#just went over the editorial letter and oh my

[mxxnlightwriting]

Everybody STOP what you're doing.

Copy edit notes for A Spark of Magic just arrived 😱

[pookha]

Dream With Me: Chapter Sixteen

April 1999

Luna receives the job offer she's been waiting for: personal assistant and apprentice beast keeper to Newt Scamander. The job comes with room and board. Luna and Hermione have a serious conversation about their future together. Hermione and Luna meet with Newt and Tina.

Hermione nibbled on her croissant while keeping an eye on Luna at the Ravenclaw table. She liked watching Luna eat. Luna licked her oatmeal off the backside of the spoon instead of the bowl of the spoon. She looked up, saw Hermione watching her and made sure to take a longer lick next time.

“See something you like?” Harry whispered to her and she blushed.

“Yeah,” she said.

An haggard, breeze-blown, owl dropped a letter near Hagrid. It was later than the other mail owls from that morning and everyone saw it. Hagrid picked it up, read the front of it, then waved Luna up to his table. Hermione quirked an eyebrow at Luna, who shrugged. He picked up the owl much more gently than it seemed someone of his size could. He smoothed its feathers and he and Professor Grubbly-Plank put their heads together over it while she muttered some words and touched it with her wand.

Luna reached Hagrid’s table and took the envelope. She looked at the owl, asked Hagrid something and he shook his head. Hermione knew she was asking if she could help and that Hagrid had said he and Professor Grubbly-Plank had it under control.

Luna looked at the front of the envelope, smiled hugely and waved the envelope at Hermione. She went back to her table, slit it open and read it. Her smile got bigger and bigger. It had been a long time since Hermione had seen Luna smile like that outside of their shared rooms. Luna got up and ran to the Gryffindor table. The envelope and letter flapped as she ran. Hermione barely had time to stand before Luna hugged her hugely.

“I got the position, pending my NEWTs, just like I thought. They want to meet you because they’re offering room and board in addition to a, well to be frank, rather small salary. But, free room and board. They’ve got a cottage near the manor we can live in. It’s got room for us and pets and children.” Luna’s excited words spilled out quickly.

“What is it? Where?” Hermione asked.

“Dorset, so not too far from London for you. I’m to be Newt and Porpentina Scamander’s personal assistant, apprentice beastkeeper, and there may be an editorial position on his new book if that works out, which would mean more money.” She jumped for glee like a young girl.

“Newt Scamander?” Hermione asked, awed.

“Yes! He hasn’t taken on an apprentice for years. He said that Professor Snape’s, Grubbly-Plank’s, and Hagrid’s recommendations helped make the final decision.”

“We’ll have a house to ourselves?” Hermione asked. She’d pictured them living in a grubby flat in Diagon Alley.

“Yes, on manor grounds in Dorset. We’ll likely have to have a kneazle live with us, but you already have one, so that’s no big change. Crookshanks doesn’t seem to mind other cats and kneazles, right?”

“Children?” Hermione asked, just catching up to that part of what Luna had said.

Luna sat down between Harry and Hermione. Harry squeezed her arm and then gave her room.

“Congratulations,” he said.

“Don’t you want children? I do, eventually.” Luna now looked concerned.

“I don’t want to have any myself, but if you want children, I can do that with you, I think, I mean I’m not opposed, I don’t think. Can we talk about it later in private?”

Luna nodded, then smiled.

“I know I’ll be good at this. When I went for the interview, Newt and I just had a connection and Tina is great. She’s so funny. Did you know she’s American? Oh, they have the sweetest fancy hippogriff. Newt’s mum used to breed them and he still has one of them.”

“Slow down, you sound like Jameson right now.” Hermione touched her wrist and she could feel Luna vibrating with energy.

“Can’t, won’t,” Luna said. She kissed Hermione, pulling her in tight. Hermione stiffened, then relaxed. She was getting more used to public displays and she was the one who’d said she didn’t want to hide anymore.

Luna pulled back, stood with the letter in her hand and howled at the ceiling. The clatter of dishes and conversation stopped and everyone stared at Luna. Harry met Hermione’s eyes and smiled. They stood as one on either side of Luna and howled in victory, too. They only stopped when a muffled ‘ahem,” came from the staff table. Luna met Professor McGonagall’s eyes and she winked at Luna. Luna leaned in and kissed Hermione on the cheek again.

“I’ve got to go to class. I’ll see you at Potions later.” She turned to leave, but Hermione grabbed her and spun her around. The kiss she gave Luna was just this side of inappropriate and Harry grinned at them.

“Later, love,” Hermione said when she finally pulled back. Luna squeezed Hermione’s hand one last time before she left. Hermione had a free period, so she went back to their dorm and tried to study, but her mind kept running back to ‘children’. She’d told Harry once that she wanted more and she knew that she meant it then, but now she wasn’t sure. Was it enough to just be a Healer and live the domestic life with Luna. Children? She knew she didn’t want to have a child herself, but did she want to raise a child, children, with Luna? Adopt? Donor? What did Luna want? The questions ran circles in her head. She finally snapped her book shut, which woke up Crookshanks and went to the Gryffindor Common room. Harry was sitting in an armchair, an essay on the table in front of him when she came in.

“Don’t see you here much anymore,” he said as she sat across from him.

“I needed to talk to you. Got time?” She flicked her eyes to his essay.

“Yeah, my essay’s late anyway and it’s probably not getting any better, honestly.” He rolled it up and tied it off.

“I—what Luna said this morning made me wonder. I told you when Ron and I… well we didn’t break up, exactly…”

She sighed.

“I told you I wanted more, but I don’t know if that was true and… and…” She closed her eyes. Harry reached over the table and took her hand.

“It’s okay to change your mind.” He started to say something else, but she went on.

“Was I fair to Ron? I do love him, but I love Luna, too. I told him that it might not happen, but I always thought it would and then I fell in love with Luna and I don’t know… I don’t want to hurt Ron any more than I already have.”

“Ron’s a big boy and his feelings are his. You’ve got to do what’s right for you. That’s what I’m doing and it’s also what Ron’s doing. He feels like he has to be an Auror, no matter the cost. I couldn’t do it. You wanted to join the Ministry and make changes, but now you want to be a Healer and make changes on a more personal scale. We change ourselves sometimes, other times change is, I don’t know, thrust upon us, I guess.” He squeezed her hand.

“He seemed okay in the last letter I got from him, and he said he wished Luna and me well,” Hermione said.

“Do you think he meant it?” Harry asked and she nodded.

“He doesn’t lie about things like that,” Hermione said.

“He wrote to me that he was torn up, but he also wrote that he hoped you and Luna would be happy and I think he meant it. He’s busy right now, but I think he’ll be okay in the long run, too. We were all changed by the war in different ways and it’s hard. I hope you and Luna have a long run together.” He looked at his watch.

“Shall we go to Transfiguration together?” He stood and she stood with him. She hugged him.

“When did you become so wise?” she asked.

“I have a very smart friend and I listen to her… sometimes.” He said the last part with a laugh and she kissed his cheek.

Luna got to Potions just before it started and only had time to whisper, “We’ll talk tonight after my duty. I’ll be back late tonight, but I promise I’m not avoiding you, just busy.”

Hermione nodded, then they both turned their attention to Professor Slughorn.

That night, Hermione skipped dinner in the Great Hall and ate in their rooms. She couldn’t concentrate on her schoolwork, so she turned on the wireless in Luna’s room and tidied in a manic rush. She kept dropping things,picking them up, putting them away, then forgetting where she put them, so she just stopped and sat. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but it wasn’t happening. Time slowed to an oozy crawl and finally just forced herself to write her Charms essay. She knew it wasn’t good, but it wouldn’t hurt her marks any. She looked up, surprised when she felt Luna’s presence at the door.

“Talk first or homework first?” Luna asked when she came in. She went to her room and changed into soft pyjamas and a warm robe then sat on the sofa. Hermione flopped onto the sofa next to Luna and put her head in Luna’s lap in a reversal of the way they usually sat. Luna’s hand automatically stroked her hair and Hermione turned so Luna’s fingertips brushed her neck.

“Talk first, I think,” Hermione said.

“I’m so happy for you, for us. Your job sounds great and… we hadn’t talked about living together after Hogwarts, not really, but you know I want to and you found housing and a job and everything…” Hermione realised she was babbling and stopped.

Luna turned Hermione’s head back so their eyes met.

“You do want me to take this job, right? To live there together?”

“Yes! Very much yes!” Hermione said emphatically. “You just kept so much of it so close and I was surprised.”

Hermione sat up and grasped both of Luna’s hands in hers.

“No, it was the talk about children that made me think. I told Harry that I wanted more at one point and didn’t want to just live the domestic life with Ron. I love Ron, but I don’t know; it’s different with you. I do want that life with you. I want to sit in the evenings and read to each other. I want to go to bed with you and wake up with you. I don’t know what changed, maybe you changed me or I changed myself.” Hermione sighed.

“So, it’s early to talk about stuff like this, but marriage and kids are important and so many couples break up over things like this and I don’t want misunderstandings between us.” Hermione squeezed Luna’s hands.

“Okay,” Luna said. “I do want to get married at some point, when you’re ready…”

Hermione said, “It’s not legal in the Muggle world, although I think it will be soon.”

“Is legal that important? If we get married under the eyes of God or the goddess or nature or whoever or whatever you believe in, isn’t that all that matters? I love you and commit to you and you commit to me?” Luna’s eyes held Hermione and she was falling into them again.

“Yes, I guess so. But if it does become legal, I want to get married legally, too. It prevents all sorts of messy estate and other concerns.”

Luna nodded at that. “I do want to have children and that’s one of the reasons I looked for a job like this. It’s one where I can live on premises and when the children are old enough they can come, too. I don’t want to have to always leave them with a nanny and I’m not leaving them with my father.”

“I don’t want to cut him out completely, though. Please make up with him if you can. Forgive him if you can.” Hermione kissed Luna’s cheek.

“That’s up to him, now. I made my feelings clear in my last letter. Family or business, me and you or the Quibbler: he’ll have to decide which is more important. I know I said commit, and I mean that, but do you want to be open? We’re both attracted to men and what if we meet a man or another woman we fall in love with?” Luna kissed Hermione’s forehead.

“I—I think maybe we should be exclusive, but if that happens, we just be honest with each other and the other person and work it out then.” She’d never really thought about being in a polyamorous relationship before and it made her feel strange.

Luna nodded. “That seems very sensible. I think we can do the same with children when we’re ready. We’ll talk more about it then, whether we want to adopt or have a sperm donor or if there’s someone we both love that will be father and husband.” Luna smiled again at Hermione.

“Not Harry!” Hermione said and Luna laughed. It had become a joke between them. She knew that Luna had had feelings for Harry at one point.

“No, I hadn’t really considered him. Doesn’t mean I won’t think about fucking him, but that’s fantasy and it can stay that way.”

“Merlin, I can’t believe that we’re not going to have to live in some flat in Diagon Alley and we’ll have a house to ourselves.” Hermione leaned in and kissed Luna softly.

“Well, like I said, we’ll likely have a kneazle with us and hopefully they’ll get along with Crookshanks.”

“Ugh, I’ve got homework to do, but I don’t think I can concentrate on it.” Hermione leaned her forehead against Luna’s.

“Let’s go to bed then. We can burn off some energy and do our homework later tonight. Besides, I saw how you were looking at my tongue earlier today.” Luna stuck just the tip out between her lips. Hermione put her lips over it and drew it into her mouth. They didn’t make it to the bedroom before their clothes were piled on the floor. Crookshanks poked his head around the door of Hermione’s room, then retreated back to Hermione’s bed.

Over Easter break, they flooed from the Burrow to Dorset to meet with Newt and Tina. The manor wasn’t what Hermione had pictured in her head. She’d thought it would be a grand estate, and it was large and well-kept, but it was also packed with clutter from all over the world. She almost knocked over a carved fetish with her elbow.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice called from an adjoining room.

“It’s Luna and Hermione, Tina,” Luna said.

“Come right in, dears.” The accent was American, but softened by years of living in Britain.

They walked hand-in-hand into a sitting room stuffed with old but comfortable furniture. Photographs covered most of the walls, some moving and some not. A woman in a large wool sweater sat in a puffy armchair with a tartan blanket over her legs. She was old, but looked fit and healthy. Her short white hair was neatly pulled back from her face and her eyes were clear. A large lion-shaped kneazle sat on her lap. When they came in, it leapt off and stalked up to them. Luna put her hand out for it to sniff.

“Hey, Mauler,” she said and he bumped his head on her hand. He looked suspiciously at Hermione and Hermione lowered her hand for him to sniff. He sniffed it, rubbed her hand vigorously then went back and leapt on Tina’s lap. She made a grunt as he landed.

“Well, you passed the first test,” she said with a laugh in her voice.

“I think he can smell Crookshanks. We’re pretty sure he’s a half-kneazle,” Hermione said. She walked to Tina and held out her hand. Tina shook it.

“Hermione Granger,” Hermione said and Tina said, “Tina Scamander, not Porpentina, please.”

“Forgive me for not standing. It’s getting harder each day. Having Miss Lovegood around will really make a difference. Newt’s been delayed; Francisco has escaped his pen again.”

“Should I go help him?” Luna asked.

“That would be good. Hermione and I can talk.” Luna shook Tina’s hand.

“He’s in the lower fields?” Luna asked and Tina nodded. Luna patted Hermione’s shoulder as she left and then kissed her cheek. When Luna had gone, Tina waved at a chair with her wand. It slid across the carpet and ended up across from Tina. She motioned for Hermione to sit in it.

“Newt didn’t really need help, did he?” Hermione asked.

Tina smiled.

“No, I wanted to talk to you first. Luna’s the best qualified candidate we’ve had in years and a recommendation from Severus Snape is something that we’ve never seen before. She’s a perfect fit, but I wanted to meet you first before we had you both under our roof.”

“May I ask why?” Hermione said.

“You’re just as frank as Luna, aren’t you?” Tina asked.

“I can be. I just don’t like having to tiptoe around things, where Luna is just blunt.”

“Ah, I can see you love her. I want to assure you we’re not old-fashioned that way. Love who you want. I think we’ll see it legalised soon.”

“What is it then?” Hermione asked.

“You know I was an Auror?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s going to come out soon that during the first war, Newt and I were instrumental in capturing Grindelwald.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. This wasn’t in any of her history texts.

“Dumbledore was behind us, helping us, but I duelled Grindelwald at one point and Newt was fighting against him, mostly undercover. My point, though, is that I know how war and combat and fighting change people. I’ve seen people who’ve fallen apart afterward. Muggles used to call it shell-shock, but now they call it PTSD. I wanted to meet you and see how you were holding up. I didn’t want to bring someone under our roof who was going to be a danger to us or our animals.”

She pointed at Hermione’s arm where her ‘mudblood’ scar was just barely visible.

“It’s okay to ask for help. Wizards don’t always understand that. Newt has a hard time doing it. Luna seems like she’d ask for help, but she also seems pretty well-adjusted, all things considered. It took me a long time after the war to feel normal again and I’m not really sure if I ever did or if I do, even now.”

“I… understand,” Hermione said. She turned her arm so Tina could see the whole scar.

“Bellatrix LeStrange did that.”

Tina made a strange face at ‘LeStrange.’

Hermione’s voice grew quiet and she closed her eyes as she spoke. “She tortured me with the Cruciatus curse, but she also did this, by hand, with a knife. I had nightmares about it for a long time, still do occasionally, but being with Luna has helped more than anything. I convinced Hogwarts to get a counsellor to talk to the kids who needed it—”

“Did you talk to them?” Tina asked.

“I talked to Luna… and Harry.”

“Did it help?”

Hermione smiled. “Yes. How much did Luna tell you about us?”

“Enough.”

“Oneiromancy?” Hermione asked and Tina shook her head.

“Luna and I can share dreams with each other. We don’t know why and the books on oneiromancy are pretty vague. There’s a lot of talk about ‘soulmates’ but I don’t believe that. I just think she might have Seer blood and we’re compatible. Before the war, I wouldn’t have believed in ‘Seer blood’ but I saw things I can’t explain during the war, magics that have no other explanation than the power of love or sacrifice. I guess I believe more in magic now than I did before. I know it sounds stupid?” It was a question.

“No, no it doesn’t sound stupid at all. Before I met Newt, I was a lot like that and looked for an… empirical explanation, but I found that not everything has one.” Tina reached a bony hand over to Hermione.

“I think you’ll do just fine,” she said and squeezed Hermione’s hand.

“I—there was a connection between Grindelwald and what we; Harry, Ron and I, were doing,” Hermione said, unsure of how much to say.

“I don’t need to know, but Luna does. Tell her everything, let her be your helpmate. It took me too long to decide to do that with Newt.”

They heard voices coming from down the hallway and soon Luna came back. Newt Scamander followed behind her. He was stooped with age, but still walked with vigour.

“All settled then?” he asked and Hermione knew she was right; he hadn’t actually needed help. This was all just so Tina could talk to her, evaluate her.

“All settled,” Tina said.

“We’ll have the contracts sent out as soon as our barrister finalises them. It will say pending NEWTs, but as a Newt, I say it doesn’t really matter unless you tank them badly.” He laughed and Hermione saw he was just like Luna. She met Tina’s eyes and saw what she might have been like if she’d agreed to become an Auror.

Now Luna saw the glances between Tina and Hermione and she understood too.

“Glad you like her, too,” Luna said.

That night Hermione tracked down Harry.

“Harry, I need to tell Luna about what we did. I need to tell her everything. Do I have your permission?”

He was quiet and thought before speaking.

“Yes, but make sure she knows it stays between you two, okay? I trust Luna, but she’s not to tell anyone else, especially about my mom and Snape or the Horcruxes.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said.

“Anything for you,” Harry said and hugged her.

[mikejaffa]

“The Labors of Magik Goes Out with a Whimper”

Body of a letter-to-the-editor I emailed to Marvel after reading New Mutants #28.  Spoilers for that issue.

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The promotional material before New Mutants #25 led us to believe "The Labors of Magik" would be a war between Illyana and Madelyne for the throne of Limbo.  How I wish that had been the case.   Writer Vita Ayala had some great ideas:  

An Illyana-centric story:  Great idea!

Illyana, Rahne, and Dani team up:  Great idea!  (A Magik/Wolfsbane team-up would also be fun, but I have to accept the fact that Marvel does not now have, never has, or ever will have any interest in doing that.  But I can still lodge the complaint [again].)

Magik v. the Golbin Queen for the Throne of Limbo:  Great idea!

The Labors of Magik:  Where great idea went to die.  And #28 was the story's underwhelming conclusion.   We began #28 by learning a future/alternate version of Illyana was S'Ym's benefactor.  I suspected that from the start.  Although the silhouette in #25 was drawn to look like Belasco, S'Ym's ally had two arms whereas Belasco has one.  Vita managed to muddy the water by having Belasco generate a false energy arm in #27 (something he has never done in any other comic appearance and certainly not in the Magik limited series written by Chris Claremont), and I briefly hoped for something more creative than another version of Illyana, but alas, that was not to be.

Other than expressing their concerns about Illyana turning Limbo over to the Goblin Queen, Dani and Rahne have almost nothing to do in "The Labors of Magik."  There's hardly any chemistry between these three young women even though they have known each other, lived together, and fought side-by-side for roughly a decade.  (I'm assuming that the O. G. New Mutants are all in their mid-twenties during the Krakoa era.)  It could have been any two characters.  It could have been Storm and Wolverine.   It could have been Captain America and Hulk.  It could have been Anakin Skywalker and Ahsoka Tano.  Or just Illyana and her brother for all four issues.  Absolutely anyone Marvel has the publishing rights for given the lack of chemistry.  Dani and Rahne were completely unnecessary to the story.  Why were they there?  

After Queen Illyana is, well, dispatched just when she gets interesting, Regular Illyana gets her magical power back, and a text page explains what has happened to her.  These feel like afterthoughts, last minute changes to a story designed to either write Illyana out of existence or regress her to an unpowered child (again).  I have a very easy time envisioning someone from Disney HQ going to Marvel's editorial offices to lay down the law in person:  "Magik is a major character!  She's all over the comics lines except for the Star Wars Line, she's in the video games, and she was the breakout star of a movie that otherwise tanked.   We're already having discussions about casting her for the MCU; I've had three calls from Taylor-Joy this week.  You will NOT get rid of her, Ayala!  If you do, we will get rid of you!  And the next very next New Mutants writer brings Magik back as soon as possible and we forget this ever happened!  Capiche!?"   I do not doubt that the writer and editors will completely deny anything like that this happened, but the fact that a knucklehead like me could envision that shows my lack of trust in the writer in this case.

We end on a late-night heart-to-heart between Illyana and her brother in which Illyana explains she was tired of being angry.  Oh, please.   Illyana was never just angry.  3/5 of her soul had been consecrated to evil via the creation of the bloodstones, and the demonic side of being expressed itself through her being a bad attitude.  That's something you can't wish away.  Or shouldn't be able to.  And Illyana's motivation that she was tired of being angry was weak, especially given that everybody she knows is used to it by now.  Why the rush to change?  I couldn't see a pressing reason for it.  

The flashback reveals that child Illyana defied Belasco because of a book created a time-traveling demon she had once shown kindness.  Excuse me? The little sister of Colossus, who was pretty much being raised by the X-Men and who wanted to be a superhero like her big brother, was going to give up all hope and knuckle under to Belasco if not for the book this demon had somehow caused to write?  Seriously?  

(BTW, what happened to Squidge?  He was a little critter who came and went on the first pages of Magik #3.  I had assumed/hoped if we saw more of Illyana's time as Belasco's apprentice, we would see more of Squidge.   Guess not.)

And to top it all off, the introductory text said one of Illyana's duties was being the leader of the New Mutants.  SAY WHAT!?  For four decades, I thought DANI was and is the leader of the New Mutants.  No wonder Magik was burning out!  This begs the question, could the whole mess have been avoided if 'Yana had just given Dani her old job back?  Or maybe Illyana, Dani, and Rahne could have taken time off and gone on vacation?  That would have been more fun than "Labors of Magik" turned out to be...unless Vita wrote that, too...then...well...  

We're left with the Goblin Queen on the throne of Limbo, and I suppose that's got some story potential in it.  There's also the mystery of where Illyana's stepping disks now take people.  And what her place in the mystical world is now that she's no longer the sorceress supreme of Limbo.  Ok.  But that potential came at the cost of changing Illyana in fundamental ways.  Magik's story was always more than just an allegory for child abuse.  Being angry and being the queen of Limbo were central to her character for 40 years.  Remove those things and we're left with...what?  I can't relate to the character who was having a heart-to-heart with her older brother in #28.  I don't know how to relate to her, and I'm not sure I want to.  The "old Magik" had an edge.  Vita's "New Magik" has the cutting edge of a whiffle ball.  To be blunt:  A happy Magik is boring Magik.  

I can't see any reason for the changes to Magik's character, or who beyond Vita Ayala could have possibly wanted them.  "Because no one demanded it, we did it anyway because...well, just because!  Vita's tired of writing 'Yana in a bad mood all the time.  What do you care?   You're going to buy the BLEEP book anyway, so BLEEP you!"  Sadly, I did buy the BLEEP book, and I will probably buy the BLEEP trade paperback, but sales receipts do not indicate quality.  

So much potential, and all to nothing.  What a waste.

Better luck next time?

[mikanyuzu-26]

Is Chapter 139 of Attack on Titan being messed up deliberately?

*Views are my own. I barely post anything on social media but I feel the need to express my thoughts as a long-term AOT fan.

