#it is guillotine o’clock

[warmhappycat]

I am genuinely devastated to learn this. I love horseshoe crabs, and I love Chincoteague and Assateague. I am heartbroken.

I hate capitalism.

Okay, I know people as a general rule tend to not care about invertebrates as much as cute, fuzzy mammals, but this is a must-read if you care about animal welfare. The short version is that horseshoe crab blood has been used for decades in medicine as a way to test whether something is truly sterile; the blood clots in the presence of bacteria. Since then millions of horseshoe crabs have been captured and drained of blood, even though a synthetic alternative was developed a few years ago.

They go through a pretty brutal experience in the process. They're caught by fishermen who often throw them by their tails into a pile in the open air, and they're then trucked to a bleeding facility where they're strapped down and their blood is removed with needles jabbed directly into their hearts. Over half their blood may be taken, after which they're supposed to be returned to the ocean. However, it's likely many of them never make it back, instead turned into fish bait and sold by the same fishermen who caught them in the first place.

Apart from the fact that this is a horrific thing to put any animal through, the attrition due to fatalities has put a serious dent in horseshoe crab numbers. This is compounded by massive habitat loss, pollution, and the capture of horseshoe crabs as food, particularly as the females of one species are considered a delicacy. And other animals that rely on horseshoe crabs are suffering, too. The American rufa subspecies of the red knot, a medium-sized shorebird, is critically endangered as the horseshoe crab eggs it must have in order to successfully complete migration have become increasingly scarce, and it is likely the bird will become extinct if trends continue.

While there are guidelines for medical horseshoe crab harvest, they're considered optional. The few laws that exist are poorly enforced. Short of a complete ban on horseshoe crab blood in favor of the synthetic alternative, these animals are in very real danger of going extinct after a history spanning over 400 million years on this planet.

Thankfully, this article is not the first to bring forth the issues surrounding horseshoe crab harvest. Here are a few resources for further information and action (US based, though horseshoe crabs are threatened throughout their entire range):

Horseshoe Crab Conservation Network - https://horseshoecrab.org/conservation/

Wetlands Institute - https://wetlandsinstitute.org/conservation/horseshoe-crab-conservation/

Horseshoe Crab Recovery Coalition - https://hscrabrecovery.org/

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Was suicide really seen as noble during the French Revolution? Was there any recorded tension regarding this cultural shift with more religious or less revolutionary people/groups? Thanks!

In the book La liberté ou la mort: mourir en député 1792-1795 (2015) can be found a list of all the deputies of the National Convention that died unnatural deaths between 1792 and 1799. Of the 96 names included on it, 16 were those of suicide victims, and to these must also me added a number of botched suicide attempts as well. 

Only a single one of these suicides appears to have been driven by something outside of politics, that of the deputy Charlier, who shot himself in his apartment on February 23 1797, two years after the closing of the Convention. The rest of the suicides are all very clearly politically motivated, more specifically, deputies killing themselves just as the machinery of revolutionary justice was about to catch up to them. There’s those who killed themselves while on the run and unsheltered from the hostile authorities — the girondin Rebecqui who on May 1 1794 drowned himself in Old Port of Marseille, Pétion and Buzot who on June 24 1794 shot themselves after getting forced to leave the garret where they for the last few months had been hiding out, Maure who shot himself while in hiding on 3 June 1795 after having been implicated in the revolt of 1 Prairial, Brunel, who on May 27 shot himself after failing to quell a riot in Toulon, and Tellier, who similarily shot himself on September 17 1795 due to a revolt directed against him in the commune of Chartres. Barbaroux too attempted to shoot himself on June 18 1794 but only managed to blow his jaw off. He was instead captured and guillotined. There’s those that put an end to their days once cornered by said authorities — Lidon, who on November 2 1793 shot himself after having been discovered at his hiding place by two gendarmes (he did however first fire three shots at said gendarmes, one of whom got hit in the cheek) and Le Bas who shot himself in the night between July 27 and 28 1794 as National guardsmen stormed the Hôtel de Ville where he and his allies were hiding out (according to his wife’s memoirs, already a few days before this he had told her that he would kill them both right then and there wasn’t it for the fact they had an infant son). In an interrogation held two o’clock in the morning on July 28 1794, Augustin Robespierre too revealed that the reason he a few hours earlier had thrown himself off the cordon of the Hôtel de Ville was ”to escape from the hands of the conspirators, because, having been put under a decree of accusation, he believed his death inevitable,” and there’s of course an eternal debate on whether or not his older brother too had attemped to commit suicide at Hôtel de Ville that night or if he was shot by a guard (to a lesser extent, this debate also exists regarding Couthon). There’s those who committed suicide in prison to avoid an unfriendly tribunal — Baille who hanged himself while held captive in the hostile Toulon on September 2 1793, Condorcet who took poison and was found dead in his cell in Bourg-la-Reine on 29 March 1794 (though here there exists some debate on whether it really was suicide or if he ”just” died from exhaustion) and Rühl, who stabbed himself while in house arrest on May 29 1795. On March 17 1794, Chabot tried to take his life in his cell in the Luxembourg prison by overdosing on medicine (he reported that he shouted ”vive la république” after drinking the liquor) but survived and got guillotined. Finally, there’s those who held themselves alive for the whole trial but killed themselves as soon as they heard the pronounciation of the death sentence —  the girondin Valazé who stabbed himself to death on October 30 1793 and the so called ”martyrs of prairial” Duquesnoy, Romme, Goujon, Bourbotte (in a declaration written shortly before his death he wrote: ”Virtuous Cato, no longer will it be your example alone that teaches free men how to escape the scaffold of tyranny”), Duroy and Soubrany who did the same thing on June 17 1795 (only the first three did however succeed with their suicide, the rest were executed the very same day).

To these 24 men must also be added other revolutionaries that weren’t Convention deputies, such as Jacques Roux who on February 10 1794 stabbed himself in prison, former girondin ministers Étienne Clavière who did the same thing on December 8 1793 (learning of his death, his wife killed herself as well) and Jean Marie Roland who on November 10 1793 ran a sword through his heart while in hiding, after having been informed of his wife’s execution, Gracchus Babeuf and Augustin Darthé who attempted to stab themselves on May 27 1797 after having been condemned in the so called ”conspiracy of equals,” but survived and were executed the next day, as well as two jacobins from Lyon — Hidins who killed himself in prison before the city got ”liberated,” and Gaillard who did the same thing shortly after the liberation, after having spent several weeks in jail.

With all that said, I think you could say taking your life was considered ”noble” in a way, if it allowed you to die with greater dignity than letting the imposition of revolutionary judgement take it instead did. It was at least certainly a step up compared to before 1789, when suicide (through the Criminal Ordinance of 1670) was considered a crime which could lead to confiscation of property, opprobium cast on the victim’s family and even subjection of the courpse to various outrages, like dragging it through the street. To nuance this a bit, it is however worth recalling that this was only in theory, and that in practise, most of these penalties had ceased to be carried out already in the decades before the revolution, a period during which suicide, in the Enlightenent’s spirit of questioning everything, had also started getting discussed more and more. The word ”suicide” itself entered the French dictionary in 1734. Most of the enlightenment philosophes reflected on suicide and the ethics behind it. There’s also the widely spread The Sorrows of Young Werther that was first released in 1774. Furthermore, most revolutionaries were also steeped in the culture of Antiquity, where suicide was seen as an admirable response to political defeat, perhaps most notably those of Brutus and Cato the younger, big heroes of the revolutionaries. Over the course of the revolution, we find several patriotic artists depicting famous suicides of Antiquity — such as Socrates (whose death is considered by some to have been a sort of suicide) (1791) by David, The Death of Cato of Utica (1795) by Guillaume Guillon-Lethière, and The death of Caius Gracchus (1798) by François Topino-Lebrun. According to historian Dominique Godineau, the 18th century saw ”the inscription [of suicide] in the social landscape, at least in large cities: it has become “public,” people talk about it, it is less hidden than at the beginning of the century,” and she therefore argues that the decision to decriminalize it in the reformed penal code (it didn’t state outright that suicide was now OK, but it no longer listed it as a crime) of 1791 wasn’t particulary controversial.

Furthermore, that committing suicide was more noble than facing execution was still far from an obvious, universal truth during the revolution. In his memoirs, Brissot does for example recall that, right after the insurrection of August 10, when he and other ”girondins” discussed what to do was an act of accusation to be issued against them, Buzot argued that ”the death on the scaffold was more courageous, more worthy for a patriot, and especially more useful for the cause of liberty” than committing suicide to avoid it. The feared news of their act of accusation did however arrive before the girondins had reached a definitive conclusion on what to do, leading to some fleeing (among them Buzot, who of course ironically ended up being one of the revolutionaries that ultimately chose suicide over the scaffold) and some calmly awaiting their fate. In her memoirs, Madame Roland did her too consider going to the scaffold with her head held high to be an act of virtue — ”Should I wait for when it pleases my executioners to choose the moment of my death and to augment their triumph by the insolent clamours of the mob to which I would be exposed? Certainly!” In his very last speech to the Convention, convinced that his enemies were rounding up on him, Robespierre exclaimed he would ”drink the hemlock,” a reference to the execution of Socrates. The girondin Vergniaud is also said to have carried poison on him but chosen to have go out with his friends on the scaffold, although I’ve not yet discovered what the source for this is. It can also be noted that the number of Convention deputies who let revolutionary justice have its course with them was still considerably higher than those who attempted to put an end to their days before the sentence could be carried out.

