#its vague on purpose because i like the idea that you can insert anyone into either role

[lilfoxay]

putting together my final portfolio for my intro to creative writing class and i have to review my stuff to write a reflection about it and honestly? the flash fiction piece i wrote was great before, but i like it even better after my revisions. im not normally super cocky about my writing (cautiously confident at best) but i reserve the right to be cocky about this one. (also pinging @raccoonfallsharder because i can and i don't need to justify it hehehehe)

the theme was "unexpected encounter," it's under the cut :>

Neon lights turned the rain to various shades of red and pink. It reflected in the puddles, in the slick-wet metal of the streetlamps, in your eyes when you recognized me, in my guilt when I recognized you. You stepped off the bus and opened your umbrella against the storm; I felt my grip around my own umbrella handle tighten. The bus rumbled off into the night, leaving us in a downpour of silence broken only by the pitter-patter of raindrops on pavement.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” This was incredibly awkward. At least you spoke first. “Thought you moved out of town?”

“Visiting family.” Your answer was blunt. I felt my insides shrivel up a little.

“Yeah.” Thank God for the rain, you couldn’t hear me gulp. “Look, about what happened-”

“Forget it.” I don’t know what I expected. Anger, violence, ignorance. You greeted me with dismissal instead; I’m not sure what would’ve been worse. “What’s in the past is there. Forever. No matter what happens now.” You continued on your path, but not before setting your hand on my shoulder. The scar peeked out from under the sleeve of your jacket; it’d healed well despite everything. “Just hope you learned something. And that you don’t repeat it.”

My words caught in my throat, your words ran freely around my brain. The white noise of the rain wasn’t enough to drown out the thoughts swirling in my head. A chorus of voices fighting to be heard, blaming me, absolving me, cursing and blessing me in equal measure. One cut in above the rest. A reminder.

I was supposed to catch that damn bus.

Flopping onto the bus stop bench with a sigh, I ignored the cold seeping in and wrapping its claws around my throat. The sting of tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, the constricting of breath left my lungs tight and aching. I saw myself in the growing puddle at my feet; I was the spitting image of a guilty man.

Neon lights flickered off in the night, leaving the rain an appropriately melancholy blue.

[maniculum]

The College of Grotesque Arts -- Week Four and a Half

For new people, I'm doing the Dungeon23 megadungeon project, basing each room on the marginalia of a different page in the 14th-century Luttrell Psalter. Previous entries in this project can be found here.

Posting this one separately since it’s the end of the month. So this post is finishing Level One, and Week Five will be the start of Level Two. Since the level is being completed, I’ll also be appending a random encounter table. (And that doors table I mentioned a while ago.)

Content below the cut.

Room 1.29: f.27r

This room also has a lot of bones in it, but unlike the leopard and lion rooms, these bones aren’t just here as leftovers — they’re enrichment. Like a meat pumpkin. The Caretakers actually occasionally move bones from other rooms into this one. They’re piled up all around the walls. There’s a noticeable overabundance of human skulls; in fact, if I ever go back and edit this whole mess, I’ll be sure to note that all the dead explorers on this level are missing theirs because they’re here. Why? Well.

Meet the banspreck. You might think this is another case of Bonus Face Syndrome, but in fact the red face on top is the only one it has. The brown thing on the left is a human skull. The banspreck has two legs, a tail, and a long tentacle that it uses to manipulate bones. Skulls, by preference. When the banspreck inserts its tentacle into a skull, it is able to use its innate necromancy to cause the skull to animate and speak. 

Superficially, this appears to function something like speak with dead, but… chattier. The skull will talk about its life experiences and opinions at length, unprompted, and respond to questions as if it contained the soul it had in life. This is a ruse. The magical effect is just faking human speech, and if you hold a long enough conversation with it, you’ll notice it starting to contradict itself because it doesn’t actually remember what it said before. A bit like talking to an AI. The only consistency is that it seems to have a positive attitude, especially towards the banspreck — it attempts to give the impression that the banspreck is something like a harmless pet and the skull is the one in charge. (It doesn’t hide the fact that the banspreck’s necromantic ability is what makes the skull move, but instead suggests that the banspreck takes direction from the skulls it animates rather than the other way around.)

Possible narrative to be pitched by the skull: So this critter here was made by the wizards as a possible way of escaping death, and has some inherent necromantic talent. But since it couldn’t find the wizards’ remains, it ended up just grabbing my skull when the Caretakers brought some bones in here for enrichment. Recognized it as a wizard’s skull, just not the right wizard’s skull. So now I’m kind of riding this thing around as a disembodied skull, which isn’t super convenient, but better than being dead, right? If you could help me get out of here and figure out a better option, I did leave some estates behind and I bet at least some of it’s still around…

The idea is that this curious situation will prompt anyone entering the room to drop their guard and approach the skull to speak with it & figure out what exactly is going on. (The skull will try and encourage this by taking on a friendly attitude and seeming vaguely uncomfortable about any weapons the PCs have out.) If the PCs can be maneuvered into the right tactical situation, they will discover that this whole puppet show is a hunting behavior. 

Another of the banspreck’s innate necromantic talents is the ability to animate nearby bones without the use of material components; it uses this to stock its lair with minions. When it feels the time is right, the bones around the walls will spring into action to ambush the PCs and block the exits. (Use any skeletal undead for this purpose, of a number and CR sufficient to be a genuine threat or possible TPK.) The PCs may have encountered these before; the banspreck occasionally sends them out to scout for food when it’s feeling peckish. These scout skeletons usually ignore the other critters in the dungeon; the banspreck is adapted to and prefers the meat of sapient humanoids. The feedings it receives from the Caretakers are enough to sustain it, but do not satisfy its hunger for humanoid flesh. Here are some stats — the banspreck is the most dangerous beaſt on this level (Caretakers excepted), so if the others have been a real threat to the PCs you might want to tone this one down.

Banspreck: CR 7, XP 3200; Medium Aberration; Init +1; Senses Darkvision 60ft; Perception +3; Auras Desecrating Aura

DEFENSE: AC 20, touch 11, flat-footed 19 (+1 Dex, +9 natural); hp 122 (9d8+81); Saves Fort +12, Ref +6, Will +11 Defensive Abilities Channel Resistance +2 DR 5/- SR 22 Immunities Aging

OFFENSE: Speed 30 ft.; Melee kick +8/+3 (1d3+2)

Spell-Like Abilities (CL 9; Save DC 15 + spell level) At Will: Ray of Enfeeblement, False Life, Ghoul Touch; 3/day: Vampiric Touch, Bestow Curse, Enervation; 1/day: Animate Dead, Waves of Fatigue, Create Undead. Special Attacks Channel Negative Energy (5d6, DC 17/23)

STATISTICS: Str 10, Dex 12, Con 20, Int 4, Wis 16, Cha 21; Base Atk +6; CMB +6; CMD 17; Feats Extra Channel (x3), Improved Channel, Selective Channeling; Skills Bluff +14 (skull only); Special Qualities Aberration Traits

SPECIAL ABILITIES:

Channel Negative Energy (Su): A Banspreck can release a wave of negative energy.  This energy can be used to heal undead or cause damage to living creatures (but not both).  A Banspreck heals or causes 5d6 damage to each creature of the type selected in a 30-foot radius centered on the Banspreck.  A Banspreck can channel energy 10 times per day.  Creatures damaged by the energy gain a will save (DC 17, or 23 inside Desecration) for half damage.  This is a standard action that does not provoke attacks of opportunity.

Desecrating Aura (Su): A Banspreck has a 30-foot radius desecration spell in effect which functions as if centered on a shrine of evil power.  Undead within this radius (including the Banspreck) gain a +2 profane bonus on attack and damage rolls and saving throws, as well as +2 hit points per die, and the save DC of channeled negative energy is increased by 6 (these adjustments are already included in a Banspreck's statistics block). This aura can be negated by dispel evil, but the Banspreck can reactivate it on its turn as a free action.  A desecrating aura suppresses and is suppressed by consecrate or hallow; both effects are negated within any overlapping area of effect.

Manipulate Skull (Su): A Banspreck can manipulate a skull in such a way that it appears to speak as though its soul has been called back into it. Its Bluff skill represents its ability to make this speech convincing through instinctual use of magic.

In a fight, the banspreck will rely on its skeletal minions at first and stay out of range of the PCs. It may take this time to cast false life — repeatedly, if it doesn’t think it’s needed in the actual fight. If the PCs seem able to resist the skeletons, it will start to use its ability to channel negative energy to heal its minions — or, occasionally, to hurt the PCs. If the PCs continue to put up a fight, it will bring its spell-like abilities into the fight. It only resorts to its actual physical attacks if absolutely necessary. If the banspreck is killed, the undead all de-animate.

If the PCs manage to escape, the undead will pursue them for a short while, but if it doesn’t appear that the PCs can be cornered or trapped, they will eventually give up and return to the banspreck’s lair.

The banspreck is a unique creature — i.e., it doesn’t reproduce and its necromantic talents keep it from aging, so there’s only the one. If it’s slain (which it has been a few times, by previous explorers), then a week later, one of the skulls it manipulated while alive will hatch like an egg and a juvenile banspreck will emerge, growing to adulthood over the course of a few years. Kind of like a combination between a lich and a phoenix.

Room 1.30: f.27v

This high-ceilinged room is inhabited by a flock of naddermice.

Snake bodies, mouse heads, bat wings. You may as well just treat them as odd-looking bats, though they can be Part Plant if you want. If you want them to be dangerous, perhaps they bite, and that bite could be a vector for disease. Or maybe they’re just chill. I dunno man, I’ve had a rough day and this page is giving me nothing.

Room 1.31: f.28r

Okay, that’s better. This page has plenty of stuff, but most of it is ruled out by my avoid-human-faces policy. Check this guy out, though:

Wild, right? He’s not here.

Anyway, the actual room. It’s large, with an unfinished dirt floor.

Burrowed into the floor are dozens of aesolls. An aesoll looks like a distorted, front-heavy, blue worm with a wide mouth. Kind of like a short, land-bound gulper eel. (Or “pelican eel”, as Wikipedia informs me I am meant to call them.) Folded up inside that “mouth”, however, are three appendages: two little grabby hands and a serpentine neck topped with a donkey-like head. When they are in their burrows, as they probably will be when the PCs enter, the worm-like body is entirely hidden, and the only thing visible to an observer is the occasional head or arm poking out to check on things.

This species has escaped to the world outside the dungeon (by, you know, burrowing), so a PC with Knowledge(nature) will recognize them. They’re considered pests in Ller Tul, as they consume plants fairly ravenously, and have a very inconvenient habit of using those little hands to grab at anything that passes by their burrows. In inhabited areas, they often breed in garbage dumps: they’re thoroughly omnivorous and eat pretty much any organic matter they can get their hands on. Like raccoons. They’re not hugely likely to try and eat a person, but they would if they could. 

Aesoll: CR 1, XP 400; N Diminutive Animal; Init +0; Senses Low-Light Vision; Perception +7

DEFENSE: AC 14, touch 14, flat-footed 14 (+4 size); hp 9 (2d8+0); Saves Fort +3, Ref +3, Will +0

OFFENSE: Speed 10 ft., burrow 10 ft.; Melee bite +3 (1d2-2) , 2 claws -2 (1d1-2); Space 2-1/2 ft.; Reach 2-1/2 ft.

STATISTICS: Str 6, Dex 10, Con 11, Int 2, Wis 10, Cha 8; Base Atk +1; CMB -5; CMD 5; Feats Alertness; Skills Perception +7

Tables

I can't figure out how to insert a table on Tumblr, so these are going to have to be in image form unless someone can tell me how to do it better.

Doors

The Doors table is pretty basic. If you have access to one you prefer, I suggest using that instead. This is just a bare-bones thing so I don’t have to pontificate on the nature of every friggin’ door in the dungeon. Note: if a door is specified as having a trap or other effect attached, you should assume that door is intact, and reroll if you get “absent”.

Random Encounters

Here’s the random encounter table for Level One. I recommend rolling on it frequently; since most of the results are more flavor than threat, using it often should help make the dungeon feel alive without making every moment a danger. It’s intended that you roll on it when your party enters a new passage, or the passage turns and a new section becomes visible, or if they stay in the same location for an extended period.

Note that if the PCs camp in the dungeon at night, they have a 100% chance of encountering the Caretakers doing their rounds.

Map

Here’s the map for the whole level, done digitally to clean it up a bit. I thought of using one of those dungeon-tile sets, but wasn’t sure which would be the best choice, so I just… didn’t. If anyone has recommendations for what to use, let me know! I’d love a recommendation.

And there’s the first level. Isn’t it nice? Yes it is. It’s also 44 pages long, not counting the images and tables because I don’t put them in until I copy/paste onto the blog. Also not counting the stuff on the surface, because when this started getting long I decided each level was getting its own document to keep the word processor from lagging later in the year when, if trends continue, this thing will be the size of a friggin’ book. I have a problem.

[caelumsnuff]

This fandom knows how to suck the fun out things sometimes lol like telling artists that they shouldn't draw the *listener* characters as femme (when they are *self inserts* lol and can be anything including femme) or getting mad at people for headcanon or rambling about the possible death of characters (like people know it's not gonna happen, but it's fun to talk about sometimes! and if they don't know it isn't gonna happen then who cares?? let people talk about whatever, it's not hurting you). Sometimes I feel like responding, but I don't and just block people instead, but I just don't get what's up with people telling others how to have fun in fandom.

Okay so i really ranted on this one idk i felt i needed to address some random thoughts that are like maybe barely tangentially related to this ask???

TLDR; i agree with you, we should just let people have fun in this fandom for fucks sake.

And thank you so much for this ask it actually felt really good to word soup all my thoughts on this, even if they’re semi-incoherent. I hope you have a lovely day anon💕

Oh yeah for sure. Fun that is even slightly outside the bounds of what is considered “normal” here is ostracized and punished.

I generally see people making OCs to act as the listener characters, or making self inserts, and thats so cool! Its a very unique aspect of this fandom tbh, and i genuinely love that!

Though I said (like a year ago) that i find it strange that sometimes people assert something about the listener characters themselves. Not their OC or SI, but the character. I think asserting specific illnesses or disorders or specific backstories onto characters that are barely characters is a little weird??? Its not like i have a problem with it persay, i just don’t particularly understand the thought process behind it. Cause like in my mind, theyre blank characters for a reason so asserting something about the character as they exist on the channel doesn’t make sense to me. I feel reading too deeply into their behaviors outside of what is explicitly stated and explained in canon kinda defeats the purpose of their place in the story to me. Like the difference between going “my Cutie OC was abused as a child and used their telepathy to read others minds and moods to keep themselves out of harms way from their abusers, and it is now impeding their relationship with Geordie as their coping mechanism is manifesting as abusive behavior” is different from going “Cuties [canon] behavior is because they were abused/autistic and dont understand social cues/relies on telepathy to navigate relationships.” Like one is a headcanon talking about your version of the character, and another is asserting something onto the canon character that isn’t there???

Idk i just dont understand this specific version of headcanons (directly onto canon listener characters as opposed to speaker characters who are actually fleshed out to one degree or another). But that is, still yet, just me complaining LOL. Aside from vague side eyeing that i do on this blog, i aint about to bother anyone or be confrontational about something i just find strange (though i guess “strange” or “weird” are loaded words to use, i really do just mean i dont understand it). Anyways! I still believe people should do whatever the fuck they want, so long as they’re having fun and not harassing others. I feel like a hypocrite to state that i find asserting things onto the canonical listener characters is strange, but i really dont care any more than i care about other perspectives/behaviors i am incapable of empathizing with/completely comprehending.

I think the idea of getting mad that someones self insert or OC is a specific gender is just….. childish??? Immature???? Some people are going to be men, or women, and getting upset that people make their self inserts the same gender as themselves is WILD!!!! Equally as wild to get mad that someone didn’t make their entire OC cast one gender…..

Its also equally as childish and self-centered to assert that the listener characters are canonically anything other than nonbinary people who use they/them, because all of Erik’s content is M4A and uses gender neutral pronouns for ALL listeners. Like going in someones inbox and screaming “THE LISTENERS ARE CANONICALLY ALL FEEEEEMALE!!!” (actual real example btw 💀) Is, aside from being idiotic and quite frankly embarrassing, just straight up wrong.

Let people treat their listeners how they wish to treat them, not everyone is going to imagine them the same way. Myself for example, all the listener characters are me. Its me with slightly different hairstyles, powers, and expressing different aspects of my personality. Im the spiderman meme every time theres a video with more than one listener present.

As for the death of characters thing, thats so wild lol. I’m gonna keep imagining a world in which the Redactedverse holds actual consequences and people die in it. Permanently. I will hold steady in my opinion that Milo and Lasko should have gotten slaughtered during Inversion and no one could even pry it from my cold dead hands.

Do what you want, use websites functions to your advantage to curate your experiences, and have fun.

And for the love of god dont harrass other people over this shit. How the fuck are some of these adults acting like 16 year olds 😭 dont they have bigger things to worry about??? I know for a fact i do

[thelordofdarkreunion]

Magnificent Scoundrels- Grand Tour

I decided to write about Thomas Drake and his crew for this one.  As usual, I do not own any other characters except Drake and his crew.  Enjoy the story.  

“I am not a good person, but I am an honest one.”

-Thomas Drake

“You said you wanted to take a tour of my ship, so, here we are.”  Drake gave an elaborate, formal bow.  “Welcome aboard the Apocalypse.  You all have your engineers with you?”  He looked around the group of, who did, indeed have all their engineers with them.  “Good.  Everyone is invited, and if you are able to replicate anything you see here from memory, then I think it’s yours, fairly won.”  Which cut right into the heart of why everyone had their engineers here.  

Drake turned into the hangar bay, beginning the tour.  “The Apocalypse is an Apricus Industries 745-class light cruiser, heavily modified by us, of course.  Originally named the Summer’s Light, it was renamed something more appropriate for a warship after me and my merry band of maniacs stole it during the Jerrick War.  It was, uh, well, upgraded, as I said before, and now includes reinforced shielding on the hull, better engines, best in class, as a matter of fact, heavy railgun batteries, more point defense batteries, and nuclear launch tubes, of which I am particularly proud of.  Unique amongst most capital sized ships from my home galaxy, it can enter atmosphere, a fact that I have come to appreciate in my line of work.  Now, this,” he waved vaguely at their surroundings, “is the hangar bay.  We only need a couple of shuttles, so for the most part, it’s open and used by the armsmen for training.  Speaking of which,” he nodded in the direction of a group wearing a collection of military-looking uniforms watching two of their number spar, “those are the armsmen.”  Drake gave a sharp whistle, and the armsmen stopped what they were doing.  Three of their number walked over to the Scoundrels, while the rest milled around, apparently taking a break from what they were doing.  

Drake gave the classic back-and-forth gesture that has accompanied introductions since the dawn of time as he called out the three individuals.  “Derrick Saul, commander of 1st Squad.”  The armsman furthest to the left, a deeply sunburn man with hair cut so short he may as well have been bald, gave them a polite nod.  “Jean Garang, commander of 2nd Squad.”  The armsman in the middle, a tall woman with exceptionally dark-hued skin and short cut black hair also gave a nodd.  “And Rilgaldis, commander of 3rd Squad.”  A massive reptilian alien, well over seven feet tall, gave them a salute.  “Scoundrels, Saul, Garang, and Rilgaldis.  Rilgaldis, Garang, and Saul, the Scoundrels.”  Drake gave a moment’s pause.  “Well then, now introductions have been made.  Why don’t you three tell my glorious compatriots exactly where you come from and why you’re galavanting across the galaxy with an unstable mercenary?”  Drake’s joking manner broke the formal and somewhat strained atmosphere.  The Scoundrels relaxed, and Saul grinned.  

“Fine.  I’ll go first.  Born on Europa, joined the 317th Federal Expeditionary Division.  I’m here because, well, you pay more than the Federal Army, Captain.”

“Same thing with me.  Born in Sudan, joined the Army, got put in the 5th Guards.  Drake pays more than the Federation,” said Garang.  

“And you, Rilgaldis?”

“Born into the Dracus Army, left, joined the Imperial Foreign Legion, left, joined you because you pay better,” said Rilgaldis.  

“Yes.  The three leaders of my armsmen.  Matter of fact, it’s a wonder you two,” he indicated Saul and Garang, “get along as well as you do.”  

“Wait, what do you mean by that?” asked Kirk.  Saul and Garang grinned at each other.  