You need to be a genius in getting everything wrong. As a reader who has been following the series for 8 years, the frustration and disappointment the recent chapters brought me are beyond words. The series Attack on Titan has long been known for its well written plotline, with pieces of hints eventually leading to the reveal of mysteries, ranging from the identity of enemies to the origin of titan. Isayama the author is more than capable in building a story, as evidenced by the carefully arranged setups and successful characterization in 130+ chapters. Probably echoed by other readers, the story surprisingly went downhill since Chapter 124 (aka the alliance arc) when pacing becomes slow with no major progress in overall plot. Eren who is the supposedly main protagonist is nowhere to be found in most of the chapters, let alone his inner thought. The conclusion in Chapter 139 is even more confusing, showing clear disconnection with previous chapters and major characters being OOC. There are fans who are kind enough to summarize the inconsistencies.

Chinese netizens’ comment on the story quality

I would interpret the bad writing in Chapter 139 as intentional, with two possible reasons, or both: 1). To betray and hurt the readers as expressed in his interview. He is free! 2). To passively protest against a plot change by his editorial team

“I was a big fan of Game of Thrones, so I can relate to the feelings of those fans who were disappointed with how the series ended. But when I’m drawing, I’m expressing my own feelings, and I think as long as I’m doing that, my fans will be able to accept whatever ending I come up with for them”. The question is – was Isayama hinting at a GOT-like ending that expressed his true feeling? Looking at his response at this point of time, was he foreshadowing a disappointment?

Personally I am a believer of (2) – the plot was hijacked. I see the pacing issue starting from Chapter 124 as Isayama and the editorial team trying to buy time in reconstructing the plot. This is the period when multiple minor subplots (e.g. Connie’s mom, Aruani, conflicts with Yeagerists like Daz, formation of Alliance, Reiner’s mom & Annie’s dad) are introduced and closed off shortly after, while Eren is nowhere to be found.

Also note that Isayama did not even show up in the interview/live stream after the end of the manga in on Apr 10 and Apr 14, 2021. The editor represented him instead. It was also revealed in the most recent live stream that the editorial team had quite a lot of influence over the plot, in which they changed the last few pages of Chapter 139.

As many of you have already raised, early chapters already mentioned the “only way to put a final end to the cycle of revenge” is to do a full rumbling. I believe this is the first draft of the ending of the story as this idea has been expressed more than once directly out of the mouth of Eren.

The other possible change is the way of how Ymir is being freed. In earlier chapter, Eren clearly understands what Ymir has been waiting for 2000 years in Chapter 122, and this is also the reason why Eren is able to start the rumbling in the first place. The possibility of Mikasa freeing Ymir is not being introduced until Chapter 138 (or 139), and certainly comes out of nowhere as the only people outside of path who have seen Ymir are Armin and Ramzi.

How is Chapter 139 being intentionally messed up? The inconsistencies above suggest that at least two plot twists are only being decided at the very late stage of the story. • Eren’s true intention (Eren Requiem vs. full rumbling) and the reasons behind • What Ymir wants

Throughout Chapter 139, there are definitely better choice of words which even average Reddit/Twitter/Tumblr users were able to re-write in the past few days. However Isayama just somehow chose the worst way in presenting the story as if it is a shoutout to readers. The presentation also makes Chapter 139 memorable, though not in a way most have expected.

“Why Mikasa?” “Well…only Ymir knows that one…” When I reread Chapter 139, it seems to me that Isayama is not trying to shy away from admitting the plot change. The disbelief from Armin’s way of saying “Huh? Did you just say Mikasa?” is an analogy to the readers’ reaction due to the lack of interaction between Ymir and Mikasa before the last panel of Chapter 138. Eren is also drawn with a resigned expression. If this is an over interpretation of the frame, Eren’s next response “Well…only Ymir knows that one…” directly points out how the statement lacks a clear and sound reasoning. You can translate it into “Well…only [the company/my editor] knows that one…” or “Nothing I just want to throw this in”. Isayama clearly knows what he is writing and indeed “only Ymir knows that one” becomes a meme.

Also to add that prior to Chapter 139, Ymir has always been a parallel of Historia/Krista, not Mikasa, even as early as Chapter 51, but this plot was just somehow nowhere to be found eventually.

Why Rumbling? The most disastrous consequence of a plot change, from wiping all history and civilization (that has been repeated in his conversation with Historia in Chapter 130 and his internal monologue in Chapter 131) to an Eren Requiem, is that it takes away all the justification and rationale for Eren to eliminate 80% of the population in the first place. Whether or not Eren executes the rumbling and dies willingly, the world will still be in conflict and future generation will remain in the forest. If the plan is to free Ymir, a better way is probably just asking Mikasa to chop his head off. That saves humanity (Ymir likes drama, after all!).

Isayama could have easily used phrases like “I just want to move forward” but he put “I don’t know why, but…I wanted to do that…I had to”. This is also Isayama speaking from the Eren – he does not know why Eren is doing rumbling just to achieve the 80% plan. He just “had to” draw it.

“10 Years, At least!” This is probably the most debatable and dramatic part of the chapter. Eren expresses his love to Mikasa but the scene is presented in a way as if it is a kid throwing a tantrum. In addition to that there is Armin’s comment “Oh ok…I didn’t expect something that pathetic..” as if it is again, the readers’ comment. The scene is portrayed in an unbelievably comedic way, especially when you compare it with Eren’s conversation with Ramzi in Chapter 131, which is supposed to serve the same purpose in showing Eren’s human/soft side. Most importantly, freedom has always been Eren’s core value throughout the series. The outright contradiction this line shows only makes the whole idea of this panel questionable.

Character Regression Needless to say, characters’ behaviours surprisingly regress back to the first arc, wiping out all developments throughout the series. The worst thing is it even kills the hype of re-reading the manga as you know the characters never grow, after all the sufferings and hearts sacrificed. Examples include: • Eren is still a crybaby • Mikasa remains trapped by her relationship with Eren and the scarf • Historia is not living proudly for herself after the Uprising arc • Reiner sniffs Historia’s letter after going through depression and wars (there is even a petition online asking Isayama to change this! You see how problematic this is.) • Jean and the horse joke

Almost everything that could possibly go wrong is wrong in 1 chapter These are written by the man who have been writing good chapters in the past 10 years. Can you believe it is just a lack of sense?

• “Thank you. You became a mass murderer for our sake.” • The “poop” that Armin gives Eren (Isayama likes using meme right? :P) • Eren’s face when he is punched

Is this the High School AU style?

Compared to Chapter 112...You can tell the difference.

The way how the fandom views Chapter 139 is certainly very divided, but even amongst those who like it, most still think “things could have done better” (source: SNK Chapter 139 Poll), showing how awkward the style is compared to previous chapters. The inconsistencies in character portrayal and plot are too hard to ignore. It pains me to see a well-constructed and reputable series, one step away from legend even just with an average ending, closed with a chapter that almost defeats the purpose of the rest. Trust in Isayama – while he can build a legend in 10 years, he can also take it down with 1 chapter.

By the way, Levi is one of the few characters who isn’t ruined. Probably also a conscious choice.

[snarktheater]

Ready Player Two — Opening Cutscene & Chapter 0

Hello again.

It’s been a while. I haven’t been active on this blog since, fittingly enough, Ready Player One. I was going to do this sooner—even had an alarm set up and everything—but then, it turns out, I’m feeling so much negativity about the world in general that a book just pales in comparison.

Seriously, I had to scrap this post’s entire intro because it’s not even 2020 anymore as I write this. And you know, maybe that’s for the best. I’m not really in the mood for doom and gloom and bitching anymore. I uninstalled Twitter from my phone a while back, I’ve been doing good at my daily writing sprints, my biggest fanfic project concluded on a positive note from people I didn’t even realize had been following it for years.

So I don’t know what this is going to be like. My commentary, I mean; I’ve heard echoes of what the book is like, so I’m not expecting a surprise there.

The book opens right after the end of Ready Player One, in a “Cutscene” where Wade recounts to us what happened after he won Halliday’s contest. It also assumes you remember exactly who the main characters of the book are, which is a bold move for a sequel that came out almost a decade after the original.

Technically, I could just look up the details I’m fuzzy about. But also, I think it’s more authentic if I don’t. I trust my memory enough that if I’m wrong, it’ll be in subtle enough ways that it’ll almost be a private jokes between all of us. An “if you know, you know” sort of error system. And I don’t think there’s anything more true to the spirit of this book than that.

Shoto had flown back home to Japan to take over operations at GSS’s Hokkaido division.

So Wade starts his tenure with nepotism. Wasn’t Shoto really young? Why is he qualified to run anything?

Aech was enjoying an extended vacation in Senegal, a country she’d dreamed of visiting her whole life, because her ancestors had come from there.

You know what, I’m not touching “send the token black character back to Africa.” This isn’t my lane.

And Samantha had flown back to Vancouver to pack up her belongings and say goodbye to her grandmother, Evelyn.

Why is she saying goodbye? Why, she’s moving to Columbus to be with Wade, of course! It’s not like there was anything else in her life. Was there? And why isn’t she referred to as Art3mis? I’m pretty sure Wade found out all of their offline names in the last book, and the inconsistency mildly bothers me.

These three sentences are back to back, by the way. Someone—I forget who—once described Ready Player One as a book that’s fun to write a wiki about, because it’s got fun concepts to summarize about until you realize that all the emotional connective tissue you need to turn a list of things into a story is missing, and that’s roughly how this first page feels.

Hell, the first line of the book is Wade telling us he remained offline for nine whole days after winning the contest, but by the end of the second paragraph we’re already to him logging back into the OASIS to "distract himself from [his and Samantha’s] reunion.

I’ll give Ernest Cline one thing: it feels like he wrote this opening nine days after the first book and did about as much maturing as a teenage boy would do between the two books.

Way more time is spent describing Wade’s OASIS rig, or the in-game planet where the climax of the last book happened, than anything else in this introduction. He is immediately greeted by a crowd of adoring fans who have been waiting over a week for him to come back in the game, because they’re all grateful that our protagonist and his friends restored their avatars after they were annihilated by the Sixers.

You’d think the adoring fans would serve some kind of purpose, or that something would happen, but no. Wade immediately goes “ew, people” and teleports away, since he essentially has ultimate powers within the game. With a caveat: the powers are actually coming from the Robes of Anorak he’s wearing, and I’m mentioning that in the hopes that it will pay off sometime in the book’s future, assuming Cline at least learned to do that. But still, let’s not skip too fast the fact that we introduced that crowd of adoring fans for no other purpose than to tell us they’re out there, because it fits right in with the last book’s attempts at saying as little as humanly possible in as many words as possible.

Anyway, Wade went back into Anorak’s study, where he arbitrarily checks out the Easter Egg he got at the end of the last book, and finds an inscription on it. I was dreading another riddle, but no, it’s just straight-up instructions to a vault in the GSS archives, so Wade logs off and goes to check it out.

Of course Halliday had put [the archives] [on the 13th floor]. In one of his favorite TV shows, Max Headroom, Network 23’s hidden research-and-development lab was located on the thirteenth floor. And The Thirteenth Floor was also the title of an old sci-fi film about virtual reality, released in 1999, right on the heels of both The Matrix and eXistenZ.

I’m equally shocked that it took two whole pages (on my ereader) to get to the first slew of references, and that one of these references is from 1999. I didn’t know we were allowed to think of anything that isn’t the 80s. Speaking of which, I’ll spare you the whole paragraph, but the book does feel the need to explain why it’s vault 42.

Inside the vault, there’s another egg containing a super-fancy and advanced OASIS headset. The egg also has a video monitor that plays a video message from James Halliday shortly before his death.

But despite his condition, he hadn’t used his OASIS avatar to record this message like he had with Anorak’s Invitation. For some reason, he’d chosen to appear in the flesh this time, under the brutal, unforgiving light of reality.

That oh-so-important message? An infodump about the headset’s working. He called it an OASIS Neural Interface, ONI for short. It basically lets you experience the OASIS through all your senses with sensory input just like the real thing, you know, that thing Wade had to get a fancy suit and massive rig to do in the first book. And yes, Wade does spend a paragraph or two comparing it to other works of science fiction. Of course he does.

More importantly, it also records all the sensory input into a separate file, which can then be replayed over to re-experience said sensations, or live someone else’s experiences. Halliday tries to frame it as a tool to generate communication and empathy, seemingly all without acknowledging the potential creepiness of that. But hey. Who knows. Maybe that’s because this is the setup stage, and it’ll pay off eventually.

I also wondered about the name Halliday had chosen for his invention. I’d seen enough anime to know that oni was also a Japanese word for a giant horned demon from the pits of hell.

Add “reducing Japan to anime” to the list of things the book has failed to improve upon. By the way, the narration insisted on spelling out ONI letter by letter earlier, so it’s weird to make that link now. It’s also just kind of inelegant to just tell us “this is the symbolism behind the name”, but that’s just the sort of thing I’ve come to expect from this book.

Anyway, the reason Halliday kept this for his successor to find is he wants Wade to test out the technology and decide if humanity is ready for it. Why Halliday thinks the most glorified pop culture trivia / video game competition qualifies you for such a decision should be a problem, but sadly, a lot of billionaires have said and done a lot of dumb and eerily similar things in the past few years since I read Ready Player One, so actually, I can’t fault the book for that one. Tragically, our fates really are in the hands of people who should rightfully be cartoon villains.

To his credit, Wade does question Halliday’s motives in keeping this under wraps at all rather than releasing it himself. So hey, maybe it really is setting something up.

Wade goes back to his office with the ONI, and we’re treated with this lovely piece of narration:

I was grateful that Samantha wasn’t there. I didn’t want to give her the opportunity to talk me out of testing the ONI. Because I was worried she might try to, and if she did, she would’ve succeeded. (I’d recently discovered that when you’re madly in love with someone they can persuade you to do pretty much anything.)

There’s a lot to unpack about the implications this has for their relationship, but it’s way too early in the book for me to editorialize when one character hasn’t even been on the page yet. So I’ll just leave it here for the record. Hopefully you see the problem without me needing to point it out anyway. If not, feel free to hit my inbox.

So Wade, confident in the fact that Halliday would have warned him if there were any risks to using the ONI, decides to try it out. Even though he immediately follows up that statement with this:

According to the ONI documentation, forcibly removing the headset while it was in operation could severely damage the wearer’s brain and/or leave them in a permanent coma. So the titanium-reinforced safety bands made certain this couldn’t happen. I found this little detail comforting instead of unsettling. Riding in an automobile was risky, too, if you didn’t wear your seatbelt…

Wade. My dude. What the fuck is this simile. And why don’t you see that maybe a machine where you’re forcibly trapping yourself inside a virtual reality might be dangerous? Hell, when I said this was setting something up, I was expecting something vaguely interesting about the potential breach of privacy, or how you don’t need to literally walk in someone’s shoes to feel empathy for them, or anything substantial, but now I’m worried it’ll just end up as “man, sometimes science fiction machines will scramble your brain, isn’t that weird”?

Like, I don’t know, to me “it will put you in a coma” sounds like a good reason for Halliday not to release the ONI. Maybe we can still make it into a commentary on how corporations will sell stuff they know is directly harmful if it can make them a profit. Who knows.

The book waffles on about more risks, and the mechanics of how the ONI activates, and the warning disclaimer when it does turn on. Specifically, there’s a time limit of twelve consecutive hours, after which you’ll be automatically logged out, because yes, using the thing for too long can also cause brain damage.

Gregarious Simulation Systems will not be held responsible for any injuries caused by improper use of the OASIS Neural Interface.

See, now there’s the sort of thing that could be a source for commentary, but no, instead it’s thrown in there like it’s nothing and Wade glosses over the entire warning, and instead keep wondering why Halliday didn’t just release the ONI if even the safety disclaimers were in place.

By the way: this whole system has apparently gone through several independent human trials already, so I’m finding it hard to imagine that it’s actually a secret Halliday took to the grave as Wade says. Unless he also had everyone involved in those trials killed afterwards. Or maybe they all ended up with brain damage which rendered them incapable of talking about it.

And before you think I’m being unfair and maybe we’re supposed to understand that ourselves even if the protagonist doesn’t, I’ll remind you that the book didn’t trust its reader to know what the number 42 is a reference to, or what an oni is, even though I don’t think anyone in the target audience wouldn’t know about these two things.

There’s also the fact that, since this book came out, a video game did release with a scene intentionally designed to cause seizures, and it had countless fans flocking to defend it over that fact. So you’ll have to excuse me if I’m not assuming this book’s stance on whether your video game console causes brain damage and possibly coma is actually a bad thing, or just an acceptable risk.

Wade certainly seems to think so, since he agrees to the terms of service.

As the timestamp faded away, it was replaced by a short message, just three words long—the last thing I would see before I left the real world and entered the virtual one. But they weren’t the three words I was used to seeing. I—like every other ONI user to come—was greeted by a new message Halliday had created, to welcome those visitors who had adopted his new technology: READY PLAYER TWO

Well now that’s just silly.

And that’s our opening cutscene. And while this post is already long enough, I feel like I have to go on to chapter 0, because it feels like barely anything has happened so far. We didn’t even introduce any new character motivation or conflict, or a mystery to set the plot into motion, unless I’m supposed to think “why didn’t Halliday release this?” counts.

So Wade is back into the OASIS, and tells us about how much more real it all feels thanks to the ONI. I especially have to question how he can smell or taste anything—both of which he tells us he can. Like, who coded that? Did Halliday implement every single smell and taste himself, without anyone noticing? I hope you don’t need me to tell you that’s not typically how features are added to a large-scale video game.

If it feels like I’m nitpicking at the logic of the book, even though I always say I’m not very interested in that and would rather talk themes, it’s because I am, because there isn’t much else to discuss so far. Wade is happy about tasting virtual fruit. That’s the scene.

He tests out if he can feel pain, but no, the ONI reduces pain (a gunshot is translated as “a hard pinch”). On one hand, good, it would be a nightmare otherwise. On the other hand, I sort of hope there’s a setting for that in there, because otherwise, you just lost an entire clientele of kinksters.

This was it—the final, inevitable step in the evolution of videogames and virtual reality. The simulation had now become indistinguishable from real life.

Ah, now we have some juicy themes. Because if you think this is the inevitable final step in the evolution of video games, I invite you to look at literally any other art form, and what happened to them once hyperrealism became easy. Hint: they didn’t stop evolving, because it turns out realism isn’t the only goal one can achieve with art.

The realism discussion is not a new one in video games, mind you. In case you’re out of the loop: most of the big-budget blockbuster games (“AAA” as they’re known) are aiming for hyperrealism nowadays, and it results in development teams being forced to work in horrible conditions (known with the equally horrible euphemism of “crunch”). And, because it turns out that 1) humans working themselves to the bones isn’t healthy and 2) racing for realism with little to no vision besides it makes for poor creativity, a lot of these games come out as disappointments. Oh, there are hordes of Gamers™ who will defend them to the bitter end, but inevitably, in the months following release, the defense cools off while the criticism keeps on going, because the defense was a knee-jerk reaction born of a mix of people hyping themselves up for a game they hadn’t seen that much of yet, then attaching a part of their identity to liking that thing.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that this throwaway line feels like it comes from someone who is so out of touch as to accidentally support a world view that has in fact resulted in the biggest part of the industry stagnating artistically while growing more toxic for the people working in it. All the while, more and more independent games come out every year, proving that that realism is nowhere near the most important thing to making a game good, and that you can achieve much better results with a small team.

What I’m trying to say is: watch Jim Sterling’s channel, they’ve been bleeding out subscribers since they came out as nonbinary and make much better commentary on this topic than I could, and play Hades.

Back to the book, which sadly hasn’t become any more interesting since I decided to go on a tangent. Wade tests the ONI functions some more, all the while musing on how he knows Samantha would disapprove but that he doesn’t care, because what loving relationship doesn’t consist of that?

Among the functions, he tries the ONI files, the aforementioned recordings of someone else’s experiences. Specifically, a woman, which Wade tells us by telling us he suddenly has breasts, I suppose because Ernest Cline saw that subreddit about men writing women and went “I want a piece of that”. Oh, and also, those sample files were recorded from real people, in the real world. And yes, this goes exactly where you think it does.

SEX-M-F.oni, SEX-F-F.oni, and SEX-Nonbinary.oni

Look, I actually started writing a complaint about the boobs thing, and I deleted it, but now Cline is doing it on purpose. So, here goes: I saw a quote from this book on Twitter that looked like Cline attempting to make up for Wade’s casual transphobia in the first book. It wasn’t good, but it at least sounded like he was trying. So to immediately get this is…a lot? Let’s go for a lot.

I can almost excuse the use of “M” and “F”. You gotta name your files and you could excuse a non-exhaustive list. But…nonbinary? On one hand, I want to know what Cline means. On the other hand, I don’t think he can come up with an answer I’ll find satisfactory.

We are thankfully spared from finding out because Wade has just lost his virginity to Samantha a few days ago and he’s 1) not ready for this and 2) pretty sure this counts as cheating. You could make a case that this is more like porn, but I can see that this is more of a personal distinction anyway, and I can respect that one. Plus, you know. I don’t want to find out.

Wade logs off, and he can’t tell the difference between the OASIS with the ONI, and decides this will change the world. And then it’s back to the “how did he do it and keep it a secret”, even though Wade now finds out in the documentation that this had been in development for twenty-five years, basically since the OASIS launched. So it’s not really that it’s a secret, so much as there are a lot of people under very strict NDAs out there. Or, again, they’re all dead and/or otherwise incapacitated.

The ONI is the product of the Accessibility Research Lab, and Wade tells us about other stuff that the lab has produced using similar technology, mostly for medical purposes.

GSS patented each of the Accessibility Research Lab’s inventions, but Halliday never made any effort to profit from them. Instead, he set up a program to give these neuroprosthetic implants away, to any OASIS users who could benefit from them. GSS even subsidized the cost of their implant surgery.

Look, it’s nice that you want Halliday to be the good guy through and through, but it’s kind of hard to take any social commentary seriously when you think this is how a billionaire is made. Hell, even when he shut down the lab and fired its entire staff, he gave them a big enough severance package to set them for life. You know. Capitalism!

Hey, remember when Samantha said she was going to end world hunger if she won the contest, a thing billionaires right now could be doing, but aren’t, and she is now the co-owner of GSS? Yeah, I kind of hope the book remembers that too.

Speaking of the co-owners, the book just completely skips over the debate that our four main characters have over whether or not to release the ONI to the world. All we know is that they voted, and the vote goes in favor of releasing it. I mean, why have characters who could have opinions and feelings that could create a discussion? That might make us care about them! And who wants to care about characters in a story?

We put them on sale at the lowest possible price, to make sure as many people as possible could experience the OASIS Neural Interface for themselves.

What exactly is “the lowest possible price” here? Your company literally owns money. Like, OASIS money is real money. There is literally nothing stopping you from giving them away, especially because what you’re giving away is access to the platform you’re already running for a profit.

It’s almost like, even trying to make “good billionaires” out of its protagonists, the book can’t stop and actually make them significantly good.

Oh, I should mention. If you thought my Ready Player One review was angry at capitalism, wait until you see what the past couple years have done to me.

Anyway, once they his 7,777,777 simultaneous ONI users, a new riddle shows up on Halliday’s website. Because yep: our plot is apparently not about the implications of releasing the ONI, or any of the potential ideological discussions associated with that, it’s another riddle. Oh boy, do I wish I’d known that.

Seek the Seven Shards of the Siren’s Soul On the seven worlds where the Siren once played a role For each fragment my heir must pay a toll To once again make the Siren whole

I cannot wait to have the book give me just not enough information to solve the riddle until it’s solved by the book itself. That was so much fun the other…what was it, five times? Six times? Something like that. Wade already tells us the Siren might be Kira Morrow, because her alias was named after one of the sirens of Greek myth, so I can’t wait for that plot point to stick around. It was so fun to hear all about this man pining for another man’s wife the first time!