According to Patterns and prosecution of suicide in eighteenth-century Paris (1989) by Jeffrey Merrick, there was indeed tension regarding the rising amount of suicides in the decades leading up to the revolution. Merrick cites first and foremost the printer and bookseller Siméon Prosper Hardy, who in his journal Mes loisirs ou journal des evenements tels qu'ils parviennent a ma connaissance (1764-1789),  documented a total of 259 cases of Parisian suicides. Hardy saw these deaths as an unwelcome import from the English, who for their part were led to kill themselves due to ”the dismal climate, unwholesome diet, and excessive liberty.” He also blamed the suicides on "the decline of religion and morals," caused by the philosophes, who in their ”bad books” popularized English ways of thinking and undermined traditional values. He was not alone in drawing a connection between the suicides and the new ideas. According to Merrick, the clergy in general ”denounced the philosophes for legitimizing this unforgiveable crime against God and society, which they now associated with systematic unbelief more than the traditional diabolical temptation.” In practice, many parish priests did however still quietly bury the bodies of persons who killed themselves. The future revolutionary Louis Sébastien Mercier did on the other hand blame the government and its penchant for inflated prices and burdensome taxes for the alleged epidemic of suicides in his Tableau de Paris (1782-1783).

In La liberté ou la mort: mourir en député, 1792-1795 it is also established that there weren’t that many participants of the king that killed themselves once the wind started blowing in the wrong direction, but that is not to say they didn’t exist. As example is cited the case of a man who in April 1793 shot himself on the Place de la Révolution, before having written ”I die for you and your family” on a gravure representimg the head of Louis XVI. There’s also the case of Michel Peletier’s murderer Philippe Nicolas Marie de Pâris, royalist and former king’s guard, who, similar to Lidon, blew his brains out when the authorities had him cornered a week after the murder.

Sources:

Patterns and prosecution of suicide in eighteenth-century Paris (1989) by Jeffrey Merrick 

Pratiques du suicide à Paris pendant la Révolution française by Dominique Godineau

La liberté ou la mort: mourir en député, 1792-1795 (2015) by Michel Biard, chapter 5, ”Mourir en Romain,” le choix de suicide.

Choosing Terror (2014) by Marisa Linton, page 276-279, section titled ”Choosing how to die.”

[enlitment]

Too 5 Lucile Moments?

Thanks for the ask! It won't be easy to narrow it down to five, seeing how Lucile is my favourite frev lady.

First things first - my eternal thanks to @anotherhumaninthisworld for compiling so many amazing resources on Lucile! Also, be warned, this will get sad.

1. Lucile trying to appeal to Robespierre after her husband's arrest

I'm specifically talking about the letter in which she tries to appeal to Robespierre after her husband's arrest. You can tell she does not hold back, desperately trying to appeal to her husband's former friend's emotions ("Do you believe that the people will bless one who cares neither for the tears of the widow nor for the death of the orphan?") and even tries to use Saint-Just as a sort of rhetorical device to further her argument. But alas, it does not work.

Then there's of course the whole supposed Luxembourg Plot, which I still need to read more on so I can get a sense of what might or might not have happened. But one thing is clear to me: she did not sit idly after The Indulgents arrest.

2. Lucile becoming friends with Françoise Hébert before their execution

Apparently, the two struck an unlikely friendship while awaiting the guillotine. They are even reported to have hugged before the execution. (Sorry, I told you, this will get sad!)

(Read more about it here!)

3. Lucile standing up for Camille and his work

There's an anecdote that Brune, one of Camille's old college friends, warned him (quite reasonably honestly) about the risks he's likely to run into if he continues to write so openly in his newspaper.

To this, Lucile is said to have replied: “Let him do it, Brune, let him do it, he must save his country; let him fulfill his mission.” (& then poured them some chocolate).

(Read more about it here, including the assessment of the sources!)

4. Lucile's super secret teenage diary

The whole thing honestly! Lucile's angst, her questioning her role in the world, thinking about what it means to be a woman, a human being -- definitely worth a read. Again, thanks so much to @anotherhumaninthisworld for taking her time to translate it.

Some of my favourite parts include:

Her suffering from writer's block: I want to finish my story, I cannot finish it! I take up the pen, I want to write, but nothing comes…

Her writing down her strange dreams (this will most likely be relatable for anyone who's ever kept a diary)

Her philosophical musings: See, my mind is wandering. Do I know what I am?… My God, I don’t know myself. What spring makes me act? 

Her being worried that her mum will find (and read) her diary, which most likely already included some mentions of her fascination with Camille: Maman made me tremble last night: she came to fetch the inkwell, I was in bed, she opened my drawer to take a pen, I was afraid she would take my notebook…

Her secretly carving out Camille's name into a tree

5. Lucile and Camille briefly leaving Paris and enjoying some rest in the countryside

In 1793, the couple briefly visited Essonne and spent some time there. Some of the activities apparently included driving a boat (with Lucile noting her husband's less-than-perfect boating skills) and riding donkeys.

Taken from & more details included here!

(-> according to Google, you can picture the landscape looking a little something like this)

Bonus: Camille falling asleep on Lucile's shoulder during the night some time during the August 1792 Insurrection

Again, from Lucile's diary, as she was waiting for her husband to return from the fighting in the streets of Paris:

Alone, bathed in tears, on my knees by the window, hidden in my handkerchief, I listened to the sound of that fatal bell. In vain they came to console me, this fatal night seemed to me to be the last! 

and then:

C(amille) came back at 1 o’clock, he fell asleep on my shoulder. 

[didyouserviceoberon]

This is a fascinating read.

Why they're smearing Lina Khan

My god, they sure hate Lina Khan. This once-in-a-generation, groundbreaking, brilliant legal scholar and fighter for the public interest, the slayer of Reaganomics, has attracted more vitriol, mockery, and dismissal than any of her predecessors in living memory.

She sure must be doing something right, huh?

A quick refresher. In 2017, Khan — then a law student — published Amazon’s Antitrust Paradox in the Yale Law Journal. It was a brilliant, blistering analysis showing how the Reagan-era theory of antitrust (which celebrates monopolies as “efficient”) had failed on its own terms, using Amazon as Exhibit A of the ways in which post-Reagan antitrust had left Americans vulnerable to corporate abuse:

https://www.yalelawjournal.org/note/amazons-antitrust-paradox

The paper sent seismic shocks through both legal and economic circles, and goosed the neo-Brandeisian movement (sneeringly dismissed as “hipster antitrust”). This movement is a rebuke to Reaganomics, with its celebration of monopolies, trickle-down, offshoring, corporate dark money, revolving-door regulatory capture, and companies that are simultaneously too big to fail and too big to jail.

Keep reading

[deeisace]

okay alright

the plan is

don’t fall asleep again

hydrate a bunch

do some guillotining

leave the house for laundry at 2 o’clock

buy an energy drink or three (or at least lucozade) on the way there

[joachimnapoleon]

I posted 717 times in 2022

146 posts created (20%)

571 posts reblogged (80%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@josefavomjaaga

@microcosme11

@joachimnapoleon

@aminoscribbles

@first-empire-fancy-boys

I tagged 634 of my posts in 2022

Only 12% of my posts had no tags

#art - 173 posts

#napoleon - 120 posts

#joachim murat - 101 posts

#napoleon’s marshals - 68 posts

#napoleonic wars - 65 posts

#napoleon bonaparte - 56 posts

#napoleonic - 56 posts

#memoirs - 43 posts

#letters - 39 posts

#paintings - 35 posts

Longest Tag: 131 characters

#but the exclusion of davout is fascinating considering he’s widely regarded as napoleon’s most competent marshal on the battlefield

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Just for fun, here are all the times in Gourgaud's diary where Napoleon laments not having Fouché shot, hanged, or guillotined (and also regrets that Louis XVIII has likewise failed in this capacity).

Source: General Gourgaud, Sainte-Hélène - journal inedit de 1815 à 1818

*** 29 November 1815 – “I should have hanged him, that was my intention. If I had been victorious at Waterloo, I would have had him shot immediately.”

29 December 1815 – We speak of the news from France… His Majesty says that the King has done well to name Richelieu Prime Minister, but he should have hanged Fouché.

2 February 1816 – At 8 o’clock, His Majesty asks for me and dictates to me for a long while, then I have lunch with him. Sadness and chess. In the evening, it is said that Fouché has been executed. The Emperor exclaims: “I always predicted he’d eventually be hanged.”

16 February 1817 – “I am not Louis XVIII, but it has always repelled me to deal with such a man. The King should’ve had him hanged.”

11 July 1817 – “I cannot understand the current conduct of Paris. Had I stayed there after Waterloo, if I had cut off a hundred heads, that of Fouché the first, I could have held on in Paris with the rabble.”

14 July 1817 – “On my return from Waterloo, I was of a mind to have Fouché’s head cut off. I’d already composed the military commission, that of the Duke d’Enghien…”

23 September 1817 –  [Speaking, again, of what he should have done after Waterloo] “I should, it is true, have had Fouché shot immediately after my arrival, he was the soul of the party, his judgment would have been shouted under the windows of the deputies to whom I could have said: ‘who invokes the tricolor flag? This is a man who fled France to take refuge with foreigners and who owes his return to Paris to me. At this moment there is no salvation except in men who love their country.’ I would have ended by demanding to purge the Chamber and by hanging seven or eight of its members and, above all, Fouché.

24 September 1817 – “I should’ve had the Duke of Otranto shot, but Laffitte prevented me from doing so. Talleyrand will maintain himself, he is a man of the Revolution, he is a priest married to a whore…”

108 notes - Posted November 14, 2022

#4

See the full post

118 notes - Posted May 5, 2022

#3

The official release date of my book is this coming Friday, 11 November!!! Here’s a sneak peak of the cover:

124 notes - Posted November 5, 2022

#2

So this is an actual book that exists.

172 notes - Posted June 14, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

An excellent thread from a history professor on Twitter, telling the story behind the cuirass of Antoine Faveau, who was killed at Waterloo.