“You see, we are on opposite sides of one of humanity's oldest questions.  Matter of fact, Garang, let’s settle this once and for all.  You all seem like you know what you’re talking about.”  The Scoundrels looked at each other, hesitant about what the question would bring.  “So, here we go, and I know that you’ll all agree with me: 9 milimetre Parabellum or .45 ACP?”  

“What?” replied Vir.  The other Scoundrels seemed to be equally bemused by the question.  

“Are you not a soldier or a weapons enthusiast?  Don’t pick up guns like the rest of us?”

“I was a pilot, now an Admiral.”

“Oh dear me, the flyboys have their heads so high in the clouds they don’t know the answer to life’s greatest mystery.  Any of the rest of you?  No?  Bullets don’t exist where you come from or something?”  Kirk, Shepard, and Cain shook their heads to the negative.

“.50 cal.”  Master Chief added his input.  Saul whistled.  

“Jesus Christ.  Although,” Saul walked up and compared his height to the Chief’s, “if anyone can handle a .50 calibre handgun on the regular, it would be the two meter guy made entirely of muscle.”  

“Wonderful.  Now that we have that out of the way, onwards!” exclaimed Drake.  The rest of the Scoundrels followed, threading their way out of the hangar and through the winding grey passages of the starship.  Most were neat, clean, and paneled with easily cleanable grey metal, although one particular passageway they crossed was under repair, the panelling ripped away to expose a myriad of interconnecting pipes and wires.  A mixed group of aliens and humans, all wearing grey jumpsuits, were hard at work, fiddling with various tangles of sparking wires.  A short woman jumped from atop a ladder where she had been perched, examining the ceiling, and offered Drake a vague salute.  

“We’re almost done, Captain.  Wiring in this sector should be back up in no time.”  She seemed to notice the group following him for the first time, and gave them a cheery wave.  “Tor Herald.  In charge of...well...nothing in particular.  We,” this was accompanied by a wave encompassing the various workers, “are unofficially known throughout the ship as the ne’re-doers.  Unspecialized specialists, jacks of all trades, masters of none, we’re the crew that keeps the Apocalypse running.  This ain’t a military vessel, so we’re just on as regular crew members.  Nothing to do with most of the money and explosions that seem to follow the Captain around.”  One of the wires in the background started to spark alarmingly.  “Ah, shit.  Love to talk, got to fix this.”  She ran to the problem, an odd-shaped tool in hand.  

“Best keep going, then,” said Drake.  He gave the group a ‘follow me’ motion, and led them deeper through the halls.  “I get crew members from all over the place.  Most of the armsmen and specialists are ex-military, but the crew...I have from all over the place.  Which I said before.  Don’t really know how else to put it.  Got crew members from Earth, Vorketh, Aequalitas, Narcan, Delstrovic, and everywhere in between.  Now,” he turned and gestured to a section of more pleasant looking and open hallways, “as your esteemed colleague Jack Cooper can attest, these are the crew quarters.  They are located throughout the ship, so vital personnel can sleep next to their stations, but the bulk of them are in this area.”  He led them past the crew quarters to a pair of large sliding glass doors.  “And this is what we call the weapons room.  All our personal weapons are created, reparied, and tested here.”  It was a brightly lit room covered in stark white plastic, but what drew everyone’s attention were it’s two occupants, who, although fiddling with various bits and pieces, seemed to be in the middle of a fierce argument.  

“You see, the problem with your theory is, at the very heart of the matter, you’ve got it wrong.  The purpose of a government is to help its people by any means it finds necessary,” said a short, lean, black-haired man in the midst of inserting a new power core into a plasma gun.  

“No, the purpose of a government is to protect its people’s rights and protect them from foriegn invasion.  Otherwise, it should leave them alone,” replied a muscular, brown-haired man of medium height as he tightened the bolts on a massive machine gun.  

“Ah, but the thing is, the government can help people.  And at the basic level, why would you not help people?  You’re a Christian, and it is at the core of your philosophy to help others,” countered the black-haired man.    

“Individually.  It is our duty to individually help other people.  You’re a student of history, and you know what happens.  If the government helps people in the way you’re suggesting, then it gains control over them, and thus should it turn bad, the common people are helpless.”  The Scoundrels filed into the room behind Drake as the two argued, apparently oblivious to their presence.  

“The core problem with you is that you’re just an ignorant, uneducated farm boy who’s clinging to a dying philosophy,” sneered the black-haired man.  

“And you are a stuck up city student who has absolutely no idea how the real world works,” shot back the brown-haired man with a vengeance.  

“You’re a stupid moron who follows people who will plunge the world into despotism.”  At this, the brown-haired man threw down his wrench and cracked his knuckles.  

“I’d be very, very, careful if I were you,” he warned.  The tension in the air was almost like a physical being.  Several of the Scoundrels standing behind Drake tugged on their collars as if to escape from an oppressive heat.  Kirk stepped forward as if to mediate, but Drake held out a hand to forestall him.  

“Or what?  What are you going to do?” replied the black haired man snidely.

“This.”  And before anyone could react, the brown haired man stepped forward, wrapped his arms around the shorter man, and pulled him close into a passionate kiss.  They broke apart, and upon seeing the shocked faces of their various watchers, both started howling with laughter.  

“Oh, you should have seen your faces,” said the taller of the pair in between wheezes.  The other man was clutching his midsection and had tears streaming down his face.  He made some sort of strangled gasping noise and grabbed the edge of a counter for support.  

“We got ‘em!”  He broke down into hysterics again.  “We got you!”  Drake merely rolled his eyes.  

“Everyone, meet Mark,” he nodded towards the brown haired man, “and Oliver,” this was accompanied by a wave to the black haired man, “Danis-Holden, two of my three weapons specialists.”  The two, still trying not to laugh, stood up straighter and nodded as they were introduced.  Noting the still bemused faces of the Scoundrels, Drake sighed.  “So, you guys want to tell them who you are, where you’re from, why you’re with me and what was going on here?”  

“Sure!” replied Mark cheerfully.  “So, I was born on Enlalda, a colony world on the edge of Federal Space.  It’s an agrarian planet, and most people there moved from the center of Federal space because of religious persecution.  Like ninety-ish percent of the population are old school Evangelical Christian conservatives.  I was born and raised on a farm; grew up as a...well, old school Evangelical Christian conservative.  Always liked to tinker with things, got really good at repairing vehicles and the various guns you’ll find all farmers have on colony worlds.  But, I always thought there was more to life than just farming.  I wanted adventure.  I wanted to do something with my life.  So, one day a mercenary starship shows up,” he paused his narrative for a moment and looked queringly at Drake, “wasn’t that the Helidon job?”  Drake rubbed his forehead.

“Oh.  Yeah, it was.  Now that was a weird operation.  But I digress.  Please continue.”

“Yep.  So, as I was saying, the Captain here showed up near where I was.  I heard he was looking for a weapons specialist, and I had some experience in that area, so I decided to offer my services, and you accepted, and I joined the crew.  And that’s where I met this idiot.”  He gestured at Oliver.

“Damn straight.  But before we get into that, I have to tell you my story,” replied Oliver.  “I was born on Tyvander.  Metropolitan planet near the center of Federal space.  I grew up in a middle class family near one of the bigger cities, Menvander.  Like a lot of people, I went to college there: majored in political science, minored in specialized engineering.  Unlike some planets, Tyvander isn't super rich or famous, and there is no specialized educational infrastructure there, so if you want to go to college, you pay for it.  As it turns out, being a political science major does not pay the bills, so when the Apocalypse showed up looking for a weapon’s specialist, which I was qualified for because of my technical skills and engineering expertise.  So I joined up, and my debts and old, boring life didn’t follow.  The University of Menvander is not going to hunt you down if you declare bankruptcy and go galavanting across the galaxy with a group of mercenaries,” he finished.

“I’ll pick it up from here,” said Mark.  “How shall I put this…” he stopped to consider for a moment.  “Oliver was already aboard as a weapons specialist when I got here.  We worked together, got to know each other, and, as it turns out, the phrase ‘opposites attract’ is a very true one.  I always had the feeling that I was, well...gay, but, considering where I grew up, I never told anyone.  Didn’t really bother me.  I was perfectly fine doing what I was doing, and never saw anyone who peaked my interest.  ‘Till I met him, of course.”

“I’ve always been a hardcore liberal, been gay, and known I was gay.  Got here, met him, got married,” said Oliver.

“Wait, how did that work?” interrupted Shepard.  “You guys are all mercenaries who don’t really have legal residence anywhere, so…”

“Ah, yes.  We had a ceremony on the ship.  Was one hell of a party, actually,” replied Drake.  “Legally though…” he pursed his lips in thought.  “We’re all registered as Guild citizens for legal and infiltration purposes, so that might count...but for the most part, no legal or religious ceremony.  Doesn’t really matter though, all things considered,” he said with a shrug.

“Yep.  So now we spend all day repairing and creating weapons while bickering about politics,” interjected Oliver.  “It’s fun, actually.  Still don’t know why you support that outdated philosophy and religion when it doesn’t allow for homosexuality.  Which, you are.”

“Just because one part of a philosophy is wrong, doesn’t mean all parts of it are wrong.  Plus, you’re a hardcore liberal who supports the right to bear arms.  Like, all forms of weapons,” replied Mark.

“Eh, good point.  Goes with the job, I guess.”  They grinned at each other.

“Deviant freaks?

“Deviant freaks!”

“Goddamn right?”

“Goddamn right!”  They gave each other high fives then went back to their work.  Drake sighed.  

“Okay.  Let’s continue.”  They passed through the weapons room and into more of the winding grey hallways.  Drake spoke up as he walked.  “I should have probably told you, but everyone on this ship, myself included, is kind of nuts.  You see, being a mercenary means you kill people for money.  It does not attract the most...uh...stable of individuals.  Stable people stay near where they were born and go to college, or to some other form of school, or join the military.  Stable people do not go running around the galaxy and get into all sorts of weird things with me.”  He turned back to the Scoundrels and suddenly grinned.  “And by that logic, none of you are stable!  Welcome to the club!”  He turned another corner and walked into an enclosed room covered with constricting panels of all sorts of strange dials, knobs, and buttons.  The area was lit by yellow bulbs enclosed in metal cages, and the floor itself was made of metal grating, allowing one to see a series of tunnels underneath it.  The entire room was pervaded by a low, incessant humming noise.  “Now, this is the engine room.  It’s a lot bigger than it looks, but we need all the panels to keep the reactor functional, so it seems rather enclosed.  The engineers should be somewhere around here.”  He sighed again and gave a whistle.  “Oi!  Where are all of you guys?”  Without warning, a grey-jumpsuited woman slid from a small rectangular access hatch beneath one of the larger panels.  

“Right here, sir!  Fixing the 5130’s.”  She had a round, cheerful face framed with wispy brown hair.  She grinned up at the Scoundrels.  “Well, well, well.  Looks like we have visitors, everyone!”

“Pleasure to meet you,” said a muffled, echoey voice that seemed to emanate from the ceiling.  “I would come down to introduce myself, but I’m a little busy at the moment.”

“Visiters?”  A blond haired man poked his head from behind another panel.  “Pleasure to meet you.  Engineer First Class Boweman, at your service.”

“Engineer Baily,” said the woman, who had at this point gone back into the hatch.

“Engineer Khatri,” came the muffled voice.  

“K’rik Vhle’krik,” said someone else.  A large, brown insectoid alien turned the corner.  It looked like a cross between a centipede and a lobster, and stood on six hind legs, with eight more waving in the air in front of it.  Its back was protected by a large brown exoskeleton, and its eyes were mounted on two stalks on its head.  Cain tensed, his hand going to his sword.  Drake noticed the movement, but said nothing of it and instead made introductions.  

“Scoundrels, my engineering crew.  Engineering crew, the Scoundrels.”  He turned and addressed the ceiling.  “Are you busy at the moment?”

“A bit,” the alien replied in an odd, unnaturally exaggerated American accent.  “We’re trying to reroute the cooling systems of the 5130’s.”  

“Well then, I shall leave you to it,” said Drake in response.  “Moving on.”  The group walked through the engine room and through another hallway beyond.  “I would introduce everyone, but the cooling systems are very important in making sure everything goes un-exploded.”  

They passed into a large room covered with science equipment and what looked like the shell of a large bomb sitting in the middle of the room.  A woman with frazzled brown hair, wearing a welder’s face mask and a leather apron and gloves was standing over a strange device, pouring a red liquid into a stainless steel beaker.  She finished what she was doing, flipped up the mask and smiled at the newcomers.  

“Jennifer Muelka.  Ordnance and explosives expert.”  

“The remaining third of my weapons specialists,” interjected Drake.  “Brilliant at all forms of making things go boom.  A little too brilliant sometimes.”  She smiled sheepishly.  

“I do try my best to be careful.”

“So, I’m interested.  Why are you here?” asked Shepard.

“Oh that’s easy,” she replied with a laugh.  “No one else will let me do what I do here.  I create all sorts of nasty things.  Plasma, napalm...nukes, on occasion.”

“You...you, a mercenary, have nukes on this ship?” asked Vir.

“Yes.  No one’s complained, because if I do use them, I use them correctly.  I am very proud to say that the number of innocent civilians we have killed with nuclear weapons remains zero.”  

“That’s...kinda reassuring?” 

“Hey, if you’re hiring me, you get the best of the best,” said Drake.  Leaving Muelka to her work, they moved on.  THey walked through one long, spacious, and brightly-lit hallway before they reached a gleaming set of double doors.  “Now this is the bridge.  It’s located at the center of the ship to prevent anyone from targeting and destroying it.”  The doors slid open, revealing a large, spacious room lined with all sorts of computers.  The area seemed to be further divided into subsections, each with a semi-circular area accompanied with a chair.  Large windows adorned the entire length of the bridge, and upon noticing this, Kirk frowned.  

“You said we were at the center of the ship.  So what are those ‘windows’?”

“Computer screens, showing the space surrounding the ship.  Wouldn’t be a proper bridge if you couldn’t see outside, would it?”

“Fair enough, I guess.”

“Now then.”  Drake rubbed his hands together.  “I would like to introduce you to the two most important people on the ship.  Sarah Ordelphine and Eric Richter.”  He gestured to a lithe woman of medium height with short cut black hair and a man wearing a grey jumpsuit.  He too was of medium height, and his hair was brown, straight and cut short to the scalp.  A large scar ran across his forehead, the relic of some forgotten fight.  They both nodded curtly at the Scoundrels.  “Ordelphine is my chief navigator and pilots the ship, and Richter is my second in command.  So, why did you guys join with me?”

“I was and am the best capital ship pilot in the galaxy.  The Federal Navy and all of the corporations I was with before didn’t recognize that.  You did and still do, Captain,” replied Ordelphine.

“Damn right.  You’d think we were in a fighter, with some of the maneuvers you can do.  And you, Richter?”

“I didn’t have anything to do at the time.  Joined you.  Never had a reason to look back.”

“Fair enough.”  Drake spun around the room with a theatrical gesture.  “And so, the grand tour of the Apocalypse.  Met some new and interesting people.  I hope you enjoyed it.”

Hope you liked it.  The scene with Mark and Oliver might have been a little awkward or weird, but I am firmly of the opinion that most people are trying their best, and you can still like, love, or get along with them if you disagree politically.  If you have any comments, criticisms, questions, or requests, feel free to contact me.  And remember to sit back and enjoy your day!

[azdoine]

@canmom

say... what is the canon for this homunculus... >///<' 

i ask bc transfem fic is an all too rare thing no matter the context and the figure of the homunculus is a very good one in most cases I've met it!

I mean, you can go and read it if you want, but IDK if “homunculus” was even the right word, or if you’d get anything out of reading my fanfic, or out of reading the fanfic that my fanfic was based upon, because this was an utter fanwank singularity of petty drama.

To make a very long story slightly shorter, I was spoofing a long-running play-by-post CYOA, a fanfic where readers could collectively decide upon the OC protagonist’s actions through first-past-the-post voting. Somewhat uniquely, the CYOA author explicitly invited his readers to use all of their collective knowledge and skills in making decisions, including not only their IRL expertise but their knowledge of the original canon that the fanfic was based upon; in this way, before the OC protagonist developed a personality and grew into her own character, the author even once went so far as to describe the protagonist as a kind of collective self-insert, a “blank slate avatar” of the forum on which this CYOA was played.

So the protagonist naturally became hypercompetent in many ways, if not in others, and she was able to intuit things she should have had no way of knowing. This was then justified in-setting with a strong implication that the protagonist was specifically purpose-built with revealed knowledge by and from a higher power, or even that the protagonist’s soul was a gestalt assembled out of countless other souls from a defunct alternate timeline.

Anyways, I liked this CYOA a fair amount for its own merits as a fix-it fanfic, but I was also interested in what seemed to me to be this amusing interplay between diegetic and extradiegetic story elements, right. (Because yes, I was the kind of person who e.g. thought it was SO DEEP AND CLEVER when Hussie had the carapacian exiles send commands to the SBURB/SGRUB players in Homestuck.)

Furthermore, there was a brief eruption of forum drama surrounding this CYOA some years back, when someone tore into it for having a female OC protagonist in a sapphic relationship with another girl, despite running on a voter base/reader base primarily consisting of heterosexual men; I ignored the vitriolic “men fetishize lesbians and that’s why it’s ok for me to use transmisogynistic slurs whenever i see bad yuri media” style discourse and put all my thoughts on the matter in my back pocket for another day. Likewise, much more recently, someone proposed that a peripheral character in this CYOA might have been a trans woman, at which point the CYOA author had to step in and say that the theory was wrong, and that all of the characters in his story were cis more generally, because he didn’t think he’d done enough research to be able to write a trans character sensitively.

At that point I was vaguely and pettily fed up with the way people were and weren’t reading gender into this story. So I wrote one or two thousand words of meta-fanfic about the OC protagonist of the CYOA being a trans woman herself, with the intention of somewhat gently ribbing on the idea that anyone could unironically treat her as a direct extension of her male voter base without also having to see that as a cutting commentary on the gender identity of her voters, and the intention of gently ribbing on the way the author had excluded trans experiences from a story with a literal blank slate reader-insert character.

The rest is history, lol. I rather expected a response from the other readers and voters something along the lines of “hey, how dare you imply that I’m a tranny just because I’m still deeply emotionally invested in this five-years-on-and-going-strong million-word-fanfic about my sexy anime girl self-insert and her waifu?”, or at least along the lines of “this is too meta for me, go write your trans girl metafiction on the SCP wiki like everyone else does”.

Apparently I was somehow still far too subtle, though, because instead I got responses like “why did you write our collective self-insert as a trans man? just because we’re men doesn’t mean she would be too” and “yea, I dunno fam, our collective self-insert reads as AFAB agender to me”. IIRC, someone even made fanart about the latter, at which point I decided to violently suppress my memories of the entire sequence of events.

[oblivionlotus]

get  to  know  the  mun!     repost,  don’t  reblog.

(PEN)NAME  :  Max

PRONOUNS  :  they / them / their

ZODIAC  SIGN  :  Pisces

TAKEN  OR  SINGLE  :  Taken

———  THREE  FACTS  ! ♡

I’m somewhat of a lucid dreamer & hate when people go "oh I wish I was one!". No, you don't. Nightmares still happen & if you're not quick enough to escape (I create doors in my dreams), you wake up feeling like whatever happened was real (seriously, I've woken up knowing I was asleep but my body believes it really was just injured horribly).

I'm also slightly psychic (runs in the family). I mostly sense spirits, especially aggressive ones cuz they target me cuz they know I feel them. I've had psychic attacks like this in the past, so I don't like going to places that are supposedly haunted. Sometimes I have prophetic dreams, but they're always tied to my family / friends. Example: I knew my cousin in England was admitted for an emergency surgery before my family received the call from her mother.

An even weirder fact about me: I have a couple of friends who hate throwing up, even when they need to (like if they're drunk or really sick & want to purge their guts for relief)... so they turn to me in such cases. Yep, I'm the friend that will carefully tickle the back of your throat with my fingers until you vomit & feel better. Then I make you tea & give you a blanket.