So this is the “Shard Riddle”. People are apparently convinced it was made by Wade and his crew as a publicity stunt, but of course, they know that that isn’t the case, and they also don’t know what that riddle is supposed to lead to. So, that’s great. We have a puzzle, and we also don’t know what the stakes are. All we know is that Wade wants to solve the puzzle essentially because it’s a challenge.

We skip over a year, and Wade tells us about how IOI collapses and gets absorbed by GSS because of the ONI’s launch. Remember IOI? They were the bad guys, so I guess we have to cheer?

GSS absorbed IOI and all of its assets, transforming us into an unstoppable megacorporation with a global monopoly on the world’s most popular entertainment, education, and communications platform.To celebrate, we released all of IOI’s indentured servants and forgave their outstanding debts.

On one hand: good for the slave. On the other hand: not gonna cheer for a monopoly, you guys.

Another year’s skip, and now 99% of the OASIS users are using the ONI, and yes, that includes trading their experiences with one another too. And I guess we’re still hand-waving any possible problems associated with that technology, because the technology is made so that all recordings must be shared and played through the OASIS.

This allowed us to weed out unsavory or illegal recordings before they could be shared with other users.

How? Do you know any of the problems associated with content moderations on the current platforms? I don’t know if I want to point to Youtube’s extremely faulty algorithm, Twitter’s complete apathy towards its Nazis, or Facebook doing moderation by making underpaid staff watch all potentially problematic content, which resulted in serious psychological damage to said staff.

You can’t just say that as if it solved everything. The chapter later says this is handled by an AI called “CenSoft”, and as an AI engineer myself, let me tell you: this is not going to work. Again: Youtube is the way it is for a reason.

It also let us maintain our monopoly on what was rapidly becoming the most popular form of entertainment in the history of the world.

And again, monopolies are totally a good thing as long as it’s in the right hands!

When I’m implying that the book does not care for any of these potential problems, I mean it. These enormous ethical issues are sidestepped in cold narratin, and we just keep going on introducing new slang that I hate, but have to quote so help you keep up.

“Sims” were recordings made inside the OASIS, and “Recs” were ONI recordings made in reality. Except that most kids no longer referred to it as “reality.” They called it “the Earl.” (A term derived from the initialism IRL.) And “Ito” was slang for “in the OASIS.” So Recs were recorded in the Earl, and Sims were created Ito.

There. You have been infodumped.

In the midst of all this (still extremely dry) exposition about how this changed media, we also get this tidbit:

You could take any drug, eat any kind of food, and have any kind of sex, without worrying about addiction, calories, or consequences.

Now, I was going to rant about this, but then, a page later, this happens and spares me the trouble:

I’d struggled with OASIS addiction before the ONI was released. Now logging on to the simulation was like mainlining some sort of chemically engineered superheroin.

So, you are aware that addiction isn’t just possible, but extremely facilitated by this. But sure, no worries! It’s perfectly safe! Because our protagonists are good.

Also, remember how the last book ended on a weak attempt at having a moral that maybe the real world is good, actually? Yeah, Wade tells us the ONI helps poor people live enjoyable lives in the OASIS. So. Fuck that message, I guess. It only applies if you’re the literal wealthiest man on Earth.

And me? All my dreams had come true. I’d gotten stupidly rich and absurdly famous. I’d fallen in love with my dream girl and she had fallen in love with me. Surely I was happy, right? Not so much, as this account will show.

Aside from the aforementioned returning OASIS affiction, there’s the Shard riddle that Wade is now obsessed with, to the point of offering a billion-dollar reward to anyone with information about the riddle’s answer.

I announced this reward with a stylized short film that I modeled after Anorak’s Invitation. I hoped it would seem like a lighthearted play on Halliday’s contest instead of a desperate cry for help. It seemed to work.

On one hand: good, Wade finally has a character flaw that the book actually acknowledges as a character flaw. I can work with that. On the other hand: this is all told to me in such a dispassionate that I am dreading how the book will handle this character flaw. Which is to say, I’m not expecting it to be very good.

(For a brief time, some of the younger, more idealistic shard hunters referred to themselves as “shunters” to differentiate themselves from their elder counterparts. But when everyone began to call them “sharters” instead, they changed their minds and started to call themselves gunters too. The moniker still fit. The Seven Shards were Easter eggs hidden by Halliday, and we were all hunting for them.)

Especially when this is something the narration feels is more important to tell me about.

Anyway, skip another year, and a gunter finally leads Wade to the First Shard. Solved that riddle, I guess. And wait, wasn’t part of why IOI was ~evil~ in the first book that they were paying people to find the Easter Egg for them? How is this any different, Wade?

And when I picked it up, I set in motion a series of events that would drastically alter the fate of the human race. As one of the only eyewitnesses to these historic events, I feel obligated to give my own written account of what occurred. So that future generations—if there are any—will have all the facts at their disposal when they decide how to judge my actions.

And that is the end of our chapter 0. And can I just say: what a mess already. I don’t think my snark can properly convey how utterly devoid of emotion this book’s writing is, and that alone is honestly more of a turn-off than anything else in the book so far. Even, knowing that I railed about it in the first book, I still feel newly unprepared for it. And it’s not like this double-prologue is making me hopeful that the book will show an ounce more critical thinking—or decent fucking humanity towards marginalized groups—as its predecessor.

So, that’s a lot to look forward to! For the sake of my sanity and schedule, don’t expect me to do such big posts every time. I’ll probably do one chapter a week from now on, if that. We’re in for a long ride, but I hope it’s worth it, at least.

[gstqaobc]

FROM THE MONARCHIST LEAGUE OF CANADA

As this Ecomm went to publication, we received word of the death, at the great age of 96, of Bill Silver, a significant benefactor of the League from its early days, and for many years a pillar of our Ottawa Branch.  We wished to remember him here: his ebullient spirit, fierce loyalty spoken gently, innate modesty and kindness.  Indeed Chaucer might have had forethought of Bill in describing one of his characters as a “very parfitt gentle knight.” May his ardent spirit rest in peace, and his memory be a blessing and example to us all.   LEAGUE ISSUES NEW FLYER: THE CASE FOR THE CROWN The League thought it timely and useful to issue, offer in its advertising and distribute as widely as possible - both via the website and in printed form - a new flyer which will give you, our members, ammunition to argue logically the case for the Crown in conversation with others, and, we hope, to distribute strategically. One never knows when such an item, left on a waiting room table at the doctor or dentist’s office, affixed to a supermarket or other community bulletin board, put through neighbours’ mail slots - the possibilities are many - will do good work for our cause. We hope you will both enjoy and profit from this item, and that many thousands will be distributed across the country. See item one in the WHAT CAN I DO FOR THE CANADIAN CROWN? section of this Ecomm, below, to read online and request printed copies.   And special thanks to our wonderful team of no less than seven translators, all francophones from La Belle Province, who so kindly volunteered to make the French version one that is accurate in expression and eloquent in its prose.                     WHAT CAN I DO FOR THE CANADIAN CROWN? Some suggestions for member activity during these times. We invite members to send additional ideas by return of email. 1.    How about asking the League to send you several print copies of our new flyer:  THE CASE FOR THE CROWN, or print them on your home computer:  https://www.monarchist.ca/index.php/publications and give them to others who may be unaware or sceptical of the importance of Canada’s constitutional monarchy, or even hostile to it. School teachers could be encouraged to read the League’s educational booklets, also available both online and in print at the same URL, or even to request a class set.   2.    When you read an editorial, opinion column or letter to the editor in a newspaper, or a tweet or Facebook post, critical of the Crown, don’t get mad - get even! In other words, use a temperate tone and logical argument to refute the writer’s attack.  Keep it brief: focus on the obvious flaws in reasoning, mis-statements of fact or name-calling substituting for logic.  Same goes for radio talk shows. In the long run, on all media, whatever the provocation, whatever the momentary satisfaction of ”giving them a piece of my mind” - an old adage remains true: “You catch more flies with honey.” 3.    Write your elected representative at the federal level to re-state briefly the reasons you support constitutional monarchy as our system of government,  and asking the MP whether not your view is shared. 4.    Once pandemic restrictions ease, try to make sure that Royal events - such as the upcoming 95th birthday of our Queen, 10th Wedding Anniversary of William and Catherine or 100th birthday of Prince Philip are celebrated both in your home but also among your wider family, your friends, your colleagues at the office,  your place of worship/faith community or service club. The League generally sends you some ideas to mark these celebrations. Remember, as they are incorporated into family life and public life, the     Crown becomes further embedded in the heart of the nation, and truly represents The Queen’s wish that it ”reflects all that is best and most admired in the Canadian ideal.” This is especially true when you go out of your way to include in your observance the newest members of our Canadian family, who generally are eager to participate in the traditions of their new homeland, and in turn to share their own traditions with the wider community. 5.    Always use a Queen stamp when you write a letter or pay a bill by mail. 6.     At events of ceremony, whether a Council meeting, a graduation, a civic celebration - whatever - make sure that the Royal Anthem is sung as well as the National Anthem. To the extent you can, discourage event organizers from having a soloist “perform” them. Far more pride and         learning develop from the untrained voices of loyal folk singing together. In that way, the Anthems are sung “with heart and voice” and not merely listened to.   A FINAL IDEA: AN ACT OF LOVING SUPPORT & THANKS Apart from the above, we think it would be enormously comforting and supportive for every one of us to  write a kind letter to The Queen, expressing your thoughts at a difficult time: her beloved husband ailing, a grand-child chiding other family members via sensational television, the drumbeat of the tabloids and the restrictions on her busy life caused by the pandemic.  A selection of letters, especially those from Commonwealth Realms, are indeed seen by The Queen - and their number and tone are summarized to Her Majesty. The address is - Her Majesty The Queen, Buckingham Palace, London SW1A 1AA, UK Theoretically you don’t need postage to write the Sovereign; in practice, it is safer to affix the international airmail stamp available from your local Canada Post outlet.   AN INTERESTING OPINION PIECE FROM TODAY’S DAILY TELEGRAPHWe thought you might be interested to see the following strongly-worded opinion piece, reflecting a good deal of the tone of recent British public opinion, rather different from much of the Canadian and US commentary. Meghan’s fake interview has real-world effects The Sussexes’ claims have undermined the monarchy and done lasting damage to the Commonwealth by Tim Stanley, March 15, 2021 Two headlines appeared on the BBC News website on the same day. At the top: “Harry and Meghan rattle monarchy’s gilded cage”. At the bottom: “The kidnapped woman who defied Boko Haram”. Well, that puts the Sussexes' problems in perspective, doesn’t it? Yet across Africa, one reads, the Duchess’s story has revived memories of colonial racism, tarnishing the UK’s reputation, and has even lent weight to the campaign in some countries to drop the Queen as head of state. The only nation that seems to think a lot of nonsense was spoken is Britain. In the wake of an interview that Joe Biden’s administration called courageous, British popular opinion of Harry and Meghan fell to an all-time low, and the American format had a lot to do with it. Oprah Winfrey is not our idea of an interviewer. She flattered, fawned and displayed utter credulity. Imagine if it had been her, not Emily Maitlis, who interviewed Prince Andrew over the Jeffrey Epstein allegations. “You were in a Pizza Express that day? Oh my God, you MUST be innocent! Tell me, in all honesty, though...did you have the dough balls?” This wasn’t an interview, it was a commercial for a brand called Sussex, a pair of eco-friendly aristo-dolls that, if you pull the string, tell their truth – which isn’t the truth, because no one can entirely know that, but truth as they perceive it. “Life is about storytelling,” explained Meghan, “about the stories we tell ourselves, the stories we’re told, what we buy into.” Meghan is a postmodernist. Just as Jean Baudrillard said the Gulf War never happened, but was choreographed by the US media, so the Royal narrative she was forced to live was fake, her public happiness was fake and, following that logic, this interview might involve an element of performance, too. People have challenged her claims, alleging contradictions and improbabilities, but one of the malign effects of wokeness is that you have got to be very careful about pointing this out. Why? Because wokery insists on treating a subjective view as objective truth, or even as superior, because it’s based upon “lived experience”. To contradict that personal perspective is perceived as cruel, elitist and, in Meghan’s case, potentially racist, so it’s best to wait a few weeks to a year before applying a fact check. In the meantime, affect sympathy. People would rather you lied to their face than tell them what they don’t want to hear. The result is profoundly dishonest, for I have never known an event over which there is such a gulf between the official reception, as endorsed by the media and politics, and the reaction of average citizens, who are wisely keeping it to themselves. Into that vacuum of silence steps not the voice of reason but bullies and showmen – like Piers Morgan, who said some brash stuff about Meghan’s honesty and, after an unseemly row on Good Morning Britain, felt obliged to resign from his job.  “If you’d like to show your support for me,” he wrote afterwards, “please order a copy of my book.” Dear Lord, was this row fake, too? I can no longer be sure, though I despised Good Morning Britain before and still do: it embodies the cynical confusion of emotion and fact, a show made for clicks, where even the weatherman has an opinion. So what is real in 2021? The Commonwealth, which does a lot of good in a divided world. The monarchy, which has been at its best during the pandemic, doing the boring stuff of cutting ribbons and thanking workers that, one suspects, Meghan never grew into (can you imagine her opening a supermarket in Beccles?). It contains flawed people, but that only adds to its realness, and they can adapt faster than you might think. Prince William got the ball rolling by telling reporters, who he is trained to ignore, that his family is not racist. His wife paid her respects to the murder victim Sarah Everard, demonstrating that she is neither cold nor silenced. I’d wager Kate does her duty, day after day, no complaint, not because she is “trapped”, as Harry uncharitably put it, but because she loves her family and believes in public service. Meghan and Harry have indeed prompted the Royal family to change: not in order to endorse their criticisms, however, but to answer them.

GSTQAOBC 🇨🇦🇬🇧🇦🇺🇳🇿

[papermoonloveslucy]

THEY STILL LOVE LUCY

May 23, 1977

[The article below is reprinted verbatim. Photos and Footnotes have been added for editorial enhancement.]

There has already been some moaning at the bar that when Dinah Shore's blithe talk show moves to Channel 5 in July, it will be on 3:30 in the afternoon instead of 6:30 p.m. I have letters from viewers who lament "Now we'll never see it." I'm with them. It was nicely placed in the wake oi Cronkite, some easy chatter and gossip after the somber events of the day, like turning from the front page to the feature section of a newspaper. Moreover, Dinah does her interviewing very well, much less obtrusively than the assorted Mikes and Mervs of TV. She actually makes you believe she's more interested in the answer than the question.

Sometimes the answers are hard to come by. The other evening Lucille Ball was much more interested in clowning than answering serious questions about her comedy. Flanked by Jim Coburn and James Garner, Lucy was much more intent on giving a performance and it was great fun. Anyway, Lucy saves her serious answers about comedy these days for the seminar she's conducting at a professional school in Hollywood. 

I asked the great redhead the other day what she told her students "Whatever they ask me," she said. "I just answer questions. If they're not interested enough to ask questions, the hell with 'em." That's basic to Lucille Ball. In her philosophy, you push forward, you ask, you try things. She used to tell her daughter Lucie: "Don't turn things down. No matter how lowly it seems at the time, you'll find you learn from everything you do it's worth it." 

Years ago, Eddie Cantor told me that during the filming of Roman Scandals with the Goldwyn Girls, director Busby Berkeley worked out a sight gag wherein someone threw a glob of mud at Eddie who bent over at that moment and the mud sailed over him and caught some beautiful girl square in her pretty face. He asked for volunteers among the girls. All of them shrank back except one a redhead who stepped forward. "I knew," said Eddie, "that she was the one who would make it. Lucy Ball." 

Too Much Lucy? 

In case you are one of those who will miss Dinah! because you don't watch daytime TV, you may be unaware that Lucille Ball's fourth and last Lucy series. Here's Lucy, is now rerunning on CBS every morning at 9 on Channel 2. This is the six-year series in which her children grew up Lucie and Desi Arnaz Jr. with Gale Gordon as Uncle Harry. 

There are six years of those shows and even spun off daily they should be around quite awhile. Not surprisingly, they're on opposite I Love Lucy which Channel 11 shows in the mornings at 9. Lucy shrugs at the schedule. At one time, there were Lucy shows on various channels seven times during a day "That bothered me," she said. "Every time you turned on the tap. you got me. There can be too much of anything." 

To an historian of this windblown diversion, it's interesting two versions of the same basic Lucy character 20 years or so apart, still equally delighting audiences. Lucy, the character, must be the most durable creation of the television age, unsinkable, unstoppable, largely changeless. I have had the feeling at times that Lucille Ball feels Lucy rides her instead of vice versa. When she was doing Wildcat on Broadway, she said: "I thought they wanted something different, but they don't So in the show, I'm doing Lucy." 

The other day the comedienne said: "I'm having a recurrence of that In the last couple of years, I've been doing specials that were different kinds of comedy dramas than the Lucy shows. I did a couple with Carney, I did that show with Gleason trying to play my age, trying to do something they would believe and buy. Well, they didn't buy it not really. What the people seemed to want was Lucy again. Now I'm faced with doing two more specials for next season, and I thought: 'Oh. God, not that again.' Then I decided the hell with anything different I'll do a Lucy show." 

Old Friends on Hand 

She'll be back in her own arena the three-camera TV technique created for her by Desi Arnaz; Madelyn Davis and Bob Carroll Jr., who wrote most of the Lucy shows over a quarter century, are doing the script; Gale Gordon will be on hand and perhaps Mary Wickes and Mary Jane Croft but not the kids: Desi is making a Robert Altman movie in Chicago; Lucie is on the summer musical circuit. The topper the show will be directed by Marc Daniels, who directed the first season ever of I Love Lucy. They'll film it in August for a probable November showing. (1)

There are other roles Lucille Ball itches to play a legless legend of a woman who has been a patron saint of the ghetto kids of Baltimore, for one. (2) She turns down constant requests to direct. (3) She likes teaching, working with kids. There's very little comedy on television she can watch. "I keep seeing rip-offs of my writers. They're doing our old scripts. Laverne & Shirley they're doing the shows Vivian Vance and I did years ago." (4)

# # #

Cecil Smith (author) began his Times career as a reporter and feature writer in 1947 and became an entertainment writer in 1953. He was the entertainment editor and a drama critic in the 1960s, and in 1969 he became the paper's television critic and a columnist for The Times' syndicate.  Smith served as a captain in the Army Air Forces during World War II and as a pilot flew a B-24 Liberator in the South Pacific. After the war, he wrote radio plays and television scripts before getting involved in journalism.  He was related to Lucille Ball by marriage. Cecil's wife Cleo was Lucille's first cousin.  He had a cameo (with other journalists) in “Lucy Meets the Burtons” (HL S3;E1) in 1970.  He died in 2009. 

FOOTNOTES from the Future

(1) “Lucy Calls the President” aired November 21, 1977 featuring Gale Gordon, Mary WIckes, Mary Jane Croft, and although she is not mentioned in the article due to her health issues, Vivian Vance.  Desi Jr. was filming A Wedding, and Lucie was appearing as the lead in Annie Get Your Gun. 

(2) This refers to ‘Aunt’ Mary Dobkin, a little league baseball coach and children’s welfare advocate.  The role eventually went to Jean Stapleton and the film was aired on “The Hallmark Hall of Fame” in 1979.  

(3) In 1980, Lucille Ball signed with NBC, and finally gave in.  She directed a pilot for a half-hour sitcom called “Bungle Abbey,” starring Gale Gordon.  The pilot was not picked up and that was her only solo directing credit, although she had co-directed a few episodes of her series.  Many directors would say that despite who got the credit, Lucy was also directing!  In fact, that was nothing new.  

Exactly 40 years earlier, to the day, the above item appeared in Erskine Johnson’s “Behind The Make-Up” syndicated column!  

(4) It was not secret that “Laverne and Shirley” was heavily influenced by the antics of Lucy and Ethel. The show’s creator Garry Marshall was one of Lucille Ball’s writers at one time, and readily admitted how much he admired her. 

[jj-ktae]

·9· Omniscient - Prompt Game -

Title : Omniscient Pairing : Park Jinyoung x Fem!Reader Genre : Ennemies to lovers, fluff, angst. Words : 2588 Summary : Jinyoung has always been here, aware and knowing of everything about you. You can’t stand his pettiness and judgemental stare but when you hear about him moving abroad, you agree to work for his uncle’s company. You don’t expect him to come back and make your life miserable again.

Prompt :

11. “Oh, how I wonder why you’re so annoying yet so attractive.” 32. “Then just kiss me…”

--

Omniscient 

He is back. 

Out of everyone you don’t wish to see, the worst of them is before you. He makes you take a deep breath and close your eyes, doing your best not to burst out in tears because of course it could only be him.

Why the fuck did you accept the job at his uncle’s company?

You seriously thought this wouldn’t happen. Jinyoung had a big mouth about ambition and leaving this hell-hole he called home. He used to laugh evilly at your mediocre grades, his eyes looking at you with pure disgust as he muttered how hard life was going to be if you kept doing so poorly. 

You would shove him away every single time, chirping insults and making him laugh harder.

Oh, Jinyoung loved riling you up. 

Your office turns smaller than it is as you consume the oxygen faster than intended. The memories are way more infuriating than saddening. You feel like you were bullied, hated. 

Jinyoung was always behind you, whenever you failed or succeeded. He started as playful and petty, with witty words and knowing smiles. You thought nothing of it, too focused on your personal issues to deal with that little spoiled bitch. 

He never crossed the line and simply worked on making you feel miserable without succeeding. Today though, he went too far. Maybe it’s not him who decided to take the position as the editorial director but in the end, it’s Park Jinyoung making feel like crap. As always.

A knock on your opened door makes you look at it, sighing in defeat as a smiling Jinyoung appears, waving softly. 

“I refused to believe it when I heard you were working here.” He muses, walking deeper into your office. 

You don’t answer, eyes transfixed on him as you nod in defeat. What can you say? Anger pleases him, crying would result in him mocking you and complaining is useless as he is the big boss’ nephew.

You are screwed and even finding a job somewhere else would probably be a big fail. Jinyoung would never write a recommendation letter and would rather torment you for the sake of entertainment. 

You see him stop in front of your office, blinking. “Are you okay? Shocked to see me?” he smiles but it’s not genuine. You know Jinyoung, you’ve seen enough of his face to know he has amazing acting skills. 

“I don’t want to talk to you. I hate that you’re always somewhere in my life, working hard to make it miserable. Stop with the fake smile, no one’s here.” You try to be as collected as you can, getting up and grabbing folders.

Jinyoung doesn’t seem to enjoy the way you talk to him and crosses his arms over his chest. “Wow, I was ready to be real nice, but I guess you’re asking for more.” 

You snort, turning around and stopping, “Whatever you say, Jinyoungie.” Your fake smile turns into a glare before you walk away. 

-- 

Jinyoung acts exactly the way you predicted. He gives you a huge amount of work, makes you stay way longer than the others and is never satisfied with whatever you do. 

He sends long emails with whatever needs to be changed, let it be in the week-end or during the night. 

He lets you have a break only when he feels like it, which results in you barely getting any rest. Your colleagues seem to have it easier and even get along with Jinyoung, who smiles sweetly at every secretary and shakes everyone’s hand. He buys lunch for everyone and more often than not you reject the invitation, earning a smirk.

It’s at the end of the second month since he arrived that you decide to take the matter into your hands. You start looking around for another job, between heavy folders thrown onto your desk and endless emails. 

And it pays. You get one interview. They don’t need a recommendation letter; they don’t even seem to care about who is supervising your work and oh god you might finally be able to escape that bastard.

The interview goes well, so well that you receive an email, a week later. You don’t get the job. 

It doesn’t explain why, but there’s a line about your current company and you don’t even need to read it fully to understand a certain someone sabotaged your plan, again.