See the full post

474 notes - Posted January 5, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[sabraeal]

WFB, Tanbarun arc: Obi meets the real reason she had to leave everything behind.

[Read on AO3]

Obi can admit: even after spending the day with Umbrella Corp’s heir apparent, even after knowing that Richie Rich couldn’t find his ass with both hands-- but in a nice way-- he hears the tiny tyrant’s little proclamation and thinks, what’s his game?

He may not be on the fast track to Summa Cum Laude, not like Doc-- and apparently this kid, if Daddy keeps paying out that Big Pharma money to keep his grades at the top of the curve-- but Obi doesn’t need any fancy academic distinction to suss out that Raj’s celebratory kegger idea belongs straight in the ‘godawful stupid’ pile. And with the quick way Doc goes bloodless at the offer, the air’s got that tangy Calculated Insult taste to it.

That is until he squares up right in front of this Timothée Chalamet looking motherfucker and is blind-sided by his bright-eyed, dummy wide smile. Despite the vibe in this room reading like the end of a slow-burn thriller’s first act, this idiot thinks he’s doing everyone a favor. The kid somehow took one look at Annie Hall here and thought that her brand says vomits Pabst Blue Ribbon as an extracurricular. There are times where Obi considers his past gold star failures and thinks he’s nature’s worst clown, but Shenezard-- Shenezard could fill a whole car.

“Raj,” Doc chokes out, looking like she’s two steps from a body bag. “That’s very...generous of you, but you don’t really--”

“No, no.” Between blinks, Raj springs forward, seizing her hand. “Shirayuki, you are the generous one, coming here after all this time to make amends--”

“I’m not,” she reminds him, steely, like the tooth of a bear trap. Or maybe the blade of a guillotine. “I’m here to present a paper.”

“--So you must give me the opportunity to be likewise magnanimous.” One hand may be taken, but the other’s free to snap, loud as a gunshot in the empty foyer. “Sakaki, see to it.”

His lawyer ventures a weary glance, closing his briefcase with a final snap. “Mr Shenezard, you know I can’t be party to providing alcoholic beverages to underage students.”

“Right.” His fingers snap again; the brothers passing by flinch. “Brian will take care of it.”

One of them-- the tall one, built like a linebacker with boat shoes that earn the name-- sighs. “Aw man, not again.”

“I told you, dude,” the other one mutters, pushing him through the doorway. “You can’t make eye contact.”

Raj doesn’t even bat an eye, just stares down at Doc, flushed with victory. “See? Simple. Get yourself ready, Shirayuki,” he warns warmly, “for tonight you will be fêted!”

*

Between Princess and Prez’s egos, there’s no elbow room for any other opinions on the frat’s event committee, but even still, Obi knows there’s some logistical issues to putting together a kegger in barely five hours. It’s the sort of thing he’d worry over if he thought for one second that Doc wanted anything to do with this half-assed excuse for a hook up, but she flees the scene the moment Raj gets distracted enough to drop her hand. It’d be a shame to get all heated when she’s already hanging out a window, escaping the only way she knows how: dangerously.

Real kind of Doc to save him the hassle; if he had to concern himself with her tender feelings, why, he’d barely have time to agonizing over what to wear. Since that’s apparently how he’s going to spend the hours between dinner and drunk o’clock: staring at his backpack full of clothes and hating every stitch on them.

It’s not like he didn’t bring nice stuff; Chief had briefed him-- and Big Guy, and His Lordship, plus a hastily emailed primer from the Big Boss with a rubric for sartorial formalities-- but he can’t exactly wear a sports coat to a keg stand. Maybe CEO Barbie could wear her designer pantsuit and not get a drop on it, but Obi doesn’t have the sort of face that can wear business formal like gym shorts. And the rest of it...

Well sure, jeans and tees would match the vibe; certainly be a step up from the early December board shorts he’s sure will be in fashion tonight, but it’s not-- not--

Hot. His Majesty said this trip would only be four days, a quick jaunt over state lines to see to it that Kihal’s momentary expulsion wasn’t in vain. Packing light seemed smart. He didn’t need to bait the hook when the only item on his itinerary was a poster session and an academic dinner.

He still doesn’t need to; his whole job here is to make sure Doc isn’t eyeing any third-story windows, not his ass. She’s six inches of leg and a drawer full of Victoria Secret away from being his type anyway, and he only came here because-- because--

Her hand had look so pale against the checkered tablecloth, so limp, like it hadn’t been held in years. Like she’d given up on someone being there to take it. He’d held it in the car-- still wet and clammy, a complete accident-- and even now it burns in his memory, the first warmth he’d felt since someone put five inches of cold steel beneath his rib cage. And stupidly, his first thought was, Doc deserves someone who would.

His second is, I’d like to be that someone.

It’s a fucking mystery why. Sure, he-- he likes her, in a real Disney Channel Original, baby’s first crush way, but this whole situation he has at Wistal is a glass shoe, set to shatter the moment he has a diploma in his hands. The last thing he needs is a reason to cling to the shards, expecting more than anyone wants to give him. Besides, he knows by now-- they could hug him and squeeze him and call hims George, but Obi’s the kind of guy who sees and open door and runs through it. There’s no point to being more friend than the job entails. Not unless he wants someone putting up flyers to find their lost Obi, at least. It’d certainly be a first.

“Right.” His palm scrub over his face, muffling out the rest of the world for just a second. That’s all he needs to remember what’s important here. “Just put something on, asshole.”

It’s a stupid thing to worry about. If these clothes didn’t smell like musty library, he wouldn’t even--

Something flutters, right at the corner of his eye. Not big enough to be a threat-- he can tell that right off, but it definitely didn’t come from his stuff. No, looks like it blew out of the trash, pushed along by the sudden burst of hot air from the vents. His mouth tilts, sliding right into a smirk. Speaking of flyers...

Phi Sigma Pi Crunch Time Kegger, this one reads; he has to squint to see the grainy oval in the center is just a photo-realistic barrel. $5 at the door. 8pm on December--

Ha, well. Look at that. It’s today. What a coincidence. Seems he’s not the only one concerned about what’s covering his ass.

*

At Wistal, Obi liked to make a point of showing up fashionably late to any function at the frat. Not to avoid lending a hand-- he did all that and more earlier in the day under Princess’s watchful eye-- but because showing up to a party where you lived a half hour after it started was peak comedy. Sometimes he even sidled up to the Chief’s current conversation and loudly announced, “The traffic getting here was brutal. Real back up near the bathroom, if you know what I mean.”

Bossman could say it wasn’t funny all he liked-- and he usually did, yanking him aside and keeping his scolding sotto voce, as Kiki called it, so it wouldn’t harsh anyone’s buzz-- but once time he slipped it into a casual conversation with some kid Princess knew from prep school, and Big Guy had to put a clamp on a full Bullwinkle guffaw.

But tonight wasn’t the night to play honors society class clown. No, he’d come here for Doc. Fought to come here for her, hard enough that he must have looked stupid, like he was some dog that didn’t know it wasn’t people.

It was worth it. He’d make himself Bobo the fool all over again if he could make sure she never looked as small as she did when they came in the door, if he could make her stand larger than life, like the girl he’d seen wrapped in his jacket at the riverside, everywhere she walked.

By the time he saunters to the top of the grand stairs-- what is it about these rich ass frats and their debutante ball style houses?-- the front hall is already filling up, the ratio of girls to guys skewed far towards the fairer sex as they filter into the labyrinth of parlors to either side. Packed as it is, it still only takes him a glance to find Doc; she’s folded into a corner with a cluster of chairs cover in discarded coats, about as well hidden as a goth kid at a pep rally.

Obi takes the stairs two at a time, beelining for her corner the minute his sole scuffs the carpet. She doesn’t see him-- not tiny like she is and getting smaller by the second. Even when he grips the back of one of the chairs she doesn’t look up, far too intent on the drink she’s barely touched.

“Well, well, well.” He lets his mouth part in a half-tame grin; growing wider when she jumps. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“Obi.” All at once the tension melts from her, the barbed-wire fence of her shoulders easing back down to pickets. “I didn’t see you.”

“Yeah, well--” he scoots a chair off to the side, making a large enough hole to slip through-- “I usually just look for red, but it’s been tough in this crowd.”

She blinks, a cute little knot rucking up right over her nose as she looks out on a sea of solo cups. “Ah,” she hums, her mouth twitching over her own. “I see how you might have some trouble.”

“What d’you got there?” He peers over the rim, getting a quick glance at some clear fizz before she jerks it away. “Vodka tonic or something? You need to get topped off?”

Ah, there she goes. Right back up to threat level Black Watch Plaid. “N-no. Please. I’m-- I’m fine.”

Obi’s never been a big guy-- at least, nothing like the Big Guy, built like a wall and casting a shadow like one too. He’s tall, sure, but even at the top of his gains game, he’d been more wooden shed than brick house. But standing next to Doc now, watching her shrink away, her shoulders hiked into a citadel around her drink--

He’s feels huge. And not in a good way. Good thing he’s had plenty of practice at making himself small.

“Sprite?” he asks, settling himself against the wall. “Wouldn’t figure a party like this had a soda cooler.”

“Ah...” Her chin tilts into her chest, like somehow that’ll hide her blush better than the bad lighting. “No, just seltzer. They have some behind the um, bar.”

“Oh, they’re handing that out?” Back home they sure did-- and kept coolers stocked with a whole bunch of not-booze, for the people who weren’t interested in puking on the front lawn where Kiki Seiran could see them-- but he hadn’t gotten that sort of vibe from this branch of the frat.

“Not...quite.” Her mouth wiggles, like it’s a struggle to keep it shut. “But I did ask. Quietly.”