———  EXPERIENCE  !  ♡

I can't even remember when I started rping. All I do remember is I officially began on bebo. Then moved on to MSN messenger, FB, & eventually here. I was initially terrified of rping here. Back then, the reblogging of threads was more messy & less organised with notifications. You also had to insert urls from host sites in order to add icons (which weren't even a dirty thought back then, it was just bad pics), etc. It was basically very ugly & more complicated to rp... but when FB began shutting down all rp profiles with their new T&C, I had little choice. This site quickly became the mecca for rping & mostly everything was allowed at the time, so this place was popping. I adapted & fell in love with this site (I don't have as much love now though). I've always been a writer, since I was a kid. I have shit tons of notebooks of stories, lyrics, & poems from before I was allowed use a computer to write. Rp was just a natural progression for me I suppose. I've never actually written fanfic before though. I've never had an interest in that. But all in all, I've got about 11+ years of rping. I honestly believe the fact that since I was always encouraged to read, I've managed to hone my writing skill from a "theory" perspective as well as a "practical" one.

———  MUSE  PREFERENCE  !  ♡

The main preference I have is that writing males garners more interest & thus means more writing / character exploration. So even though I don't actually have a gender preference, I often write male muses just so I have more things to write with people. It's a sad fact of not just our community, but rp as a whole. The only other preference I have is villain or morally ambiguous muses, because I feel there's more to explore on a psychological scale with them.

———  FLUFF  /  ANGST  /  SMUT  !  ♡    

FLUFF  : I enjoy fluff as much as anyone. I'm a sucker for slow burn stuff to build up character relationships. Too much fluff though isn't something I want or do. Gotta have a balance.

ANGST  : Totally love it because angst can bring realistic touches to a thread or relationship. Not everything has to be angsty but I simply cannot write only fluff. Its unrealistic, it can get boring, it doesn't provide a challenge. Angst & ic drama is one of my favourite things to write.

SMUT  : It isn't very important to me. I'll do it if & when my character, myself & my writing partner are comfortable to do so, of course. Sometimes my character may get into a horny mood so I must find ways to appease them. But I don't go actively looking for smut. I don't thrive on it. I'm totally fine with avoiding it or just having a "blackout" to say our characters did the dirty. I'm one of those writers that feel some pressure whenever I do write smut, because I overthink what I'm writing & how I describe stuff.

PLOT  /  MEMES  : I'm fine with plotting & sometimes I really do need to hash out at least a vague plot. Sometimes it's more fun to just see where the thread goes. Here's a confession - sometimes I purposely ask new followers if they have any particular plot ideas just so I can get a glimpse of their interests. I've had bad experiences with people wanting to write just so they can pressure me into shipping / smut, or just "collect" my muse because of their faceclaim or whatever. So sometimes I feel its necessary for me to upfront ask about ideas so I feel more comfortable writing with someone new. Memes are brilliant fun. I love them because they're multipurpose. You can do character development with them, drabbles, threads, anything! If someone wants to write with me but doesn't know how to approach me, just send in a meme.

Tagged by: @autometanoia (ty sweetie!)

Tagging: not sure who's already done this do feel free to ignore @rosefromdeath @villainmade @dogxfiend @count-v-dracula @justacomedy & anyone else!

[lesbeet]

not to be a nerd but i accidentally just wrote a whole impromptu essay about editing ndjsdksksk im throwing it under a cut bc it's fucking inane and really long but honestly... i just want other people to become as passionate about editing as i am lmaooooo

i also recommend 2 books in the post so if anything at least check those out!

quality books about editing... *chef's kiss* a lot of the basic ones (including blog posts online n such) are geared towards beginners and end up repeating the same info/advice, much of it either oversimplified or misrepresented tbh. but i read one yesterday and i'm reading another one right now that really convey this passion for editing + consideration for it as its own sort of art and i just!!

it's such a weird thing to be passionate about lmao but i AM and i've spent a lot of time the past year or so consciously honing my craft (ik i mention this like 4 times a week i'm just really proud of how much i've learned and improved) and kind of like. solidifying my instincts into conscious choices i guess?

and these GOOD editing books have both a) taught me new information and/or presented familiar information through a new perspective that helped me understand something differently or in more depth, and b) validated or even just put into words certain preferences or techniques that i've developed on my own, that i don't normally see on those more basic lists i mentioned

btw the book i finished yesterday is self-editing for fiction writers: how to edit yourself into print by renni brown and dave king, and the one i'm reading currently is the artful edit: on the practice of editing yourself by susan bell.

the former was pretty sharp and straightforward. the authors demonstrated some of their points directly in the text, which was usually funny enough that i would show certain quotes to my sister without context

("Just think about how much power a single obscenity can have if it’s the only one in the whole fucking book." <- (it was)

"Frequent italics have come to signal weak writing. So you should never resort to them unless they are the only practical choice, as with the kind of self-conscious internal dialogue shown above or an occasional emphasis."

or, my favorite: "There are a few stylistic devices that are so “tacky” they should be used very sparingly, if at all. First on the list is emphasis quotes, as in the quotes around the word “tacky” in the preceding sentence. The only time you need to use them is to show you are referring to the word itself, as in the quotes around the word “tacky” in the preceding sentence. Read it again; it all makes sense.")

and like i said, i also learned some new ideas or techniques (or they articulated vague ideas i already had but struggled to put into practice), AND they mentioned some suggestions that ive literally never seen anyone else bring up (not to say no one has! just that ive never seen it, and ive seen a lot in terms of writing tips, advice, best practices, etc) that ive already sort of established in my own writing

for example they went into pretty fine detail about dialogue mechanics, more than i usually see, and in talking about the pacing and proportion of "beats" and dialogue in a given scene, they explicitly suggested that, if a character speaks more than a sentence or two and you plan on giving them some sort of dialogue tag or an action to perform as a beat, the tag or action should be placed at one of the earliest (if not the first) natural pauses in the dialogue, so as not to distance the character too far from the dialogue -- bc otherwise the reader ends up getting all of the dialogue information first, and then has to go back and retroactively insert the character, or what they're doing, or the way they look/sound while they're giving their little speech

and like this was something ive figured out on my own, mostly bc it jarred me out of something i was reading enough times (probably in fic tbh) that i started noticing it, and realized that it's something i do naturally, kind of to anchor the character to the dialogue mechanic to make sure it makes sense with the actual dialogue

so like. ok here's an example i just randomly pulled from the song of achilles (it was available on scribd so i just looked for a spot that worked to illustrate my point djsmsks)

the actual quote is written effectively, but here's a less effective version first:

“Perhaps I would, but I see no reason to kill him. He’s done nothing to me," Achilles answered coolly.

see and even with such a short snippet it's so much smoother and more vivid just by moving the dialogue tag, not adding or cutting a word:

“Perhaps I would, but I see no reason to kill him.” Achilles answered coolly. “He’s done nothing to me.”

the rhythm of it is better, and the beat that the dialogue tag creates functions as a natural dramatic pause before achilles delivers an incredibly poignant line, both within the immediate context of the scene and because we as the readers can recognize it as foreshadowing. plus, it flows smoothly because that beat was inserted where the dialogue already contained a natural pause, just bc that's how people speak. if you read both versions aloud, they both make sense, but the second version (the original used in the novel) accounts for the rhythm of dialogue, the way people tend to process information as they read, AND the greater context of the story, and as a result packs significantly more purpose, information, and effect into the same exact set of words

and THAT, folks, is the kind of editing minutia i can literally sit and hyperfocus on for hours without noticing. anyway it's a good book lmao

the one i'm reading now is a lot more about the cognitive process/es of editing, so there's less concrete and specific advice (so far, anyway) and more discussion about different mental approaches to editing, as well as tips and tools for making a firm distinction between your writer brain and your editor brain, which is something i struggle with

but there have been so many good quotes that ive highlighted! a lot of just like. reminders and things to think about, and also just lovely articulations of things id thought of or come to understand in much more vague ways.

scribd won't let me copy/paste this one bc it's a document copy and not an actual ebook, but this passage is talking about how the simple act of showing a piece of writing to someone else for the very first time can spark a sudden shift in perspective on the work, bc you'll (or at least i) frantically try to re-read it through their eyes and end up noticing a bunch of new errors -

or she talked about the perils of constant re-reading in the middle of writing a draft, which is something i struggle with a LOT, both bc i'm a perfectionist and bc i prefer editing to writing so i sit and edit when i'm procrastinating doing the actual hard work of writing lmao

it's just this side of fake deep tbh but i so rarely see editing discussed like this--as a mixture of art and science, a collaboration between instinct and technique, that really requires "both sides of the brain" to be done well.

and because of the way my own brain works, activities that require such a balanced concentration of creativity and logic really appeal to me. even though ive seen a lot of people (even professional writers) who frame it as the creative art of writing vs the logical discipline of editing. but i think that's such a misleading way of thinking about it, because writing and editing both require creativity and logic -- just different kinds! (not to mention that the line between writing and editing, while mostly clear, can get a little blurry from up close)

but like...all stories have an inner logic to them, even if the writer hasn't explicitly or consciously planned it, and even if the logic is faulty in places in the first couple of drafts. when you're sitting and daydreaming about your story, especially if you're trying to figure out how to bridge the gap between two points or scenes (or, how to write a sequence of events that presents as a logical, inevitable progression of cause and effect), the voice in your head that evaluates an idea and decides to 1) go with it, 2) scrap it, 3) tweak it until it works, or 4) hold onto it in case you want it later? that's your logic! if an idea feels wrong, or like it just doesn't work, it's probably because some part of you is detecting a conflict between some part of the idea and the overall logic of your story. every decision you make as you write is formed by and checked against your own experiential logic, and also by the internal logic of your story, which is far less developed (or at least, one would hope), and therefore more prone to the occasional laspe

but while ive seen a number of articles that discuss the logic of writing, i don't see people gushing as much about the art of editing and it's such a shame

the inner editor is so often characterized as the responsible parent to the writer's carefree child, or a relentless critic of the writer's unselfconscious, unpolished drivel

and it's like... maybe you just hate thinking critically about your work! maybe you view it that way because you're imposing external standards too fiercely onto your writing, and it's sucked the joy out of shaping and sculpting your words until they sing. maybe you prefer to conceive of your writing as divine communication, the process of which must remain unencumbered by lessons learned through experience or the vulnerability of self-reflection, until the buzzkill inner editor shows up with all those "rules" and "conventions" that only matter if you're trying to get published

and like obviously the market doesn't dictate which conventions are worth following, but the majority of widely-agreed-upon writing standards, especially those aimed at beginners, (and most especially those regarding style, as opposed to story structure) have to do with the effectiveness and efficiency of prose, and, in addition to often serving as a shorthand for distinguishing an amateur from a pro, overall help to increase poignancy and clarity, which is crucial no matter the genre or type of writing. and even if you personally believe otherwise, it's better to understand the conventions so you can break them with real purpose.

so editing shouldn't be about trying to shove your pristine artistic masterpiece into a conventional mold, it should be about using the creative instincts of your ear and your logic and experience-based understanding of writing as a craft to hone your words until you've told your story as effectively as possible

thank u for coming to my ted talk ✌️

[eidolonlathi]

The Issue with Gen’s wasted Character Potential

With the manga about to reach its end I thought it worthwhile to have a closer look at how Gen’s character has been written. And the conclusion I'm coming to is that things started promising but then ended with already established potential not getting used.

Let’s start at the beginning. I don't believe that by the time of their introduction, any of the Sato squad’s new members had a clear and finished backstory. Or if, that it must have gotten changed while the story was progressing.

At this point it is difficult to say what the initial intention had been. But looking at Gen’s introduction, I always had the impression he and Takahashi didn't use to know each other before, came to the meeting alone and met there for the first time, instantly developing sympathy for each other. Something of the body and facial language in their first panel just seems too distant for me to signal anything else. And taking into account that until chapter 66.5 it hadn’t been confirmed that they shared a backstory, I view an individual arrival still as a possibility. Gen stating some time after the Grant Pharma arc that he possesses no ghost is no contradiction; just because Kou was clumsy enough to attract attention and got caught doesn't mean Gen wouldn't have been able to attend the black ghost meeting undetected.

Either way, only moments later, as soon as Sato's plan was established, he and Takahashi were able to quickly adapt to the situation and work together in harmony. Be it because they used to already know each other or by forming an instant strong connection. This moment already established the pattern that functioning together came easy to them while with Tanaka in the equitation friction would develop easily. But interestingly on the newly formed team all disharmony vanished at first, the operation on Grant Pharma ending a success.

I think this is about the only time in the manga where Gen is completely on his own and it’s impressive how good his nerves are during this moment. He stays calm, analyses the situation and delivers the needed information. And he has to do all of this while Takahashi is constantly being killed right next to him, yet Gen doesn’t get nervous at all.

That kind of levelheadedness would last until into the Forge Arc. And then getting reduced for the sake of preparing a “twist” lacking any solid foundation. Regardless of what one thinks of Gen being human or him and Takahashi supposed to have been brothers all along, from a storytelling perspective it makes zero sense to hide this all away from the reader until the last second. Like, that’s it? That’s the twist? How is this supposed to be relevant again? One of the random sidekicks to the main baddy –who you always knew wouldn’t have a chance to make it to the end- died instead of having gotten captured. I doubt anyone but the less than 20 people who used to ship takagen cared. These characters were about to disappear from the story either way, the average reader wouldn’t care about the surrounding details because these two were not the kind of characters that were given enough relevance. Or more, after a strong introduction, relevance and focus kept getting taken away from them.

Because relevance is the second factor why the reveals at the end were a bad way to progress the story. Since it got clear that some intended surprise was along its way (being shocking for the purpose of being shocking always looks forced), Takahashi and especially Gen were shoved further away into the background of happenings, given little to do. And that was a waste, frankly, taking into account how active both of them were allowed to behave shortly after their introductions. Remember them both supporting Sato with their sniping skills during the Grant Pharma attack? Sniping is a task complicated to do right but both of them were proving to be capable. Together and on their own: The moment Takahashi was taken out by enemy snipers, Gen was perfectly able to calmly overview and asset the situation, like this gathering together the information Tanaka needed to advance further and deal with those threats.

So, you have these two characters who have proven to be capable during stressful situations with a reliable mind and then the manga just… shoved them aside. Not just by lessening focus on them but by downright ignoring the ways they would have been able to contribute to their team. Cutting their teeth and claws further and further, first by putting more of a focus on their drug using habits (edgy. Now we know they’re bad guys for sure. Don’t get me started on addiction getting used as an indicator of morality) and then taking this further until they were reduced to not much more than moving props clowning around in the background. Compare that to Okuyama, whose early established technical skills kept getting efficiently used to advance the plot.

The curse got broken. After years of silence chapter 59 finally allowed Gen to speak again. Unfortunately barely anyone still remembered he existed or what he had brought to the plot so far.

Letting all this potential go to waste, for what? Because more of a focus would have threatened to reveal those wannabe twists? Something that turned out as boring as “one was human all along but the writing never told us that for no good reason”. It is hard to imagine after all the Sato squad was unaware about this important little detail: Not with their habit to regenerate themselves or their injured comrades via shooting themselves back to life during operations. With this they would have needed getting informed about Gen not being an ajin.

And the sudden sibling status about to get introduced resulting in “Gen’s dialogue needs to get reduced into nothing, otherwise it would become too obvious he and Takahashi being brothers was a last minute idea, with them going against local conventions by not calling each other “brother”, instead using their last names ever since.” Yeah, how did that work out? Now we have actual implied canonical incest because Takahashi and Gen being related changed nothing about the fact they were giving off the most obvious couple vibes this manga had to offer, making it look they were actively hiding being related. Where did it go wrong? Was “Gen is human” installed as a possible twist last minute late in the game, kept nebulous in case some better idea came up? (The hints were always vague guesswork at best, supposed to be able to go both ways, and unlike the anime the manga didn’t have the foresight to prepare it as believable by keeping Gen out of the most dangerous situations and reducing this drug consuming habit to a zero. So, am I supposed to look at it as a deliberate suicide mission on his part in manga context? Was his nihilism this deeply rooted here?) And what about the sibling retcon? Was “he joined this non-human extremist group for the sake of supporting his friend” sounding too gay an explanation, so in an attempt to erase that away they were retconned brothers? Would at least explain why those two look absolutely nothing alike despite supposed to be related.

Ironically this accidental incestuous implication was the only element working here in favour of story telling and character development. Disillusioned incestuous couple disappointed with life drifts into nihilism and thus resonates with Sato's ruthless modus operandi? Now that's the kind of variation and originality I like to see in fiction.

Interesting how Gen just shrugs his shoulders and goes back to routine once told the hostages already served their purpose. Zero sentimentalities to be seen. 

I’m glad the story at least let those two stay loyal to Sato until the end, keeping the last bit of relevance in place that differentiated them from their (former) teammates. Takahashi and Gen had bloodthirsty motivations long before they met Sato, so it makes sense those shared similarities kept deepening the bond of those three. It makes sense on a level of characterization and interpersonal relation as well: I’d go as far as to say that Sato was most likely one of the few (the first?) people who accepted them the way they were. Attentive as he was it is hard to imagine he would have missed any aspect of the nature of their relationship. Yet his demeanour towards them never changed, more, as time went on the three of them grew closer. Being met with this kind of acceptance, it is easy to see why Takahashi’s and Gen’s loyalty towards Sato would have strengthened over time as well. Add to this that those three had a pretty similar mind set and voila. A unit that could have had it all, hadn’t it been for the story’s need to play it safe and prepare circumstances so the “good” guys (anyone seriously believing the status quo of using captured ajin for experiments would have changed without outside pressure?) win because of reasons.

This manga has many strengths but the recent habit to insert plot threads that keep dangling and are leading to nowhere or constant retcons that backpedal on what was previous established are none of it. Seeing how the manga started losing its way shortly after the Forge Arc ended and how the plot is now stumbling around in an attempt to reach an ending has been a disappointment, exactly because the story already has proven so many times that it can be excellent under the right circumstances. Alas, hope gets snatched away last.

[onedirectionfanfics]

Stall by @MysteryMixtapes 

This month’s featured story is our first one from Wattpad! Stall by MysteryMixtapes piqued every Harry stan’s interest over the summer. With over 3.5 million reads, it is one of the beautiful, funniest and most-heartbreaking fanfic on Wattpad. Prepare for your heart to melt as Abby, shy as a mouse, cracks Harry’s tough cocoon in this dangerous fic involving high-end clubs, sketchy people, and—of course—a bathroom stall. Check our interview with the author below!

"You wanna try and be my medicine Abby?" he asks with a deep testing tone, keeping his voice quiet.

"I can try," I breathe out as I gulp when his grip tightens "Try me."

His hand slides up my throat, his long fingers wrapping tight around my jaw "That's what you really want?"

I nod, as I sigh out a shallow yes, and I see every muscle in his body tense, as he wets his lips; hoarsely murmuring his next sentence like its his last try at making me change my mind.

"I'm dangerous Abby, this is your last chance, tried to warn you."

My stomach twists and knots, as I use every ounce of bravery I have.

"Prove it then."

How long have you been writing for?

I’ve been writing since December 2018. So about 9 / 10 months give or take. I only started writing when I made my wattpad account, never had any inclination to do it before a day in my life. I’m surprised I can spell, honestly. Stall was the first story I’d ever written.

Do you have certain habits or rituals you have to do while writing?

The only habit I really have is listening to music. I can’t write without it (or at least hate writing without it), but other than that, not really. I just whack on some tunes and verbally vomit from my brain.

The ever famous question: how did you come up with this idea?

This is a hard question for Stall, because there’s like a clusterf*ck of answers that all kinda got mashed together. I wanted to write a cliche bad boy / good girl, with the stereotypes and see if I could make it interesting. Put my own twist on it, give it substance or good reasoning, and honestly the start of the story is kind of poking fun at bad boy characters. It was all on purpose. I like things that aren’t what they seem, and I like breaking stereotypes so for me, using that cliche was fun to play with and break down. I like paradoxes and enigmas too. I wanted to write a character that should be, by all accounts technically unlovable and essentially a villian; then see if I could make him loveable and have that as a romantic lead. I wanted to see if I could make a character like his, someone people would empathise with and feel compassion for. Plus it was an opportunity for me to mash all these genres together (romance / mystery /thriller / horror / comedy / erotic) into one big mess, that happens to be my book. I also wanted to write a shy female lead, that was super kind but not weak. Kindness is a strength. I wanted to show that. I dunno, I have a dark sense of humour and like horror movies, and cult 90’s films so that influenced it a lot as well.

When does a story go from an idea in your mind to paper? Is there a process you go through before writing it out, or do you just get straight in it?

