#malaise city! but we keep moving :-)

[neallo]

have been experiencing a somewhat unpleasant phenomena on occasion recently wherein i become convinced, in a sort of “not-upset-just-disappointed” way, that virtually everything i've ever written is trite and stupid and worthless. a fun twist on this is that sometimes i instead feel that i have lost my touch and that everything i will ever write from here on out is doomed to be trite and stupid and worthless. i'd like to emphasize that for whatever reason i don't really find this distressing, just a little bit of a bummer. it would be cool if it stopped though i think that would be really swag

[oldtestleper]

um. why am i so sad. why am i so tired. i had a real good torta and an alright day at work like buck up pal

[lostsunlight]

CHAPTER 12 - BREACH THE SURFACE

childe x reader, wc: 3.5k, masterlist, Ao3

cw: nsfw, violence, murder,

Somehow, he survived. You dragged him into the apartment not caring who saw you - it seemed everyone was too busy recovering from the attack to notice anyways. Childe was still coughing and retching. He doubles over and throws up into the sink, black flakes with an odd purple sheen mixed in. You scrunch your nose and flick your hand to wash it down the sink.

The Abyss, the very thing that had plagued Mondstadt, now it was coming back to haunt you in a new form. Memories of Mondstadt seemed to follow you like a shadow. Another thing to add to the list of why you should hate Childe.

“Feel a bit better?” He swallowed and nodded, still panting 

“Yeah, I think I got most of it out. I’m just cold and soaked now”

You had never seen him look weak, you could almost understand why he wouldn’t want his underlings to see him like this. What a contrast it would be to see their fearless leader look like death had given him a slap on the back. 

You couldn't see any visible cuts on him at least but he still smelt like the rot of the abyss, still had the singe of electro on him. It was strange, he had been slashed clean across the chest again but in that wretched form he sustained no permanent injury.

He was freezing to the touch. Eventually you managed to drag him to the bathroom, slowly you peeled his damp clothes off along with yours. Neither of you cared about the nudity at this point just wanting to move away from the edge of being frozen. 

You used your vision to fill up the bath with warm water. Steam curling off it in delicate tendrils instantly making the air feel a little less frigid. He sighed deeply as he relaxed into the water. You followed him in, curling up at the other end, letting the warmth seep into your rain-soaked bones. 

You let out a small sigh before turning your attention to him. Deep bags underneath his eyes were still there but his skin seemed a little more pink now. You had never seen him look so out of sorts, despite the lack of fresh wounds on his body he radiated malaise.

“How are you feeling?” You tucked your legs up to your chest, squinting as your shoulder twinged in pain.

He massages his neck, tilting it from side to side. “Not great, I overused my Foul Legacy. The abyssal energy took too much from me this time. At least I'm not coughing it up anymore”

“How long does it take to recover” You asked, trying to gauge what you needed to do

He shrugged “Generally the longer and harder I use it the worse the recovery is”

“How many times have you used it then?” 

“Only sparingly, I don't exactly want the world to know about it. Takes away the surprise” A small smile tugs at the edge of his lips as he says that

“Ever the tactician. So, what now?”

“We keep on going. I don't have long, maybe a few hours but I need to get back to Northland. Having a Harbinger missing wouldn't be a great look” 

He looked exhausted, but underneath that there was a troubled look. He stared up at the ceiling, brows knotted together

“There's something else on your mind”

“I didn't get the gnosis, I did all of this and still failed. I failed the Tsaritsa” The water around you started to feel like a current, flowing just under the surface and Childe’s anger grew. 

“I nearly drowned a whole city, nearly lost your trust and for what? A fight that I lost anyway. It wasn’t worth doing all of that. All this harm for no good, nothing to show for it. My chance to prove myself to Cap- The other Harbingers, gone ”

“There has to be another way right? You can still salvage this and prove yourself? This can't be the end.” You said, trying to coax him away from spiralling

Childe sunk into the water and flung his arm across his face “You’re right, A Harbinger doesn't get knocked down that easily” 

“There he is” You softly say, at least he's getting his bite back. 

Turning your attention to your shoulder you could see a purple bruise blooming, acutely aware of Childe’s gaze you drew up some water using your hand and formed it around your shoulder. You let out a little huff and bit your lip, letting the pain flow into the water. After a few minutes the bruising eased.

“Your getting good at this” He comments, leaning in to inspect your injured shoulder

“Thanks, I learned it from Baizhu. I still can't fully heal something but I can ease it a little, take the edge off”

“How did you manage that impressive bruise?”