Considering how the current bartender is locked in deep conversation with a pair of size D’s, Obi can take an educated guess at just how hard it was for Doc to slip in and get a cup with Bar Bro none the wiser. “So is the plan to make like wallpaper for tonight, or is there actually something to do in this old pile?”

Her eyelashes flutter, and it’s stupid how fond he is of way they bat against her cheek, how all he can think of is the way they laid there after she came off that ladder, relieved that it was him that caught her. “Do?”

Ryuu isn’t the sort of kid who complains; he just logs all the things that confuse him out loud as if he’s some scientist in the field talking about mystifying monkey behaviors. Maybe to that kid he is, since every person he meets acts by some strange set of rules he never got the memo on. But as Obi watches Doc shuffle and shrink, her eyes darting around the room like a cornered gerbil, too small to do anything but tuck and run or maybe bite her way out, he remembers the way Ryuu’s eyebrows would tangle together when she left the room, his mouth all knotted up as he said, I can never tell what she wants.

Obi’d laughed at that; Doc was an open book to anyone with eyes. Sure, the little guy might need her to use her big girl words for her to get the point across, but anyone else could get it with a glance. Or so he’d though, until Chief told him, I can never figure out what she’s thinking.

It’s ridiculous; that girl keeps her heart plain on her sleeve for anyone that cares to see. But standing here, he gets it. His survival might have depended on being able to read a room from a twitch of an eyebrow, but regular people-- regular people have to know to look. Any Chad or Brad or Kevin here would take her batting eyelashes and coy reply as an invitation, but he sees the way her mouth teases at a grimace, the way her fingers roll at the rim of her cup. Just being at this party has her in a full-on chihuahua tremble, and now she thinks she might have to entertain him too--

“No pressure.” He doesn’t look at her when he says it, just lazily scans the room, like it doesn’t matter what she says. Like standing here all night sounds good too, as long as it’s with her. It helps that it’s true. “I just want to plan out my dance card.”

When he chances a glance back, her big eyes are too wide, mouth really flirting with that grimace. “There’s a dance floor in one of the parlors...?”

This girl is something else, that’s for sure. “I didn’t literally mean, I wanted to--” he shakes his head, stifling a laugh-- “Never mind. Just...didn’t His Highness mention something about a game room?”

“Oh!” Everything about Doc is all or nothing; she’s either gung ho or utterly uninterested. But now-- now she perks reluctantly; a morning glory that doesn’t know whether it sees the dawn. “Yes. There are a few pool tables back there, if I’m remembering right. Not bad ones.”

“Cool.” His shoulders slouch into a shrug, a casualty of being casual.“You wanna play a round?”

It’s a long shot; Doc’s jumpy and the last thing she’s gonna want to do is look awkward holding a stick just about as big as she is, but--

Her eyes light up; a quick spark, there and gone before Obi’s even convinced he saw anything at all.

“Well...” Her head sways as she considers, finally settling at a thoughtful tilt. “If you’d really like to...”

Obi huffs out a laugh. “I’m asking if you want to.”

“Oh.” Her mouth curls at an edge, an expression so mysterious it might as well be on his. Rather than hers, he means. Not...anything else. “I guess I could try a round.”

*

Obi’s only a player of opportunity, not a pro, so when it comes to grading tables he’s all by feel, not science. But he’ll admit: the velvet’s smooth on this one; not pilled or piebald, but just the right amount to make a game more about skill than luck. Doc seems to approve too, running her hand along a bumper before she says, “I think this one could do.”

“If you say so.” He plucks the rack out from beneath it, catching balls as Doc rolls them down to him. “You ever played before?”

She hesitates, palm hovering over a yellows stripe before she bounces it down the felt. “A few times. Not, um, recently though.”

“No problem. It’s a quick game to pick up.” He’s careful to sound light, easy, like he isn’t do this just to keep her from having a nervous break in the middle of a kegger. “We won’t do any fancy rules.”

Her eyebrows bounce up, buoying near her hair line. “Fancy rules?”

He shrugs, more natural now that he’s not leaning against a wall like a tool. “Like, billiard stuff. Don’t get any weird ideas about it either-- it’s not because I’m going easy on you, it’s because I don’t remember them. And Señor Google doesn’t need to get involved.”

The hand she’s held out for his phone curls, falling back down to the wood finish. “If you say so.”

With a quick roll across the felt, he sets the triangle right on the little sticker. “What do you think? Do you want to break?”

“Me?” Her eyelashes flutter, stilling once her gaze falls to one of those little metal bits on the edge. “Are you sure you want me to do it?”

“’Course I do, Doc.” His mouth curves in his best won’t-melt-better smiles. “If you’re worried, I can always show you how.”

The offer’s meant for a demo, him at one of the table and her at the other, maybe even a side-by-side just so she can get the angles on it, but the second it’s out of his mouth--

Well, he’s seen movies before. Some guy that looks like Patrick Swayze sidles up to girl he’s with, wrapping his arms around her and pressing close, telling her to move from the hip or something. Just thinking about being close to Doc, closer than they were today in the library, sends a rush right down to his toes, pins and needles pricking in its wake.

God. He twists from the table, sipping at too-sour beer. Three months ago he had game for days, and now he’s struggling to put a piece on the board.

Not that this is what that is. He‘s got varied tastes, sure, but he knows what he likes in a girl: long legs and nipped waists, the sort of girl who smiles like she’s got a secret. A sexy secret. Not--

Not someone who wears a cardigan to a kegger, like she got lost going from the lab to the library. Not even if she smiles when she sees him, saying his name like she’s been waiting. Not even if she looks perfect in his hoodie.

Fuck. His eyes clench shut, trying to block out her smile, so bright where she sits on the floor. I’m glad it’s you, Obi.

He tossed back half his cup, wincing as the sourness washes over him, a cold track to his empty stomach. Two years ago, he would have been thankful for this shit, but now he’s been spoiled by Big Guy’s craft beers and Princess’s bottle snobbery that he’s not sure he can even choke down the rest. A real hardship when his usual plan for dealing with feelings is to black out instead of having them.

Obi shakes himself out like last week’s jeans. There’s no reason to get tripped up over a girl who unironically has to use Urban Dictionary, especially when that girls already has a boyfriend. Or at least, a friend who’s growing more and more boyfriend-shaped by the day. And that friend is the same guy who pulled him out of the garbage. He’s just not used to the attention, that’s all. Nothing more to it than that. Dick completely uninvolved. No reason to get all tied up just because--

“C’mon.”

It’s loud in here, bass pumping from one of the parlors down the hall and everyone getting talking at a volume that can only be termed ‘drunk-loud’ to make up for it. But even still, he hears that, a guy’s voice, almost too flat to sound real. Hears it real clear, since it’s coming from just across a short stretch of felt.

“No need to play games.” Obi’s seen this guy before; just this morning this bro clipped him walking out the door, eyes giving off that really dead fish vibe as he glared back. Hadn’t given off much of an impression, but now that he’s looming over Doc, using every inch of that above-average height, well-- Obi’s noticing him now. “I can go get you something, on the house. Girl as cute as you shouldn’t be paying for her drinks, you know.”

Funny, last he checked drinks were free. At least as long as you had the right equipment below the belt.

“I’m-- I’m fine. Really. See?” She holds up her solo cup like it’s a talisman. “If I finish I’ll just, uh, find a soda.”

“You want a LaCroix?” He steps closer, driving Doc back a step. “Bitches love LaCroix.”

The asshole’s right: bitches do love LaCroix. But hearing this guy say that to Doc, to hear him imply she is one--

Well, it makes him itchy. The kind that’s usually solved by taking a swing and ending a night in the drunk tank.

But that’s not who he is anymore-- no, that’s not who Doc needs him to be. The last thing she needs is another complication, another hurdle to jump before she gives her presentation. The last thing she needs is to be doing it alone.

Obi draws himself up, stretching every last inch until he’s got that same big dick saunter Big Guy does as easy as breathing. Maple Leaf might be able to make it look friendly, like he’s just the boy next door who happens to be hung like a horse, but Obi-- Obi does what he does best: make it look dangerous. Like it’d be a real hassle to fuck with him.

“Hey babe,” he drawls, slinging a lazy arm around her waist. It’s not precisely natural; she’s small and he’s not, and it ends up being more of a slant from shoulder to hip. “You know this guy?”

“Ah!” Her eyes are wide when she looks up, too much white as she presses into him. “Obi. We were-- I was only--”

Yesterday’s Catch of the Day frowns at him. “We were just talking.”

“Cool.” Fuck, but he can feel her shivering. “I thought you were gonna show me how it’s done?”

He’s got a lot of balls-- Chief reminds him of that at least twice a day-- but however much that is, it’s not enough for him to shove his nose right into her hair, to really sell this bit. He leans in a little instead, curling his body around hers to make a nice little scene with as minimal touch as he can.

And still, she stares at him and goes, “What?”

Unbelievable. Doesn’t this girl know a rescue when she sees it? “You know. In pool?”

“OH. Right.” She twists back to Filet of Bro, her shaky smile all apology. “Sorry, I’m, um...”

“Here with me?” Obi offers and the same time she manages, “Busy.”

This girl’s going to be the death of him. Still, it works; the guy glances between them with his glassy eyes. Whatever he sees twists his mouth into a sneer.

“Yeah,” he mutters, turning away. “Whatever.”

*

It’s standard procedure to keep staring, to make sure this asshole feels the yeah keep walking glare against his back until he goes back to whatever hole he crawled out of. But that before Doc collapses, bracing herself against the table as her elbows tremble to hold her.

He doesn’t know what to do with this, whether he should stand back and pretend he doesn’t see her knocking knees, or-- or go right up and rub her back, tell her she’s not alone, the way he always wanted when he...