Okay, so first of all I would like to start off with I am THE MOST disorganised person, ever. I suck at planning and for the most part, my stories are just in my head and I wing it as I go with a general idea / goal / outcome / theme in mind. I really don’t have some fantastic answer, it’s literally just “That sounds kinda cool, I wanna tell that story” and hope I don’t f*ck it up. They go from an idea to paper, when I literally can’t get the damn idea out of my head and it’s going to drive me up the wall until I get it out.

You have a well-developed and complex plot, spanning over a hundred chapters. Was this something that took you a long time to build? Do you ever make stuff up as you go?

I think it’s really lovely, that you think I have a well developed plot - because I didn’t think that haha. I was shocked the first time someone said that to me, and didn’t even realise I was following a ‘plot’. I know nothing about writing, I didn’t even know I was doing character development. I just wrote what made sense to me, and followed that to be able to tell the story. So I was LITERALLY just making it up as I went. My plan is that I had no plan at all, except for a vague idea. I wrote the entire thing in 5 months.

Did you ever find it hard to keep up with the plot or the twists and turns? 

I mean, it was a headache. But it wasn’t hard to keep up with because I only wrote what made sense to me and I wasn’t trying to shock anyone, or throw in twists for the sake of it. They all had a good reason or purpose so they weren’t hard to keep up with, for me personally.

Harry’s extreme fear of water, while unusual, was written well enough to make all of us scared of it for him. Do you have any strange phobias, you can never get over (or one you did get over?)

I have a huge phobia of spiders (which is unfortunate considering I live in Australia and we have giant ones that just hang out on your wall like they pay rent) and I’m not overly fond of heights, but I wouldn’t call it a phobia. But in saying that, I’d rather get in a bathtub of spiders than ever do something like public speaking.

There are a lot of dark themes involved in this story, from domestic abuse to torture and PTSD, do you enjoy working with these themes? Are they challenging in any way?

There are a lot of darker themes in that book, and I tend to have an easier time writing them. I usually only write about what I understand, or what I’m interested in. I’m really interested in human psychology, and the ‘why’ in understanding the reason people act the way they do. The cause and effect of things. I also like writing things with lots of emotion. It can get really difficult to write, there’s been a fair few times it took a really heavy toll on me mentally and emotionally writing some of the scenes in that story, and took me a few days to even feel normal again. I guess being a writer is just hurting your own feelings with fake scenarios, hey? But I also think writing is where you can be the most honest, and there is a lot of honesty in emotion.

How do you find such perfect gifs for the end of every chapter?

If you’ve read Stall, you’re gonna know why this is blasphemy. But I get them from Google (heinous, I know, shame on me). Another thing wattpad has taught me, is apparently I’ve got a knack for reaction gifs. hah.

Not to make Abby sound like a Mary Sue, but you often write her exact thoughts in response to things she can’t voice out loud. Is this your way of subtly inserting your own thoughts sometimes?

I put a lot of my own thoughts in the story in different ways, and Abby’s inner monologue is a funny way to do that sometimes. But I do it with Harry too. Abby thinking her responses was all part of her character, for her to get to a point where she could actually say what she was thinking at some point aloud. It was something for her to grow with.

Other than meeting once three years prior to the events in the story, Abby and Harry’s lives are more connected than we thought. Would you consider them to be soulmates with entwined fates or is there a possibility that they could have never met and none of this would happen?

I don’t consider them soulmates, I’m a bit pessimistic in regards to the notion of soulmates but I believe in variations of them. I do think, most things happen for a reason and inexplicable coincidences happen in life and that’s what I'd boil it down to. Honestly, there’s several times where things could have went ass backwards with those two, and they never would have seen each other again, but as luck would have it - they met again. (It's me, I am luck.)

Anything you’d like to say to anyone who read your fic?

Ah man, that’s a hard one. I wrote half the story drunk, and have the typos and random grammatical dumpster fire parts to prove it because it’s all a first draft and totally unedited, so I’ve never exactly been out here thinking anyone would read it and I’m still f*cking gobsmacked anyone did, let alone liked it. But, if you’ve read my word salad and liked it, I appreciate you and you’re the ranch dressing that made it special.

***

Thank you so much to the author for being so lovely! Check out more of her work here! If you want to submit a fic you think should be featured next month do it here!

[dungeoneering102]

Improving Cults

So recently I had a post about how cults should be designed (IMO). I mentioned the four cults present in the D&D module Princes of the Apocalypse and said how those were really bad examples. Due to some interest, I decided to make this post that elaborates on how I have altered those four cults to make them more realistic and interesting.

Why I Dislike the Original PoA Cults

In the original book, the Players are supposed to face off against 4 cults: the Black Earth, Howling Hatred, Crushing Wave, and Eternal Flame. Each of them have a leader (referred to as “prophet”) and work semi-together to summon super powerful creatures called “Princes.” The book also mentions that they all serve the “Elemental Eye.” Here are my problems with this set up:

We don’t ever get told what the Elemental Eye is. It seems to be just a pedestal or an unnamed entity. But it’s never explained.

The cults work together. This makes them all just fade into each other. There’s no drama because now the players are just fighting a large group that happens to have 4 leaders.

The cults all have the same goal but very little distinguishing elements in terms of their philosophy or approach to said goal.

So let’s try to fix this...

Elemental Eye

I hate that this aspect is never explained. It was just so very vague and yet its what commands the four cults. Supposedly, the Eye has given the cults their power and influence. In turn, it will somehow eventually inform the cult leaders on what ritual to conduct to summon their respective Princes. The Eye does this only WHEN the Party kills the first two Prophets. So I changed it all around.

The Eye is a physical thing. It is a stone of great power, supposedly locked within the altar in Fane of the Eye dungeon. In my story, the Eye calls forth the four Prophets, but informs them that it will only choose the STRONGEST among them. This is important and I’ll discuss why below. But now it is a physical thing and once ONE of the Prophets proves themselves powerful enough, the Eye is gifted to this person. All others die upon touching the Eye.

Lastly, to get to the eye, each Prophet has to prove that THEIR cult is the strongest and has the most influence. They do this by getting the most recruits and building beacons across the valley. The beacons are something that you can see in the module’s artbook section, although they’ve been cut from the final game. I re-inserted them as buildings that would be a sign of the cults’ growing in power. Your PCs can stumble onto these as they explore the valley. The cult that proves to be most influential, gets to summon their Prince.

The Cults DO NOT Work Together

Around the Renaissance Era, the Christian church had several divisions. New branches and sects appeared all over Europe, and started fighting over who is the TRUE CHRISTIAN church. They all believed in the same God and Jesus. What was different is how they worshiped these figures. The result was a complex political game fought between these powerful and rich churches over the souls of their followers and the influence over Europe. These conflicts ended with people fleeing Europe, the Catholic Church setting people on fire, and a very powerful shift in the politics of the time.

I think, that’s a pretty interesting story. So why are the cults of PoA just working together, with some minor issues between them? I say cut them the fuck apart. They are four individual cults. They believe in the same deity (the Eye) but go about worshiping it in different ways. They each have their own beliefs and philosophies that conflict with one another, and pit them against each other. Why do we do this? Because 4 DIFFERENT baddies is better than 1 four headed baddie. This conflict between the cults, allows the Players to play a large and complex game of politics, where they play off each of the cults against one another to get them to destroy each other. PCs might ally with one cult, only to get into a big mess and have ANOTHER cult offer them help in return for betraying their former allies. In the end, you get a Game of Thrones level game of politics and alliances.

Unique Cults

Now all of the four cults want the same thing: summon forth their elemental daddy. The problem with this, they might just meld into each other and become very similar. So we have to differentiate them in three ways:

How they present themselves (identity).

What do they believe in (philosophy).

How they act during combat (gameplay).

If you distinguish EACH of these, you get distinctly diverse cults. Below is going to be MY breakdown of how I distinguish each of the Elemental Cults.

Howling Hatred Storm.

Change that fuckin’ name. No one will wanna be a part of a group called “Howling Hatred.” Bad guy groups usually pick actually socially OKAY names, otherwise they won’t get any supporters. Let’s call them “Howling Storm” or “Howling Wind.” ANYTHING else but HATRED!

Identity/Philosophy. The wind is fickle and full of lies. The leader of the cult, one Aerisi Kalinoth, pretends to be a winged elf by creating fake wings using illusions. Their main outpost is filled with cultists who PRETEND to be knights. The whole thing reeks of deception and illusion. So I made that their selling point. Make your dreams a reality is the tag line for this cult. They convince people to join, so that when THEIR Prince is summoned he can blanket the world in an illusive state, where everyone’s best dream will come true. Of course, they will all live in a constant dream state, but it doesn’t matter. People who are depressed enough would be willing to fall into eternal sleep if it is guaranteed to make them and their friends forever happy. This is what Aerisi offers. She appeals to the desperate, the depressed, the lonely. She offers them to live out their dreams in an eternal sleep. Kind of like a suicide cult.

Gameplay. This is very simple. The cultists stay airborne as MUCH as possible. Forcing PCs to fight vertically, instead of horizontally, find cover, find ways to fly up as well, climb high structures, etc.

Black Earth

Personally, the Prophet of this cult is my favorite. So to be fair, I don’t much to change about this cult.

Identity/Philosophy. For this cult I ran with the theme of burial. Marlos Urnrayle, the prophet of Black Earth, sells the burying of your past. Made bad choices in life? Did thing you regret? Forget about it. Bury that past, and on the dirt build your life anew. Atop the ruins of old, rise your new home. This would totally get the attention of past criminals and bandits, whose lives have been ruined by their own crimes. Now they can start anew, in an organization that accepts EVERYONE.

Gameplay. Another easy one. You should describe your cultists as being extra tough and hard to break. Maybe give some of them some earth powers, ripped out of Avatar: the Last Airbender. I let my cultists just call forth pillars and stone walls, while others would swim through earth as if it were water.

Eternal Flame

Identity/Philosophy. Compared to the other cults, this one seemed more combative and militaristic. So I ran with that. Vanifer, the cult’s leader, runs a militia. Again, remember that the valley is without any leadership. She offers leadership. Her message is that she is building the army this valley desperately needs and she intends to bring peace and order to this valley, by force if need be. Her selling point is that she promotes discipline and order. People who lack any purpose, live messy lives, or need some kind of a leader-figure to tell them what to do, would fall into this easily. Think of veterans or troops, who after wartime cannot fall back into normal life as they need someone to order them around.

Gameplay. These guys are on FIYAAAA. Make their armor too hot to touch, make being around them uncomfortable. Allow them to be strategically more intelligent, using maneuvers to flank, surprise, and stun their opponents. This is a military organization, after all.

Crushing Wave

Identity/Philosophy. This cult consists of smugglers and pirates. What do pirates stand for? That’s right, an anti-establishment way of life. So the cult preaches FREEDOM. But absolute freedom. In fact, anarchy. Gar seeks a world that he can drown, where only those deemed strong enough can survive and are thus freed from the shackles of social restrictions. This idea of absolute freedom without authority, of being able to live off your own merit and not having to answer to anyone, is something many would like. People who have been duped by corrupt officials, people who dislike the restrictions of society, or dislike social norms. The Wave offers them all a chance to be free of this.

Gameplay. I got Lovecraft vibes from the cult. his cult is led by Gar Shatterkeel, who almost drowned but heard a voice in the oceans that led him to safety. Borderline Cthulhu-esque. SO, I made them all weird and creepy. They talk strange, they walk strange, they tend to stare. Ultimately, while they all fight for absolute freedom, the irony is that they are being manipulated by a primordial entity that is slowly brainwashing them.

Last Point - Diversity

In the book, all cultists (except the prophets) are human. That’s all fine and dandy but I don’t see why it needs to be so. I recommend you make the cults more diverse in their composition. Elves, dwarves, orcs, dragonborn, whatever you got. Not because YAY DIVERSITY or anything. Just because, I think it makes most sense that cults that fight for influence and power, wouldn’t discriminate based on race or gender. This, in fact, could be a selling point for them. Especially if you have racial tensions in your Fantasy setting.

I hope you all find this breakdown of how I modified the cults helpful. Please remember, that these are not “THE BEST WAY TO PLAY.” These are only the best way I found to play. You might find something that fits your campaigns and players better. Special shoutout to @ravenbane13​ (and everyone else who reblogged my last post) for encouraging this piece. I did go a bit longer than I wish, but hey, I hope you find some use in that wall of text.

The Unfair DM

[rwbyconversations]

Why I think some people don’t like Jaune

Jaune Arc. Jauney boy. You make very hard to like you sometimes. 

Jaune Arc is almost certainly the most discussed character in RWBY, even more so than the titular four girls. This is not a very good thing. Since the early days of Volume 1, Jaune has been derided and mocked by portions of the community, often dismissed as a poorly planned out audience surrogate, a writer-insert and/or Miles shoving in a cliche shonen protagonist into Monty’s tapestry of art. That last one is hyperbole, for the record. But regardless, Jaune is far from unanimously loved by the fandom- just go see how many RWDE posts are about him. I tried reading some of them and after I finished washing my eyes out with bleach, I found myself mildly disagreeing with their contents. 

(sidenote if anyone ever convinces Dudeblade to learn how to use italics, bold or underline to emphasize something instead of random capitalization like Baby’s First Word Doc I will actually pay you in pesos)

But while the reasons people give for hating Jaune are many, some of them have little basis in reality. Others, meanwhile, are quite painfully true and have incredibly valid criticisms that can be applied to RWBY as a whole at the core of their message. So today, I’d like to explain why I think some people hate Jaune, why some of the reasons don’t hold much weight, and why a few are quite valid.

Reason 1) “Jaune’s a Self/Author Insert!” 

Perhaps the most common and damning criticism of Jaune, especially in the earlier volumes, were claims that Jaune was just an insert character for Miles to fawn over. Miles and Kerry have themselves said that Miles has had very little to do with writing Jaune in the show proper since Volume 1, and that most of Jaune’s larger scenes were done at the behest of Kerry or Monty. Quote:

In the first few Volumes, if Jaune was in a scene it was almost always because either Monty or myself wanted him in a scene. From the very beginning, Monty was very big on having that archetype of character be fairly prominent in the show. Miles has always been incredibly hesitant to insert Jaune into scenes, to the point where he's voiced before that he wishes sometimes that he didn't voice him.

That said, this only came out in early 2018 after Volume 5 had already wrapped. In the years before then, many a fan was utterly convinced that Miles was behind most of Jaune’s more limelight-hogging scenes in Volume 1 particularly. This wasn’t helped by some quotes of Miles that got taken out of context, primarily that he based Jaune off himself as a younger teenager (the quote is in fact referring to Jaune’s voice).

Fandom also plays a purpose in Jaune gaining the inglorious title of self-insert. Jaune’s lack of a semblance, conventional attractiveness, age that put him close to the girls and vague backstory meant it was very easy for fanfiction writers to appropriate Jaune into whatever they needed, which at best included harem comedies and at worst...

Well, hell on earth. Fandom has had a large impact on RWBY, and I believe the “self-insert” accusations regarding Jaune are perhaps the most clear example of this. Some people do still believe to this day that Jaune is an SI, but I am willing to give the benefit of the doubt to the writing team and assume that no, any intent was not maliciously planted and it was an accident.

Reason 2) Jaune’s an audience surrogate

This one actually has basis in reality since the crew have actually said Jaune’s purpose in the early volumes was to be the audience surrogate (see above, second bolded part). To explain the term the audience surrogate is a character, usually found in fantasy or science fiction stories, who is new to the setting and its more complex rules. Thus, when someone tells this character how the system works, it doesn’t feel weird for the audience to have this information. We learn with the character, drawing us further into the setting. On the surface, an audience surrogate is not a bad storytelling device, but what it comes down to is execution, and here is where I feel that RWBY falls flat on its face in handling Jaune.

Jaune’s primary purpose in the first half of Volume 1 is largely to serve as the vehicle through which we discover Aura. Aura, the resource incredibly common in-setting and able to be tracked to an exact percentile in tournaments. In fact, Aura is so easily tracked, Remnant’s smartphones can track other people’s Auras no sweat. Most audience surrogates usually only need lore explained to them when it’s a rare facet of life, hence why it’s often seen in fantasies with magic to get the reader caught up on the rules. 

For example, in the Mistborn series, while Vin is aware of burning metal, she unlocks her Mistborn powers at the beginning of the trilogy and then has to learn about the other metals she didn’t know she possessed, and gets further training on the one metal (brass) she could burn that she thought was just her luck. As well, Vin infiltrates high society, so alongside learning about the different metals, we also use Vin’s inexperience to learn how high society works under the Lord Ruler.

For Jaune to have no clue about Aura, despite the commonality of it in-setting, is almost unthinkable and essentially requires his parents to have locked him in a basement for his entire life. While surrogates aren’t meant to know everything about a setting, it is expected that they at least know the basics- again, see Vin from Mistborn as an example of this.  Therefore, I will not deny that Jaune is an audience surrogate. However, I do believe that Jaune is a bad audience surrogate who breaks the internal rules of a character alongside the logical rules of the setting.

Reason 3) Jaune’s a cliche shonen lead

Let me rattle off a quick idea for a story, like I’m giving an elevator pitch.

Our story is about a young boy (usually with spiky hair) who goes to join a magical academy so he can slay monsters. He’s not proficient in the art of combat but he has a big heart and genuinely tries most of the time, so through outside circumstances he manages to enroll in the school. Immediately, he gets pegged by the headmaster for special reasons and develops a crush with an cold-hearted young woman who rebukes his advances. All the while, he develops a close friendship with a shy girl who is holding a candle for him but he doesn’t see her desires until it’s too late. In the meantime, he continues to train to prove himself a great hero.

Now, who did I describe. Jaune Arc? Or half of the shonen genre? There’s a reason for the popularity in the stock shonen hero cliche- it’s pretty easy to get right on the first try, makes for a mostly likable hero who the audience can get behind and root for as they aspire to become a Pokemon master collect the Dragonballs win the Battle City Finals become the greatest hero who ever lived. Jaune hits a lot of the cliches of the Stock Shonen Hero in early RWBY, and this set off alarm bells in the minds of many of RWBY’s more anime-conscious fans. The moment Jaune fell for Weiss and she shot him down, the early fanbase were on-edge about Jaune. RWBY had been advertised as four girls fighting monsters and kicking ass with great choreography. And here comes this blonde wannabe in a hoody trying to insert a love triangle into all of that? Yeah, no thanks. Again, this was likely something Monty intentionally pushed through since the AMA says Monty was big on Jaune’s archetype being in the show.

Though Jaune, in my opinion at least, did step away from these trappings later in RWBY, becoming more sullen and less focused on traditional shonen ideals, the early days played no small role in defining why people loathed Jaune in early RWBY. And once the label of “shonen lead” was plastered onto Jaune, it would prove nearly impossible to remove. 

In all honesty, this is one of the smaller reasons for people’s dislike of Jaune, but notable in that it set the groundwork- people already dismissed him as a cheap shonen lead, and that principle latched onto Jaune like gum onto a shoe. 

Reason 4) Jaune’s stealing scenes and where it hurts characters

Though Jaune has had a significantly reduced presence in RWBY since Volume 1, it seems that his primary scenes in Volumes 4 and 5 had a very unintended consequence of taking away from other characters. One of the often-cited scenes of this is Volume 4 Chapter 10, Kuroyuri.

The scene is set for Ruby to finally confront the trauma bubbling beneath the surface that had been eating at her since Volume 3- Penny and Pyrrha’s joint deaths and the Fall of Beacon, her Silver Eyes and how no one was willing to talk to her about them. And yet who does most of the speaking in this scene? Jaune. Jaune indirectly hijacks the scene away from Ruby so that instead it can become a scene of, quite frankly, platitudes that ring hollow. Despite supposedly being a scene where Ruby is being built up, despite supposedly being about Ruby,  and how inspiring she is, the active character in the scene, the one with agency and prevalent on-screen characterization... Is Jaune.

Volume 5 Chapter 11 is the other standout example of this, in what is now an infamous string of events. Jaune basically hijacks not one, not two, but three active character arcs- he again strips Ruby of her agency by going after Cinder, who also has her sub-plot of hating Ruby curtly kicked out a window because of Jaune hogging her attention, and then Weiss takes a frankly insulting dive so that Cinder has someone to spear so we have a cheap cliffhanger so dramatic tension can die onscreen so Jaune can have an excuse to pop his Semblance’s virginity. And let me stress, Ruby has about as much agency as some belly-button fluff for the rest of the Battle of Haven and by extension the entire Volume.

