among close friends and family, though, she says, “No one’s called me Dylan since I was 10.”

“I’m not trying to escape who I am. I’m fine with who I am”, says Dylan. “I mean, it’s taken me a while to get here, but I can say with some degree of certainty that I’m okay.”

VALERIE CHIANG

Reading Hush, it’s impossible not to see Dylan’s story in its themes. The book centers on Shae, a girl who is dealing with a lot and doesn’t really have time for boys. She’s “short but strong,” Dylan says, and she’s also doggedly determined to ferret out the truth—even as adults tell her it’s all in her head. The world she’s living in is falling apart, stricken by drought and a pandemic that Dylan swears she dreamed up well before 2020. A despotic leadership class wields magic to spread fake news, earn tithes, and control the populace. The written word, the people are told, will kill them; the pandemic spreads through ink. And it is only in trying to solve the murder of someone she loves that Shae finds out that she, too, can wield magic. But can she learn how to use it fast enough, when the truth is slipping away and she’s being gaslighted by powerful forces, causing her to question what she knows? Dylan says that of course the themes are partially based on her life, but readers shouldn’t try to draw too many direct parallels. “As I keep having to assert,” she says, “I do know the difference between fiction and reality.”

Fantasy writers like “Ursula K. Le Guin, Madeleine L’Engle, and Susan Cooper were all a big deal in our house,” Ronan says, adding that his older sister also “had an abiding love of anime.”

COURTESY OF DYLAN FARROW

After being awarded custody in 1993, Mia moved her large family, filled with biological and adopted children, many of them with disabilities, from Manhattan to their country house in Connecticut. Mia was determined to give the kids “the real farm experience,” Dylan says. They had horses, chickens, goats, and a cow who got lonely and tried having sex with everything, including one of the Farrow siblings’ wheelchairs. “It was a busy, noisy life full of children and animals,” Mia says.

Dylan now maintains a happy pandemic pod with her own family on that same farm, 88 acres with hiking and horse trails and a lake. She’s calling via Zoom from a home office with nothing but greenery and sunlight outside her window. Dylan, her husband (she asked that his name not be published), her four-year-old daughter Evangeline (whose name is already all over Mia’s Instagram), their pug Luna, and their English bulldog Nova stay in one house. Her brother Fletcher, who works in tech, and his wife and two daughters live in another. Their mother has a third. When we talked, Ronan and his fiancé, Jon Lovett of Pod Save America, had recently joined them from the West Coast and were staying with Mia.

Dylan’s earliest exposure to fantasy, she says, was a bedtime ritual of her mom reading The Hobbit to the kids. “My mom, I sometimes forget, is actually a really talented actress,” she says. “So she would read the bejesus out of this book, and it was the most epic thing I had ever heard. My mom would narrate and do all the voices. To this day, her rendition of Gollum is like canon tome.” At around age 11, Dylan wrote stories to read aloud to her younger siblings. “She kept them so enthralled,” Mia says. Ronan, two years her junior, says they both read a lot growing up. “Great women writers of fantasy loomed large for both of us—Ursula K. Le Guin, Madeleine L’Engle, and Susan Cooper were all a big deal in our house,” he says. “Dylan had an abiding love of anime, which I only dabbled in.” (Dylan says she also had an abiding love of Lance Bass of *NSync.)

Dylan casts a spell on her brother Ronan, whom she calls “one of the most important people in my life.”

Courtesy of Dylan Farrow

“I loved to play make-believe with Ronan,”Dylan says. “We’d play dress-up, and I’d sometimes let him play Barbies with me, if I was feeling charitable.” They collected pewter Dungeons & Dragons figurines and created a civilization for them. “We developed some pretty elaborate lore,” Ronan says. In her teenage years, Dylan wrote and illustrated a Game of Thrones–style novel, clocking in at “530-something” pages, that she says “was not fit for human consumption.” Its audience of one was her little sister, Quincy. There were dragons. The main character was an elf. There was a war. Some of it took place in space. “Every concept and every crazy notion I needed to express got chucked into the pot, and it went in a million directions and it was garbage,” she says. “I mean, my sister loves it to this day. She still talks about it.” Back then, as an author, Dylan felt supremely confident. “If I thought it was bad, I wouldn’t have written 500 pages,” she says, laughing.