“Hey.” He slides up beside her, close enough for her to reach out, but not on top of her. “You want to get our of here?”

“N-no!” She shakes her head, her rough bob swaying over her shoulders. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Not to tell you your business, Doc,” he hums, leaning his ass against the table. “But you look like you could be doing better.”

“No, really.” Her hands brace on the top rail, pushing her upright with a gasp. “I can do it.”

“Counter point.” Obi lifts his most skeptical eyebrow. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I want to.” Her fingers curl over the bumper, and he see it: the moment that delicate jaw of her sets. Instinctively, he counts the windows. “I want to be okay.”

Weird hill to die on, but no one’s ever accused Doc of being normal either. “Okay.” 

“And I think...” With a single fluid motion of her arm, she works a cue off the rack. “I think I could go for a game.”

[confusedgoblin]

Candy you’re gonna kill me- I dont have that many moots ;-;

ANYWAY

C - cloud 9 (beach bunny)

O - one o’clock jump (count basie)

N - no children (the mountain goats)

F - farewell wanderlust (the amazing devil)

U - unraveling (the crane wives)

S - soap (the oh hellos)

E - exuant like the dawn (the oh hellos)

D - dear fellow traveler (sea wolf)

G - guillotine (Amanda waffles)

O - on the mountain high (the oh hellos)

B - be nice to me (the front bottoms)

L - liar (the Arcadian wild)

I - inkpot gods (the amazing devil)

N - notion (the rare occasions)

Now I only have like- seven mutuals so ;-;

@astrofishassist @fireladyofink @phoenixthefurb @flowerscentedartist @potat-soop @potatoreak and uh- @ing you again cause- hhh @candy-cryptid

Rules: pick a song for each letter of your URL and tag that many people.

Tagged by @sailforvalinor, and thank you this looks like fun!

Remember and Proclaim (Andrew Peterson)

All I Ask of You (Jackie Evancho)

Innocence (Nathan Wagner)

Níl Sé'n Lá (Celtic Woman)

I Still Need a Savior (Billy Sprague)

No Strings (Ed Sheeran)

Take Me Back Road (Tim & the Glory Boys)

How Great is Our God (Chris Tomlin)

Everything Sad is Coming Untrue (Jason Grey)

El-Shaddai (Amy Grant)

Voice of Truth (Casting Crowns)

Endlessly (Amaranthe)

Not Alone (Red)

I'm an Open Road (Paul Brandt)

Never Leave Your Side (Sam Tinnesz)

Good to Be Alive (Skillet)

Hoo boy, can I think of sixteen people?

@griseldabanks @kraytwriter @kingofattolia @catkin-morgs @clawedandcute @nerdychristianfanboy @steampunk-archer @sergeanttomycaptain @smhalltheurlsaretaken @scribblermerlin @authortobenamedlater @stainedleather @mrtobenamedlater @mrgartist @get-loved-nerd @a-fount-of-blessings (Ignore if this is a repeat tag. Unless you want to do it again. Up to you. :)

[mandoalorian]

Fluff #9 with Max Lord please 🥰

“You took all the pillows so I’m using you as one.” with Max Lord

AN: I loved this. I’ve missed writing fluff for my bby so much. Thank you for requesting this one. As someone who struggles to sleep, this made me very very soft. PLEASE REBLOG IF YOU ENJOYED READING.

Word Count: 1000>

It was 3:30 in the morning. The lights were out. Alistair was fast asleep. Maxwell was snoring his head off. But you? You hadn’t slept a wink. You kept tossing and turning, rolling over and groaning every two or three minutes.

You envied him, you really did. You could feel yourself shooting your sleeping boyfriend the evil eyes as he slept peacefully on six pillows. Six freaking pillows. He’d been complaining about having neckache from craning his head reading paperwork, so if six pillows was helping him, then you were glad. Only, he’d taken your three pillows and claimed them as his own.

His snores were shallow and he looked so pretty when he slept; bathed in the moonlight that sculpted his perfect features. You could watch him forever. But Gods help you, you were absolutely exhausted. You’d had a busy day with Alistair, taking him around the Smithsonian and walking him around the play park. Tomorrow would be a busy day too, as you were both planning on going to the aquarium. All you wanted, all you needed, was just a little bit of sleep.

Slowly and strategically, you tried to pull just one of the pillows out from underneath Maxwell’s head. Using all your might and strength, he barely moved an inch, the pillow staying put too. You cursed under your breath, crossing your arms over your chest and re-evaluating the situation.

You tried again, and again, until a sleepy Maxwell swatted your hand away and mumbled something incoherent. It was nearing four o’clock and you were running desperate.

Your boyfriend did always look... soft. And you spent plenty of times relishing in his warm embrace, whether it be hugs or cuddles or spooning. You liked curling up by his side and resting your head on his shoulder. Hell, you even liked lying on top of him.

Wait— you liked lying on top of him.

Unable to hide your smirk, you carefully pulled away the blankets and straddled him, before leaning down and shimmying into his chest. You were right. He was so warm, and your ear pressed against the beat of his heart was almost enough to immediately send you to sleep. Until...

“What the hell are you doing?” He asked, sitting upright and your body moving with his.

“Whoa.” you mumbled, looking up at Maxwell who was now tiredly rubbing his dark eyes. On instinct, his big arms wrapped around you and began to smooth out your hair.

“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching over to his nightstand to turn on the lamp.

“Mhm,” you nodded tiredly.

“Are you...?” Maxwell raised an eyebrow as he looked you up and down. You were still straddling him. This time he was smirking, rubbing circles in your thigh and his hand travelled up your silky nightgown. “Do you wanna? ‘Cuz I’m tired... but if you wanna...”

You scrunched up your nose and his implication and profusely shook your head. “No silly,” you groaned, leaning back down and nuzzling your head into his neck. “I’m tired too.”

There’s a brief silence. “Okay... and we’re you planning on telling me why you’re lying on top of me?” he questioned, continuing to smooth out your hair. He found the simple action so relaxing, and you did too.

“Well, since you asked,” you grinned, adjusting yourself slightly so you could get a good view of his face. “You took all the pillows so I’m using you as one!”

“I— wh—?” Maxwell moved his head and counted the pillows that were beneath him. “Oh darling, I’m so sorry. I hadn’t even realised—“

You hushed him, pressing a chase and gentle kiss to his soft lips.

“It’s okay,” you soothed. He went to pull out your pillows from underneath his head but you stopped him. “No, don’t,” you told him. “I just wanna stay here, like this.”

Maxwell smiled and nodded his head. “Okay then sweetheart, I love you. Try get some rest.”

“I will,” you promised. “Goodnight Maxie.”

“Goodnight my love.”

***

Permanent taglist: @paintballkid711 @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @xoxo-callie @stardust-galaxies​ @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal l l @castiel-barnes @honeymandos @rocketqueen @girl-obsessed-with-things @elena-myth @moth-guillotine @pedro-pascal-love @hayley-the-comet @pinkninja200 @maxiarapamaya @autumnleaves1991-blog @artsymaddie @harrys-stan @kennedywxlsh @cripplingmoon @cheekygeek05 @mrschiltoncat @rye-flower @theamuz @persie33 @sleepylunarwolf @martellthemandalor @pedro-pastel l @steeevienicks @rrtxcmt @saphic-susperia @beskarprincessjenny @readsalot73 @softmedics @jade10077 @dodgerandevans @planetariumx @pascals-cat @ajeff855 @spideysimpossiblegirl @smoldjarin

[dwellordream]

me after reading this chapter, ready for the stabbing and killing of the bourgeoisie to commence: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

It’s guillotine o’clock

[paperandsong]

Émile Henry (1872 - 1894) detonated a homemade bomb at the Café Terminus at the Gare Saint-Lazare in Paris on February 12, 1894. The bombing injured around twenty people, Henry shot at others as he tried to escape. One person died in the attack. Henry was executed by guillotine on May 21, 1894. Of note, Henry was born in Barcelona where his family was living in exile because of his father’s involvement in the 1871 Paris Commune. 

Gaston Leroux covered his trial and execution for Le Matin. How much of Émile Henry can be found in Leroux’s Erik? 

Translator Mireille Ribière suggests in her footnotes to Chapter XXVI: The Scorpion or the Grasshopper? that Erik’s concern with exploding the Opera at a time when it would be most full could have been inspired by Henry’s own testimony that he wished to kill as many people as possible. It’s likely Leroux would have witnessed Henry making these statements as he was reporting for Le Matin. 

Let’s look at Henry’s own words spoken during his interrogation. From Jean Maitron, Ravachol et les anarchistes. Paris, Julliard, 1964, translated: for marxists.org by Mitchell Abidor:

Q: On February 12 you entered the Café Terminus. A: Yes, at eight o’clock. Q: Your bomb was in your pants belt. A: No, in my overcoat pocket. Q: Why did you go to the Café Terminus? A: I had first gone to Bignon, the Café de la Paix, and the Americain but there weren’t enough people. So I went to the Terminus and I waited. Q: There was an orchestra. How long did you wait? A: An hour. Q: Why? A: So that there would be a bigger crowd. Q: And then? A: You know full well. Q: I’m asking you. A: I threw away my cigar! I lit the fuse and then taking the bomb in my hand I left and, as I was leaving the café, from the doorway I threw the bomb. D: You hold human life in contempt. A: No, the life of bourgeois.

Compare to the Persian’s narrative in the Scorpion of the Grasshopper chapter:

“The monster had given her until eleven o’clock in the evening. He had chosen his time well. There would be many people, many “members of the human race,” up there, in the resplendent theater. What finer retinue could be expected for his funeral? He would go down to the tomb escorted by the whitest shoulders in the world, decked with the richest jewels.” 