This is a reasoning for disliking Jaune that I fully understand and can get behind. Through a mix of tragic circumstance (the Volume 5 scene is effectively the one time Jaune takes relevance in the entire volume) and some mind-boggling creative choices, Jaune now twice in a row stripped Ruby of agency she has desperately needed, interrupted a two-year in the making subplot with Cinder, and indirectly killed RWBY’s dramatic stakes. Did you really think they’d kill Weiss in Volume 5? Exactly, no one really thought they’d go through on it, Weiss and the rest of RWBY are basically safe until the last two or three volumes. Regardless of whether or not Jaune is meant to be seen as a main character or a side, his focus scenes have the tragic mishap of constantly coming at the expense of someone else being undermined.  

Reason 5) He’s... not actually that good a strategist.

Jaune is a crap fighter, he’ll readily admit to being much weaker in direct combat than anyone else in the heroes side. So instead, he adopted the sub-trope of shonen leads, the strategist/quick thinker. Be it Izuku in My Hero Academia or many of the protagonists in JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, shonen has a long history of heroes who fight as much with their minds as they do with their fists.

Here’s the problem with that. Jaune’s really bad at being a strategist. In fact, despite not even doing it since Volume 3, Ruby has displayed far more tactical acumen than Jaune.

JNPR vs BRNZ isn’t won through tactical skill beyond just throwing Nora at the problem after Divine Cindervention (compare this with how effortless RWBY make taking down ABRN look). Jaune even rips off Ruby’s idea of code-names but his attempt fails due to insufficient practice. Meanwhile Ruby says “Checkmate” in Volume 5 and despite not having trained together for months, Blake and Weiss immediately jump into action.   

Jaune explicitly quotes one of RNJR having said "you're the strategist", and is the character that gets to come up with a plan for taking down the Petra Gigas. And even though the way his plan is phrased initially gets played as humorous, his dumb strategy ultimately gets vindicated by actually working.

“Keep moving, run in a circle” is pretty poor advice (in fact, Ren had already been trying this strategy when Jaune said it and the Nuck still landed a blow on him), but in-universe it’s treated like gospel. Nobody points out how weak Jaune’s strategies are because from a meta perspective, the only way Jaune is able to stay relevant in fights in Volume 4 is to shout inane “strategies.” The issue with this is that (yet again) it comes at the expense of other characters, including (again) Ruby, who in Volumes 1 through 3 was shown as far sharper when it came to using her team and their strengths. Everyone else on the hero side has to take an intellectual dive so Jaune can take home a glorified participation trophy. 

Jaune using his greatsword for a stabbing attack when it’s built for slashing in the Haven battle. I brought this up in my “What went wrong at Haven?” post, but I thought it was worth repeating that this is a massive blunder.

Reason 6) General misc stuff

I couldn’t make full points of these, so I made bullet points for some of the smaller reasons Jaune is disliked

The Weiss obsession. There’s no real nice way of sugarcoating Jaune’s actions in Volume 2, no means no. That this came about from some glorified improv and the idea that it would be a funny idea makes my stomach churn. 

The bully arc taking so much time. Thanks to how Volume 1 cut some episodes, Jaune’s arc with Cardin took four weeks in real life to complete. This only exaggerated the issues people took with Jaune, and had RWBY not immediately come back with the fight-scene Renaissance piece that was Blake and Sun vs Roman, I can’t imagine how many people would have dropped the show thanks to an after-school special that got wedged in their fighting anime.

Jaune looking away and letting Cinder shoot Amber. Ignoring that Cinder’s Semblance can let her shoot around targets, which she does in the Pyrrha fight, Jaune never stood a chance against Cinder, and no matter what, most friends would be distracted by their friend’s agonized screams and would likely turn around in despair.

Jaune hating Qrow in Volume 4. Thanks to Jaune being the one member of RNJR willing to call out Qrow for his and Ozpin’s parts in Pyrrha’s death, Jaune got some flack from Qrow’s notable fandom. Ironically enough, people began to dislike Jaune more when he refused to ever act on these feelings after Ozpin’s return in Volume 5, with Jaune only ever calling out Ozpin after Yang did it with the Birds Reveal (I’ve written a piece before about why that reveal fell flat). His out of nowhere tepidness in approaching Ozpin regarding Pyrrha’s death was so out-of-nowhere that people were begging for Jaune to have screentime again, that’s how random it was.

To conclude, there are many reasons why people hate Jaune Arc, and the story doesn’t really help his case a lot of the time in all honesty. While some of the stated reasons are far from logical (I at least hope I’ve explained why I think he’s not a self-insert), Jaune unfortunately fails to set himself as a distinct character without it usually biting someone else in the ass. He fails to be a proper audience surrogate due to lacking essential knowledge about the setting. He has an unfortunate tendency to overshadow other characters and hijack their plots for his own scenes (poor Ruby), and he fails to even be that competent a strategist, leaving his supposed skills to be more of an informed attribute. Add in a variety of smaller reasons for his hatedom, legitimate or not, that have stacked up over the years, and Jaune unfortunately has several valid reasons to dislike him. While I still personally like the Noodle Boy, and I do hope that he can develop and grow stronger as a fighter, tactician and character in the coming future, I cannot deny that I fully understand why people would be turned off by Jaune. So much could have been done with Jaune, but much like a bad salad that comes before a great main course, you’ve already lost your appetite before the main servings arrive.

To surmise, Jaune-hate began because of a perfect storm of circumstances that would be impossible to make happen on purpose. He could have recovered from the flirting with Weiss, the Audience Surrogate/Shonen lead status, or being the main character in several drawn-out arcs, but all at once? Was too much for any one character to bear, and Jaune was unfortunately the character who had all of this lumped on him within a year of the show beginning.

Thank you for reading.

... damnit kid why do you make it so hard to like you sometimes I don’t like doing this

[so-shiny-so-chrome]

Witness: B_Kilroy

 ThCreator name (AO3): B_Kilroy

Creator name (Tumblr): brian-kilroy

Link to creator works: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Kilroy/pseuds/B_Kilroy/works?fandom_id=51060

Q: Why the Mad Max Fandom?

A: I was just instantly drawn to it after seeing Mad Max: Fury Road for the first time.  The movie was incredible, from the imagery to the people, from the story we see to the story we have to piece together ourselves.  I was no stranger to fanfiction since I had written and read it in the past, so when I thought "I need to get more of this," I knew where to go.  Being more internet savvy than I was several years ago meant that I was able to find more places and people who engaged in the fandom, which in turn allowed me to become more engaged, and do more for this fandom than the ones I had been a part of before.

Q: What do you think are some defining aspects of your work? Do you have a style? Recurrent themes?Which of your works was the most fun to create? The most difficult? Which is your most popular? Most successful? Your favourite overall?

A: I think even though I didn't write much for it, "Through The Looking Glass" was the most fun to create, because the goal was to take the entirety of Mad Max and reframe it with Furiosa and Max being able to contact each other through their dreams.  It's fun to take that and view events through a different lens, or use one character to advise the other and shove the story in different directions.  After a while, these changes would have stacked up, but it would have amounted to a serious overhaul of character and plot through four movies.  

The most difficult fic was "Ear to the Ground," namely because it was a gift so I couldn't bounce the idea back off of its source to talk about it.  At a certain point I pretty much stalled, and that combined with the time constraints of the exchange were some serious stressors.  I've stalled many times in many fics, but this was the most difficult one to conquer.   

 My most popular, successful, and favorite fic to work on is by and large "Runaway."  I can't truly speak for why, but I believe its relative longevity and the AU concept of Fury Road essentially never happening was what earned some attention.

Q: How do you like your wasteland? Gritty? Hopeful? Campy? Soft? Why?

A: I like a good mix of gritty and hopeful, though it does depend on what sort of fic I'm writing.  I think we've all seen enough to know that you can't have good without the bad, but we also know that sometimes it's very possible to basically go about your business as long as you're smart about it.  Sometimes, the characters don't have that option.  I enjoy having a diverse world so characters can have a multitude of experiences.

Q: Walk us through your creative process from idea to finished product. What's your prefered environment for creating? How do you get through rough patches?

A: My creative process really varies.  Often, I just start writing.  Only after I have some stuff written down do the gears really start turning about the future.  As I work, sometimes I'll put down specific lines I want to use, or scenes I want to see, or a general rough outline.  The best thing I've done in this regard is have an outline set for "Runaway" and use the first posting of "Royce" as a first draft.  The best way to create is to have something set out in front of you, so you know where Point B is, and it's just a matter of getting there. 

 When I wrote in college, it was pretty much wherever I could snag a seat.  A handful of my old fics started in the very back of a State Government lecture hall.  As time went on, I wrote in the student center or in a dorm lobby or just somewhere I could sit down that felt vaguely productive.  At home, it's in my dark room with some music on. 

 Rough patches often signal a break in writing.  I'll typically go to another fic to work on, but recently having trouble means walking away completely.  For me, the only way to get through rough patches means sitting down and writing.  It can be a word, a sentence, or a paragraph, and any amount is fine.  All that matters is that I get the gears going, because there's no progress if I don't think about it.

Q: What (if any) music do you listen to for help getting those creative juices flowing?

A: I'll listen to a general playlist I've wrangled together if I'm writing for Maxiosa, and that can sort of get me in the mood - namely, some DJ Shadow or some Radiohead, though a lot of artists are one-offs.  For other fics, or moments where I need a specific tone, I can turn to more energetic music and scratch that itch.

Q: What is your biggest challenge as a creator?

A: Inspiration and drive is my biggest challenge.  Nowadays, I don't really have inspiration unless it just somehow *comes* to me - which will often be around 1 AM which leaves a lot to be desired.  A lot of writing also came out of emotional distress, which thankfully I don't really experience anymore, but that means finding some other sort of fuel to write from.

Q: How have you grown as a creator through your participation in the Mad Max Fandom? How has your work changed? Have you learned anything about yourself?

A: I've definitely grown in terms of how I write.  I sort of cringe at how I first wrote a lot of my stuff, which resulted in some works being removed or re-worked.  My writing has done a lot better in terms of - well, I don't cringe at it as much.  I'm more confident in what I write and how.  It's a more mature style that I can reflect on as an era of writing separate from what I wrote when I was younger.  In short, it's better.  

Have I learned anything about myself?  Can't quite say.

Q: Which character do you relate to the most, and how does that affect your approach to that character? Is someone else your favourite to portray? How has your understanding of these characters grown through portraying them?

A: I'd say I relate to Max the most.  I understand being alone and avoiding people.  That's oversimplifying it, but I sympathize with him the most.  This allows me to write him if not accurately, then it helps me write him well.  Writing characters in general, while I'm not writing canon material, allows me to think of them as more than what they've done on the screen.  It allows me to think of them as complex characters.  I fill out the blanks left on the screen and it helps make them whole.

Q: Do you ever self-insert, even accidentally?

A: Definitely.  "Royce" is by-and-large a self-insert, and I think it pretty much says so on the can.  It became a great way to explore what I would do in such a world, but I feel like doing self-inserts in the right way can be an excellent method to explore parts of the story that we don't usually see.  

Q: How does your work for the fandom change how you look at the source material?

A: It allows me to form a more complete image of the before, during, and after.  It may not be canonical, but I can appreciate the movie as more than just a slice of the world.  I think about everything happening behind the scenes - what's happening at the Citadel, in the War Party, in the wreckage following the battle of the Fury Road.  Instead of asking questions about what happened and what will happen, I form answers.

Q: Do you prefer to create in one defined chronology or do your works stand alone? Why or why not?

A: I enjoy the concept of trying to fit all my fics into one world, because 1) it breeds continuity, 2) it breeds opportunities for the future, and 3) it's just fun.  Not only do you have the source material, but using what you create helps you get more familiar and comfortable with the characters.  Writing for standalone fics means you have to resort to a different mindset for these characters, though some may enjoy that, so more power to them.

Q: To break or not to break canon? Why?

A: Both is fun.  I have canon-compliant and canon-divergent fics and they both have their benefits and drawbacks in terms of familiarity and "give" in terms of what you want to do.  

Q: If you work with OCs walk us through your process for creating them. Who are some of your favourites?

A: If they are proper OCs with no real inspiration, I start with basically envisioning them in my mind.  What are their names and what do they look like?  What is their purpose?  What is their past, and do you want that to factor into what they do in the present and future?  It doesn't have to be a whole lot if they're minor characters, but the more you do means you have more to play with.  You can add complexity to a character or just use them as a means to an end.  

My favorite OC has to be Royce just because of how I know Royce ends up, and how he's used as a storytelling tool.

Q: Who are some works by other creators inside and outside of the fandom that have influenced your work?

A: Owlship has had a direct influence on my work - I've snagged quite a few prompts from her and I've been inspired at least directly by "the centre cannot hold;".  While I can't say I really look up to anyone else as an influence, I definitely give props to Weirdness_Unlimited for taking off running with "To Love Reptiles" and their OC work, and giving me inspiration to keep going with mine.  I quite literally went through every single fic that looked good to me when I first found MMFR so I can't really point anything out that has influenced me except for the creativity of the community as a whole.

Q: Tell us about a current WIP or planned project.

A: Runaway is the big WIP I'm staring down right now.  I've been bogged down in terms of having a hard time writing thought and reflection instead of action.  I've probably said it a hundred times, but I do have an outline set up for the fic which would go pretty far if written for completely.  Anyone reading it can expect something interesting in the next few chapters.   I do have another WIP or two in my pocket that I'll abstain from talking about, but they'll be little one shots.  One's a bit of pre-canon, another's post-canon which is the one I'm favoring.  There's still gears turning, no matter how small, and I hope to get stuff going again soon.

@b-kilroy thank you for your time. 

[headspacedad]

I'm happy with the news about Shiro, but I'm unhappy with the fighting it's already brought, particularly bullying towards Shallura and Shiro x fem!OC/self-insert fans, and anyone who hc's Shiro as anything but gay. But then again, what do I expect from this fandom? I've got issues with Adam, too: we already have so many characters, why must another new one be made for this news about Shiro? Why not use a current character like Matt or even Kolivan? Or even Shiro once having a thing for Ulaz?

Look, I don’t really ship anyone in the canon, though there are some I see more understandable than others.  So I can’t really make any calls about ships here.  Instead I’m going to go with:

this fandom has a massive problem with trying to police how people view characters in the show, whether its broganes, a ship, even simple character interpretation.  For some reason there’s a mentality in a lot of new fandoms that there is only One True Way to view a thing and everything else is - well let’s call it heresy.  Because the people bent on enforcing their One True Way often act a lot like the Inquisition.  Its not healthy for anyone involved, including the creators of the show and future creativity and it damages a lot of people in ways that are going to linger, especially younger fans and people that are new to the fandom experience.  Any artist or writer will tell you that while they might have had one thing in mind when they created a piece, there are always people that will view it entirely differently and, from their viewers perspective, not be wrong.  The writers of VLD have stated, clearly, that they are leaving Shiro’s exact orientation vague for the specific purpose that more people can view themselves in him.  In other words, his specific label is not important to the story, or the rest of the story line, enough to be a factor or to need clarification.  He’s under the umbrella.  How exactly he fits under it does not matter to the story plot at all.  The writers can afford to leave it vague because it has no bearing on his actions during the rest of the story.  End of story.  (or they’re lying again but at this point who can even find the energy to try to figure it out).  Either way, if the writers say its open, its open and that’s all you, or anyone else, needs to deal with.  Headcanon whatever you want, have fun playing with other people that enjoy the same, block and avoid engaging people that think they, somehow, have more right to control a story or a character than the people that created and wrote him.  Look, I’ll be the first to admit VLD has some questionable writing sometimes and makes some calls with it that make me scratch my head or even be upset over.  But at the end of the day, that’s for my sandbox and mine alone.  I will spread out my toys, and my ideas about them, and people can come and jump in and play with me if they want to.  But I am not going to walk over to someone else’s sandox and try to take their toys away or tell them how to play with them.  Creativity dies when its policed and no one has a right to dictate what people do with fictional characters in their own space on their own time.  This fandom, and others, are going to have their jerks and their bullies and their flash fires because of the way the internet is set up and because some people don’t feel important unless they’re pretending they’re important enough to control others.  Avoid them where you can and never hesitate or be afraid to block.

As for Adam…… oooooh, SO many issues with Adam.  But okay, for the one you brought up - if I was writing Voltron the only reason I would introduce a new character at this late point in the game was if he wasn’t important.  I have one arc of my story to go and I have a hell of a lot of things to wrap up in a limited amount of time.  I do not have time to develop a new character enough, by this point (and with VLDs bad character development record anyway) to make the audience care about them.  So if I introduce someone new its for one of two reasons.  1. I need a flashback to explain an established character’s actions in which case I don’t need to develop the new character, he’s only motivation, not an actual character.  Or 2. I’m going to bring him in to make a point or simply kill him, not for emotional impact because the viewers haven’t known him enough to care, but for - again - motivation for one of the actual fleshed out characters.  Adam is a plot point at this point.  He’s motivation.  He’s not a character.  That may change in season 7, they may haul him in and try to flesh him out enough to make the viewers care but - that’s wasteful writing at best and bad writing at worst.  As you pointed out, they already had undeveloped characters that could have been nudged into that roll when there was still time to flesh them out.  As is, we’re coming down the home stretch.  All the stakes are raised.  We’ve got multiple characters who still have development and arcs that need to be resolved not to mention the giant main plot of the story, PLUS at least two villains and possibly four that still need to be brought into play - we do not have the time to flesh out a new character and the laws of writing dictate that Adam’s therefor not a character.  He’s a plot device.

[siarven]

20 Questions Tag

I got tagged by @reinkings to do this tag game, thank you so much :3

1. Is there any scene from any piece you’ve written that actually scared you? If so, describe the scene.

Hm… I’m not really one for horror? I don’t really like watching or reading it so I haven’t really written any, either.

2. What genre do you feel most awkward writing?

Romance. I'm horrible at anything concerning flirting and stuff like that xD Horrible!

3. How many different types of writing do you write? Types of writing include novels, short stories, poetry, song lyrics, etc.

Mostly novel-length stuff, though they usually end up getting longer than just one book. Also short stories, and one-shots. I wrote poetry when I was younger (but I am probably rather bad at it). Also I never wrote a song, lyric-wise, only making up melodies etc without lyrics.

4. How old were you when you first started writing?

Writing as in writing stuff down, or storytelling? I can't remember a time when I didn't tell myself stories (out loud, until I managed to do it in my head later on). I started writing them down as soon as I could write, haha (so near the end of first grade). Most of the stories from that time are about "Feelie" ("Fee" means fairy in German...) who was, oh wonder, a fairy! And had veeery long hair. And a flying unicorn. xD The stories are kind of very cute and slightly embarassing, and very stereotypical XD Also there was Lisa, my next ... "OC". There were a lot of different iterations of her, because I never finished anything before getting a better idea and subsequently starting again from scratch XD

5. How confident are you in your writing?

Hm. Sometimes I am really sure that what I'm doing is amazing (usually when I just came up with a really mean plot twist or magic system or found the perfect solution to a plot hole) ... only that usually doesn't last very long XD I would be lying if I said that I don't care about what others think, but at the same time, I also don't? I'd love to be published one day but if it comes down to it, I'm writing for me, and only me. I feel so blessed to have found this community, and that there are others who are coming to love my characters as much as I do. But I would write these stories even if nobody were interested in them. So... I don't know, I think I'm getting better at the confidence thing :)

6. Have you ever written and posted anything that was very personal to you?

I don't think that I've ever posted anything? I write Morning Pages (sadly not as frequently as I should), which are 3 pages of stream of consciousness, first thing after getting up in the morning. It helps a lot. But it's also the sort of thing I won't ever upload anywhere cause it's deeply personal and I would feel very uncomfortable giving it to anyone. I've been thinking about uploading a cutesy (rather personal) short story, though. I wrote it for my mother as a birthday present some years ago :D

7. What inspired you to start writing?

I... have no idea? I've told myself stories before I could write, so... I have no idea. I should probably ask my mother if there was some sort of catalyst xD I didn't even start reading of my own free will until 2nd or 3rd grade, but since then I've never stopped so... xD Anyways, my father read me bedtime stories every night when I was small so maybe that? I never really watched a lot of TV until 10th grade when I discovered the mysteries of the online stream and suddenly had a lot of stuff to catch up to... and now I'm studying film xD (My parents are still confused by that because I was a kind of late bloomer concerning cinema and tv :D )

8. Which of your OCs do you relate to the most?

Uh... let's see. I think maybe Jouka? He’s from my wip firewings, and I love him a lot.