You flushed and looked away in embarrassment “I crashed into the Golden House when I saw Osial, I got spooked when I saw it and lost control”

“How on Teyvat did you managed to crash into the Golden House?” He sat back with an surprised look on his face

“You know that night by the campfire when you first taught me to fight?” He nodded “You mentioned some vision users being able to turn into pure elemental form. I saw you do it at the Golden House to escape, I followed you. I lost track of you because of the rain and the battle though”

“I didn’t know you could do that, especially without training”

“I don't think I could do it again if I’m being honest, at least not on command. I was so blinded by rage and fear that I just… let it take over me. That and the storm helped me draw some power”

“Rage? Fear?” He tilted his head “There are better ways to channel elemental energy” He said jokingly 

“I-I don't know” you hug your head “Everything just happened so quickly, there's a lot you didn't tell me you know. The delusion, the gnosis. Then there's the second god I’ve seen abandon their nation”

“You finally have reason for your doubts huh?” He prompted you on 

“I suppose. When you summoned Osial to draw out Rex Lapis, Some part of me hoped that he would show up, but he didn’t. He all but abandoned his people. Its sad that I had to see you nearly drown a whole city to see that” 

A flash of guilt came across his face “I only did it to draw out Rex Lapis, I also thought he would show up. I only went that far for the Tsaritsa. Guess we both learnt the same lesson”

“I still don’t know if I can follow any god… but maybe” You paused and took a breath “Maybe the Tsaritsa might be a good choice. What exactly does she plan to do?”

Childe reaches out and grabs both your hands “I want a new contract, Rex Lapis isn’t dead yet.” You slip your hand away from his, falling back into the water, shaking your head.

“Why tell me these things in the first place if I have to swear to keep them a secret? Wouldn’t you be breaking rules”

“I-I don't know, I just want to keep you around for a little longer. Maybe if you join the Fatui you can do that”

Of course the contract, it had been fulfilled, you were now free of your obligation to him

“Childe, The whole reason I made a deal with you in the first place was to gain my own freedom. How can I be free if I'm chained to another Archon?”

“Because she will bring freedom to all of us, this I can swear. If you follow the Tsaritsa to the end of her plan you will never have to swear loyalty or serve another god again. Plus isn’t it freedom to choose what you want to do with your life? You can choose to join us”

“...You make a fair point.” You reach out and grab his hands again, hoping your blind trust might lead you somewhere. Despite all he had done, the sins he had committed you wanted to stay by him for a little longer as well

He squeezes your hands “Swear you’ll never tell a soul that I told you any of this. You’ll never tell anyone about the Tsaritsa's plans”

“I swear” Another twinge up your forearm, a small golden glow around your hands and forearms that sunk into your skin.

Childe bites his lip “I can’t tell you absolutely everything but seeing as you know about gnoeses…”

“That's the thing that every Archon has, right? You told me that was what you were after when we first got to Liyue” You move a little closer towards him and lean in ever so slightly, interested to hear what he has to say

He nods “She wants to collect the power of the seven gnoses of Teyvat and use their collective power to bring down the heavens and create a new world order, one where man could rule freely without the eyes of Celestia gazing down upon them at every turn”

He paused and pulled you closer “Dragonspine wasn’t always eternally cold you know, they hit the top of the mountain with a nail that wiped out Sal Vindagnyr, the civilization that thrived on Dragonspine before. They had their favour until they didn't, one little thing and an entire city is wiped out on a whim”

Your eyes widened and he continued “The Cataclysm that happened five-hundred years ago, That was Celestia wiping out every remnant of a nation without gods. They will cause untold destruction to maintain their iron rule of Teyvat” 

You swallowed trying to take everything he just said in and process it. 

“So what you're saying is that Celestia wiped out these civilisations and in turn the Tsaritsa wants a world without gods and to do that she wants to wage a war against the heavens? What about the Tsaritsa isn’t she a god herself?”

“I don't know, her true plans are for herself and only herself to know”

“And the delusion, is that a mockery of Celestia? An attempt to imitate a god's blessing?”

“Something like that, I’m not too involved with that side of things, its more Dottore’s realm”

You looked down and swallowed, now considerably closer to Childe than you were at the start of the bath. He reached out and cupped your face, you lifted your gaze to make eye-contact with him. His eyes still had no shine, but his smile showed something genuine. 

“Y/N, stay, even if it's just for a little while longer.” he said softly “I can’t figure out what I feel for you let alone put it into words, I swore to love nobody else but the Tsaritsa, but you’re making me begin to question it”

This man who had stood for everything you opposed. On that fateful night where you had first met at the bottom of Starfell Lake. His role was to harm and yours to heal, he was a creature, at least in part, of the abyss. Everything dictated that you should hate him. Yet, deep down, you knew you were falling ever so slowly for him, even if you never wanted to admit it but maybe, just maybe you could bury it down and remain with him for a bit longer. 