 Erik’s own words to Christine:

“Mademoiselle, to celebrate our wedding, you shall make a very handsome present to a few hundred Parisians who are at this moment applauding a poor masterpiece of Meyerbeer’s…”

Like some mix of Vaillant and Henry, Erik mixes violence and humor, cracking jokes and puns while explaining the maximum horror (a few hundred deaths) that will occur if Christine chooses incorrectly. 

Leroux witnessed the trials of Vaillant and Henry in person, but it is possible he was inspired by yet another anarchist bombing in Barcelona, at the Liceu Opera House on November 7, 1893. Twenty people were killed during the second act of the opera Guillaume Tell by Rossini. Santiago Salvador was executed for this crime, as well as many other anarchists who were arrested at the time. 

Émile Henry even references the Barcelona anarchists in the concluding statement of his defense speech:

You have hanged in Chicago, decapitated in Germany, garotted in Jerez, - shot in Barcelona, guillotined in Montbrison and Paris, but what you will never destroy is anarchy. Its roots are too deep. It is born in the heart of a society that is rotting and falling apart. It is a violent reaction against the established order. It represents all the egalitarian and libertarian aspirations that strike out against authority. It is everywhere, which makes it impossible to contain. It will end by killing you.

It seems there was a grim game of chess at play between anarchists and the governments they sought to overthrow. A bomb is detonated, an anarchist is executed, another bomb is planted in the name of the executed anarchist, and so on until we reach Sante Geronimo Caserio who captures the king. That will be for tomorrow. 

*Feel free to leave a comment - I’d welcome any thoughts on this. What connections do you see between anarchy and the Phantom of the Opera? 

[byronic-bastard]

Sounds like eat the rich o’clock

[insanefamiliars]

Daughter of Evil

(free to use with credit!)

Once upon a time and oh-so-very long ago

‘Twas a kingdom dwelling beyond the lowest of lows

And in it, a ruler who had it in her tiny hands

A fourteen-year-old princess living out a life so grand

The fanciest of furnitures bedazzled every room

A servant who bore her face fueled her little spree of doom

Josephine was the name of her favorite horse

If she needed something, she’d simply take it, of course

So it seems that our money’s running a bit short?

Just take it from the peasants littering my filthy fort

And if you so much as dare to curse my lovely name

Then you’ve sealed your doom before it even came!

“Now, kneel to me, peasants!”

Underneath the moon

An evil blossom croons

Becoming a bleak rainbow where the other side’s your doom

As for those pitiful weeds made to waste away

they’ll rot and help me shine as the beautiful bouquet

-

Somebody had managed to catch the love of the girl

A man of blue who lived in a country across the world

But, rather than her, the man instead fancied

A woman of the neighbor’s, hair a dazzling shade of green

Brimming with envy, the princess screamed and cried and whined

Until her minister made it as summoned, right on time

Tears dotting her eyes and a big scowl on her face

She hushed, “Go exterminate the land of green disgrace.”

Flames crackled into the night as all the houses fell

Horrors bestowed to voices who no longer lived to tell

Out of the spotlight and quietly sipping her tea

The princess watched the destruction with glee

“Oh, it’s teatime!”

Underneath the moon

An evil blossom croons

In a maddening spectrum where you fall to your doom

And although the rose is the prettiest far and wide

It’s thorns go to show that it was all simply a lie

-

Tired of her antics, the people would arise

To put an end to her treachery and lead her to demise

At the head of the riot, an armor-clad knight

A girl donning red armor who never turned down a fight

Word of the revolt spread around like a disease

Until angry-eyed citizens were flooding every street

Tired from the Green War, the guards were all on Break

So seizing the palace would be a piece of cake

‘Twas only a short while ‘til security was breached

The Servants ran way and abandoned their loyalties

And as for the princess, sulking on her throne

She was sent and locked up all alone

“Unhand me, you filthy animals!’

Underneath the moon

An evil blossom croons

With a saddening glimmer reminding you of your doom

The paradise that she built for herself on evil beams

Watch as it breaks and bursts apart at it’s very seams

-

Once upon a time and oh-so-very long ago

‘Twas a kingdom dwelling beyond the lowest of lows

And in it, a ruler who had it in her tiny hands

A fourteen-year-old princess by the name of Riliane

3 o’clock was when the plot would be resolved

At the hands of the church tower standing great and tall

Left to rot in jail, the princess was weeping

Saddened that she’d never see the day she’d turn fifteen

Alas, her time to live finally runs out

As the grand echo of the church bells were echoed out

To the people watching her she didn’t bat an eye

In the guillotine, she made her final cry

“Oh, it’s teatime!”

Underneath the moon

An evil blossom croons

Becoming a bleak rainbow that illuminates her tomb

Whispers of her sin shall go down in history

The Daughter of Evil and her not-so-happy ending

[luamaya]

Songs I Like

People Ii: The Reckoning- AJJ

Sleepwalking- The Wild Life

Honeydew- Small Talks

Graceless- The National

Humans- Big Thief 

Sleepy Tigers- Her Space Holiday

Cafeteria- Frankie Cosmos

Two Beers In- Free Throw

Waves- Beach Bunny

The Move- Laura Stevenson

Cody’s Theme- AJJ

Lemon Boy- Cavetown

Motion Sickness- Phoebe Bridgers

I’m Already Gone- A Day To Remember

Lost Cause- Beck

I Am So Mad at You- AJJ

Neutral Spirit Hotel- Local News Legend

Lua- Bright Eyes

Here Comes the Anxiety- The Wombats

Dammit- blink 182

This is Home- cavetown

Fish Fry- Slaughter Beach, Dog

Brave as a Noun- AJJ

Sea of Love- Cat Power

Living Room, NY- Laura Stevenson

School Globes- Removebeforeflight

Prom Queen- Beach Bunny

The Girl- City and Colour

A Moment of Silence- Toh Kay

The Internet Is Everywhere- Jeff Rosenstock

Acolyte- Slaughter Beach, Dog

Barbie- Lili Trifilio

Mega Guillotine 2020- AJJ

is your bedroom ceiling bored? (feat. Cavetown) - Sody

In the Aeroplane Over the Sea- Neutral Milk Hotel

Bottle Rocket- Lili Trifilio 

Would You Be Impressed- Toh Kay

Better By Myself- Hey Violet

Emotional Anorexic- Svavar Knutr

First Day Of My Life- Bright Eyes

Shoegazer- Beach Bunny

Bad Bad Things- AJJ

929- Halsey

Nothing Gets Crossed Out- Bright Eyes

You Swan, Go On- AJJ

Headless Horseman- The Microphones

You- The Pretty Reckless

Hate, Rain on Me- AJJ

Break My Own- Taylor Bickett

6 Weeks- Beach Bunny

Garden Song- Phoebe Bridgers

Linda Ronstadt- AJJ

A.M. 180- PUP

Dear Sergio- Toh Kay

Saint Bernard- Lincoln 

when the party’s over- Billie Eilish 

Get Bummed Out- Remember Sports

July- Beach Bunny

Holocene- Bon Iver

Take Me To The Riot- Stars

A Line Allows Progress, A Circle Does Not- Bright Eyes

Nosebleed- Tigerwine

Suffice- Born Without Bones

Papercut- Linkin Park

Blonde Hair, Black Lungs- Sorority Noise

Satellite- Guster

This Charming Man- The Smiths

A Part of Me- Neck Deep

Timothey Leary- Wilco, Bright Eyes, They Might Be Giants

Favourite Tune- The Swellers

Tiny Vessels- Death Cab for Cutie

Counting Stars- One Republic

Situations- Escape the Fate

World- Citizen 

The Quiet That No One Ever Knows- Brand New

5 O’Clock- T-Pain, Lily Allen, Wiz Khalifa

Days Were Golden- Sunny Day Real Estate

R U Still There- Chris Farren

Samson- Regina Spektor

Such Small Hands- La Dispute

...For Anyone- Mat Kerekes

The Summer Ends- American Football

I’ve Set Sail- Toh Kay

Girls- MARINA

Bang On The Door- Jeff Rosenstock

Bad Day- Daniel Powter

Writing On The Walls- Underoath

The Memory- Mayday Parade

Cut Your Bangs- Girlpool

She’s A God- Neck Deep

Future Me- Worriers

Jet- Citizen

back again- flor

Call Me Baby- Beach Bunny

Calling All Cars- Senses Fail

2009- The Swellers

Breaking the Habit- Linkin Park

What’s at Stake- The Swellers

Out Like a Light- The Honeysticks

Swear To God The Devil Made Me Do It- The Front Bottoms

The Widow- As Cities Burn

Trap Queen- Fetty Wap

Baby I Love You- Ryan Adams

dragon eyes- Adrianne Lenker

Passion Fruit Tea- Retirement Party

Reptilia- The Strokes

Spare Change- Just Nick

Sarah- Alex G

Calendar Girl- Stars

Boss Bitch- Doja Cat

Haven’t Had Enough- Marianas Trench

Get Ghost- Mark Ronson

Poe- Stick and Poke

End of Time- Bad Moves

Beautiful Day- U2

June 21st- Jeff Rosenstock

Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous- Good Charlotte

Inside My Head- The Swellers

Sick Boy- The Chainsmokers

In Another Life- Ashlee Simpson

hope is a dangerous thing for a women like me to have- Lana Del Rey

Look After You- The Fray

Fall Right In- Beach Fossils

Don’t Let Them See You Cry- Manchester Orchestra

Animal- Miike Snow

Blood In Your Mouth- Colour Revolt

You Are a Memory- Message To Bears

Handclap- Fitz and The Tantrums

Stranger- Rarity

Sleepless- Girlpool

Bruises- Lewis Capaldi

Two High- Moon Taxi

Cattails- Big Thief

If I Tremble- Front Porch Step

When We Were Young- Adele

Look What You Made Me Do- Taylor Swift

Young Folk- Peter Bjorn and John

Where the Buffalo Sleep- Sik Oheso

Ripcord- Real Friends

Rearview- Beach Bunny

Do You Really Want To Not Get Better- Joyce Manor

Somewhere I Belong- Linkin Park

Don’t Let Me Down- The Chainsmokers, Daya

LTCTLYBP- Pet Symmetry

hate u love you- Olivia O’Brien

Black Cat- Mayday Parade

Alice and Gertrude- Nana Grizol

American Lies- Pennywise

Second Letter From St. Julien- Sorority Noise

Stale Device- Girlpool

Be Nothing- Beach Fossils

Can’t Stop- Red Hot Chili Peppers

Piece of Me- Britney Spears

Would You Be So Kind- dodie

buzzcut- lovelytheband

Better Than Revenge- Taylor Swift

She’s A Lady- Forever The Sickest Kids

Lessons- Beach Fossils

Here’s a link to my playlist if anyone is interested:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4jAli1LWjjPmehumgt52bY?si=HgM-dd04T9q_FEDsjqZTaQ