9. Have you ever written self-insert fanfiction?

Maybe not *fan*fiction but maybe self-insert fiction when I was young xD All that fairy and princess stuff... most definitely self-insert, haha.

10. What is your favorite piece you’ve ever written about?

Uhm… I haven’t written it yet? But when I’m done with Dreams and Shadows I’ll go and write Icicle Soul. It has some of my favourite characters, plot lines and plot twists in it and I’ve been looking forward to properly writing it since forever :D

11. How frequently do you actually sit down and write?

I try to write every day. It does not work. I always end up doing tag games instead because there are still so many to finish.

12. How many hours at a time do you do research on your writing?

Sometimes it escalates and I spend the whole day reading up on stuff on wikipedia and then end up source-riding until there’s no way back and I have 3000 tabs open. XD

13. Do you like to branch out in your writing or do you tend to stick to what you know?

When I was younger my stories tended to include a lot of the stuff I was interested in at the specific moment, and were influenced strongly by the things I’d read recently. Now I try to challenge myself a bit to write stuff that I’m bad at, or to use writing to explore things that I don’t really know yet :)

14. What would your antagonist of your current WIP say to you if they saw you in person?

I think that depends on if they know that I’m the writer or not xD If not I’d be far too insignificant. If yes, I would probably be subjected to a lot of threats, and curses. And assassination attempts, so they can wrangle control back.

15. Do you consider yourself your OCs’ god or just kind of a guiding hand (or other? If other, please list)?

Well. I’m not very good at being a god, I guess, since they always decide everything on their own. Or change, without me wanting them to. Or do something totally unexpected. So, I’m probably more like a guiding hand, haha.

16. What do you think you’d be doing with your time if you’d never gotten into writing?

Well, I do study 3D animation and do art, so I guess I’d be somewhat better at that because I’d have more time to practise. xD

17. Have you ever written a smut piece?

Nope. I'm very bad at romance and smut and stuff like that.

18. What was the first thing you ever wrote about?

Oooh. I remember a story about a tiger and a rabbit :D Also, the Feelie stories above… the first thing that ever got longer than a few chapters had no title and was vaguely like Eragon.

19. What is the most creative creature you’ve ever created for world-building?

Creatures are the best! Hm. The most creative creature… I don’t know, actually? They’re usually very plausible creatures because I want them to feel possible. Like, if that world really existed, it would totally make sense if the creature did, too, you know? I always think of evolution, too, and how it could have been formed by its environment and stuff like that. I have very big folders filled with that stuff :D I have bloodthirsty and very murderous unicorns in Morning Star, though, and for Dreams and Shadows there are tons of different kinds of dragons that I’ve put a lot of thought into. I have rebuilt Alearis’ ecosystem from scratch, and I just vaguely remember the horse-like creatures that exist in the world of Firewings instead of horses. Honestly, there are so many more but I have probably made more creative creatures for art-purposes.

20. Tell me one random fact about your WIP that you have yet to tell your followers.

Dreams and Shadows was born during German class in 11th grade. I had an image of a young boy in my head, standing behind his mother who was crying in front of his comatose body. It was only ever supposed to be a short story, and it was supposed to be this melancholic, sad and beautiful thing. And then I wrote it during NaNoWriMo and the original plot was done after 30,000 words but I still had 20K words left to write in order to win so Ava, his little sister, got a storyline of her own, and angels and demons entered the fray, and now Ava has somehow taken over the story and that slow, beautifully-sad thing has grown and become something else entirely :D It’s also no longer set in our world, the angels and demons have become something else, it’s one of my favourite worldbuildings yet and there are dragons! 200% better ;)

tagging: @madmooninc @romenna @asttralhell @lynnafred @authordai if you want to :D

[knockbeforeyouspeak]

the future (you once had)

tom hiddleston x reader

inspired by this post​. they write wonderful chris evans imagines you should check them out!

prompt: 19. “Go home.”; 52. “Why don’t you tell me why you really came here tonight?”; 64. “If you’re not busy… maybe we can get dinner?”

(pic source: x)

“If you’re not busy … maybe we can get dinner?”

The question stunned you into silence. For a minute you thought you were only dreaming, hallucinating, or that was your brain playing tricks on you. The next minute you were trying to get your mind together, resuming your work like nothing had ever happened. Indeed it didn’t, right? You hadn’t heard anyone asking you for a dinner. In fact, you hadn’t heard anyone saying anything.

You inserted coins to the cashier. Your shift ended in two hours. If you could manage, and you should, you might be able to visit your Grandma. Her house was only a kilometer from the nearest bus stop.

“Hey.”

Grandma would be very happy when she found out that you had baked her a jar of gingerbreads. The jar in question itself were safely hidden beneath the counter. You couldn’t risk dropping your bag by accident and broke the jar in the process, that’s why you had chosen to put the jar in a place you could get a clear view of.

“Knock knock, is anyone there?”

It was snowing, yes it had been, but that wouldn’t be a problem. Not at all. The last Christmas you had driven with your windscreen half-covered with snow, and you had managed to get home safely. Plus, you didn’t bring a car today. You had planned to just walk. So basically visiting your Grandma was the best plan you could possibly have.

Someone leaned on the counter and said, “Y/N, I actually was talking to you.”

You felt your fingers twitched. It seemed your terrible attempt at ignoring his presence was pointless. Determined not to back down, you continued counting the money of today’s transactions. “Yes, Sir? How can I help you?”

“You heard me.”

“Yes, I did. Is your change right?” You didn’t bother looking up, but you could feel his eyes staring a deep hole at your face. The problem was your count would soon come to an end; you even actually had double checked the money earlier. When you ran out of idea to stall time, there would be no other choices but facing a conversation you knew he had prepared.

Why would he visit this bookstore, anyway? You cursed silently. In other days, you would probably take advantage of him. Maybe put him in the spotlight as a main attraction. It sure would increase the bookstore’s income one way or another, for who wouldn’t want to buy a book with Tom Hiddleston smiling at you behind the cashier? With Tom Hiddleston handing you your book and wishing you a good day? And taking selfies together as a bonus? That would totally be great! You could even get a praise or two from your manager. Business done, everyone’s happy, what a win-win solution is that!

Unless, today wasn’t that other day. It was a day as usual as any. Eleven o’clock at daytime. As much as you loved books, which made this part-time job a perfect way to spend your time and make some dough simultaneously, there were times when you wished you could go anywhere but your workplace and home. A travelling would be nice. You had been saving money for that, solely the reason why you had taken two jobs at a time. If anything was on schedule, you could take your flight two months from now.

That was still in the future. Right now, you had your cashier, and this particular customer who hadn’t gone from your sight eventhough you had handed him his change.

The particular customer who, of all people, happened to be someone you knew all too well. Mention his name and fangirls would go crazy. What would you say about that? Oh, yeah, it’s Tom Hiddleston and he is my ex. Guess what, we broke up not long ago! How does that sound?

Great, but no thanks.

His arm was resting on the counter that separated him from you. You stole a swift glance to his watch. You expected nothing out of it, really. You did it without purpose, just idly trying to come up with an idea to avoid him as best as you could. But the sight made your gaze lingered a little too long as you frowned: he was wearing the watch you had given to him as a present one Christmas ago. It brought back memories you had kept at the deepest of your mind, some of them you didn’t want to remember.

And he noticed this. Seeing an opportunity to catch your attention, he quipped in. “Familiar with what you see?”

Don’t talk to me like we are strangers, your inner voice called out. Yet at the same time you also thought, or, better, don’t talk to me at all.

The first thing that crossed your mind was to snap at him, telling him to just get out of your sight, to go anywhere but near you, to disappear right now and if he wouldn’t, you would happily be the one doing so. It only took seconds for you to realize he didn’t deserve that. No matter how bad the way you parted, he didn’t deserve any of that.

Tom was a good man. Even if he slipped once or twice, even after you learned one particular thing about him you couldn’t stand without getting angry, that wouldn’t change the fact that he indeed was a good man. He had this very sincere smile. He had this dimple on his left cheek. He treated you the way you wanted to be treated. He respected your privacy. He listened to your rants. He was there by the end of your day. Sure it had been a long-distance one; him with his works and you with yours. Sure you made compromises every now and then. But you had his hands holding you while you walked down the street, the stolen kisses, the nights spent doing nothing but enjoying each other’s company; the times when you had his undivided attention and he had yours.

You couldn’t ask for more. Everything had been perfect. But of course life wouldn’t let go without plunging you into one of their twists. Reality didn’t always go as planned, apparently.

You bound the money together, putting it inside the cashier. For the first time since he had stood across you, you lifted your chin. You were met with a set of brilliant blue eyes, staring at you the way they had always been, with a look only people who once loved each other would know how to. Once, you highlighted. It felt like decades had passed when in fact it had only been months.

Most people didn’t change much within months. Keyword: much. And so did Tom. He was clad in a casual wear: a shirt beneath an outer, a pair of jeans, you couldn’t see his shoes from where you were standing. You wouldn’t say he wasn’t handsome, because dear Lord how could he not be, but it was unbelievably difficult to look into his eyes while pretending you didn’t want to strike him with a bone-crashing hug.

When you fully realized what you had just thought, you wondered if you had missed him all along. Did I? You asked yourself, but no answer came back.

“Tom.” You greeted. Even his name had a vague taste at your tongue. As if you had never said his name out loud before. As if you had just learned a random name you saw on the street.

Tom smiled. A tiny one, only a twitch at each end of his lips. If you hadn’t known him for years, you would have missed it easily. He must have sensed it too, the unease feeling hanging thickly above the both of you. The atmosphere between strangers.

“How are you?”

You glimpsed the paper bag on his other hand. Inside was the book you had swiped its barcode only minutes ago. A copy of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. You knew Tom had already had Hamlet, for you yourself had seen it in his bookshelf. Why would he buy another? You couldn’t help but wondered. Was it to be given for someone? Was it a gift for someone’s special day? Did he buy it just because it was the limited edition from the publisher? He could have bought it online, couldn’t he?

As soon as your head started running possibilities, you stopped. It wasn’t to be your concern. You had absolutely nothing to do with that. Nothing with Tom. Not anymore.

He took a rather deep breath at your quietness. “For an acquaintance of mine.” He explained without you asking. You raised an eyebrow. It was rare for him to use that word. He would usually prefer something that had more depth in it, such as friend. Or buddy. “A big fan of Shakespeare as I am—”

“Why don’t you tell me why you really came here?” you interrupted, unable to hold back any longer. You thought he must have anticipated the question though, for he didn’t look surprised at all. Nevertheless, he seemed to hesitate, you could tell from the way he subtly clenched his hand into a fist.

“I bought a book.”

What an obvious answer. You couldn’t see the point of beating around the bush and didn’t want to deal with one, so you nodded. “Of course.“ A few beats of silence and you shrugged. “Yeah. Have a good day. Come back soon to our bookstore.” The last sentence didn’t deliver its real meaning. It was a formality instead of hospitality. You hoped he would never visit this bookstore anymore, not while you still worked at it.

You were about to retreat when he made a move. Tom reached forward, grabbing your fingers with one fluid motion, practically trapped your fingers between his and the hard surface of the counter. It startled you like hell, yet he opened his mouth before you could react, “Hold on.”

You swept your surroundings in a quick but thorough glance. No one was near the counter, which meant no one would come to pay their books, at least not for now. You wasn’t sure whether you have to be grateful or dreadful about that. Having someone around would include getting a curious look or two, but also a chance to escape from this very situation. Unfortunately you got neither.

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to tear your fingers out of him. His grasp was strong enough to hold you still, but not strong enough to hurt you. “What is the matter with you?” You whisper-shouted. “Let go!”

“Please, Y/N,” He flashed you a mixed look of frustration and plead. “We never talked about this. Not once. One time you were with me and in a blink you were gone. Just like that.”

You had determined not to argue, but his words inflicted a sense of defensive inside you. You leaned just a bit forward, feeling offended more than ever. “Well, what am I supposed to do? Waiting for you to act first? I did wait! I did give you a chance to talk to me, to confess, to apologize! I gave you time to do any of that! But did you? Not at all! You’re the one hiding everything. You’re the one ruining what we once had. It’s just logical that I chose to give up on us, isn’t it?”

Tom tightened his fingers around yours. He clearly was trying to find a way to make things clear between the two of you; the misunderstandings you both probably had, the event that dimmed out the sparks that once had been there. But what could he do anyway? Things had ended for the both of you. You didn’t want to look back. Not ever.

“One dinner,” he finally resolved. You recalled it was what he had said in the beginning, the offer you had ignored. “One dinner. We’ll talk. Let me make it up to you. Let me … let me fix this.”

His grip loosened a bit, most likely because of his defeated stance. You seize the moment to rip your hands from him, wincing when you realized you put too much force in it. Tom flinched a bit, a look of hurt flashed across his face and you couldn’t help but felt guilty. Yet you recovered quickly, nearly snapping in anger but you held back in the last moment. “Go home, Tom.” You shook your head to emphasize your point. “There’s no use of talking anymore. I won’t take that offer. Just, try to get on with life, I suppose.”

That sounded horrible. More than that, hypocrite. Only a jerk would say that. Have you become one? You weren’t sure. But it was an honest truth. You had been trying to move on. He should, too.

Tom didn’t avert his gaze from you. He looked tired, miserable, like he hadn’t slept or eaten properly the past days. Were you the reason behind that? “I’m sorry.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. There was warmness pressing your eyes, but you had decided this wasn’t worth crying upon. “You should have said that months ago,” you said bitterly. “I might have forgiven you.”

“Y/N, I’m sorry.”

“You slept with another woman while you’re away,” you looked down, staring at the space between your shoes.

“I’m sorry.”

"You betrayed my trust.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, this time barely a whisper.

From the corner of your eyes, you see a young woman slowly striding towards you. Her focus still torn between going to the cashier and a display of books, so it might buy you some time. However, this should come to an end.

“Go home, Tom,” you pressed your palm against your forehead, wanting nothing but some solid five minutes to settle the mess inside your head. “Don’t come back. I don’t want to see your face ever again. Just … go.”

He had hurt you so deep the wound would never recover completely. You probably had hurt him back by leaving so abruptly, and now shoving him away, refusing his apology and whatnot. It was probably for the best since you were no longer able to see your future with him. It used to be there, but not anymore.

God, how did everything end up like this?

[wordswithkittywitch]

Billy and Zoë: A Christmas Carol

This year’s Billy and Zoë turned out to be harder to write than usual. This year, it’s one story in four parts.

One Two Three Four

If you can’t get the DeviantArt links to work, I’ve put the text under the cut.

   Billy and Zoë were always said to be good kids, not getting in fights, making the sports team, honor roll, debate team, cheer squad, chorus and band. Both moderately popular jacks-of-all-trades, they managed to make prom king and queen even though they were just friends, and got scholarships to the same college. Billy played sports year round, but managed to talk about other things, mainly debating, singing or playing clarinet. Well, not when he was doing those things, as they involved his mouth. He had a tall, muscular build, his features seemingly mismatched. He had soccer legs and basketball feet, baseball arms on a football torso, which his head was thankfully not too small for, his white blond hair contrasting with his cheeks, which were always red for some reason, be it anger, embarrassment, or chill. Zoë’s body, however, seemed more perfectly constructed. Her complexion was warm and comforting like a cup of cocoa and shiny black hair, large brown eyes, long willowy arms and legs rippling with muscles and small, athletic breasts that did not get in the way when she cheered, played the flute, lacrosse, tennis or cricket. Both frequently smiled, especially when the life-long friends found out they were going to college together.
    Kathryne stared pensively at the mostly blank page. She could do this. She’d been doing this for fifteen years. It wasn’t that she didn’t have any ideas to use, every year she saw something about the Christmas season that she thought would be improved by the addition of dead people, and there were still six concepts she came up with the very first year and never used. And then there was that Krampus Night one she started last year and never finished. Krampus was so very trendy last year, it probably would have been very well received if she had actually finished it. Everybody loved the idea of a horrible monster dragging off terrible people. She rolled her eyes. There were a couple of politicians she wouldn’t mind seeing the back of, if only there was a nice big monster with a sack to drag them away in.    She knew she had to pick something, anything to write this year, but mostly all she could think of was disturbing images, and she knew she needed at least a vague plot to tie it together. Kathryne slipped her chewing gum from one cheek to the other turned her attention to the BBC history documentary she had playing in the window next to her open word file with not a lot of text in it. She wasn’t really paying attention to what was being said about Tudor Christmas feasts, because she was distracted by the fact that the historian was wearing, along with a cream colored doublet, the exact same cheap wool beret that she bought in bulk and sewed lace on for lolitas. She sighed and leaned back in her white wicker desk chair. Kathryne hadn’t finished the drawing that she had agreed to do for the Tumblr Classic Who Fandom Secret Santa Exchange, either, or cleaned up the living room enough to put up the tree, or even gotten around to making her bed, which she had assured herself she was going to do as soon as she got dressed. Still, it was only eight minutes to nine-o-clock, she had plenty of time to at least put a little progress into one of those things before she had to take a large dose of sleep medication and make her bed a mess again. Pulling her velvet and lace robe close around her, Kathryne drew to her feet. She’d be needing the bed before the story or the picture. Anxiety does funny things to you. It makes you extra alert and generates constantly new but unvaried visions of how things could be going wrong right now. In this case, it made Kathryne notice that there were two voices downstairs. Two voices which were not the voices of anyone in her family. It wasn’t that she didn’t recognize the voices. It was worse than that. She was sure she had heard them before, but she had no idea where or when, or to whom they belonged. One voice was male, the other female, and both of them were young.    “I would have thought that this one would never be written.” said the female. “It’s too long, it’s not that scary, and it’s boring and predictable.”    “I don’t think that’s the problem.” said the male. “It’s a pretty personal story.”    “She never minded that before. She straight-up self-inserted herself in one of our stories back in… the early aughts? It was embarrassing. We were barely present.”    “That was just another one of her teenage death fantasies. That was all she was writing that year.”    “I’m just saying I like the forth wall where it is!” the girl said firmly. “This postmodern death-of-the-author stuff is just too weird to be taken seriously.”    Her door began to swing open. Whoever these people were, they were coming into her bedroom. Kathryne hated having people in her bedroom. She didn’t even like it when her family members came in, and whoever these people were, she didn’t know them… or at least, she didn’t know them well. It was like they were actors in something she watched in high school and couldn’t remember the plot of anymore. Whoever they were, they had no business coming into her room. She wasn’t going to stand for this. Kathryne was going to tell them off with all of her fury and indigence.    “Uh-” she stammered. The door swung open, and two people stepped into the room. They were taller than Kathryne herself, but they had young faces and that causal but slightly hunched manner of standing that she associated with teenagers. The boy was white, or more accurately, pink, with very fair hair that was spiked up in a manner that would have been far more fashionable when Kathryne was in middle school. His football jersey was filled with bulging muscles like an action-man toy, but his basic demeanour made this come across as more awkward than threatening.    The girl was quite pretty, ethnically ambiguous with skin the color of a very fancy flavored coffee drink with entirely too many words in its name and straight chest-length black hair with blunt bangs. She wore leggings and an oversized teeshirt advertising the Blevenston Band Camp, which was startling in itself as Kathryne knew absolutely everything there was to know about the town of Blevenston and had never heard of a Band Camp before. Blevenston High School, yes, the Black Academy and Fiji Comics Emporium, but no band camp. But the more important things that Kathryne knew about Blevenston were these: the town did not exist, and she had made it up.    “What the hell?” Kat demanded.    “Hello, Kat.” said the girl.    “Hi.” the boy added.    “We’re—“    “I know who the hell you are!” Kathryne shrieked, rising to her feet. “Which is why I want to know what the hell is going on!”    “Jesus.” Billy said to Zoë. “You would have thought she was the one meeting her creator.”    “No one is meeting anyone!” Kat protested. “Billy, Zoë, it’s great to see you both, well, actually, no it isn’t good to see either of you. Because you don’t exist—oh no, I’m talking to people who don’t exist, that isn’t a good thing.”    “I think it’s pretty clear that we exist enough for our purposes.” Zoë argued. “You are talking to us.”    “I’m an author! I talk to my characters all the time!” Kathryne protested. “It’s the seeing you I don’t like. I really should not be seeing you. In fact, I don’t think I am seeing you…” She picked up one of the many medication bottles littering her desk.    “I know that some of these can cause hallucinations. It’s happened before. I’ve seen the reflection of a cooler chest turn into a floating, talking skull. I’ve seen rafters turn into spiders. And right now, I’m seeing my own guilt and inadequacies as an author manifesting as the very characters I am failing to write! You’re just a couple of medication-induced hallucinations!”    “Could a medication-induced hallucination do this?” asked Billy. He jumped up and down a few times, waving his arms and making weird noises. Zoë watched him with as much confusion as Kathryne and the several dozen china dolls that lined the walls. There was a short, uncomfortable silence as Billy stood with his arms above his head.    “…yeah, I’m pretty sure that it could.” Kat answered.    “Jesus, Billy, what the hell was that?” Zoë demanded.    “I panicked.” he whimpered, lowering his arms and looking like a chastened old dog.    Kathryne fell back into her chair and spread her legs out under her desk, knocking over several coke cans. This gave her an idea, which was that she wasn’t caffeinated enough for this bullshit. Sticking her entire arm into a long thin box, she produced a single can of coke and opened it with a loud snap.    “Sorry, you don’t want any coke, do you?” Kat asked reluctantly. She only had one can left upstairs, not counting the one she was drinking, but she had very strong feelings about being a good host. Especially to something that might not actually exist, because if a god was going to show up in disguise it could very easily look like something that might not actually exist. It never hurt to be polite, especially once you’d already sworn at them.    “That’s okay, we couldn’t drink it anyway.” said Zoë with a shrug.    “Pointing to hallucination…” Kathryne muttered into her coke, taking a sip.    “Look, just because we don’t actually have physical bodies or whatever doesn’t make us hallucinations!” Zoë replied irritably, putting her hands on her hips. It takes a lot of practice to set down a can of soda sarcastically. Kat had a lot of practice both doing things sarcastically and drinking soda.    “The thing is, technically, we’re dead.”    “What do you mean, you’re dead?”    “Uh, you should know.” said Zoë sternly. “You have killed us often enough.”    “Okay, fair enough.” Kathryne rubbed her face and avoided eye contact. “I did establish in Snowglobe and I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas that once either of you die, you can be the ghosts in the story. Oh, and Misfortune Seemed His Lot.”    “Okay, good. You’re keeping up with us so far.” said Zoë, nodding. “Okay. Dead, no physical body, but we can open doors and look just like normal people…”    “What does that mean?” asked Kathryne.    “You’re the horror writer, what do you think it means?” Billy asked sarcastically.    “I’ve managed to write so badly, my characters aren’t just arguing with me, they’ve actually shown up to haunt me.” Kat shook her head. “Great.”    “Get used to it.” said Billy.    “What the hell do you mean, get used to it?” Kat demanded.    “We’re just one of four.” said Zoë.    “Uh, technically, one and two of five.” Billy corrected. Zoë rolled her eyes.    “Not the Christmas Carol spoof! I don’t want to write the Christmas Carol spoof!” Kat whined.    “Well, then we have good news. You aren’t going to write the Christmas Carol spoof.” Zoë paused awkwardly. “You’re going to live the Christmas Carol spoof. The first ghost will appear to you tomorrow at nine a clock at night.”    “That’s ‘ghost of a character you killed off’, by the way.” added Billy.    “If I actually did write down the Christmas Carol spoof, would that stop it from actually happening?” Kat asked desperately.    “The next ghost will appear the following night, probably nine or ten.”    “Look, I really, really don’t want to travel around my personal timeline, living my life once is awkward enough as it is without seeing the highlights reel of my biggest failures.” Kat whined.    “Oh, don’t worry too much about that, they’re probably going to focus on what you wrote instead of what you did.” Billy assured her.    “Oh good.” said Kat with some relief. “…wait… I spent most of high school writing fictional accounts of my problems. Fuck!”    “And the last ghost, like any fictional character, will show itself to its author in its own sweet time.” Zoë finished. She looked at Billy irritably. “It was bad enough with her interrupting me without you jumping in every two seconds!”    “Well, sorry!” Billy crossed his arms defensively. “I thought we were going to do this together. It’s Billy and Zoë Stories, not Zoë Gives the Exposition and Billy Keeps His Mouth Shut Stories.”    “This is postmodern bullshit.” Kathryne grumbled, turning her face to her computer. The word document and its tiny exposition didn’t seem quite like an empty wasteland she needed to fill anymore. Now it looked like a possibly very bad idea she needed to finish to see how bad it actually was. The computer gave off a little digital trill to announce that she had been writing for an hour. Or, rather, that she was supposed to have been writing for an hour. She glanced back at the southwest corner of her room. There was nothing but a closed door and rather a lot of dolls. Billy and Zoë, if they had ever been there, were gone.