“So, you’re looking for another job?” The annoying voice stops you at the worst moment, your eyes leaving the screen. “Thank god I know Jackson enough, he looked very interested in hiring you.”

He is almost mad, like you’re married and he caught you flirting with another man. 

“Don’t be jealous, that manager was too sweet to even compete with you. You’re still the number one bastard in my heart.” You ignore his presence once more, opening another folder to continue your job. 

You hear a sigh, followed by a hand on your office, “I’m sweet when people deserve my sweetness. You obviously don’t.”

“Oh and I’m so damn sad not to be worthy of your kindness…” You fake obviously, rolling your eyes and typing on your keyboard in hope he’d leave.

But Jinyoung doesn’t leave. He laughs, even. “Wow, you really do hate me.” He seems bewildered. 

You finally look up, frowning. “And you don’t? You’re hating me so much that you’d go as far as destroy my future, just like you did with my past. Oh, and let’s not talk about how you’re a pain in the ass in my present, too.” You shake your head, “You know what, let’s not fight. You like it too much when I get mad. I’ll just resign and fly the country.”

“Sounds a bit drastic to me.” 

You get up so fast that Jinyoung almost takes a step back. “Stop it. Stop talking to me. Just be a bastard like you always do until I leave.”

“You know, I never pictured us ending up that way.” Jinyoung says, hands now into his pockets.

Your eyebrows raise and you turn around, shocked. “And whose fault is that? What did I ever do to you? I’ve been minding my own business since we were 6 and you put glue into my hair and told everyone I was the one who did this to myself. Shall I go on and list everything?” 

“And you said nothing. The day after, with your hair messy and bloodshot eyes you entered the classroom and didn’t even take revenge. You ignored me.” Jinyoung states. 

You make a face, disturbed to the point of crying but fighting the tears away. “What is your point?”

“Why did you always avoid the fight? I want to hate you so bad but you don’t give me any reason to. You just hate me to the point of leaving. Why don’t you just slap the shit out of me instead?” He tries to explain, making no sense at all.

“Why the fuck did you even want to hate me?” Jinyoung can’t be serious, he can’t be saying he was actually doing all this on purpose so that you would hate him and fight back? 

Jinyoung sighs, eyes closing slowly. “You seriously don’t know why I would always be around you all the damn time? You can’t be this oblivious.”

“Oblivious of what? You were – and still are- a little shit. What did I possibly miss?”

Jinyoung laughs, loudly. His hand appears before his lips, hiding his teeth. “Jeez, you insult me more than you call my name.”

“That’s not funny.” You snarl, teeth gritted.

“You annoyed me. You annoyed me because you were flawless. Oh look, Y/N brought cookies! Oh my, her dress is so pretty! Look at her face, she has such cute dimples.”

You open your mouth, now completely lost. “What, you wanted to be popular? You were jealous? That’s ridiculous, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Shut up, it had nothing to do with popularity.” Jinyoung cuts, frowning, “Oh, how I wonder why you’re so annoying yet so attractive.” He spills, running a hand through his hair and stopping when his eyes find yours.


“What did you just say? Are you a psychopath or something?” You ask quietly, now a little bit concerned because Jinyoung just said you were attractive. 

If you’re being honest, he is good-looking. He didn’t change that much but looks more built and adult now. Too bad he is a complete asshole.

Jinyoung looks at with that same judgemental face, the one you hate so much, “When I first saw you, I came back home and told my mom I had found the prettiest girl in the universe. She made fun of me and said I still had time to explore the universe but I refused to changed my mind. You were too nice to me at first but then I discovered you were nice to everyone. You also had a crush on Jaebum because he would give you apples? I mean come on, apples?” He doesn’t know why he spills everything. Maybe it’s the thought of you leaving that makes him explain why he had been to adamant to make you feel like shit.

“So I decided to stop looking at you. The six years-old me tried everything but you followed me, you were in the same class the year after and I couldn’t do nothing but stare at you. I couldn’t stop thinking about the prettiest girl in the universe because I’m a fool.”

“I don’t understand a thing you’re saying, Jinyoung.” You try, sitting back in your chair slowly. 

The way you finally call his name makes him open his mouth, mad at the effect it still has over him. 

His tongue hits the inside of his cheeks briefly. “I thought it would be easier if you were to hate me. If it came from you, then I’d have no choice but to move on, right? So I started being a little bastard. I put glue in your hair even though I didn’t want to and told everyone you were playing with it acting like it was bleach. I went back home that day and I cried so freaking hard. I was hating myself and I could barely sleep thinking about how mad you’d be. But you said nothing. You threw me a dirty look and grabbed yet another apple handed by Jaebum to make you feel better.” 

“Wait, why do I feel like it’s my fault again? Couldn’t you confess like a normal kid? Did you have to bully me through school?” He must be crazy, there’s no other way he is standing here and explaining he had been acting this way because he was in love with you.

Jinyoung sighs. “I’d hardly call that bullying. Why do you think I turned on the lights at Mark’s party while that bastard from the football team was harassing you? Who do you think made you sit on mud so that it would cover the-”

“-the bloodstains on my jeans because of my perio- Wait, you saw that?” You finish the sentence, shocked and now embarrassed. 

“I saw everything. I noticed everything, from the way you were trying to control yourself so you wouldn’t beat the shit out of me, to how you’d cry sometimes, thinking I was hating you for free. I had no idea you were working for my uncle. I had no idea where you were and I was convincing me it was fine because even though you never fought back, I was pretty sure you were hating me. It didn’t make me feel better, though.”

“Why?” You dare to ask, you’re not sure you want to know why, but things took a weird turn and you suddenly need answers.

Jinyoung looks up, his face overly serious and eyes deep with something you had never seen in his eyes. “Because even though I succeeded, even though you hate me and I can finally move on, all I can see is the prettiest girl in the universe, every time you’re in front of me.”

He makes you blush uncontrollably, the words going out quicker than intended. “Hold on, it’s too much information. I feel like I was lied to all these years.” Your elbows find your office so you can rest your head into your palms. “You’re telling me you’re still in love with me? I- I just don’t get why you never conf-

“Confessed?” Jinyoung laughs again, earning your attention back. “Would you have believed me? Do you even believe me now?” he tries, almost hopeful.

“I’m not sure I do. You’ve always been a great actor, just like when you told me the math test was cancelled and I believed you and failed big time.” You explain, almost pouting. 

Jinyoung smiles, his eyes turning into crescents. “You’re just awfully gullible.”

You shake your head, almost hurt by the fact that he’d make this up just to embarrass you. “This is exactly why I hate you, Jinyoung. Even now, you’re playing with me.”

He is quick to raise two defensive hands in front of him. “I mean it! You are gullible but that doesn’t change how I feel!”

“And what do I do with that information? Even if it’s true what do you expect me to do?” You get up rapidly, sending your hair against the wall. 

Jinyoung seems helpless and for the first time in your whole life, you see a bit a weakness within his annoying overconfidence. “It is true. I don’t except you to do anything about it. I just told you because you said you’d leave. If you want me to stop talking to you, I will, only if you believe me and take this seriously.”

“I’m not going to listen to your bullshit, you’re probably recording this and you’ll send it to everyone within the next hour to embarrass me. It’s not going to work.” You conclude, ready to leave your office and hide somewhere else.

Jinyoung grabs your arm before you can escape. “How do you want me to prove it to you?”

“You don’t love me Jinyoung. If you did, I wouldn’t have ended up crying because of you. This is not love, this is cruelty.” 

Jinyoung cracks his neck, slowly. “I said, how do you want me to prove it to you?”

“Then kiss me.”

He freezes, his hand letting your arm go instantly. “What?” Jinyoung says shakily, his voice quivering with anticipation in spite of the situation. 

“Go ahead. If you really do love me, you must be dying to kiss me –oomf”

You can’t believe it. Is Park Jinyoung kissing you? The guy who has been making fun of you for as long as you can remember? That little piece of shit? 

And damn he seems to be enjoying himself. You can feel it from the way he grabbed your face and how close his body his. He takes his time feeling you with his mouth and even sighs when you automatically kiss him back. 

It is pleasing. Kissing Park Jinyoung is pleasing. Who would have thought. The guy spitting venom all day long does taste rather sweet.

He parts from you with difficulty, breath raged and eyes closed in an attempt to keep control. His body doesn’t leave your side, just like his hands, glued to your scalp and waist. 

After a while, he chuckles, his baby face back and pettiness out the window.

“I can’t believe I kissed the prettiest girl in the universe…”

He looks ecstatic. 

[denkimystery]

Denki Mystery Series - 2nd Episode: 『Character*』

ー Akashika Station Platform, Noon

Hajime: It’s so hot. You said you didn’t want to see me off. … Will the store be ok?

Takashi: Well, I’m free. So. You know.

Hajime: Oh, I see.

Takashi: Business is fluctuating tho~uugh.

Hajime: Ah… Sorry. Can you handle it? I’m not good at worrying about people.

Takashi: Well, it’s so-so. I have an aunt you know. She wants me to keep the store running.

Hajime: I see, so it’s all good then. I’m glad you have an aunt, that’s good to hear.

Takashi: The resident police officer comes by to eat some donuts. They’re just pancake mix that I fried up though, hehe!

Hajime: I didn’t know they were made with pancake mix. They tasted so good. … So, will I be able to fly?

Takashi: Hey, the officer being able to fly has nothing to do with my donuts!

Takashi: Seriously, Shisaka-san you were making a joke with such a straight face? … Fufufu.

Hajime: Just Hajime is fine.

Takashi: Alright, hehehe.

Karatsugu: Phew, … most of the vending machines here are sold out. Here, have one. It’s hot.

[[Karatsugu hands Takashi a can, it’s started to sweat.]]

Takashi: Eh, me? Th-thank you. … Eh!? Beer!?

Karatsugu: It was the only one they had left. Here, you too.

Karatsugu opens the other can of beer and hands it to Hajime.

Hajime: Ah, thanks.

Karatsugu opens his own can,

Karatsugu: Ah, bubbles!

And takes a big gulp.

Karatsugu: Phew!

Takashi follows suite and takes a gulp

Takashi: Phew~! Delicious!

Hajime: Mm, it’s cold and delicious.

Karatsugu: It’s coming.

Hajime: … Ah… the train.

The sound of the train riding the tracks fill the station as the train approaches the platform.

Takashi: Well, have a safe trip big brothers. Thanks for the beer.

Karatsugu: See you soon.

Hajime: Yeah, see ya.

The doors close after Karatsugu and Hajime step into the train.

Karatsugu: …….

Hajime: …….

Karatsugu: …… What a peaceful landscape. I can’t believe we went through a horrible experience, it’s like a dream.

Hajime: … You’re right. Ah… Look. … A paper bag waving in the fields.

…… -chimatsu-niisan!……

…… -ramatsu-niisan!……

…… -ye-bye!……

Karatsugu: Heh. Are you alright? I heard somebody shout matsu, matsu.

Hajime: …….

Karatsugu: Ah, a tunnel.

ー

[[The idyllic view of the countryside is replaced by darkness.]]

Hajime: ...Taboos can be seen as a kind of rules that occurs naturally in a group as a result of their faith.

Hajime: Bad things don't always happen. It could be that they avoid something, like a song of magic incantation.

Karatsugu: Well, that’s just superstition.

Karatsugu takes a swig from his can of beer.

Karatsugu: Fuu…. … But whether it’s legit or not…

Karatsugu: Even if a good thing comes out of it... it's not a good thing that it's forbidden because some people don't want it to happen.

Karatsugu: I don’t like it. [he says as he takes another sip of his beer.]

Hajime: …… Eldest son, you didn't come. I was expecting you to come.

Karatsugu: No, he was there.

Hajime: … Eh? Really?

Karatsugu: When you were waving, a taxi stopped on the other side of the road. I couldn't see the inside, but I’m pretty sure it was him.

Hajime: … so that’s what happened.

Karatsugu: … swallow Hm? … You’re not drinking your beer. If you don’t want to finish it, let me drink it. Here, give it to me.

Hajime: Ah, sorry. I’ll drink it.

Hajime downs the rest of his beer.

Hajime: Phew… Thanks for the drink.

Karatsugu: … Ahh, that’s right! I have to return your notebook, remember?

Karatsugu rummages through his blue messenger bag. He pulls out a notebook and hands it to Hajime.

Karatsugu: Thanks for lending it to me.

Hajime: I know you haven’t fixed your voice recorder. It’s a spare. Use it, when you need to take notes in the case of an emergency.

Karatsugu: I know. The Editor-in-Chief also scolds me a lot for not using a notebook. I get it, excuse me.

Hajime: Take it, take it. … Wait, eh? It’s not that you didn’t lose it but you really don’t have one with you? … Eh. Don’t you need a notebook to have something to write on?

Karatsugu: This voice recorder is my partner-in-crime.

Hajime: Wait, I mean. Your “partner-in-crime” broke at a crucial moment and didn’t work. Did you not worry about that at all?

Karatsugu: Up until now, this is the first time I’ve done an interview alone.

Hajime: Eh. So it’s true that you’re really a newbie? If so, then you should always carry a notebook. As a regular member of society, it’s not my place to say this either.

Karatsugu: Heh! That’s what the Chief told me too. He’s always been a memo-man just like you. But I'm sticking to my own style, with my partner-in-crime.

Hajime: I mean, it’s not like your partner, broke and didn’t work at a crucial moment. This is the second time I’m saying this.

Kurukurukuru…! Gaga...

Hajime: Hm? What was that?

Hajime looks at the source of the sound. Karatsugu’s bag. The reporter digs through his bag, looking for what made the noise.

Karatsugu: Aah! Partner! You’ve come back to life!

Hajime: It’s back to normal… Is it rewinding by itself or moving in a strange way? Strange.

Karatsugu: Yeah, it is. But it's strange. It shouldn't have moved at all, but it's like it's recording...

Karatsugu plays the tape on the voice recorder.

《...gaga. pi.. O×△O… matsuno… tsumo. bassho~mu~tsu….. pipi...》

Hajime: .... What was that. Ah. We’re almost there…. the station.

ー

ー Station Platform

Karatsugu: Phew, … I didn’t notice that time had passed!

Hajime: ... Humans, too many.

Karatsugu: ... what to do, I'm going to stop by the editorial office for a bit and then go home, but if you want to eat…

Hajime: …….

[[The lack of reply catches Karatsugu’s attention. He sees Hajime blank faced staring at something.]]

Karatsugu: Hey, what’s wrong? … You okay?

Hajime: Huh? … I thought there was an elevator over here, but...*

[[Karatsugu follows Hajime’s gaze. There’s nothing.]]

Karatsugu: You tired? The stairs are this way, come on.

[[Karatsugu pauses, looking at Hajime’s face.]]

Karatsugu: … what’s wrong? You’re sleepy.

Hajime: Huh?

[[Hajime feels wet pooling in his eyes, threatening to break and fall.]]

Hajime: Tears are…

[[Hajime quickly wipes them away.]]

Hajime: Let’s take the stairs.

Karatsugu: You must be hungry. Sorry, I need to stop by the editorial office first.

Hajime: Mm. I’m fine. … You think your editor-in-chief would get mad if I come along?

Karatsugu: Heh. Bingo. You’re sharp. But that's not all. You love books, so I thought you'd be interested.

Hajime: Mm. I’m interested. … I hope he doesn’t get mad at you.

ー

ー “Matsuzo Monthly**” Editorial Department, Night

Karatsugu: Chief! I’m back from the interview. … Heh! Wouldn’t it be a topic of conversation over here, too? … the gruesome and mysterious incident in the mountain village!

Karatsugu: What is the secret of the villagers with the same face!? A report written by one of the parties involved in the case! This is... sure to be an intensive serialization!

Hajime: Eh... you’re writing about it?... Do you need money right now?

Editor-in-Chief: What are you going on about? Where did you go to cover this? You, I’m talking to you***.

[[Karatsugu wilts from his original enthusiasm, his voice smaller than when he first entered.]]

Karatsugu: Akatsuka Village… A village in the mountains…

Editor-in-Chief: EHH!! … YOU IDIOOOT****!! WHO GOES TO DO AN INTERVIEW WITHOUT TELLING THEIR CHIEF THEIR DESTINATION!!

Karatsugu: Wow! You’re mad!?

Hajime: He suddenly got angry.

Editor-in-Chief: Mmmmmm... What’s wrong...? I told you that I lost one of my men. That's where he went missing!

Karatsugu: Eh....

Editor-in-Chief: Phew, but it's good to see you back. It's quite chilling…. Hm? And you are....

[[Hajime shies away from the attention looking down, bowing.]]

Hajime: Uhhh, my name’s Shisaka.

Editor-in-Chief: You, let me see your face properly….

[[Hajime lifts his head from staring down.]]

Editor-in-Chief: Ah… You’re.... What in the-!?

Karatsugu: I knew it, didn't I? Heh! Chief! This is Hajime, my brother.

Editor-in-Chief: Mmmmmm... I don't know where to start.... Are you being chased? You with the same face. I'll give you my business card. I'm the editor in chief here.

[[The chief hands his business card to Hajime.]]

Editor-in-Chief: I'm Matsuno Matsuzou. I am your father.

Hajime: Uwah, it’s got two “Matsu"***** characters in it.

Karatsugu: Defeating taboo with another taboo, even demons would run away from such a name. Come to think of it, chief, you have such a name.

Editor-in-Chief Matsuzo: You, you really don’t listen, do you.

ーThe Endー

Original Event

Summer Arc: 1 | 2 | 3

Mod note: The title is originally 字母(じぼ), can be translated to either letter or alphabet. The title is a reference to David Lynch's 1968 work "The Alphabet". But to make the title make sense to the story and it's climax, i opted for "Character", which could be interpreted as a character of the Japanese writing system (like Kanji, since technically kanji aren't letters. They're logograms.).

*This could be a prolonged side-effect from the mushrooms. The elevator he's seeing could be a reference to the enemy base from the Angel event. The background used for the station Hajime and Karatsugu are at is the same train station background which was introduced in that event. The elevator is in the middle of a busy crowd and has HELL written on the screen.

***** Matsu as in 松 the taboo from Akatsuka Village.

**It doesn’t use the Matsu Pine Kanji, 松, opting for the Katakana writing instead, マツソ.

***The editor in chief specifically says “Omae.” which is a very rude way to refer to someone. I added a few words so it reads as scolding from a superior.

****Chief uses the term Bakamon, which is a reference to a very old joke in Japan.

also there's a part here where they talk about Ozo, I think what happened was that Toshio rode in Ozo's Taxi following the train, as he put his head out the window to say goodbye, his paper bag must have flown in the wind, that lead to Hajime noticing it in the first place. a little bit later Karatsugu notices the taxi outside the window. I'm not sure though, those might be two different moments. I've posted the transcript if you'd like to make heads or tails with that moment.

[seldnei]

taking stock of 2020

For any new followers: this is my annual post about my writing in the past year.  This is purely for my own mental health--the tag says “seldnei is tired of feeling like a slacker” for a reason.  Please feel free to skip.

Okay, so what did I accomplish in 2020?

Well, first note: I AM ALIVE AND EVERYTHING ELSE IS FUCKING ICING.

In 2019 I was having issues getting my shit together.  I had literally just started feeling like I had my feet under me when Covid hit, and … I dunno.  Pandemic brain was an issue, but also I re-evaluated what I feel makes me “successful.” In general, writing-career-wise, I feel pretty happy with where I am.  Sure, I’d like to publish more, and of course I’d love to be able to afford to write full-time, but if I died (which was a scarily plausible idea this year) I don’t think I’d have very many regrets in that area.

BUT. My idea of “success” does have to do with doing the work.  Maybe I won’t become a NYT bestseller, but my self-image as a writer depends on actually writing things and finishing them, and that did not happen as much as I wanted it to this year.  There are, absolutely, legitimate reasons for that.  I’m trying very hard not to beat myself up over it.  

I did do some things.  Sometimes it was like pulling teeth, but I did do some things.

The Novel:

Oh, man, this is the thing I did not do.  I just … stopped querying agents   entirely.  And unlike my decision re: short stories (see below), this was not a conscious choice on my part.  I just didn’t do it. I think it just became Too Much to be sending queries into the ether when I was     also wondering if I was going to catch this virus/trying to pivot my day job to remote work/dealing with Z’s online school.

I did do the query letter class on Reedsy, which was pretty good.

I’m not sure what I want to do with the book.  I feel very stuck.  One thing I’m considering is scraping some cash together for an editing pass from a freelance editor, just to see if the whole thing really sucks or if it’s just my brain being overwhelmed.  

Not sure how my feelings about my career (above) fit into this, either.  It is a big tangle in my brain at the moment.

Short Stories

I specifically decided in … February?  March?  Just before lockdown, anyway … that I would spend 2020 focusing on writing rather than submitting (the exception to this was FUCKIT).  So not many submissions went out last year.  I also didn’t get as many stories drafted or revised as I’d hoped, but whatever.

I finished a Teachouts story—with camels!—and tried outlining for the first time, which went pretty well.  It’s another long one, and needs revising, but I like it a lot.  I got to watch a lot of camel videos for it, and research the camel corps (the US military looked into using camels instead of donkeys/mules in the southwest).

I wrote a self-indulgent ghost story and put it on the blog.

I also wrote an Orpheus/Eurydice story for FUCKIT that I think of as “trailer trash Eurydice,” because I imagine her telling him the story in their tiny little trailer that they’ve got illegally parked in the mountains somewhere.

“Primary Manifestations” came out in October in Stories We Tell After Midnight vol 2. Upon reading it in print, I immediately found a giant continuity error that I, two betas, and the editor all missed.  Ah, well, such is life.

Miscellany

I wrote 3 poems: “Instructions for Quarantine,”  “Christmas 2020,” and “Stopping by Jolene’s on a Snowy Evening,” which is a mashup of exactly what you think it is.  I keep debating putting it on Tumblr.

I did a reading on Instagram!  And people came!  My mother had to hear me say “fuck,” like, a lot!

Wrote 3 pieces for FUCKIT, and finished a draft of the 4th thing (which is currently resting before revisions).  FUCKIT, by the way, has been one of my two saving graces this year, keeping me writing even when I was lost in pandemic fog.

Journaled all goddamned year; my other saving grace.  I took Fran Wilde’s creative journaling class at the Rambo Academy in January, and started keeping a paper journal again shortly after.  AND HOLY CATS DID I NEED IT.  

Blogged, as per usual.  Actually a bit more than usual, during quarantine.

So. Many. Notes. Indentured servant demons notes. Incremental apocalypse notes. Mad Scientist’s Daughter notes Urban fantasy notes (this one would be a story called “The Curse of the Spider Queen” which is an amazing title, right?).  

Finished two Cat Rambo classes!  And bought 4 more, god help me.

Goals for 2021

Survival

Like, obviously general survival.

Also surviving this grad program while still writing.  I have my writing goals for the first 3-4 months of 2021 mapped out in my planner, and I’m determined.  I am really, really sick of feeling like a slacker—which is why I started these annual reflective posts 5 years ago, so maybe it bodes well.

Revisions

FUCKIT thing

Camel story

Train story (I have editorial comments from a reject for that one)

Start submitting again

Write 1 short story (probably the Spider Queen story)

Sort out the novel stuff

Finish 1 Cat Rambo class

More notes on all the stories!

Update the blog because I just went there for links and, wow, I have some housekeeping to do, yikes.

[idkthisisjustforfanfic]

two years too late, chapter t h r e e 

You were sitting at your desk on Monday morning when the message came through. Alyssa’s name lit up your screen, the house emoji sat beside the small letters as your hand jerked forward to grab it out of habit. 

Alyssa (10:21am): THERE’S A PHOTO OF US AND HARRY

Alyssa (10:21am): Can’t see our faces tho don’t worry

Alyssa (10:22am): Just the back of your head and my ear, really

Shit, shit, shit. 