The court hearings of Dylan’s childhood were, in many ways, a prosecution of her so-called “overactive” imagination. She’d described being in the attic with the “dead heads”—“which was literally because I didn’t know the word for mannequin,” she says. “I knew that people thought that I was using my imagination to tell lies,” she continues, but somehow that never affected her desire to write. Nor did Allen being a famous writer influence her in any way, “although it’s probably the reason I never wrote about New York and jazz and May–December romances,” she says.

In her senior year at Bard College, where she was majoring in art and Asian studies, Dylan decided to sign up for an online dating site associated with The Onion. This was in 2007, well before Tinder, “when dinosaurs roamed the Earth,” she says. At first, she wasn’t having much luck. “I signed up and there was, like, an influx of fifty-somethings being like, ‘Age ain’t nothing but a number, right?’ ” she says. “I’m like, ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree.’ ” Then she came across this “adorable” recent graduate living in New York City who described himself as a geek. “So I did the thing I’ve never done before or since, and I sent him a message and flirted with the guy,” she says. “I said, ‘You didn’t mention you were a cute geek.’ Winky-face emoji. I’m turning bright red telling you this.”

They met up at Grand Central Terminal and got pie and coffee, and the conversation never stopped flowing. After graduation, she moved in with him in New York. “He tried to kick me out,”she says. “He told me, ‘You’re finally independent. You should have the experience of having your own place, paying your own rent.’ I’m like,‘That’s really responsible of you, but that sounds like a lot of work.’ ” Dylan got a job as a production assistant at CNN, working the phones and the copy machine at the Nancy Grace show, mainly so she could continue to crash with her boyfriend. She was eventually laid off. “Journalism, it turns out, wasn’t for me. Wrong member of my family,” she says. When her boyfriend got a job offer he couldn’t turn down in South Florida and asked her to join him, she agreed. “In the back of my head, I’m thinking, ‘Well, I’d better get an engagement ring out of this,’ ” she says. And she did. They’ve been together for 14 years, married for 10.

Dylan has been writing stories to entertain her younger siblings since age 11. “She kept them so enthralled,” Mia says.

VALERIE CHIANG

Dylan spent the following six years in Broward County, living a relatively normal life. She worked for a weight-loss center, and later found a job as a graphic designer. Back at home, she’d write fantasy stories well into the early hours. “That was where I was finding my happy place,” she says. “I sat down with my husband at one point and I said, ‘Look, I spend every morning sitting in my car giving myself this pep talk, like, Today is going to be over at some point. And I can’t live like this.’ ” She did some soul-searching and realized she wanted to become a full-time writer. “My husband was like, ‘Okay, this is important to you. We’ll make it work.’ He’s a champ.”

So she sat down and wrote a novel. Not Hush, but a “casserole” of ideas. “It was about necromancers, set in a Spanish Inquisition–like setting,” she says. “It was maybe a little anti-religion; they were heretics.” Her protagonist was too old for YA, but the story didn’t exactly work for a broader fantasy audience either. “I wound up learning a lot about, you know, what sort of book gets picked up by publishers,” she says, laughing.

Around 2014, Dylan and her husband decided to move back northeast to Connecticut. Woody Allen’s Blue Jasmine had come out to critical praise the previous year, garnering two Golden Globe and three Academy Award nominations, including Best Original Screenplay for Allen. The sexual assault allegation, the custody battle, and leaving Manhattan had all happened in 1992 and 1993. Dylan had started fourth grade in Connecticut, thinking she’d never have to worry about any of it again, except for the rare occasions when her mom went to court. “I sort of treated it as out of sight, out of mind, and I did that for about 20 years,” she says. “But then he was up for an Academy Award, and no one cared.

We were in the process of relocating, and I snapped and went crazy and the essay happened.” When she told someone close to her that she was thinking about speaking out, he said, “Well, why? Nobody cares.” When she told her therapist that “maybe this is something, someday, you know, nebulously, abstractly I’m considering,” he told her that it was a terrible idea and she’d undo all the progress she’d made.“Obviously, I didn’t listen to those people,” she says. “The thing is, in a lot of ways, they were wrong. But in a lot of [other] ways, they were right. In 2014, nobody really did give a crap. And I did undo all the progress I’d made.”