You pressed your forehead to his and closed your eyes “OK, I’ll stick around”

He sighed “Thank you”

He angled your head slightly, eyes half lidded. You made the first move and gently kissed him. It was unlike the other time you had kissed him, that had been an outburst of desperation and pure willingness to avoid talking about the problem. But this, this was soft and sweet with no intention of it being anything else. A kiss for kisses sake. 

Breath intermingled with one another's, you opened your mouth a scant inch and he took every advantage of that. He curled his hand around the back of your head and your hands found his shoulders. 

Eventually, you broke apart. “C’mon the waters getting cold and you have to be at Northland”

“Yeah, your right” He chucked against your lips

✧

You sprinted up the giant flight of stairs to Bubu pharmacy. Debris was strewn across Liyue Harbour. It had only been hours after the storm had ended but people had begun to crowd the streets. A few shopkeepers cleaning up outside their stores.

You came to a stop, slightly panting, at the top of the stairs. Looking around Baizhu and Qiqi were mulling around inside. Qiqi was mopping the front and Baizhu was taking stock of herbs. He turns around to see you

“Y/N, I’m glad to see you safe after that whole ordeal”

“As am I, I came as quickly as I could. Of course this would happen on my day off” You half joke

“No need to worry, we're ok. Aside from some water damage to some herbs everything's alright. It is your day off Y/N, you don’t need to stick around” Baizhu said, turning back to continue taking inventory of the soaked herbs and medicines 

“I just wanted to check in. That and I assume some people would have been injured in the storm, I came by to help”

Baizhu frowns for a second and nods “I guess you're right, there are a few people upstairs. Most of them are minor injuries, thankfully. I believe a troupe of local emergency healers have been dispatched by the Qixing for the more severe cases we couldn't effectively treat here. I'll keep you updated if anyone else comes in”

You nod, “Thank you, I'll start right away” 

✧

Childe dried off and made his way to the bank, he still felt awful but at least he didn't like he was on the brink of death anymore. People stared at him as he strolled the streets to the bank, He didn’t take much notice of it but the closer he got to Northland the more he could feel their eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. Nodding at Vlad he stepped into the opulent interior, only to see Signoria and Zhongli conversing.

“Signoria, what are you doing here?” He said in a tense tone, even just being near that woman made him want to rip her to pieces. 

“Finishing what you started Childe” She snarked, looking up up and down with disdain and crossing her arms

“You call this "cooperation between Harbingers"? Cooperation involves communication, you know” He snarled, He wouldn’t let her take another victory from him again. 

Signoria laughed, smirking at him “Don't take it to heart, Childe. Besides, weren't you happy that you got to skip the formalities and bring chaos to the land? I'm sure you must've enjoyed that” She said in a soft, drawling voice. She paused as the doors opened again to reveal the Traveller and Paimon

“Oh, it seems that some of your friends have arrived.” She snapped her head toward him and then back at the new arrivals “It's you two. I believe we've met once before... In the City of Bards, was it? I imagine that it must have been rather hard to forget watching helplessly as something precious was snatched away from your friend.”

Aether looked at Signoria the same way Tartaglia did, with nothing but pure molten hatred. Paimon flitted to Aether's side and mumbled something, Aether seemed to visibly calm down, coaching his expression into one of mild annoyance. 

“Well, if it isn't Aether. This is our first time seeing each other since Liyue was nearly wiped off the map. This is certainly a bit... awkward, wouldn't you say?” He said, desperately trying to lighten the mood after the battle that had happened a mere few hours ago 

“Hmph, Paimon knew that we should never have trusted a Fatui Harbinger.” She crossed her arms and floated a little lower, glowering at him. Childe was glad that all of the people that could say that it was Paimon. 

“Aw, now don't say that. Sure, I may have misled you, but I never had anything against you personally. Besides, I thought we were getting along quite well together, didn't you? Except for that little tussle we had at the end.”

“You deceived us! Used us!” The Traveller snapped

“The real deceivers here are Signoria and Zhongli.” He retorted 

“Stop wasting time, Childe. There'll be plenty of time to chat once I'm through here.”

She turned to Morax and held her hand out “You remember the agreement, Morax. Now, if you would be so kind... The Gnosis please.” The voice dropping into something more sinister 

Agreement? That bitch! Signoria had swooped under his nose yet again to steal the glory that was so rightfully his. And the gnosis? That means Zhongli isn’t just an adeptus but the Archon himself. He clenched his fists.

Zhongli paused for a little while “The contract is fulfilled. That which thou seeketh is now bestowed unto thee, for my promise is solid as stone”

“Hmph, how sanctimonious” She retorted, a sneer on her face. Zhongli drew the gnosis, it took everything from Childe not to reach out and snatch it from him as he passed it to Signoria.