She’d attached the picture and sent it: your arm, your hand, your hair. Alyssa’s ear and jaw, Erica’s leather jacket and unmistakably, Harry’s shoulders and back. You looked it over again, studying the image as you pinched it to zoom in. 

You couldn’t tell that was you. No way. Unless your mother or sister was looking, Jessie and Bryn might not even be able to tell. It was dark and the quality of the picture was poor but you could definitely see that you had a drink in your hand. You could also see that you were stood remarkably close to Harry. 

Fuck. 

You took a deep breath, hoping to steady your pulse and ignore the way your vision was blurry in the corners. 

“Question!” 

“Jesus!” You exclaimed, looking up quickly to see a startled Whitney with her hand on her chest--just as alarmed by your reaction as you’d been by her presence. “Sorry, hi.” You dropped your phone quickly, letting it crash down to your desk. 

“Sorry, oh my god,” she let out a big breath, rebounding from the adrenaline as a laugh escaped her lips. “I was just hoping we could meet later. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“No, m’sorry--you just--proper scared me,” you said, leaning back in your chair and blinking a few times--your heart still catching up with your brain.

“Your performance review is overdue,” she said. “We were supposed to do it at the six month mark, but you know how things are,” she waved a hand to dismiss the timeline. 

“Sure, yeah. After lunch?”

“Two-thirty? We can meet in my office.”

“I’ll come to you,” you nodded, offering confirmation before she turned to walk away. 

You picked up your phone again quickly, new messages from Alyssa coming in faster than you could read them. 

Alyssa (10:24am): OKAY just kidding there’s one of your face. Blurry though!!!!

Alyssa (10:24am): From down below. Someone must have taken it looking up to the balcony where we were?

Alyssa (10:25am): You would never know that was you

She was trying to reassure you, trying to keep your heart from beating out of your chest as all of the thoughts flooded through your brain like a tsunami, waves quick and forceful. 

Okay, so it wasn’t like knowing Harry was the end of the world. You’d been doing that for nearly 13 years and you’d managed fine enough. The problem, as you saw it, was more along the lines that your employer and coworkers had no clue that someone your website wrote about frequently was recently spending his nights on your couch with a glass of wine in hand. 

Something about that sounded weird, and you were sure that Whitney wouldn’t go for it. 

You pulled up the new photo, holding the screen uncomfortably close to your face to study the grainy pixels. Of course--the one moment that he slung his arm around your shoulders was the one this person had chosen to capture. 

Y/N L/N (10:26am): Where are these? Can we get the person to take them down?

Alyssa (10:26am): They came up on my instagram explore tab. Random fan accounts. 

Y/N L/N (10:27am): Fuck. 

Alyssa (10:27am): I don’t think you should worry. They’re so blurry you can’t even tell if you’re a man or woman. 

Y/N L/N (10:28am): Great even better!

You dropped your phone into your desk drawer after telling Alyssa to keep an eye on the photos. She was right: they were blurry. You were hoping with everything in your soul that Carly was too busy to even check the internet today (unlikely, seeing as your job relied on that), or if she did, that she’d be too excited about the new gossip to even pause and consider the fact that the hair in the photo looked an awful lot like yours.

So you waited. You contemplated sneaking out to meet Alyssa for lunch, taking a look for yourself at the accounts that had uploaded the photos. You decided against it, though, when you realized that your absence might make you look even more suspicious. Flying under the radar as much as possible seemed like a good option. 

You kept your head in your work: a list about the funniest memes about Christmas, a quick round up of the weekend’s best celebrity tweets. You heated up your lunch and ate at your desk, hoping to avoid Carly at all costs.

You were successful up until you slipped into the kitchen on your floor to fill up your water bottle, hoping to blend in to the late-lunch crowd. Carly stood with her back to you, but soon turned around, her festive red sweater made her hard to miss. Upon meeting eyes with her, you looked down to your watch, pretending as if you’d suddenly remembered a meeting you were late for. 

You weren’t one to shy away from confrontation, but this one didn’t feel totally work appropriate. 

“Haven’t seen you all day,” she said, pulling her lunch from the microwave before offering a smile. “Busy or what?”

“Swamped,” you lied, pushing your water bottle up to the cooler in defeat, the bracelets on your wrist clinking together. “Ate at my desk, been pretty productive, so s’all good.”

“Feels busy around here in general. Christmas and shit,” she shrugged. “There was breaking news this morning that Harry went out on a date this weekend. I don’t know if you saw it--pictures and everything,” she wiggled her eyebrows as if you’d bite at the bait. 

You licked at your dry lips, a heat rising to your cheeks. “Really?”

She nodded, grabbing a napkin from the counter. “Can’t even tell who it is, probably some random model or something. I doubt it’s hard to find someone to sleep with when you’re Harry Styles, though, so--” she turned to head back towards her desk, calling over her shoulder. “Come find me later, we’ll grab a coffee and do edits together!”

You promised you would, thankful for the fact that she was an hour behind her target for the day and still hadn’t eaten. It gave you time to gain composure as you wove through cubes and conversations to make your way to Whitney’s corner office with sweeping city views. 

A sunny and cold day on the other side of the glass windows reminded you that winter was here--the small amount of snow left reflected sunlight like a broken mirror on the ground. Whitney had a folder on her desk and waved you in when you knocked, cell phone up to her ear.

She ended the call and thanked you for making the time, telling you to shut the door behind you, affording privacy to your conversation about your numbers and pay and overall transition into The Scoop. 

You told Whitney that you thought it was going well--you felt up to speed with the platform the website used, felt like you were staying on top of your category (even if it wasn’t your favorite). She complimented you on your ability to use humor in your stories and on social media platforms to enhance the mission of the website, she even said you’d been the second top writer for this quarter. 

“Rarely happens with someone so new,” she smiled, leaning back in her chair as she crossed her legs. “But be real with me--are you liking it? What do you wish was different? Any big fears?”

You bit at your lip, contemplating whether or not to disclose your desire to cover more news. You didn’t want to seem ungrateful or entitled, but you also trusted Whitney to handle any feedback you threw her way. “I mean, I guess I’d be interested in doing some more long form stories. Editorials or something.”

She nodded, waiting to see if you had more to say. When you let your lips press back together in a thin line, she offered a small smile. “I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” she told you, her tone made it sound like she was letting you down easy. “Gabrielle does most of the editorial pieces and Carly handles a lot of the pop culture news stuff that comes up for the entertainment department.”

You nodded--you knew the hierarchy. Gabrielle had been here longer than both you and Carly combined. She was only a step or two below Whitney and she seemed to sniff out good stories like it was second nature. She almost never wrote a flop. 

“Yeah, no, sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” you said, already regretting the words that you’d let slip.

“You’re not ungrateful,” Whitney said. “You’re looking for more growth. I like that. I’ll certainly keep it in mind, Y/N.”

“I do have a random question,” you said suddenly, the four walls of Whitney’s office feeling like a safe enough place to play out a scenario of what ifs. 

“Yeah?”

Whitney--as hip as she was--likely wasn’t paying attention to every waking detail of Harry’s life. You doubted she saw the photos and you figured you could be vague enough in your question. 

“Has anyone here ever had a conflict of interest issue?”

“Conflict of interest?” Whitney spoke the phrase like she didn’t know what it meant. You knew she did, so you gave an example. 

“Yeah, like, has anyone ever used their own tweets in a story or promoted a friend’s band or--I dunno, been friends with a celebrity that we cover?”

She let out a laugh, as if all of the examples were far fetched and unlikely. “I mean,” she shrugged. “Candace from beauty one time got in trouble downstairs for doing a whole write up on a makeup brand her sister was COO of,” she clenched her jaw and grimaced. “But no one up here--you’re all smarter than that.”                    

Right. Okay. So there was that.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Oh, just curious,” you waved a hand in the air, letting a forced laugh out as you looked out the window. “Sounds like a shit show.”

“Yeah--I mean, she got in trouble, but they figured it out. Anything else? I’ve got all of your stuff to proof before I head out early for yoga.”

“Nope, all good on this end.” You stood and gathered your water bottle and notebook. 

Whitney reopened her laptop and checked her phone. “Thanks for meeting with me, Y/N. We love you here and you’ve been a rockstar.”

You offered her a smile, appreciative of the praise and encouragement. Once she let her eyes fall back to her computer, you hurried over to your desk, reaching for your phone and praying that the photo hadn’t traveled any father. 

You composed a quick message to Harry. 

Y/N (3:17pm): Coming to yours when I’m out of work. We need to talk. 

**

The one problem about going to Harry’s after work was that he wasn’t home. So instead of storming into his apartment like you’d imagined, you had to wait patiently in a strange hallway in a big office building in Midtown. 

You checked your watch obsessively. You’d only been there for seven minutes so far, but it still felt like too long. You were rehearsing the words in your head, tiny fragments of an argument playing out before you even had the chance to tell him about the photos or the anxiety that came with them. 

You had no clue where you were. He’d sent another pin of his location and told you to text him when you arrived. A man at the front desk swiped a card for you to enter and instructed you to head to the 49th floor. So here, in another indistinguishable hallway (this time without a neon green wall), you waited. 

“Hi, hey,” his voice sounded from a doorway behind you, your body instinctively moving in the direction of his voice before you even locked eyes. “Everything okay, what’s wrong?”

His arms tried to envelope you, but before they could, you put a hand up to his chest. “We have to talk.”

“Okay,” he drew the syllables out, his head dipping to the side as he looked past your shoulder. “Come with me,” he took your hand and pulled you back towards where he came. Through a doorway, past a few people. A fitting, you realized. He was at some sort of wardrobe fitting. 

People stirred at tables beside you, yellow measuring tapes draped around their necks and white chalk stained their fingertips. He offered a smile to one woman in particular, one who seemed to be more interested in your presence than the others. He pulled you towards the other side of the room, your palm sweaty from the touch of his skin and the swirling desire in your head--the kind you tried (but failed) to ignore. 

Eventually you were in a back stairwell--one that was similar to the hiding spot you’d found last week at work. The door shut behind you, and Harry leaned his head out to ensure that no one was around to eavesdrop, he turned to offer you his full attention. “Alright, go.”

“Did you see the pictures of us?”

“Pictures?”

“Pictures.”

“No.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for your phone in your pocket, pulling up Alyssa’s message and opening the two attachments she’d sent. “These.” You flipped it around to let his eyes scan over them.

He hummed and took the phone in his hand, the other reaching to rub the back of his neck. “I take it you’re not happy about it.”

His eyes raised to meet yours, your voice faltering as you spoke. “I--no, I just--I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to work where I work and be photographed with you.”

“Because of your friend?”

Carly--he meant Carly.

“No, not because of Carly. Because of me. It’s a conflict of interest, Harry. I can’t be your friend and potentially have to write a list about the ten funniest things you’ve ever said in interviews!”

He cracked a smile at this, but it faded altogether when you squinted up at him. 

“Alright,” he cleared his throat. “I mean, it’s blurry,” he brought your phone back to his face and inspected it more. “You can barely tell that’s you. If I didn’t know what you look like, I wouldn’t even guess.”

You swallowed, wondering if he ever studied your features like you did his. The dip in his top lip, the way his eyes crinkled at the sides when he laughed. 

“What’s the big deal, anyway? We’ve been friends forever, a lot of people do know that, you know.”

You couldn’t help but pull a face at his words. Friends forever? You corrected him. “Friends who haven’t had regular contact for the last, like, six years. Haven’t spoken at all in the last two.”

He let a breath out, one that told you he was bothered or angry or something. “Because I thought that’s what you wanted!”

You took a step back from him, suddenly overwhelmed as a thousand questions burrowed their way into your mind. “Whatever--I don’t even want to,” you cut yourself off. You weren’t ready to dig up the details of December 29th or launch into a conversation regarding the untethering of your friend group. “I just--I can’t fuck this job up, it’s a really good job.” 

“You’re not going to fuck it up, Smalls!” His words were harsh now despite the use of your nickname, his eyes wider than before as he tried to reassure you. “It’s just a photo. No one will know that’s you. We’ll just be careful.”

It didn’t feel that easy. 

“I mean, it might get you more reads, y’know.” A laugh tumbled out of his mouth with ease, a complete lack of awareness of the weight his words held. You pulled your eyes up to look at him, a heat in your chest present that he hadn’t ever ignited before. At least, not in the angry sense. 

“Are you implying that being friends with you will further my career and that I should be thankful for that?”

“No, I didn’t--I just mean that people love to read your stuff anyway. S’hilarious. If people knew that we were friends, that would make people really interested in you--more than they already are,” he tried to soften his words, flatten out the intention as if he hadn’t meant what he said. 

You shook your head, your gaze on the cement floor as you wondered why you even answered his text four days prior. Now, as the sun tried to peek through the dirty sliver of a window in the stairwell, answering felt like it was a bad choice. 

“I--okay, Harry--I’ll see you around,” you turned on one foot, hand on the doorknob before he could get in front of you. 

**

Monday, December 11th

Harry S (11:34pm): I’m sorry about today. I wasn’t trying to be a dick. 

Harry S (11:46pm): Sleep well

Tuesday, December 12th

Harry S (10:19am): What are you up to after work?

Friday, December 15th

Harry S (1:15pm): Alright. You’re mad. I get it. I was a dick.

Harry S (1:15pm): Can we please talk?

You always wished you were strong willed. You could be, in a lot of ways. Like the time you and Jessie took a painting class and you were complete shit. You spent hours researching the right brushes for the right types of paint and eventually, you figured it out. The summer heat back home turned sticky as you’d paint in your bedroom at night, a fan blowing sweet relief until you’d climb into cool sheets. 

Or even the time you’d decided to stand up to Holly McAdams in Year 3 when she told everyone that you had cooties. The playground went silent when you called her a liar and told her to put her energy towards good instead of evil. 

But when it came to Harry--you’d never been so lucky. He always had a charm about him that seemed to seep into your brain and turn it all to mush, tiny roots that wrapped around your neurons and seemed to rewire you entirely. Which is why, on Friday afternoon, you finally broke and called him on your commute home.

“Hi,” you said into the phone, holding onto the handrail in your subway car as it rounded a corner. The reception was shitty underground, but you committed yourself to the phone call and would recognize a dropped signal as a sign from the universe that it wasn’t meant to be. 

“Hi,” he said. 

You waited, unsure if he’d launch into an apology or let you take the first step. Silence.

“Sorry I’ve been ignoring you. I was busy at work and I fucked up a list and Whitney has been out sick--” you realized you were doing it. You were apologizing when you hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d been the one to fuck up and now you were apologizing? You back tracked. “And yeah, I mean, you were a dick, so.”

He laughed, the sound immediately easing some of the tension between you. “I get that. I’m sorry--I should have known that you’re not,” he paused. A woman beside you sneezed into her elbow, you inched away from her to avoid contamination, sandwiched between strangers. “You’re not impressed by the fame,” he spoke dramatically, your lips involuntarily twitching towards the sky--or, in your current situation, the ground above.

“I’m sure not. Never have been, never will be.”

“Are you out of work now?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

You let out a sigh, you’d been dreaming about it all day. “Nothing--I’m going to sit on my couch and eat a bowl of cereal and pray that I don’t catch whatever is going around the office. I already kind of have a sore throat and I’m not trying to be sick for Christmas.”

“Well,” he laughed. “I wish you the best with that, then.”

A tangle of disappointment in your gut when he didn’t ask you to hang out. 

“Thanks. I’ll--uh--talk to you later?”

“Yeah, Smalls, talk to you later.”

You hung up, sliding your phone back into your pocket and shrinking into your coat for the remainder of the ride. When you climbed the twenty three steps to ground level at your stop, the sun had already sunk below the skyline, traces of light sneaking between the buildings on your block. 

Alyssa had worked from home for the day, turning the living room into an office as she sat sprawled out on the couch. She’d also been coming down with something--her nose red and dry from all of her tissue use. 

“Hi,” she greeted, pulling out her headphones and looking up at you when you came through the door, the room once again lit with the glow of Christmas lights. “How was work?”

“Fine, long, T-G-I-F,” you laughed. “How do you feel?”

“Somewhat better. Still crappy, though. How’s your throat?”

You dropped your purse to the floor and hung up your coat. “Worse than this morning. I talked to Harry though.”

She pulled her earbuds out and grinned up at you. “Was he so apologetic? I feel like he’d feel so guilty knowing he upset you--”

You shot her one of those looks: the kind that told her she was getting too wrapped up in his charm and fame and good looks. 

She cleared her throat. “But he was a dick so he should feel guilty.”

You kicked your shoes off, the leather of your boots falling against the wood floor before you settled into the couch. “He was apologetic--but it was quick. Who knows when I’ll see him next, maybe when we’re home.”

Alyssa bit her tongue--you could see that she had something to say but you didn’t press it, unsure if you had the emotional energy for a conversation about why being friends with Harry again wasn’t the smartest idea. 

She looked back to her screen, finishing up a few emails as you sunk into the couch, your eyes glued to your phone as you read through comments on the picture of you and Harry. 

I bet she’s just a friend--they look totally platonic. 

HE’S TOTALLY DATING SOMEONE! 

Skjdhfkjdshfkjdhk!!!!

The picture is way too fucking grainy how are we supposed to sleuth this one out?!

Alyssa sighed and closed her laptop. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Ugh,” you let out a groan, exiting out of instagram quickly to avoid showing her the things people were saying. If you had to guess, you’d say that Alyssa had a similar nightly ritual over the past few days. Wash her face, brush her teeth, climb into bed and read what strangers were saying about you online. 

The only good thing, really, was that people didn’t know it was you. 

“I’m not in the mood to cook,” you said.

As soon as the words left your mouth, your phone buzzed on the coffee table, the same obnoxious picture of Harry in an apron lighting up the screen as you both brought yours eyes down to the buzzing technology, then back up to each other. 

“Answer it,” she said excitedly, her lips curling towards the ceiling. 

You shot her a look as you reached for it. “Not on the first ring--can’t seem too eager.”

“As if you’re not eager,” she teased, returned the eye roll pleasantry, pulling a laugh from you as you answered the call. 

“Hi,” you said quickly, pressing the speaker phone button and holding it in the air between the two of you on the couch. 

“Hey--I’m following protocol and giving you a warning that I’ll be over in like--eh--four minutes.”

“What?” You asked. “Why?”

Alyssa looked around the room nervously, taking an inventory of the items that were hers. She sprung into action quickly, trying to declutter her home-office--notebooks, sharpies, her glasses and tissues were spread out around the living room space. 

“I’ve got food. Figured you wouldn’t want to cook if you weren’t feeling well.”

Alyssa stopped dead in her tracks, turning to you with her hands over her heart and lips in a lovestruck frown, completely enchanted by his words. You lifted your middle finger in her direction before turning towards the back of the sofa. Alyssa headed into her bedroom.

“You don’t have to do that, I mean--thank you, obviously, but, I totally get it if you’re busy.”

“M’not,” he said simply. “Stuff is dying down now anyway since we’re leaving soon.” You noticed his pronoun choice, casually dropped into the sentence as he kept talking. “I’ll wait until the coast is clear, alright? Just buzz me in when I text you.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Alright.”

Alyssa popped back into the room when she heard you hang up, her brows raised suggestively.

“What?” You asked, your tone slightly defensive as she pulled her head through the neck of her sweatshirt. 

“Just, interesting, is all. Awfully sweet of him.”

You stood from the couch, watching as she bent over once more to gather more of her belongings from the area rug below. “Oh come off it,” you said.

She pulled a face, confused by your slang as she reached for a pen that had wandered beneath the coffee table. 

“S’not a big deal,” you edited your words so she’d understand. “We’re friends.”

She hummed in disagreement, you trailed behind her towards her bedroom, socked feet gliding along the hard wood. Alyssa’s room was dark, the beige walls covered in posters of bands and movies. Her bed was unmade and the floor was littered in clothing of days past. 

You leaned against the doorframe. “How could you think we’re anything more than that after hearing the full story of what happened that night?”

She shrugged nonchalantly, giving you a dismissive look. “S’been a while, things change. You don’t just bring food to your sick friend.”

“Sure you do,” you narrowed your eyes at her. “That’s exactly what friends do, Lyss.”

She picked up a shirt from the floor and folded it into quarters. “Just seems like there’s always been chemistry. One shitty night--as embarrassing as it was--doesn’t mean there’s not chemistry.”

You thought on her words, careful to not let them settle too deep in your heart. They floated in the air in front of you, vanishing altogether when an electric buzz leaked through the intercom by the door.

You ran over--quick to make sure he could sneak in undetected--and held a thumb to the button to grant him entrance. 

Seventy-three seconds until there was a knock on the door, a pizza in his hand, and a bottle of wine pulled from the shelf in the kitchen. Alyssa--who was never one to turn down some Pinot Noir--had chosen the nicest bottle you had. A gift from her mother when she got a promotion. 

Eventually, the three of you were sat around the coffee table, throw pillows serving as seats as you reached for second slices. Music drifted from the small speaker on the bookshelf, the scene similar to that of last weekend, except this time Alyssa was here. It was funny how things with Harry could feel exactly the same as they’d once been, yet entirely different in the same breath.

“Did she ever tell you about the time that we stayed up all night at Jessie’s house when we were fourteen because of some stupid internet challenge?”

Alyssa pulled a smile, her eyes darting over to me quickly. “Of course she didn’t.”

“S’cause it was stupid. You’re the one who barely made it. Everyone else was fine but when five AM came you were seriously dragging.”

He contorted his face into one of mock-offense. “Excuse me for having good sleep hygiene and a healthy need for some shut-eye.”

“You guys were allowed to have co-ed sleepovers at fourteen?” Alyssa asked, holding a hand up in student fashion. She folded her pizza in half, a boat of cheese and grease and pepperoni. 

You let out a laugh, knowing that Harry’d want to explain the mastermind plan that he and Adam had come up with nearly ten years ago. 

“So we did this thing, where the girls would tell their mums that they were at someone’s house. So they’d say they were at Bryn’s, but Bryn would say she was at Y/N’s,” he smiled in your direction--the adrenaline of lying to your parents came back as a small wave, less exciting than in times past but still enough to keep a grin plastered to your face. 

“And the guys would do the same. We always said we were at Adam’s though--and I dunno what Adam would say cause his parents never asked any questions. So then we’d go to Jessie’s because her parents were always away for work, and--yeah, madness would ensue.”

“S’where we first drank, pretty sure that’s where Adam finally called Sophie Kneeland and asked her out over the phone.”

“S’also where Smalls blacked out the first time when we were fifteen or sixteen,” he let out a laugh and turned to Alyssa. 

Her eyes went wide as she folded her legs beneath her. Your stomach dropped though, seeing as now didn’t feel like a good time to recount all the times you’d done stupid things when you were drunk. You could probably spend hours on that topic alone. 

“Okay--alright, anyway,” you said, clearing your throat quickly. A car horn beeped outside, momentarily shattering the safety of the cozy room. 

“Hey, also,” Harry wiped at his mouth with a napkin and pointed a finger at your roommate. “Did you appreciate my warning--a whole five minutes!”

“Four,” you said, his eyes rolling in response to your correction. 

“Better than zero,” Alyssa nodded, taking a sip of wine. “Maybe we can work you all the way up to asking before you show up,” she teased.

Harry frowned at this. A dimple appeared in his cheek and he looked over to you quickly. “I brought food--” his gaze drifted back to Alyssa. “And enough for you, if you forgot.”

“You should have seen her cleaning up all her shit in here,” you laughed. “Notebooks every where, like a bomb went off.”

“I was working,” she defended. “What did you do today, Harry?”

“Hmm,” he thought aloud. “Woke up at eight--went to the gym. Showered and finalized the set list for the next leg of tour. Had a meeting with my manager and PR team about what’s coming up after the holidays. Lunch, then I had to go back to a fitting for more wardrobe stuff. Talked with Erica about the flight home, side note,” he looked to you. “Then I got your call and decided to come here.”

