Augusnippets Day 14: Gifts/Celebration
Because God is dead, and they are still standing, and every day from this point onwards is a gift.
content warnings:
- none, I don't think
- ii ttake it back im sobinf theyre everything oh my god /silly
(link to Ao3 version)
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The weekend after God dies, they hold a celebration.
Maybe just a party. Cecil insisted on calling it something fancier because the death of God was a big deal, so it should sound just as important as what it’s commemorating, but I’m trying to learn that maybe she isn’t right about everything, just… most things.
…Shit. Don’t tell her I said that, or I’ll never hear the end of it.
Really, though, contrary to Cecil’s assertions, it’s a lot more of a party than a celebration; for one, it’s small, since only the people who were there are here. ⍒ There isn’t really anyone else, anyways. ⍋ The decorations are pretty elaborate, but only because the SPIS bought out the whole party store and spent all of yesterday setting them up.
Multicolored flags and streamers hang from every inch of ceiling, the plastic cups come with interesting patterns that I know Cecil can’t see but at least can feel, and in the middle of the table in the kitchen is a giant cake shaped vaguely how God looks in cartoons—because it would be pretty hard to translate a glowing ball of eyes and light and too many hungry teeth in icing—with red X’s over the eyes.
Joan smirks at me from across the table, which makes me forget about the cake for a minute and feel like crying. Her being here, especially her making that face, an expression that’s so Joan, is in defiance to the order of things even moreso than my presence. Every day I’m reminded of how much stronger than me she is.
“Holy shit,” Cecil laughs, a sound that fills my head and returns me to the moment, “‘t’s as big as me! How’re we s’posed ‘a eat this whole thing?”
“Hungrily,” I reply, and the Virtue laughs again, a little sharper this time, and I don’t feel their elbow bumping against my ribs. At least they seem to be in the right place, because Cecil doesn’t react in the way that would suggest any of my anatomy’s wrong this time.
“Also,” Jonah pipes, squeezing Adam’s hand a bit, “can y’ even, like, say ‘holy’ anymore? If, uh— God’s dead, an’ everythin’.”
“Screw Him,” Joan says, a little hoarsely, and all eyes turn to her. She takes a breath, brow furrowing. Principalities weren’t meant to hold physical forms like this, and guilt swamps over me like a murky, all-consuming tidal wave in contrast to the bright decorations around us. “I say we talk ‘bout whatever ‘a fuck we want.”
“Amen t’ that,” Lynn agrees, and a couple of giggles go up around the room. “So,” and now she turns to me and Cecil, “we already picked out a buncha songs to play, but I feel’ike you two should pitch in, too.”
“Oh, Lynn, ya don’t know what you’ve just done,” Cecil starts to roll their eyes as I start forward, lips already pulling back into an evil grin. I hear a little yelp and stop abruptly, turning to realize my friend was holding my arm and I’d just almost made them lose their footing.
⍒ Oops, sorry. ⍋
“He’s right, though,” I say as Cecil lets go, giving me a petulant look. “You’re gonna regret this decision.”
“I work for you,” Lynn retorts with a narrow-eyed smirk, standing up to come closer to eye level. I know everyone here is still painfully aware of how dangerous it would be to act this way around a Dominion, if it were anyone but us, and yet there’s no taste of fear in the air. There’s a warring sensation in my chest at that thought, but the feeling of touch still hasn’t returned. “If I di’n’t build up a tolerance for The Cure,” Lynn continues, “I’d’a quit the second day.”
“Got a point there,” I allow, managing a smile.
“Okay, can we actually eat the cake now?” Adam asks. “I don’t know ‘bout you guys, but I’m starvin’ because someone—” he juts an accusatory thumb at Lynn and Joan, “—made us wait until y’ showed up so y’ could cut the first piece.”
I straighten a little, unsure if my expression is surprised or blank when I meet my sister’s eyes.
“Well, duh,” she grumbles, looking away in a more embarrassed-that-my-brother- actually-realized-I-respect-him than submissive-to-my-Evangelist way. “You’re kinda the whole reason we’re all alive an’ It isn’t. Only fair a ‘death a’ G-God—’” she stammers a bit with the word, still getting used to actually being able to say it again, “—party has the cake cut by the guy who actually killed Him.”
“‘T’s a celebration,” Cecil whines quietly, and I decide to elbow him back this time. They give me a wounded look, melodramatically frowning and placing a hand to their chest.
“Uh,” I glance at the faces of the others, “I don’t really have… a speech er anythin’ prepared.”
“Thank G—” Adam catches himself, finishing in a slightly awkward rasp, “—Gophers.”
“Idiot,” Jonah whispers affectionately.
“You’re one t’ talk,” Adam hisses back.
“Guys, come on,” Joan massages the ridges of her brows as though trying to dull an oncoming headache, starting to sound desperate. Lynn puts a hand in front of their mouth to hide their smirk.
“Okay!” Believe it or not, I can take a hint. “Okay, cake-cuttin’ time! Right! Yes.” I ignore a muttered “Finally,” from Adam’s direction, devoting my energy into trying to find the cake knife.
There’s a long pause.
“Oh fer fuck’s sake,” Joan’s sudden hiss breaks the bated-breath silence, and the the skin on her arms ripples dangerously translucent for a moment. “Did no one remember a fuckin’ cake knife? Fer the cake?”
A mixture of miserable groaning (Adam and Jonah) and hysterical laughter (Cecil and Lynn) erupts around me, though I find myself only able to frown at the cake. This is something I can puzzle out. If I can be Mark Bernard after he shattered and left me behind to rebuild myself, if I can kill God and live to throw a party with the people I care about afterwards, I can cut a stupid cake without a cake knife.
“Hold on,” I say slowly, “I… got this.”