The essay caused a stir, but Allen kept his Academy Award nomination, and the star of Blue Jasmine, Cate Blanchett, won the Oscar for Best Actress. Meanwhile, Dylan had opened Pandora’s box. “I had to develop an entirely new skill set with different coping mechanisms based around having spoken out and the aftermath of that,” she says. “The difference was, I was doing this on my own terms.” She still struggles at times, “but on the whole, it does feel healthier to cope with it on that level rather than just ignore it. I think it’s also more helpful to the people in my life: my husband, my family, my friends. They know what’s going on now. I’m not just freaking out because I saw some random movie poster. There’s a method to the madness.”

Mia, Ronan, and Dylan in Connecticut, in 2016.

Courtesy of Dylan Farrow

Mia can see a huge difference. “She’s evolved from being a shy child to being much more assertive. And a lot of it has to do with coming out with her personal story and feeling less like a victim,” she says. “I do know that as a mother, my job, among other jobs, is and always has been to support her in whatever she needs. I’ve stood by her all these years, and I will continue to do so.”

Dylan has only seen three of Allen’s movies: 1973’s Sleeper (“As a kid, I think it was framed as, ‘Do you want to see Daddy eat a rubber glove?’ and I was like, ‘Oh yeah!’ ”) and two others, Alice and The Purple Rose of Cairo, neither of which Allen appears in onscreen. According to IMDb, Dylan appears in Alice, Crimes and Misdemeanors, and New York Stories, “which is really trippy,” she says, “because I don’t remember being in them.” For her Alice appearance, she visited her mom on set, ran up to hug her and say “hi,” and then ran off. She remembers the moment, but not being filmed. She also remembers being at the circus with two kids who kept putting their Cracker Jack in her popcorn. Years later, when she saw the movie, she realized she was watching herself. “It was weird, like seeing my memory, but with different people,” she says.

Triggers are all around her, and whether they’ll set her off depends on how she is doing emotionally that day. She’ll freeze up if she’s scrolling through a news feed and sees a face with thick glasses, or if she overhears jazz music. In the past, such things could leave her curled up in a fetal position. During a 2018 TV interview with Gayle King, Dylan burst out crying after being shown a recording of Allen denying the allegation. It hasn’t gotten better overnight—“It’s a process,” she says—but Dylan has been steadily improving since speaking out. “I try to take the mindset that I have a 100 percent success rate of getting through every single one of the panic attacks I’ve ever had; none of them have killed me.” In some ways, she says, it’s been a blessing to be Evangeline’s mother in this fraught time, to have to care for a small child and to know she has to hold it together for her. “My top priority is obviously making sure that my daughter is always safe, healthy, and loved,” she says. Asked what she says when others assert that Allen was just acting as a doting father, Dylan replies: “Let him watch your kid.”

It still baffles her when Allen’s fans come after her on Twitter, saying she’s lying. “This is something that I’m literally telling you happened to me. Who are you to say, ‘No, it didn’t’? I was there, you weren’t. Go away.” Still, it’s amazing to her that some people peddle the idea that her mother brainwashed her to believe she was molested and also to have PTSD from it—something she says Mia would have needed “military-grade torture equipment” to pull off. “It’s crazy that for some people, the idea that I was brainwashed is somehow easier to swallow than child sexual abuse,” she says.

“I guess I’m just way more vindictive than anybody gave me credit for,” Dylan says. “And I say that because it’s not entirely a bad thing. Vindictive women can get stuff done.”

VALERIE CHIANG

Dylan didn’t tell her mother and Ronan that she was going to write the essay until she already knew she was going to publish it. “I kind of wanted to wait until there were no take-backsies before I really discussed it with them, because I wasn’t sure how they were going to react,” she says. It was the first time she’d told Ronan what had happened in detail. “And he started crying, which I didn’t really expect,” she says. “He’s not super sentimental.” Even for Ronan, #MeToo warrior that he is now, there was a period of adjustment, of separating the family desire to put the past behind them with his sister’s need to expose her wounds in order to heal them. They talked often and at length, and in 2016, when Allen’s film Café Society was opening the Cannes Film Festival, Ronan wrote his own essay supporting his sister’s claims for The Hollywood Reporter. It was loud and splashy, and dominated all the press for Allen’s film. And in its own way, it led to Ronan chasing down the stories of Harvey Weinstein’s sexual assaults. “Dylan was absolutely a voice of conscience on this issue,” Ronan said by email. “I learned a lot, watching her come forward with her story, and maintain it consistently, year after year—even when I and others around her weren’t sure it was worth the blowback.”