You were both quiet for a second--Alyssa had been challenging him, her assumption that he’d had a quiet day that couldn’t have nearly been as busy as hers. He took a deep breath and took a swig of wine. 

You knew that he was busy--you’d always assumed that being famous came with plenty of downfalls and responsibilities, but hearing them all listed out in succession without a breath in between made induced a wave of guilt to pass through your veins. 

Of course it was hard for him to keep in touch, if even his slower days looked like that. 

“But about the flight,” he pointed a finger at you and then set his wine glass down. “Two tickets on the red eye for the 20th. I’d say we could charter something but first class on the big planes is always really nice. They give you a free eye patch.”

“Eye patch?” Alyssa asked, her tone drifting up in confusion. 

“The ones you sleep with.”

“Eye mask,” you nodded.

“Oh whatever, you knew what I meant,” Harry squinted his eyes and reached for the bottle for a refill. 

“What do you mean a big plane, though? How big are we talking?”

“The double deckers--they have little cubbies in first class. Little doors and everything--super private, which is nice.”

“You fly on public planes?” Another question from Alyssa--your personal peanut gallery--as you watched Harry take the stopper out of the bottle before pouring more into his glass. 

“Yeah--s’better for the environment.”

Alyssa’s eyes went wide and she got that same look when he’d said he was bringing food--her brain and heart melting inside her, almost spilling out onto the oriental rug.

“Alyssa,” you said her name quickly as you stood from your orange and yellow throw pillow seat. “Want to help me with something in the kitchen?”

“What? What do you need help with?”

“Uh,” you looked around the room, trying to think on your feet. “The leftovers--the pizza.”

Harry, sat on the floor between the two of you, looked up. “I can help.”

“No.” You said quickly. “You stay. Pick a new playlist,” you instructed, hoping that a responsibility would keep him occupied. You gave Alyssa a prompting look, causing her to reluctantly stand and follow you around the corner to the kitchen.

“Can you not with the faces?” You asked, turning around once you were shielded by the wall between the two rooms. “Any time he says something relatively endearing you look like you’re about to combust or orgasm or something.”

“If I was about to orgasm, you’d know it,” she smirked, her voice low and sultry as you rolled your eyes. You’d grabbed the pizza on your way, so you reached into a drawer for aluminum foil and then tossed the box into the garbage.

“You get my point.”

“I do--but come on, Y/N! He’s literally acting like your boyfriend! Buying you a plane ticket even though you already have one? Bringing you dinner because you mentioned in passing that you weren’t feeling well? And now he’s climate conscious, too?!”

You passed her the foil-wrapped pizza and she put it into the fridge. A shrug of your shoulders, as if to dilute the air around you. 

“He’s alright,” you said, the words an act of self-defense, an antidote for the love potion Alyssa was verbally concocting. 

She rolled her eyes when she turned around to face you. “Relax, will you? It’s alright to be into him.”

“No it’s not, Alyssa,” you said, your voice more firm now. “You don’t know him, okay? You don’t know what happened back then and the way our friendship was and--just, leave it alone, alright?”

She paused, her eyes scanning your face, both of you staring at each other in silence. The kitchen clock ticked on the wall, seconds scattered through the room. 

Harry’s voice floated above the music from the other room, “some classic Christmas tunes, yeah?”

So you left it at that. There was no need to defend yourself more than you already had, the reasons stacking high as to why shouldn’t go down this road. Harry was on two feet in the living room, swaying back and forth to the music as Alyssa followed you back to the couch. 

You poured yourself another glass of wine, watching as he playfully took Alyssa’s hand, spinning her into his side as they waltzed in circles around the coffee table. 

**

You pulled your carryon closer to your body, wishing you could absorb it into your being as you forced your way past people already in line. Sorry, excuse me, sorry, thanks, gotta get by. 

The airport was busier than you expected. Your mum had told you on the phone that the afternoon would be the worst time of day, a wave of relief washing over you when you confirmed that Harry had booked the red eye. That relief vanished altogether when you stepped foot into the bustling airport, children running, intercoms beeping. 

Your passport was in your hand, the ticket slipped between pages filled with colorful stamps. An elbow into your stomach, you hiked the bag up your shoulder more. 

“I’m so sorry, hi, name is Y/N L/N, I was supposed to board already, uh--my friend is already seated I think.” 

The woman at the desk looked at you with an unimpressed stare, her fingers clicking on the keyboard as she held a hand out. You assumed she wanted your ticket, so you thumbed it out of the booklet and slapped it down. 

Her eyes scanned the paper before the computer did, when it beeped, the expression on her face changed. “Oh, Miss L/N,” she smiled up at you. “No worries, we can take you to your seat right now.”

“Oh, I can, I’ll just take myself,” you said awkwardly, looking around to see who else she was referring to. Other gate workers were nearby, clad in the traditional British Airways uniforms as the airport continued to buzz with Christmas cheer. Apparently flying first class had its perks.

And you would have already been seated if you’d just agreed to travel to the airport with Harry, but you had plenty of things to tie up at work before heading out for a whopping 12 days. It wasn’t typical to take so much time off in a role like yours, but Whitney was feeling generous and you’d agreed to work a few days remotely. 

So instead of sitting in the back of the same black Chevy Suburban with Roger narrating the drive, you’d crammed your suitcase into the trunk of an Uber and hoped that the traffic out to Long Island wasn’t impossible. 

It was. 

A man with a friendly smile took your bag from your shoulder, leading you around the counter and on to the jet way, veering left at the fork. The temperature shifted as you moved farther from the structure of the airport--the winter New York night seeping in through the cracks of the beige tunnel walls. Posters of happy travelers and airport workers smiled down on you, to fly, to serve. Their eyes watched you pad down the dull gray carpet towards the plane.

Smiles from flight attendants when you crossed the threshold, greeting you by name as your companion put an arm out, urging you in before him. 

The interior of the plane was dimly lit a calming blue--the windows shaded electronically, making them appear to be black eyes into the night. You passed a galley stocked with coffee, tea, British Airways water bottles, heading down an aisle past cushioned seats--ones much nicer than the economy class you were used to flying. You’d assumed this was your section--each seat had armrests big enough for giants--but you passed through a curtain to find a section of small cubicles, not much different than your office. 

One on each side, two in the middle. 

“Had to give up the window for you,” you heard a voice sound from two rows ahead. A dimpled smile looked your way, when you met his gaze, you shook your head. 

“This is incredible,” you looked around, taking in the sight of other suited men and bejeweled women settling in for the trip. “I didn’t even know shit like this existed.”

The man set the bag down on your seat, disappearing without a trace as Harry handed you something wrapped in plastic. “Your eye mask,” he delivered it with two hands, bowing his head to pull a giggle from your lips. 

“Seriously,” you took it from him and let out a huff as you pushed the bag to the floor, slumping into the extra-roomy chair. “This is absurd. The traffic was terrible and I almost thought they wouldn’t let me on.”

“Shoulda come with me,” he said simply, his tone almost melodic. “The club they let you wait in is even better.”

You looked around again, surprised that Harry was able to exist in peace in front of so many strangers. “I can’t believe you fly on these--you don’t get mobbed?”

He handed you a packaged piece of chocolate from a small cubby in the wall in front of your chairs. A flat screen stared back at you, your fingers tugging at the wrapper before plopping the candy into your mouth automatically.

“Not really--these people are all too busy with their own shit,” he motioned around the room, both of your eyes landing on a man who was animatedly speaking into his cell phone. “A few pictures, maybe. If we’re lucky we’ll sleep.”

You nodded, content for a moment to just catch your breath, take in the surroundings of first class, and just be. Harry reminded you of the plans you’d set with your friends: a reunion at the Red Lion on the 23rd. It’d be the six of you for sure, but there’d likely be others who you’d all invite--running into other classmates at Sainsbury’s or Costa wasn’t unheard of. 

You’d done the same thing in years past--your entire class heading for drinks and catch up conversations when everyone was back in town. The only difference was that this time, Harry would be tagging along. 

If anything, you were more nervous about the six of you being back together than you were about seeing people like Maddie Winslow or even Kenny Tilley. None of them knew about that night. Luckily--as obnoxious and outlandish as they could be--Jessie, Adam, Jake, and Bryn had managed to keep their mouths shut despite knowing the ins and outs of what had happened. 

Which, when you thought about it, meant Harry had, too. He hadn’t told anyone about the things you’d said or done. He didn’t rub it in your face or try to embarrass you in front of anyone else. The details of December 29th, 2015, would hopefully stay between the six of you for a long time to come.

After a good fifteen minutes on the runway, the plane was airborne. Estimated flight time six hours and thirty-five minutes, if we’re lucky, the captain said. You told Harry about your week and the things you’d rushed through this afternoon to leave work before 4pm. He laughed about the traffic and poked you in the shoulder when you rolled your eyes at him. 

Thirty minutes later he turned to look at you, a strand of hair dipping down to his forehead. 

“Smalls,” he said quietly. 

“Hmm?” You turned to look at him, mid-chapstick application. 

“I’m glad we’re hanging out.”

You stared at him for a second, your face tingly and hot when his lips twitched up into a smile. You nodded, broke eye contact, and capped your chapstick. “Mhm, yeah, me too.”

“Smalls,” he said it again, this time you looked at him more seriously. 

“What?”

“Can we talk about it?”

You could have sworn the world went silent--the hum of the plane’s four engines suddenly muted as he stared back at you with emerald eyes. 

Somewhere in the world there were ocean waves so high they could knock a boat off course. There were rainforests and mountains and deserts so dry they made the airplane cabin feel humid. You wished, as you sat next to him, miles of space between your feet and the ground, that you could be anywhere but here. 

You opened your mouth to speak, words escaping you. You shook your head. 

“Y/N, I just--”

“No,” you said. “Forget it. We both said we would forget it.”

He licked his lips, quiet for a second as he dropped his gaze to the carpeted floor. You stood up quickly, hoping an escape to the bathroom would place air and time between the two of you. You were stuck, though. You pushed the button twice that was meant to open the sliding door out of your tiny space--a human height shield from the other passengers. 

You pressed it again, more frustrated each time your finger met the hard plastic.

“Here,” he said behind you, reaching past you to press the button right beside it. “You were pressing close.”

“Right.”

The door slid open, a flight attendant offered you a smile as she waited for you to exit in front of her. Down the hall, into the bathroom--much bigger than economy. A full length mirror, a toilet that actually resembled a toilet. 

The door shut and latched behind you. Silence. You couldn’t talk about it with him. That would be more embarrassing than the night itself. What were you supposed to say? I’m sorry? I didn’t mean it? I did mean it? You’d said all of those things before--in quick succession and with a heartbeat so fast you could have passed out. 

A knock on the door. One second, you called out, turning the water on for a moment as if to make it sound like you were doing something other than panicking. You brushed past the stranger on the outside, offering an apologetic smile before heading back to your seat. When you got back, Harry had headphones in and a movie on the screen in front of him. 

Thank god. 

He smiled at you subtly, leaning forward to offer you a glass of champagne--someone must had dropped them off while you were losing your shit in the bathroom. You took it from him without a word, taking a sip as he took one earbud out of his ear and offered it to you. You pushed it into place and leaned back in the chair, still trying to catch your breath, grateful for the fact that he dropped it. 

You didn’t need the whole plane ride to be awkward. If there was ever to be a moment for the two of you to talk about the ghosts of Christmas past, literally, it wasn’t right now. The trip would be nice with a movie and a nap--free chocolates and eye masks, too.

And besides, champagne tasted better at thirty thousand feet.

here’s what first class looks like for Harry and Y/N

read the other parts here

AN: big thanks to those of you reading big thanks for all of the messages!!! be sure to let me know what you think? Anyone want to take a guess as to what happened on 12/29/15?

tag list: @clorenafila​ @ainsleesolareclipse @castawaycths @harryspirate @wanderlustiing @ursamajor603 @thurhomish @omgsharry @jdcharliewhiskey @stepping-into-the-light @rachkon​ @jdcharliewhiskey @sad-little-asshole @ainsleesolareclipse @clorenafila​ @shawnsblue​  @gendryia​ @g0bl1nqueen​  @laula843​ @pinkpolaroidgirl @4592222 @flooome​ @craic-head-horan @a-woman-without-a-plan @awomanindeniall​  @shaw-nm​ @staceystoleyourheart​

[romewritingshop]

Wake up Parker! - Chapter 10: The Interview

Relationship: Peter Parker x Tall Older Reader (Peter is 22 and Reader is 26/27), Bucky Barnes x Reader (Bucky is older and slightly taller)

Warnings: None

Word Count Total: 1313 (This Chapter)

Summary: Peter Parker is a student in the city of Brooklyn. He’s lazy, spoilt and he procrastinates a lot. He meets a woman named (Y/N), She’s recently moved to Brooklyn for an independent life. Something Peter is fascinated by. Over the course of a few months, Peter needs to realise that he has to grow up and become responsible for his life.

Tagged: @bggerbtch

WAKE UP PARKER! MASTERLIST

It has been a month since her birthday and delay after delay, the editor of Brooklyn Nights, James Barnes was finally free from his work duties and he had time to interview potential employees. (Y/N) was really angry, no she was fucking angry at the amount of time she wasted waiting for her second interview. She was close to filing a complaint. 

She really should have but at the same time he probably had a lot of work to do so she was at a mild angry simmer. He was finally free and she didn't want to mess up her chances for the job. This would be the first stepping stone as a writer. She should just grab this opportunity. Which she was doing, right now.

She stood in his office, patiently waiting for him to come interview her. His office had glass walls but the left side was filled with papers. Absolutely filled with papers. He had a bookshelf opposite to her and his desk was just angled at the right side of the room. He had a single sofa chair with a blue throw draped across the back of the chair. The only thing to stand out in the office.

The desk was coated with papers. The office was a mess and no doubt James Barnes might be the same. He did have nice taste with books, works varying from Maya Angelou to Ernest Hemingway and Truman Capote. She glanced at the clock on her phone, noticing it has been fifteen minutes. Where was he?

Speaking of him, the editor-in-chief, finally entered the offices. James Barnes. Dressed in a blue shirt and dark denim jeans and hair tied up in a bun. He had a scraggly beard and (Y/N) was right about the man being as messy as his office. Mr. Barnes was glancing through a clipboard as he went around to his desk to take a seat. He had not noticed (Y/N) as she cleared her throat to get his attention.

"Hi. Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I have an interview with you, fifteen minutes ago." She couldn't help with the sneer at the time but it wasn't her fault.

"Interview?" James turned to his mess of a desk and picked up a paper with a list of names and times. He completely forgot he was interviewing people for the assistant role. He went through the list and spotted a name. "Right. Interview. Are you Sharon Carter?"

"(Y/N) (L/N)."

"(Y/N) (L/N), right." He pulled out a drawer and spotted the resume with a green post-it. The post it read:

 (Y/N) (L/N)

Previous Interview, 7 weeks ago

Steve says "She's talented and fantastic."

 "You've already had an interview here, with Steve?"

"Yes, I did."

"So why wait weeks for the second one?"

(Y/N) refrained from making an angry scowl at Mr. Barnes. He was the reason and he was asking her. She took an internal deep breath and answered calmly.

"It was because you were busy. Mr. Barnes, Sir."

James remembered that and couldn't help but smile at (Y/N)'s distaste. He understood it was his fault. 

"Oh yes of course. I was busy. But, you know … well as my assistant, you should know that I'm a very busy man. My last assistant, Brock was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. And then he had to go on paternity leave," He glanced up at (Y/N), "My bad luck, I suppose. And your good luck!"

(Y/N) couldn't help with the frown on her face. As he turned his eyes over her resume. She straightened her black sweater and shifted her feet. She felt she dressed good in dark jeans, a black sweater with a pink heart crocheted across the middle and brown boots. Her red and black bag rested on her right shoulder.

"So, (Y/N) (L/N), your application letter was interesting but your resume is pretty weak. Two months at the State Library? That's it?"

She immediately stepped in to offer her talent. She has done more volunteering and has enough experience with writing.

"Yeah but I was also the editor for my college newspaper for two years!"

"I'm talking about actual experience. Experience working in a magazine. Look, I am a workaholic. I'm extremely hard to work for, Ms. (L/N). Think you could keep up?"

"Absolutely. I won't disappoint you, Sir. I've come far, only to become a writer. I'll learn much from you."

James's face dropped at the mention of 'writer'. The job he posted was for an Editor's Assistant. He combed his hair back and reclined on his chair.

"A 'writer'? Why did you apply for this job if you wanted to become a writer? An assistant's work is very clerical. Cleaning up my desk doesn't require any creativity. Besides, this is a magazine about Brooklyn and you're not even from here. What makes you stand out?"

(Y/N) couldn't believe Mr. Barnes. She wasted so much time just for him to say that she was nothing special. There was no way she was going to leave without giving him a piece of her mind.

"I applied for this job to gain editorial experience. Being a writer for this magazine is an end goal and I want to build up to that role. Even if it is taking on clerical work. I understand that you're a busy man but that doesn't mean you don't apologise for making me wait weeks for an interview. You could've tried to give me a call. 

"And the thing about not being from Brooklyn: shouldn't make me less suitable for the job. Me being an outsider gives me more of an advantage to explore Brooklyn; with a fresh set of eyes. Unveil new things that Brooklyn bred people would not have noticed. There's a new cafe called 'The Milano'. They serve a true New York Cheesecake with apple cider.

"They've opened a new exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum to celebrate people of colour. There's a new ride at Coney Island called The Ricochet. It's not just a city. It's a lifestyle. I applied for this job after a lot of deliberation. In fact, I've pictured myself going through this interview a thousand times already.

"I did not expect it to go this way. So if you want me to leave. I'll happily leave." She felt absolute relief after her angry rant. A little too relieved. She noticed that Mr. Barnes had a smile on his face. Damn it! She blew her chances. She let emotions get the better of herself.

"Wow! Ms. (L/N). That was aggressive, passionate and honest." He stood up and rounded his desk to sit at the edge of the table, to level his eyes with hers. She hadn't noticed his eyes were grey and really deep. She started to feel a little flustered.

"I like you. Do you want to start tomorrow?"

(Y/N) blinked her eyes twice, trying to process what he said. He actually wanted to hire her! But what had she done to convince him?

"Tomorrow?"

"Yep. You have passion for the magazine and you speak honestly. Which is something Brock never did. You can tell me honestly if things don't work. So would you like the job as the editor's assistant?"

He raised his hand out to shake and she stared at it as if it was dirty. She couldn't believe her angry rant got her a job. She was beyond thrilled. Wait, was this a test? She seemed sceptical about Mr. Barnes.

"This isn't a test, right?"

"No. Not at all. The job's yours."

She creased her eyebrow and steadily shook Mr. Barnes' hand. It felt coarse but warm, he must really work out. She took her hand away and gave a nod.

"Right. Yes, thank you for the job. I promise to clean your desk very creatively and handle clerical work efficiently."

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow morning then."

CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE END OF ALL THINGS

[chasholidays]

Pursuant of the previously discussed post regarding Batman's age: Jake and Amy find out that Batman is essentially a teenage dad, panic, and adopt Batman.

the post in question; I didn’t get the teenage dad part in there it’s just the 99 adopting batman for no reason except that they can

Jake opens his presentation on Monday morning with, “Guess who just got a new superhero!”

“Is it us or is it Manhattan?” asks Terry. “Because it’s usually Manhattan.”

“He serves all five boroughs, Terry! Don’t try to take this away from me.”

“So he’s in Manhattan,” Rosa surmises.

“Moving on,” Jake says, hitting the button on his powerpoint to show a grainy image of a form dressed in all black with a cape. “He’s been spotted every night for the past week all over all five boroughs, including Brooklyn. So far he seems to be on our side.” He hits the next slide, a group of people in an alley, tied together somehow. “Catching perps and calling in tips to let police know where they are.”

“But still a criminal,” says Captain Holt.

“Come on, Captain, we need all the help we can get. And he’s so cool! I haven’t told you his name yet.”

“I assume something juvenile and non-descriptive.”

“Batman!” Jake exclaims.

“Is he a furry?” Rosa asks.

“No, Rosa, he’s not a furry.”

“How do you know he’s not a furry?”

“Actually, that’s a good question,” Amy puts in. “Maybe not specifically the furry thing, but how much do you know about this guy?”

He hits the button for the next slide. “This is the best shot we have of his costume. Does that look like a fursuit to you?”

“Why do you know what a fursuit looks like?” Terry asks.

“Because I did my research! Look, we’re getting away from the point. The point is: Batman is now a presence in the city. So far he is non-hostile to law enforcement and helping us!”

“But he is still a vigilante and if you encounter him, you should bring him in,” says Captain Holt.

“Counterpoint: he has cool stuff and we should ask him if he wants to share it.”

“Peralta, do you believe that the NYPD is a good thing?”

Jake pauses. “I believe the 99 is. Other than that, I’d say it’s a pretty mixed bag.”

“Yeah, NYPD’s had some issues,” Rosa puts in. “Can’t trust cops.”

“Fair enough,” says Holt. “Peralta, do you believe that the NYPD is a theoretically good thing that we should be improving?”

“Definitely.”

“If this–Batman character believes the same, he should be working within the system. If you want to fight crime, put on a police uniform, not a fursuit.”

“I disagree with you on a fundamental level but also can you say fursuit again?”

“No.”

“Damn it.” He sobers. “Look, the system doesn’t work for everyone, Captain. As long as Batman is on our side, we shouldn’t be trying to stop him.”

“I don’t believe we know enough about his so-called side to be saying he’s an ally. Regardless, unless you encounter the Batman, I don’t see any reason to pay any attention to him. However, it is useful to know about local vigilantes, so I appreciate the presentation, Peralta. Is that all?”

Jake clicks rapidly through a few more slides. “Bat fursuit for comparison, picture of his symbol, a few more cell phone pics, yup, that’s it.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

“You’re going to go look for Batman, huh,” Rosa murmurs, as they leave.

“Obviously,” says Jake. “He’s a hero.”

“He’s gonna be a furry.”

“He’s not a furry!” Jake calls at her, and she just waves over her shoulder, dismissive. “Not a furry.”

Amy manages a weak smile. “Sure he’s not.”

*

Charles is the first to actually encounter Batman.

“I was terrified!” he reports.

Jake makes a face. “You shouldn’t sound so happy when you say that.”

“Think about it Jake, if he scares me, he’ll scare criminals.”

“Wrong,” says Rosa. “You’re afraid of way more things than criminals are.”

“Yeah, Charles,” Amy adds. “You were scared of the My Little Pony movie.”

“Hey, that got dark.”

“So, what was he like, tell me everything,” says Jake.

“Well, he spoke in a deep, raspy voice. He told me to stay out of his way, and I asked him if he was a furry. Apparently he gets that a lot!”

“Well, that sounds like about what I would expect,” says Jake. “Did he at least give you some perps to round up?”

“Nope! He shot a grappling hook into the air and swung away.”

“Still cool! Counting that as a win.” He rubs his hands together. “Who’s next?”

*

It’s Rosa, three days later.

“I told him his car was dope. He told me my bike was dope. End of interaction.”

“How dope was his car?” Jake asks.

“So dope.”

“I knew it.”

*

Amy doesn’t mean to find Batman; it just happens.

“Tell me everything,” Jake says, when she gets home.

“There’s really not much to tell. Honestly, he was kind of a letdown.”

“Letdown? How could he be a letdown?”

“Well, I was walking home–”

“Uh huh, uh huh.”

“This is going to take forever if you react to everything.”

“Good feedback, continue.”

“I was walking home and I heard a fight. I went to investigate and I found him fighting with one guy, two already down. I put down my bags, got out my gun, and told them to freeze. Batman punched the last guy while he was distracted, and then he said, They’re all yours.”