[theannecordeliashirley]

Hi~~~

Where Did We Go Wrong from the Addams Family Musical (I’m sorry, so so sorry)

“Somewhere in between guilt and guillotine we forgot to notice that our daughter lost her way”

To make up for that one I did another:

It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere

“My boss just pushed me over the limit I’d like to call him something”

That was my theme song for my boss at Panera. Oh how I hated that man

[summers-even]

Writing Overview - 2019

Last year was a huge year for me - I started my writing blogs @drowning-in-dennor and @hanas-helltalia-house, and with their creation my passion for storytelling has only grown. I’d like to take this time to look back at my old works, from January to December!

January - Solitary Pathos (Unpublished)

  Margaret’s blood runs cold. At the corner of her eye, she sees the nearby guillotine at the church, just a few footsteps away. And a pair of guards, pushing someone out of a wooden cart. 

  A someone with the soulful dark eyes and serene face that Margaret has looked into all too many times. 

  She wants to scream, to jump out of her seat, to push Jennifer out of hers and plead for forgiveness. Valley’s hands are tied back, her head bowed. She does not look at the guards, or the crowd, or the nobles. She does not shake, or cry, or plead. Margaret’s lover is slowly escorted to the deadly platform with quiet acceptance. 

  Something keeps Margaret in her seat and keeps her from snapping. Probably the gaze of Jennifer, spiteful and malevolent, that threatens the same fate if she steps out of line. 

  The princess nods at the black-garbed executioner, who pushes Valley to her knees and places her head right beneath the blade. She is not provided the mercy of a blindfold.

  Margaret is motionless, rooted helplessly in her seat as the executioner pulls on the rope of the blade, drawing it up high. Jennifer almost appears to have a smirk on her face. 

  Valley draws her head up the moment before the blade whistles down, giving Margaret one last, loving smile. 

February - Clear Your Mind (Unpublished)

  9 a.m., a meeting with your boss. 11 a.m., a talk at the local kindergarten. Use your human name, Lukas Norsson. 12 p.m., lunch with Arthur and Aleksander, and make sure to bring those interesting books you found. They’ll get mad if you don’t. 1:30 p.m., complete that stack of paperwork. Don’t forget to send those documents to Germany. 4 p.m., supervise the building of the new school. 6 p.m., a meeting with the Nordic Council, then dinner. 

  Norway runs his schedule through his head one last time while packing his bag for the day. Each notebook, each sheet of paper, each folder drops into the bag neatly, before he scoops up his bag and heads downstairs. He checks his reflection in the mirror once (is your hair neat?), twice (your shirt is wrinkled!), thrice (is your clip polished?), before he deems himself presentable. Putting on his shoes, he slings his bag over his shoulder (but not before checking that he’s brought everything), grabs his coffee and leaves.

  The meeting with his boss goes well enough — he’s lucky that the coffee manages to wake him up after a stressful, sleepless night. He leaves at ten o’clock (is that enough time for me to catch the bus?) and heads for the kindergarten.

March - Saga Ills (Published)

  Mette opens the door of his cell, holding rope in her hands. “It’s time to go.”

  His hands are tied behind his back, and the blonde leads him out into the light. He does not speak.

If they laugh or jeer or they plan your demise,  (Poised above my kin with its gaping maw of steel,)

  The people are shouting. Some are jeering. Some are throwing stones, all of them deftly deflected by the Norjon King. Mette pushes him to his knees and places his head into the guillotine. She apologises. He does not speak.

I shall fight for you, the most loyal of your court,  (And uncaring still, your gaze is cast up high,)

  The blade screeches as Mette draws it up high. His eyes scan over the crowd. They do not show sympathy, except for somebody at the very front.

  Her face is mostly hidden by a hooded cloak, but the shining eyes are familiar. She is crying, but notices when he tries to make eye contact with her. 

  Sula tries to smile, and he smiles back. He still does not speak.

So please smile, for you’re the fairest of them all!  (And in your final moment, you say my favourite line!)

  The blade falls with a deafening whistle, and he shouts the line that once delighted Sula.

  Then the blade cuts into his neck and he sees no more.

April - The Wolf Who Fell In Love With Red Riding Hood (Published)

  He starts to hum. He swings his basket a little, and smiles.

  The smile fades when Tino hears leaves crunching behind him. He turns.

  The boy from last week is leaning against a tree, staring at him with those scary green eyes. To Tino’s horror, he starts walking towards him.

  Holding the basket like a lifeline, Tino takes off again. His legs ache and the cold air hurts his throat, but he runs. His heart thumps wildly, so quickly that he can hear the blood pounding in his ears. Don’t let him catch me, don’t let him catch me, please, where’s the village!?

  The ground flashes before him. 

  Tino drops the basket and throws his arms out. He lands on the ground with a thud, pain rippling through his body.

  “Ow…” Tino rolls over to sit on the ground and pulls his knees up to his chest. At least my knees hit the ground and not my face.

  Footsteps sound, and Tino looks up. His stomach sinks.

  It’s him.

  Tino inches backward, his blood running cold with terror. He follows, steps slow and steady. “P-Please don’t hurt me!” He tries to say, fighting back tears. “I won’t run into you again, I promise!”

  He stops walking, instead crouching down in front of Tino. His eyes, somehow, look slightly less scary. Wordlessly, he points to Tino’s scraped knee. Before Tino can speak, the boy tears off a strip of cloth from his dark cloak and tugs at his leg.

  “Huh?” Tino stretches his leg to lie flat on the ground. “Do you want me to do this?”

  The boy nods. He wraps the strip of cloth around Tino’s knee and over the wound, knotting it. 

  “Oh!” Tino runs his fingers over the makeshift bandage and tugs at the soft cloth. “Oh, um… thank you.” It’s better than the bandages that Mother ties, he thinks. And my knee doesn’t hurt too much any more.

  By the time Tino gets to his feet, the boy is already gone.

May - Celebration (Published - My first story at drowning-in-dennor!)

  The two of them shut the door to Norway’s bedroom and sit, side by side, on his bed. Denmark speaks first, his normally loud voice now soft and gentle. “Happy birthday, Norge.”

  Shyly, Norway inches closer until there is no space between him and Denmark. He rests his head on the taller’s shoulder, eyelids drooping in exhaustion. “It’s been two hundred and two years,” he murmurs.

  “Hmm?”

  “Two hundred and two years, since my Constitution was signed.” His eyes close in contentment when Denmark wraps one arm around his waist. “It feels like such a long time ago.”

  “Time really does fly, doesn’t it?” Denmark laughs. “It seems like ages ago when I called you at midnight.”

  “Oh, that. Well, I’m tired again.”

  “Don’t go to sleep yet. I haven’t given you my present yet.”

  Norway straightens up a little, staring into Denmark’s bright blue eyes. “Oh?”

  Before he realises what’s happening, gentle fingers curl under his chin and lift his face up, and Denmark seals their lips in a kiss.

  “I love you,” he whispers against Norway’s lips.

  “I love you too,” Norway whispers back.

June - Night Sky (Published)

  The park is next, and the two approach it with joined hands and cheery conversation. They sit on a bench with malt crackers from street vendors and talk, conversation straying from silly younger brothers to recipes to an intense debate about just how the Renaissance came to be. Vincente’s argument on the Crusades is cut off when Madeline leans in to kiss him, the gesture sweetened by malt syrup and making his next point fade away before he can say it.

  But all talk of Renaissance and revolution disappears when Vincente’s phone rings, bringing a call from Yao at exactly 12:00a.m., like the clock striking midnight after a ball.

  Except there’s no glass slipper left behind.

  They return to the apartment to find it dead quiet, everyone else probably in their bedrooms. The door swings closed behind them and, exchanging smiles, head for the guest room, where Madeline stays. Her suitcase is still half-unpacked, boxes of cookies and other souvenirs strewn across the floor. Vincente watches as she clears up the mess and digs around for a clean set of clothing, then walks past him for the bathroom. “I’m going to go take a shower.”

  So he goes back to his own room, cringing a bit at Leon’s snoring on the way and closing the door. His curtains are still open, and the dark sky is dotted with lights, bright advertisement-flaunting billboards and sparkling buildings and little stars of apartment windows like his. The sky he showed Madeline over video call, the sky they strolled under just minutes ago, the sky his girlfriend is so amazed at.

  He thanks the sky, the sky that cloaks the city that never sleeps, for bringing out the most beautiful part of Madeline: her eyes, bright and blue reflecting the noon sky and deep and soulful mirroring the night sky. And he thanks his home city, for making Madeline laugh and smile in a way he can’t. He thanks everything that makes Madeline happy: his siblings, the bakeries, the books, the world itself.