“Without Ronan’s support, I probably would’ve felt completely adrift,” Dylan says. “He’s one of the most important people in my life.” What she didn’t realize was just how important those conversations would be to her brother and others, through his work.

“I thought he was just, like, calling me. It wasn’t until I read his book that I realized I was actually having this huge impact on him.” It bothered her, though, that her essay from 2014 “was kind of brushed off and ignored or sidelined or outright stomped into the dust,” but when her brother said the exact same thing two years later, suddenly people’s ears perked up. “I got salty at Ronan, because I was like, ‘Do people really need a white man to say the exact same thing to get people to listen?’ ”

So in 2017, in the wake of #MeToo, she wrote a second incendiary essay, this time for the Los Angeles Times, which questioned how all these men could be taken to task, but Woody Allen was still making movies. “[At age seven,] I wasn’t, obviously, given a platform, and I was not in an emotional state to take advantage of a platform. I was literally a child,” she says. “And it’s easy when you are a white man with a considerable amount of clout, power, and wealth to silence a voice like that, pin the blame on my mom, and spin the story for 20-plus years.” The good thing, though, is that Dylan has begun to recognize her own power. “I guess I’m just way more vindictive than anybody gave me credit for,” she says. “And I say that because it’s not entirely a bad thing. Vindictive women can get stuff done.”

“I never thought I would be writing about a dystopia in a climate where that would feel relatable.”

In the end, Hush hasn’t been an escape route for Dylan, but rather a way forward out of the darkness that has clouded her existence for so long. After her first novel about the necromancers failed to find a publisher, she decided to start over, “drawing on the themes and ideas that I was seeing percolating in the world around me,” she says. In 2018, as now, fake news and propaganda were hot topics, as was a general distrust of the system. “I never thought I would be writing about a dystopia in a climate where that would feel relatable,” she says. When Mia read it, she saw her daughter in Shae. “I see Dylan’s courage against monstrous thoughts and monstrous people and powerful foes,” she says. “Being disbelieved is part of the assault.” While she says she can’t speak for her daughter, Mia thinks that in writing the book, Dylan was able to reckon with her past in a way that was “bearable,” by creating a story “which is and isn’t about her.”

Hush

Dylan Farrow bookshop.org

$17.47

As of mid-January, Dylan was nearly finished writing the sequel to Hush, with only half of the final chapter and the epilogue to go. She’s found that it’s progressing faster and is more enjoyable this time around, because she no longer has the terror of being a debut novelist who, before this, “was a known quantity for something very specific—and something with a lot of morbid curiosity around it.”

She knows that curiosity will always be there. “I can’t completely disentangle myself from it,” she says. And the publicity for this book has meant a lot of “talking about the thing that I like least in the world. It’s always going to be the elephant in the room.” But no amount of fear can take away the pleasure of holding her book in her hands, and knowing that someone else might happen across it at a bookstore and take it off the shelf. Her simple hope is that “somebody will read it and connect to it and enjoy it and maybe not take it so seriously.”

Jada Yuan Jada Yuan circumnavigated the globe in 2018 as the inaugural 52 Places Traveler for the New York Times. Before that, she spent over a decade at New York Magazine and its websites as a contributing editor and culture features writer, where she profiled Stevie Nicks, Ava Duvernay, and Bill Murray, among others.

Dylan Farrow Would Like to Reintroduce Herself

[grackleartgallery]

Simon Joyner and Adam Ostrar stop by the Grackle on their tour!

$10 suggested donation

Seating is limited so purchase a ticket in advance by sending $10 via PayPal with ‘Friends and Family’ option to simon@simonjoyner.net

Include a note that the ticket is for the Grackle show.

About Simon Joyner

Simon Joyner is a renowned American singer-songwriter who first came

to prominence during the Lo-Fi movement of the early 90's alongside

contemporaries mining similar territory like Will Oldham, Peter

Jefferies, the Mountain Goats, and Bill Callahan. Joyner

was championed early by the late British DJ, John Peel, who famously

played Joyner's 1994 LP, "The Cowardly Traveller Pays His Toll", start

to finish on one of his BBC programs, initially making Joyner more

well known overseas than in his own country. He is often referred to as one

of the forefathers of the Omaha music scene.