“How is that a letdown?”

“I feel like he could have had a cooler line. Also, his voice was almost too gravely? He was trying way too hard.”

“He’s still new, he’ll grow into it. Maybe we could help him out.”

“You want to help Batman?”

“You’ve seen my diary full of quippy one-liners, you know I could give him suggestions.” The noise she makes is non-committal, and he protests, “Lots of those are good!”

“Some of them are.”

“They’re better than they’re all yours.”

“True. I just don’t think you should get too attached to this guy. I’m not sure he has what it takes to make it as a superhero.”

“Agree to disagree! I will be putting all my hopes and dreams onto him and will be crushed if he ever lets me down.”

Amy sighs. “That’s what I thought.”

*

Terry starts the care packages, albeit accidentally.

“I don’t think he’s eating right, and he definitely needs a better workout routine. Terry would make a much better vigilante.”

“Terry would,” Jake agrees. “We could make that happen.”

“I don’t want to be a vigilante, Jake.”

“But if you did, you would be an amazing one.”

“I would.”

“You really think Batman needs workout tips?” Amy asks, putting the conversation back on track.

“Everyone needs workout tips. Even Terry is still learning!”

“Then it’s settled,” says Jake. “Terry will prepare a care package, which we will deliver to Batman!”

“That’s not what I said,” Terry protests.

“Don’t you want to help him become his best self?”

Terry shifts, uncomfortable. “You know I do.”

“Perfect! You get the baskets done and we’ll do the rest.”

“How are you possibly going to give Batman a care package,” Rosa says, so dubious it doesn’t really qualify as a question.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“You don’t know, do you.”

“No, so I guess it’s for everyone to find out! Get me that basket, Sarge.”

*

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god it’s really him.”

“Stay calm, Jake.” Amy waves. “Excuse me, Batman?” The man turns. He’s definitely not as big as Terry, in any dimension. “Santiago and Peralta, NYPD. We have something for you.”

“What?” he says. His voice might be even deeper than the last time Amy heard it.

Jake thrusts the basket out. “We’re big fans and we just want you to be your best self, so–here! It’s a lot of yogurt and some exercises you can use to build your core.”

“Whose core doesn’t need a little work, right?” Amy asks.

Batman looks between their faces and the basket for a second, and then reaches out and accepts it, fast, like a wild animal.

“Thank you,” he says.

“And thank you for helping protect our city,” Jake says, too fast. “Do you have your grappling hook? Can you take me for an amazing ride through the city in your big strong arms?”

“Dial it back, babe,” Amy murmurs.

“Good call. If you ever need help in Brooklyn, come to the 99!”

“Understood,” he says, and then has to try to grappling hook away from the scene while juggling the basket, which is a little awkward.

“We’re going to work on that!” Jake calls. “And your one-liners!” He turns to Amy with a smile. “I think that went well.”

Amy pats his arm. “The best.”

*

“Attention, squad,” says Captain Holt, after a few weeks of covert Batman-helping. “It has come to my attention that you have been aiding and abetting the Batman in his vigilante activities.”

“No and no,” says Jake. “Why would you think that?”

“For one thing, the sergeant told me.”

“Damn it, Terry!”

“I had to! Terry’s conscience got the better of him!”

“Look, Captain, we’re not doing that much. Giving him some snacks, some workout tips, maybe a few ideas for witty banter. It’s not like we’re teaming up with him or anything, although I think that would be great PR and we should do it if at all possible.”

“Ah, yes, the excellent public-relations strategy of law enforcement working with someone who is actively breaking the law.”

“Jake’s right, Captain,” Gina pipes up. “People like the Batman way more than they like us. If we could find some way to leech some of his popularity it would deffo be great for the precinct. Like if he endorsed us? It would be amazing.”

“See, Captain? The people love Batman!” Jake pauses. “Is it Batman or the Batman? Ames?”

“Honestly, it’s very inconsistent across publications and social media. I wrote a letter to the New York Times editorial board to see why they’d elected to use the definite article but I haven’t heard back yet. They’re probably really busy.”

“Excellent, keep us posted. See, Captain? He’s so popular!”

“Stop giving the Batman care packages,” says the Captain. “Dismissed.”

“He never said we had to stop giving him stuff.”

“Jake!”

“Come on, it’s getting cold! I don’t think he’s adequately insulated for winter. And, let’s be real, he’s probably some broke college kid who put all this stuff together in his garage. If we don’t help him, he’ll starve and/or freeze.”

Amy gasps, about half genuinely. “Are you trying to be a caretaker?”

“Maybe I’m finally becoming responsible!”

“Hey, let’s not carried away.”

“Yeah, okay, giving stuff to an adult man dressed as a bat is definitely a baby step. Still, baby step!”

“Baby step!”

“Do you think I could knit him a scarf?”

Amy smiles. “I think you could definitely try.”

*

“Attention, squad,” Gina announces, one morning in December. “I am thrilled to inform you that our campaign to gain public support through our support of the Batman has worked.”

“Do not say that,” says Captain Holt. “We have no way of knowing if that this has anything to do with the Batman.”

“What is it?” asks Terry.

“We received a large anonymous donation, for our service to the city. I’m sure it’s unrelated.”

“And I’m sure it’s not!” says Jake. “We’re the cops who knitted Batman a sweater and the people support us. How much money is it? Did we get it in bags? Is there a pool we could fill with the money and then we go swimming?”

“There is not and the money is going to the precinct, not to us personally. There will be no swimming in it. And I will once again ask you to stop giving the Batman sweaters.”

“Request denied, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to us. Merry Christmas to all!”

*

In the Wayne manor, twenty-three-year-old Bruce Wayne is sitting in front of the fire, wearing a very poorly made black sweater with a yellow circle on the front, when Alfred comes in a letter. “A thank-you note. From Brooklyn’s 99th precinct, for your generous contribution.”

Bruce smiles. “Thank you, Alfred. That will be all.”

[clunelover]

If I haven’t summed it up here before, basically I have always disliked spending time with MIL. She has always made me feel unwelcome (like when we visit, pointing out things in the house and fridge that she didn’t want me to use because they’re too expensive. Don’t drink this iced tea because it’s expensive...etc) and she’s a huge Debby downer (especially apt because he name IS Deb). Anything good gets twisted back to “but it won’t last and everything is bad.” She’s obsessed with money and not having enough. This was bad even before they found out that the family’s “fortune”, made by being early investors with one BERNIE MADOFF didn’t actually exist...its to extremes that would be comical if she wasn’t now part of my family - “I love Carvel ice cream...but we can only afford to eat it once or twice a year” (what?! Also maybe cut out cable fucking TV and then you could eat some every month). So she sucks to spend time with. But then she visited when Edie was a newborn and it was truly one of the worst experiences of my life:

- has recurring pinkeye flare up. Made us keep the house dark for her, plunged me into post partum depression (probs would have had it anyway but this made it real bad).

-possibly gave the baby pinkeye (although it could have been just baby goop eye) but would not admit that, if pinkeye, it came from her - “Edie got pinkeye somehow”

-pouted about being “left out” of things, such as Jeremy and me grabbing burritos from a little stand after my 6 week post partum appointment. Fine if you felt bad but why are you GUILTING A DEPRESSED MOM OF A NEWBORN OVER EATING A BURRITO

-when we decided to take Edie in over the presumed pinkeye (oh and it was on thanksgiving so the only place open was pediatric ER) told us not to eat anything while we were out because she was cooking and would “be upset” if we came home not hungry

-as referenced in a previous post, did find cans of full fat coconut milk in my pantry and cornered me in the kitchen to ask if I knew how bad that was for me, read the label to say how many grams of fat are in it, explained why saturated fat is bad, asked if I had a family history of heart disease, told me she was “really concerned.” I still think of this every time I cook with coconut milk, I get vindictive joy out of it now but I wish it just hadn’t happened! Jeremy told her in private how awful this was and that she needed to apologize, she tried but her way of “apologizing” was to just explain a second time why coconut milk is so very bad. Because if I just understood there would be no reason for me to be mad.

-told me that part of the reason she was visiting to help me was so that when she was in her old age, we would help her

-had conversations on the phone with her husband to bitch about me, with her bedroom door open so I could hear

-cornered me again in kitchen and told me that she had “the mother in law from hell” and was sad about that, so she NEEDED us to be close - I guess to make up for that??

-insisted that she and Jeremy have one evening to go out JUST THE TWO OF THEM (in contrast to my stepmom who was like “as soon as you think you’re ready let’s have me watch the baby so you and Jeremy can go somewhere”). At that point I was only too happy to have her out of my house so that was okay

-hovered really close and stared when I was breast feeding

Okay I think that’s all of it. It was nine horrible days. So after that I was like “she can never stay with us again.” She really kept up that “need us to be close” thing and was texting me a ton, way too personal questions, intrusive, weird...eventually said “what’s it going to take for us to fall in love.”

My very excellent therapist at the time suggested that I just say “you and I are just very different people” ...she LOST IT. “You don’t even know me, why do you think I’m so horrible, you don’t know if we’re so different or not because you won’t even get to know me!” Emails and calls to Jeremy to yell about how awful I was being. How *I* made the visit terrible, and was cold and rude the whole time when she was just trying to help!!! Somehow eventually that calmed down, but she and I never spoke directly again. (Yay!)

We moved back to Wisconsin when Edie was nine months old, and she started in on “now that you don’t live in Louisiana anymore I’ll move to be by you”, I had a freak out, we went to couples counseling, Jeremy was convinced to say to her that that felt too close...she of course did not like that, more blow up, Jeremy initially held the line of “don’t explain, it just gives them ammunition” but after incessant badgering was like “okay you want to know why? [insert everything she’d done to trample boundaries and make things weird over the years, but which did focus mostly on stuff she’d done to me]” and that was...five years ago? Yeah because Edie is about to turn six. And things have been silent, then frosty, ever since. And they will make a little headway and then she’ll say “I still don’t think you understand why I’m afraid to be close to you, I’ll send you a long letter [rehash of all the things Jeremy said, and the fact that he told her later that he should not have said them, but NEVER TOOK ANY OF THEM BACK]” - basically it’s been made clear that she cannot move past it until he grovels and says he never meant any of it, and he’s divorcing his awful bitch wife [that last part is me editorializing but she has said she thinks I poisoned him against her].

Anyway. That’s the whole long saga. No worries if people cannot read all of it or if I had in fact already posted it at some point - it’s good for me to remember in preparation for Monday therapy. Jeremy and I are pretty okay now but there’s always the lingering fear that he will forget how bad it really was and try to make me spend more time with her, basically go back to “her side” which I know is a juvenile way of thinking about it.

[faveficarchive]

All the Colors of the World: Part 1

The Bard Brat

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice, Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: After meeting once again post-Macedonia, Mel and Janice come to terms with their feelings for one another, while also coming to terms with who they are individually.

Personal note: Vivian Darkbloom is probably my favorite author out of all of these that I’ll ever post. From an editorial point of view, I barely have to proofread. From a reader’s point of view, her style is playful without being ham-handed and her voice is clear and strong, and denotes a skill and talent not often seen among fanfiction writers. I fucking love reading her stories, and I hope you enjoy them, too.

It was a hot, late afternoon day in June of 1943. Melinda Pappas sat on the expansive porch of her home in Charlotte, eagerly awaiting the arrival of her guest, due any minute now, from the train station. As she fanned herself in her wicker chair, the Reverend Dupree, his wife, and two of their young daughters emerged onto their porch, to Melinda's left. "Good afternoon, Melinda," called the young Reverend. "Care to join us for lemonade?"

"Why, that's very kind of you, Reverend," drawled Mel, "but I am expecting someone very shortly..." and your two little brats look like they'd sooner drink poison than let me have any of their lemonade, she thought. The wife looked a little relieved as well; Melinda, beautiful, rich, aristocratic, was nonetheless viewed as terribly eccentric by the upper crust of Charlotte, due to her single status, living alone in her late father's home, her seeming lack of interest in men, and her scholarly inclinations.

The Reverend, however, believed that there was no harm in trying. Especially with such an attractive woman...he blushed as Melinda smiled at him. "I understand completely. Well, if your guest does arrive soon...perhaps you can bring her over for a nice cool drink."

Maybe if you offer scotch on the rocks, she'd like that, Mel thought. She was about to respond when she saw a yellow cab swerve violently onto their street and careen down the block, halting dramatically in front of her home. From their respective porches the Duprees and Mel watched the drama unfold. They saw the driver turn in his seat, red-faced, to yell something at his passenger. His door swung open and he stomped out. The rider in the back seat was, the Reverend and his family thought, a young man dressed in a rather rugged fashion: a rumpled fedora and a brown leather jacket. As the cabbie opened his trunk, a back door swung open and a loud female voice could be heard: "It's not my damn fault you got lost!" The figure emerged. The Duprees emitted a collective gasp as the man pulled off the fedora, revealing a mass of red-gold hair and a decidedly feminine face. Mel smiled at the sight, her heart even skipping a beat, as Janice Covington slapped the old fedora against her khaki pants.

The cabbie ungraciously threw her bag on the street. "Son of a BITCH!" roared Janice. Mel cast a sideways glance at her neighbors. She could feel them go pale with shock. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Be careful with that!" the red-haired archaeologist shouted.

"Too late now," sniped the cabbie. He stood defiantly, arms crossed. Angrily, she put her hat back on.

"Too late for a decent tip as well," retorted the archaeologist. She tossed a dime at him.

It hit his barrel chest and fell to the street. He shook his head. "Thanks," he sneered.

"GO TO HELL!" she yelled as he climbed in the cab and drove off. She grabbed the bag off the street and sauntered up the walk, shaking off her bad mood. Catching sight of Mel, and oblivious to the shocked Duprees, she grinned.

Climbing up on the porch, Janice dropped the bag, tilted up her fedora, and bellowed in her crassest Yankee fashion, "Well sweetheart, glad to see me?"

She was. But then she glanced over at her neighbors, flummoxed. Mrs. Dupree had tried to shelter the children behind her abundant hips. The Reverend's face was the reddest she'd ever seen, even redder than when he first saw her in a bathing suit so many years ago.

Mel remembered very little of her mother, who died when she was very young. However, one thin memory clung to her like gossamer: her mother, smelling of perfume, lowering her lovely face to Mel and saying, "Honey, the best advice I can give you, as a Southern lady, is this: When in doubt, faint."

And, on that hot July day, under the scrutiny of her neighbors and a woman she was, she had to finally admit it to herself, having the most illicit thoughts about, she finally took her mother's advice. The last thing she saw was Janice's face. Thanks, mama, she thought, as the world went dim.

*****

Without opening her eyes Mel could tell that she was lying on the divan in her drawing room; the soft velvet fabric that crunched gently underneath her was soothing. Tentatively, she opened her eyes, and saw Janice peering anxiously down at her. Then a panoply of emotions crossed Janice's face: the anxiety melted into concern, then relief, then a wide, relaxed grin. Oh Lord, I'm going to faint again, Mel thought. That beautiful face, lit even brighter by a smile, was more than she could bear.

It had been almost a year since Mel had met the young archeologist. They kept in touch with letters and the occasional phone call, but had not seen each other since their initial meeting in Macedonia. Nonetheless, to Mel's consternation, Janice Covington remained a dominating presence in her mind. She found herself thinking of Janice whenever her mind was not engaged in other matters; and even as she continued her work on the Xena scrolls, she could barely wait to tell Janice of her new discoveries. Often, sending off a letter to Janice was the first thing she did as her work progressed as she found out more about Xena, Gabrielle, and their adventures.

And it was just a month ago that Janice suggested a visit. She had discovered another scroll, she said, and wanted Mel to work on it. So the archaeologist packed a bag and came down South.

And now, Janice smiled down upon her. "Well, Melinda, that was a hell of a how-do-you-do," she growled pleasantly. Then Mel heard the reverend's voice behind Janice: "Melinda, honey, are you all right? Your...friend...and I managed to carry you in, my goodness, you are a big girl, I always forget..."

"How could you forget? She's almost six goddamn feet tall!" Janice threw the comment over her shoulder, then quickly leaned down and whispered to Mel: "It was mostly me who carried you, believe it or not." Mel grew dizzy again at the closeness of the beautiful young woman, and the thought that she had been cradled in Janice's arms...and, kicking herself mentally, she had not even known it.

The Reverend clucked audibly. "Really, Miss Covington! The language!"

"It's Dr. Covington, Mr. Dupree."

"Reverend Dupree."

"Get the point?" she shot back.

The Reverend frowned. Ignoring her, he reached down and patted Mel's hand. "Melinda, if you need anything, please do call. My wife has sent over some lemonade, that should cool you off a bit, and maybe you should take a cold bath."

Mel's eyes had wandered down Janice's khaki shirt front, and lingered on the unbuttoned expanse that revealed soft skin and tempting cleavage. She cleared her sandpapered throat. "Why...yes, Reverend, I think a cold bath would be in order right about now," she said hoarsely.

"Wonderful! I could draw a bath for you, if you like!" the Reverend offered too enthusiastically.

Janice glowered at him. My, she really doesn't like him, Mel thought. He means well, but he's just a bit silly. But then Janice doesn't suffer fools very well.

"Er, that's quite all right, Reverend, I'm sure Janice can handle it," Mel replied.

Crestfallen, the reverend offered a goodbye, and headed home.

"Jesus, I thought he'd never leave! He's got it bad for you, Mel." Janice reached for a cigar. Popping it in her mouth, she was about to light up when she looked at Mel and noticed that her friend was sweaty, disheveled, and still a bit green around the gills. Reluctantly she tucked away the stogie for a later time. "C'mon, let's get you something to drink, then I'll prepare a bath for you. How's that sound?" Mel nodded, sitting up. "Hey, don't get up," Janice said, rising from her kneeling position on the floor and heading to the kitchen. "I'll bring it to you."

Mel slumped back and sighed. So far concealing her feelings for her friend wasn't progressing very well. She had fainted the moment she laid eyes on Janice again, and her stomach fluttered at the thought of the woman merely preparing a bath for her. Yet Janice's friendship meant too much to her; Janice was strong, independent, and smart. And they had the same interests. Mel had always longed to have a friend like that, let alone a lover, a companion...no. She could not reveal this attraction. The risk was too great. Just because her father had understood didn't mean that Janice would. Her father was an exceptional man, well-traveled and urbane, who truly understood differences among people and cultures. Who never judged.

*****

She remembered that day he brought her into his study. She was 20 and home for Christmas, from Vanderbilt. Joshua Davis, her steady beau from high school, scion of one of Charlotte's oldest and most respected families, had proposed to her the day before. He looked dapper and handsome in his army uniform; he was already a captain. As a rare snow fell, they galloped around the town square in an old-fashioned, horse-drawn carriage and he asked her to marry him. She said no, keeping her eyes fixed on the delicate flakes that swirled around them, and the puffs of icy breath emanating from their mouths. "No, Joshua...I'm not ready yet."

"When, Melinda, when?" he urged her gently.

"I don't know." They rode home in silence. He helped her out of the carriage after it drew in front of her home, kissed her hand, and drove off.

It was a small town. News of her rejection of Joshua spread quickly. And a day later, when her father called her into his study, she was certain he was going to reprimand her, in his usual gentle yet stern fashion. But...it was strange, she recalled. He was awkward, almost shy.

"I take it...you turned down the young man?" he asked softly.

She nodded.

He, too, nodded, as if he had expected it. He stood behind his desk, and as he continued too speak, he paced a little. "Melinda...love is a strange thing." he stated flatly. Idly he plucked a large black volume from one of the shelves that lined one wall from ceiling to floor. His large hands cradled it gently.

She frowned, wondering where he would go with this.

He cleared his throat. "We never know whom we shall love, or what or why someone attracts us. This can be a frightening thing for many people. And when people are frightened, they react blindly with emotion, which prevents them from truly understanding the differences among people..." he sighed.

"Daddy...?" she asked tentatively, unease gripping her.

He smiled, and, as usual, it seemed tinged with a melancholy. "I know I'm rambling my dear. I'm sorry." He placed the large book in front of her and tapped the cover. "Perhaps this might explain things...of course, you may have already read it, you are always reading so much." He chuckled.

She did not have her glasses on, and she just barely made out the name on the spine: Havelock Ellis.

Her father placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it, a quick kiss from his lips bussed the top of her head. "Know this, Melinda," his voice deep above her, "no matter what, I shall always love you very much." Another squeeze, then, "Goodnight." He left her alone.

She spent the night reading through the book; it sprawled in her lap as she sat by the fire in his study. As dawn stripped away the night, this book stripped away her own blindness, and she burned with recognition.

When the morning came, she was awakened from a light sleep by her father, in his robe, handing her a cup of fresh coffee. Wordlessly she took it from him, and as she drank it greedily, as if she spent a night wandering in a desert, her eyes never left his.

His eyes were as blue as hers. They waited, expectantly.

She put the cup down with a clack. "How did you know?" she blurted.

Again, his sad, wise smile. "You are my daughter. I know you. And I've seen you in the world. You know many men, in fact you have many male friends, but their beauty did not move you. I could see it in your eyes. At a party, when you would walk into a room with Joshua Davis, all the women would be looking at him, the most handsome young man in Charlotte. Except you."

"I was looking at Muffy Crassdale," she whispered.

He rolled his eyes. "My dear, you can do better than that. I'm sure that girl hates you, you took Joshua away from her." He sipped his own coffee. "Besides, I am certain that blonde hair of hers is quite artificial."

"Father!" she squeaked, scandalized. It was inconceivable. She was sitting here with her father, talking about women...in that way.

For his part, he laughed. "This is funny, isn't it?" He gave his daughter a wry, loving look. "Think of it as something else we have in common, Melinda: An appreciation of women."

*****

She stood up, wobbly on her long legs like a newborn colt, and head to the kitchen. She wondered what her father would have thought about Janice Covington. Very attractive, my dear, she has potential, but don't you think she should be cleaned up a bit? She mimicked his suave voice in her head.

What to do about Janice...she sighed as she entered the kitchen, and saw Janice peering suspiciously into the pitcher of lemonade that the Reverend had left. "The Bible Brats brought this over...d'ya think it's safe to drink?"

In spite of herself Mel giggled. "Janice, you are such a heathen." Janice grinned, and placed ice from the freezer into two glass tumblers, then poured the lemonade. "How are you feeling?" she asked, peering critically at Mel and shoving a glass toward her.

Mel sat down and drank the cool beverage with a sigh of approval. "Mmmmm...much better. Try some, it's good."

Janice grunted, then took a sip. "Not bad. Of course, we may be dead in minutes..."

Again, Mel laughed, and Janice beamed with delight at making her friend laugh. Then Mel felt the intense scrutiny of the green eyes on her, though, and in a panic she gulped her drink.

"Sure you're all right?" Janice asked again, her face clouding over with concern.

"Yes, yes...I'm fine. Why don't you tell me a little about this scroll."

Janice downed the remainder of the lemonade, wishing that she had some vodka to add to it. "This one was sent to me by a friend in the Greek consulate. He smuggled it out. Didn't want it to fall into the Nazis' hands." Her thumb stroked the cool side of the glass, and once again she allowed her eyes to skitter over Mel's long, languorous form; the Southern beauty, with her tussled hair, flushed face, and rumpled white shirt, looked as if she had been ravished. She must be as beautiful as Xena once was, Janice thought. A sigh escaped her; she might as well deliver the disappointing news...well, the news was disappointing to her; she knew Mel would appreciate any find, any scroll relating to Xena--her scholar's mind was that fine and inquisitive. "Well, this scroll doesn't detail any adventures of Xena, as far as I can tell. In fact, she seems kinda secondary. It involves Gabrielle and the Amazons in some sort of way."