***

   The next evening, Kathryne was sitting back in the same chair she had the night before, with the same word document open, which she was ignoring. The only thing that really showed that any time had passed at all was the fact she had changed from a somewhat unconventional regency-style gauze dress and velvet robe into a downright bizarre purple quilted Christmas elf ensemble. She was feeling slightly better than she had the previous night, owing to the fact that she had spent the day cleaning, making her bed, putting up the Christmas tree, and getting the Secret Santa exchange far closer to done. The only trouble really was that a button had fallen off of the vest she had been wearing, and now she was extremely focused on fixing it.    The hinges of Kathryne’s bedroom door, which ought to have been oiled in the spring, two years ago, creaked open. When she turned her head, she expected to see one of her cats creeping into her room, as they were the only people in the house who never bothered to knock. Despite the previous evening, which she had spent the entire day trying to forget, she hadn’t expected to see a human being, or something very like it, standing there. Kathryne stared mutely at the newcomer. She politely smiled back.    The girl standing in the doorway looked like nothing so much as a larger version of the china dolls behind her. A blonde, rather pretty, sixteen year old girl wearing a really, really badly researched lavender English renaissance dress looked fondly at Kathryne, which the author thought was strange considering the hell she had put the young woman through.    “Good evening, milady.” said the girl in a soft English accent. “I am Kathleen, the ghost of Christmas past.”    “Yeah, I bet you are.” she responded quietly. Kathryne snipped the needle off of the vest and put it back on. “Holy crap. I haven’t even thought about Love With Long Blonde Hair for years.”    “Tisn’t wise to forget thy past, milady.”    “It is if it’s a romance novel you wrote in sixth grade.” Kathryne muttered. Kathleen wafted into the center of the room, her dress billowing around her as if it had a fan on it or someone was using very flowery language to describe it’s movement. Kathryne found it strangely irritating.    “So, um, can you sit…” Kathryne began, looking around. There were three seats in the room, one of which was covered in more or less clean sweaters, one of which was trapped behind her sewing table and holding a large china doll, and the last one Kat herself occupied. “…yeah, probably not.”    “Tis no time for me to take my rest, milady. We hath much to see.”    “Or here’s an idea-“ Kat suggested, “You can embarrass me without actually making me relive my most spectacular failures.”    “Thou knowst that we have not the time to view every mistake thou hast made. I come with a specific quest. As thou hath given me quests when thou wrote my lines of my life, I now bestow one upon thee.”    “A quest? What are you doing giving me a quest in the middle of the night?”    “Tis for thy benefit.”    “Trust me, actually getting to sleep would do me a lot more good than freaking out about my past.”    “Then it for the benefit of the words thou write. Thou wilt admit that there is no words written for thy yearly tale of winter wonder?”    “Well… nothing I’d like to admit to writing…” Kat agreed.    “Then thou must come with me. Without what I shall show thee, thy plight will go unaided.”    “You’re not going to make me watch myself fuck up everything I did in the past, are you?” asked Kathryne, wincing visibly. “Because, you know, I’ve got anxiety. I’m already doing that to myself, pretty much all the time. And there’s certain Solstice parties I… really don’t want there to be an audience for.”    “Oh, heaven forbid.” said Kathleen. “I’m not concerned with the wonderful romances thou wrote for me and failed to ever have thyself.    “I wouldn’t call you love story ‘wonderful’. Jacob was an asshole.”    “Jacob is the best beautiful, most wonderful man who ever lived!” Kathleen protested shrilly. Kathryne rubbed her eyes. Of course Kathleen thought that. Kathryne thought that of the boy that Jacob was based off of when she first wrote it. However, she had put some effort into having there be a resemblance between the inspiration and the character, so Jacob was exactly the kind of little shit a sixth-grade boy was.    “Are you going to be like this all night?”    “Tis the only way I know to be.” Kathleen replied. “Look upon thy words.”    “Do what?” Kat asked. Kathleen sighed in frustration.    “Twas my intention to hide a meaning within a meaning. Thy words define what I am, and thus explain my manner. I cannot be more than what thou wrote me to be. But ‘tis also how our journey shall begin.” she explained. She crossed the room and pushed aside the wicker chest in front of Kathryne’s vanity to get a better look at the lowest level of the bookshelf.    “What are you looking for?” Kat asked, standing up. “That’s just where I keep old sketchbooks and notebooks-” Kathleen rose, holding a battered, purple folder in her hands.    “As well I know.” said Kathleen. She turned the folder towards Kat and pulled it open like she was throwing open double doors. Sheets upon sheets of lined notebook paper covered with faded purple ink flew out of the folder as if they were caught in a storm. Instinctively, Kat put up her arms in front of her face. Papers flew past her, battering her arms and chest like leaves caught in a wind. The air buffeting her grew warm and freshly scented, like cut grass and hyacinths. The chill of her bedroom faded, and the papers stopped hitting her. Kathryne slowly lowered her hands. Her mouth and eyes opened wide.    “Oh no.” Kat said softly.    “Know thou this place?” asked Kathleen.    “Yeah.”    “I thought that in the years since thou hast been here, thy memories might have dulled.” Kathleen asked, smiling mischievously. “Though thou may have forgotten this land, it hath not forgotten thee.” Kathryne stared mutely at the scene in front of her. It was one part Lisa Frank, one part Disney, and about a dozen part 80s fantasy movies. A rainbow arched across a  brilliantly azure sky, ending in a castle constructed entirely of crystal and marble spires. Beneath them, a hill bowed towards the castle, covered in nearly neon green grass and dozens of flowers Kathryne knew never bloomed at the same time of year dotted the hillside; hyacinths, lilac, roses, violets, honeysuckle all glittering as bright as precious stones. Motes of glitter floated in the air like dust.    “May I rewelcome thee to Fairyland, milady.” Kathleen whispered in Kathryne’s ear.    The two young ladies walked down the hill together, Kathryne trying to ignore how smug Kathleen looked.    “This really does look like a place dreamed up by a twelve-year-old.” Kat muttered, trying to prevent herself from losing one of her slippers in the grass. Why did the characters who lived here all the time not lose their slippers every time they walked through the grass? And how did their stupid white satin shoes stay white? Kathryne glanced at Kathleen.    “Why did you bring me here?” Kat asked.    “I could ask thee the same question, milady.” said Kathleen. “I thought my story was to be finished when my daughter returned Jacob to me. That was years upon years before Lydia’s son captured the unicorn that brought his family to Fairyland.”    “It was going to be.” Kat admitted. “But… I guess I wanted to keep writing you. Maybe not you specifically, but the same kind of story.”    “Stories both about and yet not about thyself?” Kathleen asked.    “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” Kat admitted. “I mean, the whole Love with Long Blond Hair saga was basically a fantasy sequence for me: a version of me that was old enough to have a real romance, in a setting that I thought was really romantic and cool. Shakespearian… and then Shakespearian Fairyland. Somehow it all turned out a little more Legend than Midsummer Night’s Dream.”    Kat stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes still on the distant castle.    “Wait a second, you can’t be a ghost.” said Kathryne. “Billy and Zoë said that the ghosts were ghosts because I’d killed them off when I wrote them. I remember, when I was in high school and I was writing about your descendants, everybody from the first story was frozen in time so they wouldn’t be forgotten.”    “It would do thee well to look again upon thy writing. None of them was frozen until my death.”    “Can you stop with the ‘ye olde butchered Shakespearian’?” Kat rubbed her eyes. “It’s worse than that, it’s butchered Shakespearian as written by a twelve-year-old.”    “I cannot do but what thou hast written me to do. I am thy creation and thou must accept me as what thou hath made.” said Kathleen defensively. “And I am that, the fair maiden who loves her Jacob beyond all other earthly cares, the future matriarch of a line of ladies cursed in love, and perhaps, the story which might be more comfortably forgotten. But mistake not comfort for wisdom.”    “Kathleen, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I based you off of me, and I’m especially sorry that I based you off of myself when I was in sixth grade. Maybe if I hadn’t, you wouldn’t be so goddamn stupid.”    “Thou think me silly?” asked Kathleen. “I might as easily say the same of thee. What good hath thought wrought this day?”    “Plenty!” Kat exclaimed. “I got a lot of cleaning done, and I’m not worried that I won’t finish my holiday projects in time anymore.”    “And what good is that?” said Kathleen. “Who didst thou profess thy love to?”    “…I think the last person I said ‘I love you’ to was my mother, as she was going to bed.” said Kathryne.    “Tis not the same thing at all!” exclaimed Kathleen. “What is a mother? I never once missed my mother. I was abducted from her at sixteen and never even thought once of returning to her. She was not once mentioned in all of the chronicles of Jacob’s line.”    “I was in love once. It was terrible. I was afraid you were going to bring this up!” Kathryne rubbed her mouth and nose as if she could press the words back into her mouth and avoid the entire way this conversation was going.    “Why do thou not want to discuss the love you once felt?”    “Because the love I feel now, the love for my family, for my hometown, for really beautifully told stories, actually makes me happy.”    “And you’ve never been made happy by love for a man?”    “…maybe really briefly while I was actively talking to them?” Kat theorized uncomfortably. “I knew if I was going to talk to you’d bring this shit up. You’re the version of me that’s obsessed with romance.”    “Who better to show you the past, milady?” asked Kathleen. “A romantic view of the past has been the inspiration of many a writer afore thee.”    “The past is terrible!” Kat exclaimed. “You don’t even know how much shit I’ve been through since I wrote you! I’m thirty! That’s eighteen years of miserable and sometimes traumatic bullshit! I don’t want to relive that!”    Kathryne fell silent, as if daring Kathleen to respond, but her stomach was churning. Her mind touched on a thousand places in her past she didn’t want to relive, but if Kathleen was the ghost of her past, was she going to make her watch that all over again? She didn't think that would actually hep her in any way, and she was sure her theraphist would agreee.    When Kat was twelve, she delighted in writing fictionalized, more fantastic versions of actual events from her life. But when she was twelve, she hadn’t lived through anything that made her constantly frightened or full of self-doubt and self-hate. Kathleen’s expression softened, looking almost pityingly on Kathryne.    “Tell me, why didst thou write my story, milady?”    “I don’t know if I had a reason, really.” Kat shrugged. “I guess I was just having fun.”    “And now?” Kathleen asked. “Have thee thy fun when thee tell the stories thee tell today?”    Kathryne looked up at Kathleen ready to crush her with another crippling retort. But as she stared into what her twelve-year-old-self had rather hopefully thought her sixteen-year-old self’s face would look like, Kathryne realized that she had no answer. Kathleen’s smile faded into a look of exhausted dismay, her slightly-too large nose shrank slightly and puffed up onto a round blob more to scale with her face, her hair faded from gold to black, her brilliantly blue eyes faded to steely grey, and a half-healed blemish formed on her chin. Kathryne blinked, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. It wasn’t until she saw the collection of perfume bottles, makeup brushes, and Doctor Who figurines, that she realized that she was staring at her own reflection, sitting at her own vanity in her own room.    Which was just as well, as she still had no answer to Kathleen’s question.