Following the mercurial path of heroes like Neil Youngand Bob Dylan,

Joyner has been releasing literate and challenging albums

since the release of his first album, Room Temperature, in 1993. His

discography includes twenty-three full-length recordings, as well as numerous

singles and guest appearances. A book of his lyrics was released in

2016 under the title "Only Love Can Bring You Peace: Selected Lyrics

(1990-2014)." He tours the United States and Europe semi-regularly and

is the co-owner of the Grapefruit Records label.

• QUOTES •

"Omaha has given us the reigning heir to Henry Miller's dark emotional

mirror, Townes Van Zandt's three-chord moan, and Lou Reed's warehouse

minimalism: his name is Simon Joyner." — Gillian Welch

"Pound for pound Simon Joyner is my favorite lyricist of all time. He

has shades of all the greats (Van Zandt, Cohen, Dylan) but exists in a

space all his own ... He truly is an American songwriting treasure. It

is my hope that more people will discover his music and share in the

unique joy that it brings." — Conor Oberst

"Simon's always been a secret handshake amongst me and my peers. He's

a pioneer. He's helped pave the way for many people, myself included.

He's an artist in its purest form--for his only concern is crafting a

perfect song--which he's done time and time again." ---Kevin Morby

https://simonjoyner.bandcamp.com

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simon_Joyner

About Adam Ostrar

Austin, TX songwriter Adam Ostrar used to live & perform in Chicago, fronting a couple of bands (Sonoi; Manishevitz) on the Jagjaguwar label. He’s currently a member of The Moles (led by Aussie indie legend Richard Davies) and the instrumental group The Boxhead Ensemble. His first solo record with Super Secret, “Brawls in the Briar,” came out in October 2017. His most recent album “The Worried Coat” was released in April and includes members of Califone and Hamilton Leithauser.

Over the years Ostrar’s records have been featured in Rolling Stone, Pitchfork, Mojo, Magnet, The Bluegrass Situation, and Brooklyn Vegan. He has toured the US and Europe extensively and supported a range of acts such as Wilco, Edith Frost, and The Mountain Goats.

• QUOTES •

"Now, falling into our hands like a Honeycrisp from the highest branch, Austin-via-Chicago singer-songwriter Adam Ostrar (of Manishevitz — also formerly known as Adam Busch) is blowing an ochre-tinted gust of folksy sweetness on his new LP Brawls In The Briar. Pull the wool coat from your closet and ponder the downright poetic thinning of the treetops with the Bert Jansch-plays-Tropicália-flavored “Another Room,” --Tiny Mix Tapes

“Ostrar’s personal pantheon is inhabited by great guitarists and subtle pop architects, and he invokes them with a deft mixture of instant recognition and subtle revision. One song’s snare sound will remind you of J.J. Cale, and the quietly rushing chords of another manages to merge Nick Drake and Jim Croce so deftly that you can’t quite tell how he did it and the copyright lawyers will never figure out how to prove that he did.“—Dusted Magazine

“Now based in Austin, Ostrar has kept making his own unique music, including this year’s excellent The Worried Coat” – Rob Sheffield, Rolling Stone “99 Best Songs of 1999”

“The record’s ten songs encompass the many things that have made Ostrar’s music with his old bands Manishevitz and Sonoi appealing: rustic acoustic picking, glowing brass fanfares, Eno-esque atmospherics, and power-pop waltzing. And he replaces the jittery qualities of his earlier work with a warm sense of wonder—it’s not only the most accomplished record of his career, it’s the most appealing”-- Chicago Reader

website - http://www.adamostrar.com

Bandcamp - https://adamostrar.bandcamp.com

FB - https://www.facebook.com/adamostrar

Instagram- https://www.instagram.com/adam_ostrar/

[sufferingsapphire-blog]

Aah, hey!! I'm doing a SU rewrite comic, and I'm making Connie more of the focus than Steven. I was wondering if you had any advice for incorporating Indian culture without it coming across as racist? Thank you so much!! I love your blog lmao...