"Ah!" Mel murmured with approval. "Wonderful! I wanted to know more about Gabrielle's link with the Amazons; the scrolls we have only mention them in passing. It's odd. If Gabrielle was an Amazon, why was she born in Potedeia and raised by a non-Amazon family?" Mel rubbed her hands together with relish and anticipation. "We know so little of Gabrielle's background--"

"Well, why should we?" Janice interjected. "She was just a bard. Just a tagalong." This earned a dark glare from Mel. "Come on, I'll admit she was a talented storyteller and writer, but that's about the extent of it. She was basically Xena's Boswell. Nothing more."

"You neglect the fact that Boswell was an intriguing man himself, Janice," retorted Mel.

The archaeologist rolled her eyes.

"You remember what Xena said to you. In the tomb," Mel prompted.

"Of course. But she was just saying that to make me feel better..."

Mel slammed her glass on the table. The gesture startled both of them. "Stop that right now," Mel commanded, her voice dropping an octave. She leaned forward in her chair. Tiny hairs rose on the back of Janice's neck at her this thrilling, low voice, this voice that her friend had never used before. It was almost as if its dark, deep tones drowned Mel's accent. "Gabrielle meant a hell of a lot to Xena. More than you know." Then, the brooding expression lifting from Mel's face, she settled back in chair, blinking.

"Jesus Christ, Mel..."

"I'm sorry about that outburst. I don't know what got into me." Or do I? Mel thought.

"It's okay. But...you swore, Mel. You actually used a curse word."

Mel blinked. "Did I?"

"Lemonade's loosening your tongue, eh?" Janice teased. "Son of a bitch!" she swore gently, with admiration.

*****

After dinner that evening, Mel settled down in the study that was once her father's, and now hers. She sat at the huge mahogany desk, the lamp bathing the scroll and sprawling books with a golden light. Janice glanced at the bookshelves, while rolling around the ice in a glass of scotch. She picked a well-thumbed volume of Ovid's verse and sat in the leather chair near the dormant fireplace. But soon her mind drifted, and she fell into a light, dreamless sleep, that ended abruptly when she heard a soft yet distinct "oh my!"

Janice's lolling head snapped to attention. "What? What is it?" She looked at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter past eleven, and she had been asleep for three hours, much to her chagrin. "Jesus, Mel, why did you let me sleep so long?" She looked at Mel, who was staring intently, with open-mouthed awe, at the document before her. Instinct kicked in, and excitedly Janice joined her friend at the desk.

Mel looked nervously at the expectant young woman. For a frantic, delusional moment she thought she could lie to her friend about what she found; she did not know how Janice would react to it.

"Well?"

"Janice, I don't know how accurate my translation is..."

"Don't give me that bullshit. You're damned good and you know it."

"You're very kind, but really, give me a few more days..."

"You've had over FOUR hours now, you should at least have the gist of it!" Janice growled impatiently. Part of her was queasy with worry...Mel didn't want to tell her something. "Out with it!" she commanded.

Mel took a deep breath to calm the butterflies in her stomach. "This scroll begins with a love poem. It's rather...explicit."

Janice cocked an eyebrow. "Gabrielle wrote poetry too, eh? And dirty stuff at that--"

"Erotica," corrected Mel haughtily.

"Oh great," she muttered sarcastically. "So I'm half-impressed. Probably to some stupid teenager she met on the road, right? What's it called, 'Ode to a Pimply-Faced Stableboy'?"

"Er, actually no, Janice. It's addressed to a woman." Mel paused as Janice's face registered surprise. "And I think the woman is Xena."

*****

My desire for you is longer than the night

that stretches before us.

The fire of day has burned and Helios departs

but the flames within me rage

and your visage is burned brightly into my soul.

In the glow of firelight you strip before me

and I permit my eyes to do what my hands cannot:

they caress your body

and your face,

they are ensnared in your hair,

they glide over your muscled shoulders

and your smooth breasts

they ride over your rippling stomach

and cup your buttocks

they enter you

they pleasure you

they are drenched with your richness.

And then I do this again,

this time using eyes for mouth,

in my imaginary possession of you.

In this fashion, warrior, night passes for me.

*****

"I think it's my turn to say 'oh my,' " Janice whispered with astonishment.

"Indeed," Mel agreed, breathy. "It's very...well written, don't you think?"

"What about the rest? How far did you get?" Janice managed to ask, ignoring the warmth crawling up her body.

"Not very. From there Gabrielle writes of a trip to the Amazons. For a royal ceremony." Mel saw that her words fell on deaf ears; Janice was eerily quiet. "Janice? Are you all right?"

With a shudder Janice ended whatever revery she was in. Awkwardly, she rubbed the back of her neck. "Uh, yeah. Guess I'm more tired than I realized. It was a long trip, and now this..."

"Janice!" Mel said urgently She desperately wanted to right things again, to make Janice as ease. It was as if her own secret desire for her friend had seeped into the poem, into the words she had nervously recited to the archaeologist. And Janice must be shocked to know that her ancestor was a deviant...like me, Mel thought miserably.

"Huh?" Janice replied.

"You know," she stammered, "homosexuality was er, much more common and tolerated in ancient societies...they didn't know any better" --I can't believe I'm saying this-- "and after all, Gabrielle was a young woman, living a lonely life on the road, she was very impressionable, or so I've gathered from my readings of her scrolls thus far." An inner voice protested all this.

Janice smiled weakly. "Come on, Mel, I don't need to rehash History 101, or Psych 101 for that matter." She stood up, stretching. "I think I'll go to bed, if you don't mind."

"Of course not. The guest room is the third bedroom on the left, at the end of the hall. Alice"--the housekeeper, who had laid out the simple cold dinner for them--"took your things up earlier. There should be fresh towels on the bed."

"Great." She paused. "Thanks for everything, Mel. Good night."

"Good night," Mel replied. She watched the young woman saunter gracefully out of the study and up the stairs, the fiery red-gold head bowed, almost as if in prayer. "Sweet dreams," she added in a whisper.

Upstairs, Janice closed the door and virtually collapsed against it in exhaustion, "Jesus Christ," she moaned to herself, "these damned feelings are genetic." Again in her mind she pictured Mel, lovely in the lamp light, reciting the poem. She shook off a tingle of desire. "That goddamned bard brat."

*****

Normally, Gabrielle thought, they would keep to the main road. Because it was safer, for them anyway, not necessarily safer for those travelers who bore the steely gaze of the Warrior Princess. But this time they took a different route to Amazonia, a rough path that cut through a rather dense and magnificent forest. She wouldn't say to Gabrielle if it were a shorter route, or why she wanted to go this way in the first place, or how she came to know this road. But by this time Gabrielle could guess: Many winters ago Xena led a band of men (surely not an army, the road was too narrow and rutted for that, even Argo was having a time of it) down this road, on some clandestine raid, to pillage/conquer/destroy any number of villages along the way...blah blah blah. She stole a look at her friend atop Argo. It would only be a matter of filling in the details, wouldn't it, Gabrielle thought, almost cynically.

Suddenly the blue eyes were on her. "Are you tired?" the warrior asked, her voice rumbling from above.

"No, I'm fine," the bard replied. "It's good weather for walking. Cool, but sunny. Although we're not getting much sun through these trees."

A dark eyebrow rose.

"Not that I'm complaining or anything," Gabrielle amended hastily. "This is such a beautiful area, so lush and green, and quiet." She surveyed the woods, the peaceful verdant depths mirroring her own eyes. "Xena, what do you know of this rite-of-passage ceremony?"

"Not much more than you," replied the warrior. "It's supposed to occur approximately one summer after a new Queen's ascension to the throne. They're very secretive about it."

"That they are," the bard complained. "I have no idea what to expect."

Xena smirked. "That's the idea."

With a mock scowl, the bard decided to grill her friend. "Why did we come this way? How do you know this route? It's very untraveled."

"No reason..."

"That is such a lie. Warrior princesses never do anything without a reason."

This brought much mirth to Xena, as she repressed a guffaw. "Relax, bard. All shall be revealed to you in due time," she responded cryptically.

As the sky began to fade, they decided to make camp for the night. "We'll make the Amazon village tomorrow by mid-day," Xena estimated, as she settled down for the evening with her sword and whetstone. As she fell into the rhythmic sharpening of the blade, Gabrielle relaxed on her bedroll, a scroll unfurled in front of her. She tapped the quill against the paper. Xena seemed in a good mood, she thought; the warrior hummed as she worked the stone against the blade. Gabrielle allowed herself some surreptitious gazes at Xena, watching her graceful strokes, the tiny flexing of muscles in her arms, the blue eyes that glittered in the fire.

Suddenly the hissing of the whetstone stopped. "Xena?" Gabrielle asked quietly. Did the warrior hear something? Was someone approaching their campsite?

"By the gods, it's warm tonight," Xena muttered. She stood up and quickly shed her leather battledress and breeches, the armor having been discarded earlier. She used the leather as a seat and eased her nude form upon it.

Much to Gabrielle's simultaneous agony and delight, Xena had always been very comfortable and un-self-conscious about her body, and thought nothing of being naked in front of the bard. "Yes...it is very hot," Gabrielle gulped, even though goosebumps ran down her body. She flattened her hands against the parchment for a moment in the hopes they would cease shaking. She took a deep breath as the sword sharpening resumed, and picked up her quill, giving herself over to the words that would take her where she wanted to be.

*****

Before she opened her eyes, Janice smelled coffee. Real coffee, the good stuff she could find in Greece, or at least in a good coffee shop in New York before the war. Maybe I'm dreaming, she thought. Only one way to find out. She rose, washed up, dressed, and descended the staircase.

The rich smell grew stronger as she approached the kitchen. Mel, to her astonishment, was frying eggs. The coffee awaited her on the table. She sighed with pleasure.

This caught her hostess's attention, and Mel turned to her, startled. "Goodness Janice, I thought you'd never get up," she said by way of greeting.

"Good morning to you too," Janice replied sarcastically. Then she softened. "Mel, that smells like real coffee."

"It is."

"Where the hell did you get it?"

The raven-haired beauty shot her a mischievous grin. "I have my sources."

Janice smiled in turn. "I can accept that." She looked around the clean, orderly kitchen. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, y'all just sit down. I'm about ready here."

They settled down to a meal of eggs, buttermilk biscuits, coffee, and juice. Mel smiled at the small woman's appetite. "Would you like a tour of Charlotte today?" Mel asked.

"No," Janice replied through a mouthful of egg. "I want you to work on that damn scroll."

"Ah, I don't know why I even bothered to ask." Mel grinned again. There was a companionable silence as Janice made short work of the biscuits on her plate. Mel decided to risk the mood as she tentatively asked, "So I trust this means you're feeling...better about the content of the scroll thus far?"

Janice's busily chewing jaw stopped abruptly as she tried to formulate an answer. She decided to take the diplomatic approach and avoid either outright condemnation of the bard's lustful thoughts for her best friend, or praise of her admirable writing skills and no doubt good taste, for Xena of Amphipolis was frequently described by her contemporaries as a great beauty. "I'm not a prude, Mel. I can handle it. I'd like to see where the kid goes with it."

"Goes with what?"

"You know, see how she deals with these feelings. Does she tell the Warrior Princess? Does Xena find out somehow? Is it...even remotely possible that Xena may have felt the same way?"

Mel could have sworn she detected a tinge of hope in the archaeologist's voice. "I think it's...possible," she ventured nervously. "Even though Xena had a child, and many of her affairs with men were legendary, that does not preclude bisexuality on her part."

Janice snorted. "No, probably not. She was on the road a long time, it must have been difficult for her to find someone for...pleasure at times. So having the bard as a bedwarmer may have been a last resort."

Mel scowled. "’Last resort'?" she asked. "Why do you always think so little of Gabrielle?"

Having finished her breakfast, Janice pushed herself back from the table. "Force of habit," she replied, plucking a cigar from her breast pocket and clenching it between her teeth. "Since I think of myself in the same way." As she searched her pockets for a light, Mel snatched the stogie from under her nose.

"Janice Covington, you are a big pain in the ass." Janice stared at her, Mel instinctively clamped her hand over her mouth, then removed it. "See, you made me swear again! Janice, I'm going to prove you wrong about Gabrielle. And about yourself too." She stood up, determined, and started to clear the breakfast dishes. With a glance that was admiring, fearful, and sweet, Janice stood up and helped her.

*****

Water was dripping on her face.

Gabrielle moaned, semi-conscious. Another summer storm, her mind supplied. Well, I can sleep through it, can't I?

Not unless you want to get totally drenched, another thought supplied.

I could care less, her stubbornness threw in.

Wait a minute, desire spoke seductively. Xena will get wet too. Her hair will be damp and slicked back from her face...you love that look on her, don't you?

"I'm there," the bard mumbled aloud.

Hey, practicality piped up, if it's really raining, then why is your face the only part of your body that feels wet?

Her eyes snapped open. She was looking directly at a very familiar pair of boots that were not her own. "Good morning, Gabrielle," the warrior's voice said from on high. Slowly Gabrielle's vision trailed up the long legs, past the skirt (don't look up the skirt, propriety screamed inside her) to the armor-clad torso and arms, which held two large trout fresh from the stream directly over the bard's head.

"Ugh, fish water!" she spat, sitting up.

"If it's good enough for the fish, it's good enough for you," Xena said, heading toward the fire.

The bard stood up with a stretch. "Hang on, I can clean them."

"No, that's okay. I can do it. Go wash up."

Pleasantly surprised, Gabrielle removed a linen towel and soap from her satchel, and went to the stream. The forest opened onto a clearing where the stream gurgled beneficently. As she placed the towel and soap on a rock, she prepared to strip...and heard a rustling behind her. But before she could even think of what to do next, a bag was thrown over her head; it was moist with some chemical which made her sleepy, and as she slipped from consciousness she felt arms gently cradling her body in the air.

*****

Solari sauntered through the woods toward the campsite, where Xena sat on a stone, placing trout in a skillet about to go on the fire. Before she could even announce her approach to the warrior's back, Xena's voice rumbled at her: "Hades' balls, Solari, couldn't you wait until I fed her breakfast at least?"

The Amazon stopped dead in her tracks. "How did you know it was me and not Gabrielle?" she demanded.

"Look, you know the line..."

"I know, I know, many skills and all that..."

"So why did you even bother to ask?" Disgusted, Xena struck a flint against some wood. The fire didn't take. Growling, she stood up and spun around to face Solari in one fluid motion. "You didn't hurt her, did you?" It was more a threat than a question.

Solari released a breath of exasperation. "No, Xena. I used the plant you gave me. Lydia knew how to prepare the drug. Gabrielle never knew what hit her."

"All right then," Xena said tersely. "I'll be in the Amazon village by midday. By tomorrow morning I will expect to hear from you. Your runner better be fast...and Solari," she paused for menacing effect, "if I don't get a message I'll be coming along to break up this little ceremony, sacred or not. Got me?"

The Amazon rolled her eyes. "Xena, please, this will be over quicker than you imagine. I guarantee you Gabrielle will be in the village tomorrow, if not sooner."

This response seemed to satisfy the warrior. She nodded reluctantly.

"Hey, Xena?"

"What?"

"You gonna eat all that fish?"

*****

"Your father was certainly a well-read man," Janice commented as she completed yet another scan of the books in the study.

"Mmmm," Mel murmured. Her dark head was bent intently over the ancient parchment.

Janice shook her head. The woman was so thoroughly engrossed in the scroll, she could not even muster the barest of her Southern civilities. "Yep...let's see here...everything from Kant and Kirkegaard to Gone with the Wind and the Kama Sutra," Janice stole a quick look at her friend to see if Mel noticed the spurious volumes--the latter two--that her imagination had inserted into the collection. No response. She let her fingers trail over the smooth leather volumes, riding the rough ridges and indentations, until her fingers stopped suddenly: Havelock Ellis. Kraft-Ebing. Oh my. Dr. Pappas knew his stuff. Wonder if would've been able to diagnose me on the spot?

Janice cast yet another glance at Mel. Jesus Christ, has Mel read this stuff? She wondered. And if so, has she figured me all out? I am sort of a walking bulldagger at times...the clothes, the cigar...God, I have to get out of here for a while. Unwilling to break Mel's concentration, Janice opted to exit quietly, without a word, and go for a walk.

She got no further than the door's threshold when she heard Mel call her name softly.

"Yes, Mel?"

"Where are you going?" The scholar removed her glasses, her blue eyes touching Janice like a flame.

"Just out for a walk, to get some air. Do you mind?"

"No, of course not." She put on the glasses once again. Janice turned to leave.

"Janice?" The voice sounded darker, silkier.

"Yes?" The young archaeologist froze, her hand lingering on the doorknob.

"My daddy hated Gone With the Wind and he kept his copy of the Kama Sutra so well hidden I didn't find it until last year."

Without a word, Janice and her blush walked out.

[richincolor]

Interview with Dahlia Adler

When I was a teen, Edgar Allan Poe creeped me out, but in the most delightful way. I can't wait to dive into this new anthology His Hideous Heart. An amazing group of authors have re-imagined his stories and now the collection is out there in the world waiting for readers to experience the chills. Today, the editor and contributing author, Dahlia Adler, is here to share about this intriguing collection and her work in publishing. His Hideous Heart: Thirteen of YA’s most celebrated names reimagine Edgar Allan Poe’s most surprising, unsettling, and popular tales for a new generation. Edgar Allan Poe may be a hundred and fifty years beyond this world, but the themes of his beloved works have much in common with modern young adult fiction. Whether the stories are familiar to readers or discovered for the first time, readers will revel in Edgar Allan Poe’s classic tales, and how they’ve been brought to life in 13 unique and unforgettable ways. Contributors include Kendare Blake (reimagining “Metzengerstein”), Rin Chupeco (“The Murders in the Rue Morge”), Lamar Giles (“The Oval Portrait”), Tessa Gratton (“Annabel Lee”), Tiffany D. Jackson (“The Cask of Amontillado”), Stephanie Kuehn (“The Tell-Tale Heart”), Emily Lloyd-Jones (“The Purloined Letter”), Hillary Monahan (“The Masque of the Red Death”), Marieke Nijkamp (“Hop-Frog”), Caleb Roehrig (“The Pit and the Pendulum”), and Fran Wilde (“The Fall of the House of Usher”).

As a YA author, editor, and blogger with family relationships to maintain, could you share a few things you've learned about balancing many roles? The number one thing I've learned is honestly that balance is kind of a myth. There's no way to do everything perfectly and make everyone happy. What's worked for me is choosing what my priority will be at any given time and then backburnering things as possible. So, for example, when I knew I really wanted to finish writing a novel, I took a hiatus from blogging inasmuch was possible and took advantage of the fact that my in-laws come over every Sunday to see my child and put my butt in the chair for as solid a time block (usually 3-4 hours with of course some interruptions) on Sunday mornings as possible until I was done. When I take on extra blogging, it means writing is gonna get backburnered. Consistency is important and so is being firm on your boundaries. 

What should we be expecting with His Hideous Heart -- mild creepiness, full on terror, or something more in between? It really does run a gamut, in the same way I don't think everyone realizes Poe's story did. In addition to the Gothic horror he's known for, he's also called the father of the modern detective story, and of course some of his works were far more melancholy than terrifying. I think all of his different facets are captured really well in the collection. Certainly, though, even in the ones with happy endings, you're not gonna find sunny beach reads! Why do you think Poe's stories continue to fascinate readers after so many years? Because his themes have never stopped being relevant or interesting. They're so many of the darkest parts of humanity that we don't necessarily get to live out; they're some of our worst fantasies. Getting to live them out through literature, getting to take action against someone who drives us nuts or mourn ourselves into oblivion, is both a safe and satisfying way to explore them. It takes a brave writer to put that out into the world and I think it takes brave writes to adapt them and say, "Here's how we're still feeling those things in our current world."

How did you choose which story you would re-imagine? Well first off, I took a backseat to the others, because they're all masters of dark fantasy or thrillers or horror and I am...not exactly known for any of those things! So I was only selecting from what they did not. And then from there, "Ligeia" was such an easy choice, because I knew I was going to stick my romantic contemporary strengths as best I could, and I saw immediately how that story would play out if I did. It didn't even feel like a selection process; the idea was just...there, waiting for me to grab it.

What were some of the challenges and rewards of editing an anthology? It's always a challenge to corral that many authors, and it's just logistically complicated. There are a lot of contracts and payments and agent negotiations and I don't think people realize that it's very rare for editors not to be responsible for that (as opposed to publishers). So that in itself is a lot of work before you even get to the editing, deadline enforcing, mapping over everyone's copyediting and proofreading corrections, etc. But I have so much natural curiosity about the industry, especially as someone who's been working in it for over a decade, that I really wanted to learn how more things on this side work, so that was actually a big reward for me! As, of course, is getting to read all these amazing stories early and working with such amazing authors. I really could not have asked for better.

What was the process for finding contributors? This actually half happened on Twitter, where the idea arose and people I think are fantastic in these genres chimed in that they'd be interested, and then half happened in email, when I realized this project was actually going to happen and I wanted to make sure it had as many of my favorites as possible. Honestly, creating lineups is my favorite part of anthologies, so I just went straight to the authors I absolutely love who write in Poe's genres and asked them to join up. It was thankfully easy!

Could you share a few books you've been recommending lately? ALWAYS. I've had a lot of reason to recommend By Any Means Necessary by Candice Montgomery, which has the college setting I know a lot of YA readers are looking for, plus a killer voice, great romance, awesome friend group, and covers really relevant topics. Another upcoming favorite is The Last True Poets of the Sea by Julia Drake, which is a Sapphic reimaginging of Twelfth Night that I always pitch as perfect for fans of The Weight of the Stars by K. Ancrum and How to Make a Wish by Ashley Herring Blake, both of which I love. As part of my Patreon for LGBTQReads, I have sort of a "book concierge" service, where I help readers find the perfect queer book for them, and so far Tell Me How You Really Feel by Aminah Mae Safi and Hot Dog Girl by Jennifer Dugan are in the lead over there; all hail the f/f YA Rom Com! And, obviously I've been getting some Horror/Spooky requests too, thanks to both His Hideous Heart and the fall season being upon us, and my standby faves there are The Girl From the Well by Rin Chupeco, Mary by Hillary Monahan, Anna Dressed in Blood by Kendare Blake, As I Descended by Robin Talley, and Wilder Girls by Rory Power.

Just for fun, since you are involved with publishing in a variety of roles, would you share one of your strangest experiences in the industry? Oh man, it's really hard not to respond to this with anything I...shouldn't. But I'll go with an embarrassing one that also involves one of the only times I have ever lied at work. My first job out of college, I was an Editorial Assistant at Simon & Schuster. There was an event for an Entourage book, by which, yes, I do mean a show based on the horrid show I was extremely into once upon a time and that fully influenced the character of Josh Chester in my Daylight Falls duology, but I digress. Anyway, I went to the event, which was about 10-15 blocks away from the office, and I reallllly wanted a signed copy, but I also reallllly didn't want to take more than an hour for lunch because I was terrified of my boss. And since I worked there, I knew the name of the editor on the book, and I maybe used that to pretend I was her assistant so I could skip the whole line and then get my book signed. MAYBE. I cannot confirm or deny.

Thanks so much for sharing with Rich in Color. We look forward to reading these shivery tales. Thank you so much for having me!!

Dahlia Adler is an Associate Editor of mathematics by day, a blogger for B&N Teens and LGBTQ Reads by night, and an author of Young Adult and New Adult novels at every spare moment in between. Her novels include the Daylight Falls duology, Just Visiting, and the Radleigh University trilogy, and she is the editor of the anthologies His Hideous Heart (Flatiron Books, 2019) and That Way Madness Lies (Flatiron Books, 2021). Dahlia lives in New York with her husband, son, and an obscene amount of books, and can be found on Twitter and Instagram at @MissDahlELama.