July - Rosenhave (Published)

  The guard turns.

  He launches.

  Stellan hitches up the skirt of his gown and dashes across the path, jumping up the gilded iron gates and scaling it before the guard can turn around again. He lands on the soft grass, dusts the soil off his slippers and straightens up, heading deeper into the garden.

  The garden is all red — soft, pale stargazer lilies, crimson azalea like little bunches of red fabric, delicate Danish orchids that remind Stellan of vermillion bells. And, at the very end, a rosebush with beautiful, blood-red blossoms dotting the thorny branches.

  He feels out-of-place in his blue garments and dull accessories, like a pebble among diamonds. He strokes his pendant, his most valuable possession, pensively as he waits.

  Clank, clank, clank.

  Creaking footsteps near the castle entrance. The door creaks open, and out steps an armoured boy. The scabbard attached at his waist knocks against his fauld, and the visor of his helm flaps as he takes it off, revealing messy golden hair, glittering blue eyes and a bright smile.

  Stellan does his best to look annoyed, placing his hands on his hips and glaring at him. “You’re late, Henrik.”

August - Home (In progress)

  The city of Macau never slept, and neither did Vicente.

  His brother told him of how he, as a baby, would stay up for hours, staring out the window at the street lamps and billboards through his crib with wide eyes. Vicente didn’t remember much about Macau except for those lights, shining like stars even when the clock struck midnight. They were such a stark contrast from his brother Yao, who had eyes like pools of ink that always twinkled in the night.

  One night, Yao had scooped him up from his crib and carried him, grunting from his weight, to look out the window and into the night. “Look,” he’d whispered in his accented Cantonese, “look at where we are. It’s huge, isn’t it? When you grow bigger, Mother and Father will take us out there, and we’ll walk and walk until we know this place like the back of our hands.”

  He told him a story another night, under the soft glow of Vicente’s night-light. “Before you were born, Mother, Father and I lived in Beijing,” he’d said, “and it was nothing like Macau. The nighttimes were always dark, and I don’t think anybody walked in the streets after sunset. This is far more beautiful, don’t you think?

  Yao spoke to him like that almost every night, sitting by his crib and talking. He remembered Yao saying once, when he was almost two years old, “Mother made us egg tarts today for dessert. One day, she’ll teach me how and we can eat them together, while walking through the streets. We’ll buy books in that new bookstore that opened up nearby, and then play in the park.”

  He helped Vicente towards the window and pointed at a particularly bright building. “Do you see that? That building is called the Venetian. I heard that the inside looks like a castle, and a river runs through it! We’ll go there as well, and we can ride boats on the river and pretend to be princes.”

  That day never came.

September - Romeo and Mercutio (Published)

  “Love,” Francis muses, “is love a blessing or a curse? It takes, it hurts, it kills, but with it comes new life and changed man. People do insane things in the name of love, whether good or bad. Tell me,” he asks himself, “when the Lord allowed us to love, what type of gift was it?”

  “Love is love.” Basch sets down a plate of flan on the table. “Simple as that. Love is something nice that one person feels for another. No blessings, no curses, no nothing.”

  Dramatically, Francis sighs. “Oh, how you wound me, Zwingli. Seeing love as something so mundane and technical… I’ll bet you’ve never been in love before.”

  “And so what if I haven’t?” Basch retorts, “my parents loved me. It was nice. There was nothing taken, nothing given, nothing changed nor anything hurt. There weren’t any dramatic sacrifices like in those love stories you read too much. That’s all love is to me, and all love is in real life — something nice.”

  Francis bites at a spoonful of flan. “Nice, nice, nice. Is that all you can say about the most beautiful thing in the world? Why not ‘radiant’, ‘elegant’, ‘pretty’, some lovelier words than plain old ‘nice’?”

  Basch rolls his eyes, tired of his antics. “Because I don’t need flowery words to describe love. Love doesn’t hide behind snobby vocabulary. Four letters and that’s all. Easy as pie.”

  Taking another bite of flan, Francis stares out the window. “How I wish love were easy. Alas, unrequited love is as painful as a blade digging into one’s heart, and there is nothing one can do about it.” He sighs. “When you’re pining after the most stunning person you’ve ever laid your eyes on, knowing that nothing can bring them to love you back, that is pain worse than the blow of a sword.”

  “You’re talking about Erika Vogel, aren’t you?” Basch asks, “the Queen.”

  He doesn’t reply, continuing to gaze wistfully out the window. “Untainted by the cruel world, pure and immaculate unlike anything else in this kingdom. Compared to them, I am nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Basch repeats, “you’re the King of the entire Diamond Kingdom. You’ve run the kingdom peacefully for, what, ten years? You could have anyone you want.”

  “If only it were so simple, Zwingli.” Francis closes his eyes. “If only.”

October - Game Of Love (Published)

  Denmark drops to his knees, kissing Norway as he does so. “Oh, don’t lie to yourself. You know why you fuck me like this, why you touch me this way.”

  “Do I really?” Letting Denmark cradle him, Norway arches an eyebrow. “Enlighten me, Denmark. Just why do I touch you like this?”

  “Well, maybe it’s because you feel something. You know, something like a little spark, a flame, a - “

  “Love.” Norway reaches out a trembling hand to caress Denmark’s face. “Maybe it’s that.”

How’s that? You like that, don’t you? Well, Denmark, it looks like I’ll be with you from now on. Is that shocking? I won’t push you away, don’t worry. Why? Well, it’s simple. You’re the only one…

Who I truly love.

…

  Jos puts the script back down, staring at it. “Well, that was… a journey.”

  “Don’t say that, Jos.” Francis grins, flipping through the pages of his copy. “I think Kiku did a lovely job with this, for somebody who’s never written a script before.”

  “A script?” Jos repeats incredulously. “This reads less like a script and more like some erotic fiction written by an overzealous author.”

  Francis kicks his chair. “Well, too bad. I’ve given the script to Jens and Eirik, and they’ll be playing it out two days from now.” He winks. “So I hope that it’ll grow on you by then.”

November - The Summer Side (Published - my proudest work yet!)

  Whatever he tries to say gets stuck in his throat. Stellan finds himself lost in Henrik’s eyes, the shade of the bright summer sky. For the third time since arriving at the fairy realm, he cannot speak.

  “How about you?” Somehow, for Stellan didn’t think it possible, Henrik closes the already-narrow distance between the two of them. Their lips are almost touching — it is practically an invitation for a kiss. “If I were to leave, what would you do?”

  A shudder, thrilling, riveting and perhaps even enchanting, ripples throughout Stellan. He clears his throat, but his voice is still hoarse with emotion when he speaks. “I don’t know,” he replies, “because wherever you go, I’ll follow along.”

  Right after answering, like he is possessed by the spirit of someone lovelier, more romantic and far bolder, Stellan teeters up on his tiptoes and kisses him.

  Henrik’s lips taste even sweeter, even more addicting than fairy fruit. They bring the scorching intensity of the summer sun, the balm of fountain water; they are softer and gentler than feathers. And though Stellan closes his eyes, stars explode before his vision as he sways, pure, untouched adoration igniting in the very depths of his heart.

  Stellan opens his eyes. It seems that all but Henrik has disappeared from his view and there is nothing else he can focus on, except the touch of his lips. 

  The sight of Henrik, after he pulls away, flustered and red-faced and devoid of his usual winning charisma is nearly amusing. Once again out of breath, Stellan tentatively reaches out to cup Henrik’s cheek, like Henrik did to him when they first met. Henrik seems to flush even deeper. “I — “ he stammers, “I, er, well.” He coughs. “Yes. Do — do you mean it? Do you, um, really, y’know, want to stay with me?”

  It feels nice to be the one with charming words this time. “I meant every word.”

  With a little gasp, Henrik grabs Stellan and cradles him to his chest, laughing joyously. Arms once again ‘round his waist, he spins them around and around, laughing still, and Stellan cannot help smiling along. It seems dream-like, fantastical — he has fallen in love with the fairy king, and the king loves him right back. 

December - The Soldier Who Challenged Fate (Published)

  With no intention to be anywhere near fires, nor to listen to the horrid toys and their words, Henrik limped away from his tittering tormentors on his solitary leg.

  Across the large table he went, until he came across a vast castle, a grand thing made of cardboard. It was very pretty, but even prettier were the little ballerina figures inside. They had dresses sewn from scrap cloth, and golden hair made of old thread.  Upon their dresses were lovely ribbon sashes, fastened with the shiniest little spangles. One of them, who stood at the very corner and away from her fellow dancers, didn’t look as charming as the rest. Her elegant face was marred by a stain of ink, right over her eyes. Just wait, though. She’s the most extraordinary of them all.

  One by one, the ballerinas fluttered out of their castle, their dresses bouncing. The ink-stained one stumbled out last. She nearly fell down, and she would have, if not for Henrik’s being in front of her. He held her steady with his arms, and looked at her face. She indeed was very lovely, despite the ink blinding her. Henrik gazed at her lovingly, and noticed the little words stitched at the hem of her gown — they read  “Linnea”.

  Linnea fumbled, reaching out for Henrik’s shoulders. She placed her hands there, and Henrik set his hands around her waist. She lifted her leg up high, so it appeared that she, too, had only one leg. And all night they remained like that, holding each other as the fire crackled, keeping them warm and happy.

...

I’d like to thank all of you for supporting me since my writing blogs were created. I’ve improved so much since January, and I know I have a long way to go before my writing is the best it can be. Until then, I’ll keep practicing, and I’ll keep writing for you all! Thank you for a lovely 2019, and let’s hope for an even better 2020!