Once again, all eyes are back on me, anticipation lacing the air. How lucky I don’t need to breathe.
Cecil seems to be the only one who figures out what I’m planning to do before it happens, since he’s the only one who doesn’t gasp—or at least make any sort of surprised noise or expression—as the ink-tipped fingers of my left hand meld together into a sharpened blade the color of shadows at midnight.
“…” Jonah’s eyes bug a little at the easily-deadly appendage, but what he says next catches me off-guard; “…Did y’ wash your hands first, dude?”
Adam shoots his partner a look that says he’d eat the cake off the fucking floor if he had to, and Jonah shrinks back, holding up his hands in surrender.
“Aight, nevermind.”
I glance at Joan for confirmation, but her eyes are fixed on her hands, where the tips of her fingers are beginning to unravel only slightly.
◜ I’m not an expert on how sanitary true forms are, but I think I’d rather just cut the cake than deal with Adam when he’s hangry, ◞ Cecil offers me, looking antsy as he shifts his weight from side to side. ◜ If we survived last week, I think we can survive you not washing your knife-arm. ◞
With a shrug, I return my attention to Joan. Her hands are in her pockets, and she meets my gaze. “Wanna lead the countdown, sis?”
“I’ll do ‘t,” Adam immediately offers. “Five four three two one. Happy fuckin’ new year. Cake now.”
I chuckle and cut it, letting Cecil take charge of distributing it to everyone; at least someone remembered the paper plates. Adam tears into his like a starved animal, which is only mildly concerning, and Jonah watches him with a dreamy glaze in their eyes.
“T’ that Fucker bein’ dead,” Joan toasts, raising her fork. Her fingertips have smoothed over again.
“T’ the future,” Cecil adds.
“T’ this cake!” Jonah jokes, and Adam nods in agreement before realizing he’s being mocked and switching flawlessly to a scowl.
“T’ all a’ that,” I compromise. “‘Specially the future, I think.”
“Haha, I got the Mark-approved toast,” Cecil brags.
I pause before replying with the usual lighthearted jab. “Yeah, y’ did,” I say instead, smiling back and taking a bite of cake.
The cheap plastic of the fork in my hand against my palm has never been such a welcome sensation.
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Ah, I didn’t make the connection that all of the Bible stories included were Old Testament. Thanks for clearing that up. I see what you mean about the connection between truants mother and the Minotaur that he encounters, especially with the scene where it reaches for his neck. I don’t necessarily understand how that reading connects her to the house itself, but I definitely think that she ‘haunts’ Johnny’s entire narrative, especially how he engages with zampano’s text. The imagery which paints the house itself as a mother figure also interests me in this context. I would be interested to hear your thoughts, if you felt like sharing.
OH YEAH i completely glossed over the bits portraying the house as a maternal figure that makes my theory even better
im absolutely gonna dive deep here: i wouldn't go so far as to say that truant's mother wrote the entire book, but it's completely possible considering the title page is in the same font as her writing in the whalestoe letters. also note that in her letters she constantly said that she felt lost in the institute and was kept apart from what she loved¹ (much like how the house destroyed karen and navidson's relationship, holloway's composure, chad and daisy's innocence, and tom's life). the institute is the house, and that's further exemplified by the fact that when johnny visited the institute he saw a "vine-entwined tree" (read: ash tree) in her room². my theory is that the minotaur is truant's mother, because if she didn't really write the book, then why would there be a struck passage in one of truant's footnotes?³ truant himself said that struck and colored passages were parts where zampanò tried to cross out references to the minotaur. the struck passage in question is just before the story about the child in the hospital and his mother, saying "what i'm remembering now," presumably written by his mother herself. the story itself is really intriguing and i can write about it in a separate post, but what im really getting at here is that jonah and the whale, navidson and the house, the mother and the whalestoe institute, are all exactly the same.
¹House of Leaves, Mark Z. Danielewski, 2000, p. 624
²Ibid. p. 504
³Ibid. p. 518
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Augusnippet Day 2: (Jonah's) Hair Care (Routine)
Jonah consults his friend for some advice.
content warnings:
- minor Nokia harm
- terrible hair coloring decisions
(link to Ao3 version here)
@augusnippets
--
Jonah hummed thoughtfully as he regarded his reflection, pulling his dark hair into a ponytail in his fist and turning to either side to get a better view.
After a moment, the boy let his hair fall back to its natural shoulder-length state, reaching to scoop up their phone from the corner of the bathroom sink. Instead of doing so gracefully, however, they fumbled the action and ended up swiping the little brand new Nokia clean off the counter.
“AH! NO, WAIT!”
It collided with the tile unceremoniously, and Jonah bent down to pick it up, frantically inspecting the screen for cracks — there were none, and they paused to briefly thank God for His mercy. As they stood back up, they heard a voice from down the hall:
“Are ya dyin’ in there? Cause if y’ are, I’m just gonna bury y’ in the backyard, I don’t wanna deal with all the paperwork. Or Joan’s yellin’ about me makin’ ‘er do all the paperwork.”
Jonah rolled his eyes and called back. “I’m not dyin’, Adam.”
“Good’a ‘ear.”
With a little huff at their friend’s concern, the boy returned their attention to their phone.
J: hey Evelynn what color should I dye my hair
Of the four friends Jonah had in the world, Lynn was the only one who also had a phone with texting capabilities. She was also the only one Jonah trusted to give genuine advice on cosmetic decisions — or, at least, the only one he trusted to have the knowledge to give good advice on cosmetic decisions.
It wasn’t too long before she answered, though Jonah internally groaned, realizing Adam must’ve gotten to her first.
E: I think neon green would be fun!
E: I mean, didn’t you dye your hair bright orange once?
J: God I hate you
E: Hahahaha
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