***

On the third night, Kat was more than usually anxious. She wished that she could say it was because she feared the coming of the fourth ghost, but she knew perfectly well that it was for a thousand reasons; a glitch in a game she had been playing instead of working, the bills she’d stacked beside her keyboard, the song which had been going through her head all day and the fear that somehow downloading it would set off a chain reaction of overdrafts which would totally empty her bank account; but mainly because she suffered from anxiety. Her shoulders ached and the gum in her mouth felt like silly putty, but she kept nervously chewing on it lest she start nervously chewing on anything else.    Kat’s eyes flicked from the clock on her computer screen to the door. It was ten-thirty, and there had been no sign whatever of the ghost. Not so much as a knock on her door. This did nothing to help her anxiety at all, it was like mentally preparing herself to leave the house and then waiting an hour for whoever else was going with her to finish what they were doing. Also not helping things was a mechanical chugging noise outside, it didn’t sound like her town’s snowplow or a car, so she supposed it was one of those idiot joyriders who liked to go down icy, winding backroads in the middle of the night because “no one lived there” and they could quiz past hairpin turns at sixty miles an hour. But usually those sounded more like protesting car engines than industrial sized fans rigged up to a lawnmower. Kat wondered why she was still hearing it, because surely whatever it was it should have only taken a few seconds to go past her house. She leaned back in her chair and listened at the window at her elbow, trying to place whatever that bizarre chugging noise was. Whatever it was, it was sounded incredibly close. Suddenly, something tapped on the glass of the window.    Kat, of course, screamed. She attempted to fling herself out of her desk chair, upending it in the process and landing uncomfortably on a pile of sewing baskets. The tapping stopped, but the chugging did not. There was a seconds pause before another noise came from the window.    “Are you alright?” asked a female voice with a faint Boston accent. Kat stared at the thick, quilted curtain and mouthed three words again and again until she managed to get enough air in her lungs to squeak them out.    “What the fuck?” Kat asked quietly.    “Could you open the window, please? It’s rather cold out here.” asked the voice. Shakily, Kathryne pulled herself to her feet and pushed the curtain aside. It had been entirely too long since she had cleaned her windows, but there was no doubt that a young lady in a fancy brown wool coat and a fur-lined hat that looked too small to actually do any good was hanging from what appeared to be a large parasol spinning very rapidly. One foot was in a long leather stirrup, and the other dangled freely below her.    Kat stared blankly at her for a moment. The woman with the flying parasol mimed opening the window with her free hand. She watched impatiently as Kat stood her chair back up, moved it to the center of the room, took the jars off the windowsill, and finally raised the window, the screen, and the storm window. The woman hooked her free foot onto the inside of the room, pulled herself closer to the house, got her other foot inside, sat on the windowsill, and turned off her flying device. She tucked that inside next, then her head, then finally her body. Rising to her feet, she brushed soot and snow off the skirt of her coat with a delicate glove matched to her hat. Finally, she took off her hat and raised her driving goggles to the top of her head.       As she pulled a scarf away from her face, Kat could see that she was really quite pretty, gorgeously plump, with rosy cheeks and ringlets like brass springs falling down her back. Her dress looked more Victorian than Kathleen’s had looked Shakespearian, oxblood red with gold filigree woven into the fabric.    “I’m sorry I was late,” said Rebecca. “I was looking for an air-dock. And when I couldn’t find one, I had to check each of the windows to find you. Which was quite difficult, seeing as you’d drawn the curtains.”    “This house as a door, you know.” Kat grumbled. Rebecca didn’t appear to hear her.    “We just have time for introductions, I think. You, as I understand it, are miss Kathryne Taylor, a reluctant author, and I am miss Rebecca Goldburg, the Ghost of Christmas Present.”    “Ghost? Ghost? Why do you people keep saying you’re ghosts?” Kat asked. “I know I haven’t killed you off. Billy, Zoë, and Kathleen all died in their stories. I made a point of not killing off any of the characters in Damsels. It doesn’t fit the tone.”    “That’s as may be, miss Taylor.” said Rebecca. “But you must remember that I was born in 1851. You may not have written my death, but you hardly made me immortal, either. By the time you were born, I was most surely dead.”    “That’s reaching.” Kat frowned. Rebecca shrugged and stepped over the sewing baskets Kathryne had knocked over earlier.    “Tell me…” said Rebecca, looking around the general chaos of half-finished projects that was Kathryne’s bedroom. “Is this really 2017?”    “Trust me, we’re all just as disappointed as you are.” Kat muttered darkly. She put the computer chair back where it belonged and sat in it.    “Really, I shouldn’t sit down again if I were you. As I said, I’m here to represent the present, and as there’s no time like it, we really ought to… oh, what a clever little lightbox you have there!” said Rebecca, leaning over the mess that was Kathryne’s desk. “Oh, and I see there’s the pages of a book, and some sort of ledger… I have it! It’s a self-lighted reading device, like a player piano for books!”    “It’s a computer.” said Kat, realizing as she said it that this would mean absolutely nothing to Rebecca.    “Is that what it’s called?” said Rebecca politely, turning her attention back to Kathryne. “It’s quite clever, did you invent it?”    “No. I did not invent the computer.” Kat said dully. “You know, Kathleen totally ignored my computer, and she was supposed to be Shakespearian.”    “I haven’t met Kathleen, but I must say she doesn’t sound as if she has a particularly inquiring mind.” said Rebecca. Kathryne sucked in through her teeth and looked away. Not even Kathleen could argue with that.    “Still, we best be off. We can chat on our way.”    “Our way where?” asked Kat.    “To the place you ought to be!” said Rebecca brightly. She paused. “Mentally, of course. Physically, this is the world you belong in, but that’s just so you can tell the people who live here what’s going on back home.”    “Back home?” Kat asked. “You’re going to take me to Newcomen?”    “Oh, I wish I could, but I think it’s best that door is left closed, at least until the end of the month.” said Rebecca, sounding disappointed. Kathryne frowned. She hated cities, but she had written Newcomen to have as few parts of cities that she hated.    “Then where are we going?” asked Kat.    “You’re the author,” said Rebecca, smiling as she lowered her goggles back onto her face. “You tell me.” She moved forward and squeezed both of Kathryne’s hands before she could stop her. In general, Kathryne hated to be touched by other people. Still, that suggested that she had finally fleshed out Rebecca enough that on a base level Kathryne wasn’t thinking of her as a self-insert in a fantasy world anymore. It made her almost wish that Rebecca’s touch had frightened her more.    “Oh, and you’ll want a coat. It’s quite chilly flying.” said Rebecca, sticking the steam-powered parasol out of the window and unfolding it. Kathryne looked at the paracopter.    “I… I really don’t want to get on that.” said Kat.    “Oh, don’t worry, it’s only designed to carry one person but it’s quite safe to carry two a short distance.” Rebecca assured her.    “It shouldn’t be able to fly at all. I know it does in the book, but we’re not in the book.”    “I shouldn’t worry about that, miss Kathryne.” said Rebecca, taking her hand. “By the time we land, we will be.” Kat pulled her hand away uncomfortably and looked at the door.    “Give me a second, I don’t keep my winter coats in my room—“ Kat began. She did have a coat in her closet. It wasn’t designed as a winter coat, but it was wool and rabbit fur. And it was purple and white, even if it was a darker shade than the purple dress she was wearing at the moment. “—no, actually, I do.”    Kat dived into her closet, and reemerged pulling on a pair of boots that wouldn’t fall off the second she pointed her toe, wearing a purple and white wool coat with rabbit fur trim and a white silk scarf tossed around her neck.    “Oh, that’s a charming little coat!” said Rebecca, touching her cheeks. Kat grinned and gave a little twirl.    “I made it myself.” she said proudly, tying the scarf around her head. That got Rebecca’s attention. She pranced over to touch the fabric and look at the stitching.    “Oh, very nice!” she cooed.    “Thanks!” Kat replied. “That’s all hand stitching, too, look at how I finished these seams… and on this dress…”    The two seamstresses paused, each with one foot in the closet and one out of it.    “Wait—” said Kat. “I based you off of what I’m like now, at least your attention to fashion. If we don’t stop ourselves, we’ll be in my closet all night.”    Rebecca laughed, but looked somewhat chastened.    With some difficulty, Rebecca maneuvered her paracopter out of the window, remounted it, and extended her hand to Kat. The author looked from the windowsill to the snowbank below uncertainly. “Don’t worry about it.” Rebecca assured her. “The paracopter will have plenty of time to adjust to your weight before we get anywhere near the ground.” Kat grit her teeth, grabbed the handle of the paracopter, and tried not to think about what she was doing. Once both feet were off the windowsill, a small part of her mind wondered if the laws of physics which applied to the characters of her book only applied to the characters in her book and they would both be pulled to the ground when her weight was added to the machine. There was a terrifying descent of a few feet once all of her weight was in the stirrup, but by the time Kat had managed to scream, they were already rising again.    “See?” asked Rebecca, rubbing her ear with her free hand. Nothing to scream about. We’re flying just fine.”    “Think about it: doors!” Kat grumbled, hanging onto the handle of the flying parasol with both hands.    As the two young women rose into the sky, Kat found her nose mere inches from being submerged into the mass of Rebecca’s curls.    “Why do I always give characters based off myself my natural hair color?” Kat wondered aloud. Rebecca snorted with laughter.    “Do you really think…” she asked, pulling out a long curl shining like freshly polished brass, “That this is your natural hair color?”    “It is!”    “I can see your roots. You’re so dull a shade of blonde it looks like you’re going bald.”    “I was going to dye them later this month!” Kat protested, covering up the gap between her antique-white face and her rusty-iron-trying-to-look-like-raven-black hair.    “You are very pale.”    “Thank you.”    “I mean you look like a dead person.”    “That’s the idea. What’s your problem, you’re supposed to be from 1870. Pale is a good thing.”    “In general, yes, but I think you’ve rather overdone it.” said Rebecca. Kat frowned.    “I haven’t finished your book, you know.” said Kathryne irritably. “You just might turn out to be a ghost after all.”    “As I understand it, you’re the one who wrote me with your own hypercritical view of fashion. You shouldn’t be surprised to have it turned on you now that we’ve met each other properly.”    “I like the way I look!” Kathryne whined. “It’s one of the few things about myself I do like.”    “Well, then you’re entirely too hard on your personality,” said Rebecca, “and not nearly hard enough on your appearance.”    “Look, what the fuck do you want?” asked Kathryne, “If you’re supposed to be showing me what I’m not writing right now, I already know about it. I’m doing it. Right now! Look! Look at me not writing! This is all postmodern bullshit.”    “You’re a very foul-mouthed young lady, has anyone told you that?”    “Welcome to twenty-seventeen, bitch.” said Kathryne. “And if you had just lived through this bitch of a year, you’d be swearing like a sailor, too.”    “I’ve met sailors. They were perfect gentlemen.”    “You live in a melodrama! The sailors have to be gentlemen or the audience will wonder if you weren’t better off tied to those railroad tracks.”    “I’m going to be tied to what?!”    The paracopter bore the two women into the sky, up into the clouds. Kathryne’s teeth chattered, and she tried to believe it was just because she was getting a draft up her skirt and not because the ground was disappearing behind the clouds. All of her limbs had gone quite stiff, and she was not sure she could have let got of the paracopter if she wanted to.    “Is this a good time to tell you I’m not good with heights?!” Kat asked shrilly.    “Oh, do relax. You’re perfectly safe.” said Rebecca.    “You’re perfectly safe!” Kat hissed. “I make a point of not killing off characters in your universe! Everyone else, oh, they die and they die in big dramatic ways, but you assholes can fall out of an airship and you’ll be fine!”    The clouds played around the flying women like fog, thick and cold. It was growing difficult to see anything at all, besides the clouds and the stars. The stars were bright bursts of golden light above them, but not nearly as far above them as they ought to be. Kathryne narrowed her eyes at the stars and tried to figure out what was wrong with them. They looked… fake. Too close, too golden, too dim, and too… star-shaped. She tried to focus on one of them, then realized with a shock that might have made her  let go of the paracopter if she could more her limbs at all, that it wasn’t a proper star. As they drew closer, Kathryne could see it more of them clearly, little brass star-shaped cutwork lanterns, each floating in the air beneath a white gasbag sewn into the shape of a drawing of a cloud. Rebecca piloted them deeper into the airfield dotted with these floating lanterns, actual clouds rolling beneath them like silk parachutes being ruffled by preschoolers. Despite herself, she realized that she was smiling and that her lack of breath was no longer entirely due to fear of falling. Rebecca caught her eye and grinned.    “This is why you’re writing, miss Kathryne.” Rebecca whispered. “If you don’t write this, no one else is ever going to see it.”    Kat looked out at the skyfield and shook her head sadly.    “No one else is ever going to see this.” she said. “Not even if I ever managed to finish a damn book, which all signs point to not actually happening. I’m not that good a writer. I mean, I can be pretty good sometimes, but…”    Kat screwed her eyes closed.    “So often I just want to bash my head open and let the stories come out all at once so they’re out there and I don’t have to worry about it anymore!”    “That isn’t how it works, miss Kathryne.” said Rebecca. “You know that isn’t how it works. Stories aren’t stories while they’re still in your head. They’re like carded wool ready to be spun. It’s writing them that makes them a line that can be followed. You need to spin my story into reality. Hundreds of people, thousands, are waiting to see this.”    “Then I’m sorry for them. I can’t get myself to write at all some days. And even when I do manage to get myself to write, it’s terrible writing. All I’ve managed to get out all month is nothing but postmodern bullshit.”    “Postmodern… humbug?” asked Rebecca. “Surely you don’t mean that.”    “I said what I meant.” said Kat darkly.    The spires of a distant city appeared through a break in the clouds. The windows were lit with a warm, inviting light, and a light snow had begun to fall onto the gabled roofs and brick chimneys. The hubbub of the city was muted up in the sky, the passing of a steam train as faint as the jingle of sleigh-bells. A faint flurry of snow flew in a dusting like powdered sugar on the roof-tiles and air-docks. Warm, white steam flowed like piped frosting out of smokestacks, and there was a faint smell of wood-smoke and…Kathryne inhaled slowly to identify it.    “…rosemary.” she said in a hushed voice. “The rosemary that the sanitary men use to keep the city clean. You can smell it from up here.”    “I love smelling the rosemary.” said Rebecca. “It reminds me that I’m home. Close your eyes, miss Kathryne. Breathe it in again. What do you smell?” Reluctantly, Kat closed her eyes. She didn’t want to stop looking at Newcomen, not before she could see the cobbles and the river passing through it, but she was willing to humor Rebecca after what she had shown her. In one breath, Kathryne smelled the smoke and rosemary of the city, and in the next, there was a powdery, floral smell. Something like dried flowers and old cups of tea, and the faintest hint cats’ fur.    Kathryne opened her eyes. She was spread out full-length on her own bed, in her own room. She looked around, but the window was closed and there was no sign that Rebecca had been there. Kathryne considered for a moment if she had just imagined herself flying over Newcomen with Rebecca as she lulled herself to sleep. Which was odd, as she was usually more likely to imagine Peri Brown and her Doctor being a lot more affectionate than they had ever been on television. Slowly, Kathryne touched her chest, burying her fingers into the rabbit fur trim of her wool coat.

***

  “Happy Hogwash, everyone!”    Kathryne giggled like a manic, kicking her feet under her chair like a little kid. It was oddly fitting that her favorite Christmas special of all time wasn’t actually about Christmas, but a fictional holiday parodying it. And blood sacrifice, and death, and a plot to assassinate Santa Claus. It was an excellent Christmas special. She was so distracted by the witty dialogue and her inexplicable crush on the villain that she didn’t even hear her bedroom door open. In fact, by the time that she noticed there was someone else in the room with her, they had crossed the room and were standing beside her chair.    “You forgot about our appointment, I gather?” they asked. Kathryne turned to see yet another blonde young woman who had the misfortune of being based off of Kathryne at one point in her life. This one looked more like a Norse warrior: fair hair, strong but slim muscles, and a full-cut floor length linen dress.    “…hi.” Kat said weakly.    “Good evening, Kathryne.” said the ghost. Kat looked intently at the young woman. She did look like the sort of character she would write, at least in that her clothing was detailed enough that it would probably take two paragraphs to describe, and while it was obviously fantasy to her, other people might think it was authentic dark ages garb. The expression on her face was the most striking part of her appearance, though. Kathryne wasn’t sure how long she had been standing there, but she already looked tired of dealing with her. She definitely knew which series she was from, but the character’s name escaped her.    “You’re… you’re… uh, give me a minute.”    “Adalfried.” she said flatly.    “You’re the main character of the Sworddancers of Norfalin series!”    “If you say so.” said Adalfried. Kat looked uncomfortable.    “I haven’t really worked on that series for a while…”    “That I know.”    “I swear, I am going to get back to those stories. You’ll get your own book and everything, just as soon as I get Damsels finished…”    “All of Damsels?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “There are five books in that series, and that’s just the ones you’ve already started.”    “Yes, but-“    “And you’ve only written half of the first one.”    “But I did get to the half-point last month! That’s something, isn’t it?”    “You started in 2013.”    “That’s only four years, and it’s my first real novel… my first publishable novel, that’s got to be something.”    “It was supposed to be a NaNo!” Adalfried snapped. She caught hold of her temper and pressed her lips into a thin line.    “I’m sorry, Adal…”    “Adalfried.” she prompted.    “I’m sorry, Adalfried. I know you’re not here to give me a guilt trip about not writing your book yet.” Kat said weakly.    “Actually, yes, I am here to remind you to be guilty about what you’ve yet to write.” She glanced at the only other seat in her room.    “Sorry, the place is a mess.” said Kat. “This is the fourth night in a row I’ve looked at my other seat and put those sweaters away so the ghosts would have a place to sit.”    “And that’s exactly your problem.” said Adalfried, turning her back on Kat and walking to the seat. She pushed the pile of sweaters into a nearby laundry basket herself and sat down.    “You’re always doing that, you know.” said Adalfried. “You’re thinking you’ll do something tomorrow and it never gets done. You’re a chronic procrastinator. Look at your desk. Prescriptions you haven’t called in. Bills you haven’t paid. Cosmetics and sewing supplies you haven’t put away. A hundred things you think you’ll get to in a minute.” Kathryne frowned and tried to pill bottles and pills on one side of the desk and the sewing supplies on the other.    “These haven’t been hauntings, they’ve been roast sessions with dead fictional characters.” Kat grumbled. “If I wanted this, I would have stayed on tumblr. Why did none of the other ghosts have this much information outside their own universe?”    “Because there isn’t enough of my universe for me to know. I have to know yours instead. Maybe, one day, if you actually take the time to learn some more of my story, I can forget yours.” Adalfried frowned. “And maybe then I won’t be so surly.” Kathryne sighed heavily and stood up, shaking off the blankets she had wrapped around her while she had been working on her Secret Santa present. Her legs immediately felt cold.    “Let’s get this over with, Adalfried.” Kat grumbled. “I’m guessing that you are going to take me to Norfa-Norfalin? I’ve never really thought about how that would be pronounced.” Adalfried frowned.    “Yes. Let’s.” she said curtly. “Let’s go to Norfalin.”    The sword-dancer drew her weapon, a thin, blunt sword and gave it a quick twirl in the air. She spun around in place, her sword flashing and the multi-colored gores of her skirt flaring out around her. Adalfried spun about faster and faster, so that the colors of her skirt almost seemed to blur. They seemed to blend, then turn to brown, then white. It wasn’t until they bean to fade to white that Kat realized that the rest of the world was fading away with her.    Kathryne looked around, wondering if there was a bright light shining in her eyes. She was completely surrounded by white, with no sign of a ground or a horizon. She put down her foot firmly to test if there was in fact, a ground. Through the foot of her ballet flat, she could quite distinctly feel the hard, featureless floor. She tried to take a step forward, only to discover that her foot slip through the place she had assumed the floor to be like a missing stair. She stumbled, and the hard motion of her feet was met with a hard surface. The ground, which she couldn’t see, appeared to be a non-Newtonian fluid. She turned around, trying to put her feet down firmly enough that she wouldn’t sink in.    Finally, she saw something. It was Adalfried, with her arms crossed and her sword back on her belt.    "What is this place?" Kat asked.    “Norfalin.” said Adalfried. She took a step towards Kat, and faint blue lines flickered around her, like a vague sketch of where the world ought to be. It wasn’t even a good sketch, either. It was like the sort of thing Kat doodled in the background of a drawing to remind her to draw a proper background at a later date.    “I would have thought there was more… edelweiss.” Kat said uncomfortably. Adalfried shrugged.    “You never wrote anything describing what the world looked like. You didn’t write anything about Norfalin at all, only that it was where myself and the other sword-dancers came from and that it had a type of ballet where women danced with swords. The few snippets of dialogue you wrote weren’t even set in Norfalin. We’d gone abroad.”    Adalfried waved her hands at the nothingness.    “Welcome to my home. It doesn’t exist.” said the ghost, seething with repressed anger. Kat turned away and started humming Frère Jacque darkly.    “Looking at all this nothing is painful.” said Kat, rubbing her eyes. She had meant that it physically hurt, like staring into the sun, but as she said it she realized that it was more than a little tragic, particularly for Adalfried.    “I agree.” said Adalfried. “Seeing as I don’t seem to have a future, would you prefer to look at yours?”    “My future?” said Kat uncertainly. “The other ghosts didn’t show me my own life. In fact, Kathleen said she wasn’t going to.” Adalfried frowned and leaned forward.    “I’m not Kathleen.” she said sternly. The sword-dancer crossed the nothingness, the lines where reality might be if only Kathryne could put it there flickering as she stepped over them.    “I know you don’t fear death.” said Adalfried. She crossed behind Kat, which made her tense up as if someone had struck her. “But you do fear something just as inevitable. You will die, and you know that. And then, sometime after…”    “…I will be forgotten.” Kat finished in a whisper.    Adalfried spread her hand out in front of them, and the faint blue lines squirmed closer to each other like worms. A vague impression of the inside of a room formed in front of them. The set of the lines was so familiar to Kat, so close to something she was sure she saw every day that she was immediately frustrated that she couldn’t figure out what it was. Then she heard the sound of a rapidly boiling kettle and a soft click, like a light being turned off. The sound she recognized, and suddenly the lines made sense. That was the sound of the electric kettle in her kitchen, and the lines were rest of the room. It was like someone had taken a photograph of her kitchen and turned up the exposure so much that it was just a few pale blue scribbles in a field of white. Footsteps amplified by the creaking of the wood in an old New England farmhouse crossed the scribble of a kitchen. Then, clearly as a bell, a familiar voice broke across the vague impression of her home.    “I just keep thinking that Kat’s up in her room, and she’s going to come down looking for food in an hour or two, but then I remember…” said the disembodied voice of Kathryne’s mother.    “I’m… just… so mad at her…” said the voice of her sister, but she didn’t sound particularly angry. She sounded like she was about to burst into tears. “It was selfish, and it was cruel, and I know that I should be… missing her. I mean, I do, but I wish that she was here so I could yell at her for killing herself.”    “Maybe we can posthumously publish some of her writing.” Kat’s mother suggested. “It’s what Kat would have wanted.”    “I’m sure it is.” said her sister sharply. “But it’s going to be hard, seeing as she never finished writing a single book!”    “No!” Kat wailed, turning on Adalfried. “I’ve heard of ‘death of the author’, but this is ridiculous!” Adalfried crossed her arms again, and the pale blue lines faded.    “I don’t know why you’re surprised.” said Adalfried coldly. “How often do you write a story where everyone survives?”    “But this… this is just, a first draft, right?” Kat asked. “There’s still time to rework the ending.”    “You’re the one who’s so set on killing herself, you tell me.” said Ada.    “I’m not set on killing myself, it’s just that it seems like the mostly likely way I’m going to die, considering how often I think it’s a smashing idea.”    “Frankly, I have no idea what’s going to happen. I’m just the ghost.” said Ada. “I only exist as a note of something you intend to do, and you’ve got a great track record on that!”    “I can’t write anything if I’m dead!”    “You weren’t writing anything when you were alive!”    “If you’re trying to guilt me into writing your story, it’s working!” said Kat. “I’ll sit down and start work right now if I never have to hear my family say those words! I’ll try to enjoy writing as much as I did in the past, I’ll try and share the wonder I feel now with the rest of the world, and I will make the future more than a vague idea of something I want to do!”    “Will you? Will you really?”    “You’ve put me through the rest of the postmodern Scrooge parody bullshit, give me Christmas morning! Let me show you I can change!”    “I can’t give you Scrooge’s Christmas morning.” said Ada. “That’s something you have work for yourself. Now are you actually going to do it, or are you just going to plan on doing it?”    The two of them stared at the computer screen.    “…and I think we can end there.” said the boy. The girl nodded. A coffee-colored hand hit the S and Apple Knot buttons on a white keyboard.    “There!” said Zoë proudly. “Good work, if I say so myself.”    “If only we were allowed to work together for our term papers, maybe everything would get done this quickly.” said Billy, looking over her shoulder. Zoë snickered and opened the browser. Time to post their masterpiece all over the internet. Maybe they might even get it in a book one day.    “You don’t think… it was mean to put her through this?” asked Billy uncomfortably. Zoë shook her head.    “After what’s she’s put us through over the years?” Zoë scoffed. “She deserves it.”        “Fair enough, but you’ve got to admit…” Billy grinned. “Us writing her getting chased down by ghosts really is postmodern bullshit.”