hey there! this got pretty long so i’m gonna put it under the cut. there’s a lot to say in regards to this, so apologies if it seems jumbled or anything! here goes nothing:

hindu culture usually falls victim to the “primitive and backwards” viewpoint due to its polytheistic nature and animal motifs (like, say, the elephant head on ganesha/vinayaka, or how hanuman/anjanayar has monkeylike features). these gods are more than just “the elephant god” or “the monkey god,” and they are most certainly not “the god of elephants” or “the god of monkeys.” the animal motifs are there for a reason. for example, ganesha/vinayaka is the remover of obstacles (hence the trunk), and hanuman/anjanayar represents devotion/loyalty (and admittedly, mischief. monkey motif, lol)

while i’m on the topic of polytheism, i think it’s also important to point out that all of these deities are facets of a single, greater being. i guess it’s kinda like fusion, in a sense (which personally i think would be a cool parallel to point out, but i digress)? there’s one higher being, but they are comprised of several deities who each represent one aspect of that being.

vermilion (the red stripelike marking on an indian woman’s forehead) is for married women only. if connie were to wear a bindi, it would most likely be a stickerlike designer bindi (which, despite the name, are actually quite cheap!), or a standard black dot. a red dot is okay as well! just not a red stripe.

don’t mention the caste system. it’s tricky for even indians to tackle, is sensitive subject matter, and most info on it even if you do wanna research it is coated with a thick layer of white imperialist rhetoric (“oh, the british came and fixed the backwards system!” when really, they just made it worse by adding in a good dose of colorism and further discriminating and shunning darker-skinned indians in comparison to/in favor of lighter-skinned indians/indians who looked “more white”). 

choose a specific subset of culture for connie, and stick to it! indian culture isn’t a monolith. there are several varities: gujurati, rajastani, assamese, tamilian, et cetera et cetera et cetera. hell, india has 150+ discernible languages, and 22 official ones on a national level! for connie in particular, however, i would recommend tamilian culture, because her last name is maheswaran, a tamilian name that refers to the god shiva. coincidentally, i happen to be tamilian myself, so i can happily give a few pointers!

dance is a huge part of tamilian culture; literally every tamilian i know, including myself, is involved in it. the one i participate in/the most popular one is bharatanatyam! it’s very theatrical and involves bright, bold costumes (if you still want to tie this into connie’s discomfort with dancing in front of people that she expressed in alone together, her expressing to steven that she’s conflicted with how dance is a big part of her culture and yet she doesn’t feel comfortable doing so could still work!)

also, remember those god names i put up there? if connie is south indian, she’s more likely to refer to them by their south indian names as opposed to their north indian ones. “vinayaka” and “anjanayar” than “ganesha” or “hanuman.” the only other big name change i can think of as of now is vishnu = perumal and karthikeyan = muruga. 

cow meat is a big no-no. cows are revered for their various capabilities (milk, transportation, manure for fertilizer, etc.). eating stuff like bacon and pork is more acceptable/a part of culture in the more eastern parts of india, near the indo-chinese/indo-myanmar border, but from what i know, not so much for south indians. eating pig meat is like an unspoken taboo of sorts in the tamilian communities i have lived/grown up in. white meat (like chicken), seafood, and goat/sheep meat aren’t taboo though! in fact, seafood is pretty staple and something i would recommend if food is brought up frequently since south indians live near the ocean, and seafood has been ingrained into most of their diets accordingly no matter where they live now.

connie isn’t really at the age of wearing a sari just yet. despite the popularity of saris as the “iconic indian outfit,” they are usually for full-grown women; if anything, connie would wear a churidhar or a half-sari (which is what many pre-pubescent indian girls/indian girls in their early teens would wear). and while churidhars can be worn casually, half-saris are usually for more special events, such as weddings, birthdays, and holidays.

just incorporating stuff like outfits, food, and deities by slipping in references to them here and there would be really nice, and i would personally say as long as it doesn’t fetishize by turning indian culture into this exotic culture full of “weird animal motifs”/erasing the fact that “indian culture” actually encompasses several cultures/paying attention to the taboos of the culture would result in a nonoffensive portrayal!

i hope this helped! (and on a side note, if you do choose to make connie tamilian and need any help incorporating tamil phrases and such, it’s my first language!) and also, i would like to point out as well that i am not a monolith for all indians either! so asking other indians when you can is also something i highly recommend! i’m still down if you want to ask me anything else, though.

happy comic-making!