“Why fake your death Morax? You could have cut the chase and given us the gnosis at the very start” Childe asked, anger rising at the second deceiver

“Gathering all the forces that had been bubbling behind the scenes, and then stirring them together in a pot that was bound to boil over... That's what he wanted to see, am I right?” Signoria said in a mocking tone, inspecting the rook-like gnosis, now solidly in her grasp. 

She was deeper in on this than he thought, she must have been plotting to take this from him the moment she tipped him off about the Sigil at Yangsheng Teahouse. 

Zhongli intervened “Perhaps it's best that I explain. As you know, I've dwelt upon this world for more than six thousand years. It is now 3,700 years ago that I founded Liyue together with The Adepti. Even boulders that can withstand whirlpools will erode with the passing of time. I kept convincing myself that cracks had not begun to form and that the end of my time had not yet come.” 

He took a pause and glanced at everyone there, Paimon and Aether looked on in interest and Signoria looked bored, as if she already knew all of this

“Until one drizzly day, as I was strolling along the harbour, I heard a merchant tell one of his workers, "You've finished your duties, go ahead and call it a day." I stood motionless among the crowds, asking myself, Have I already finished my duties? But as I began to consider relinquishing my divine role, I soon discovered that many reasons still remained to not hastily depart. Was Liyue, the city I had dwelt in for so long, already prepared to enter its next age? I decided that a test was needed in order to reveal the answer.”

Of course this was going to be a long winded explanation, he couldn’t just get to the point

“So I approached Signoria. I knew the Tsaritsa wanted my gnosis and I was willing to give it for a price. But before I was content to leave Liyue in mortals hands I wanted to set up one last test. So, we gathered the cast of Tartaglia, The Adepti and The Qixing” 

‘Oh and each played their role so beautifully” Signoria laughed, hiding her smile behind one hand

“Were you satisfied with the finale?” Childe snarked, growing more and more pissed by the second. All this time he thought he had the reins only for them to be so cruelly cut away. Zhongli and Signoria had wanted him to lose that fight and summon Osial.

“Indeed, I was. The Gnosis I had kept for so many years suddenly seemed to have lost its meaning.” His face never changing from his pensive expression. 

“Let me guess — you had another plan in case it all burned down.” Aether remarked flatly 

“That's right, which is why I continued to safeguard the Gnosis until now.”

“So you mean that if the chaos ever reached the point of no return, you would simply appear and use your divine powers to bring Liyue back under control?” Paimon questioned 

Signoria spoke for Morax “Of course. And it would have been all too easy for him, too. Just as a child quickly matures after losing their parents, so has Liyue matured when faced with the death of its deity” 

Zhongli continued, “In the end, the resolution to all that has transpired was even more satisfactory than I could have hoped for. Credit is also due to Signoria, the emissary dispatched by the Cryo Archon to fulfil our contract. At my request, she kept everything she knew in strict confidence — this despite the eavesdropping ears of her colleague, Childe.”

Childe was about to beat this man into the ground, god or not. And The Tsaritsa had dispatched Signoria and not him, how long had she been plotting this for?

“All of these things turned out as I had planned. There is only one thing that I had not anticipated... and that was the conduct of the Liyue Qixing. I had expected them to do no more than The Adepti. To come to the defence of Liyue. But when all was said and done.

They seized the opportunity to supplant Liyue's divine protectors, and used the subsequent power vacuum left by my death to quickly gain complete control of Liyue.”

Rage boiling over he snapped “Hey, what about me? Doesn't anyone feel the least bit of remorse for deceiving me? You've practically kept me in the dark!”

“Hah! I think that thanks would be more appropriate. You certainly played no small part in all of this... Wreaking havoc and turning the city upside down. You must have delighted in it. The Lord of Geo ought to thank you for your performance, if anything.  If you hadn't created the pressure of a battle between mortals, adepti, and a god, the lump of coal resting in the hands of the Geo Archon, Liyue would never have been able to become a dazzling diamond of a city.”

“What? Just whose side are you on, mocking me like that? Are you itching for a fight? You've come out of this as the hero of Liyue. I, on the other hand, will forever be proscribed as a disturber of peace” The faintest hint of electro singed the air

“The cards fell where they did. Well then, with the Gnosis in my possession, I have no use for such idle chatter. We should return to Zapolyarny Palace and seek an audience with Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa. Come, Childe.”

“Ugh, fine... I'll meet you there later. I'm not sharing a boat with the likes of you.” 

“Hmph, do as you wish.” She turned her nose up and strutted out of the building towards the docks. Childe followed a few seconds later, avoiding Signoria he headed straight for the apartment. 

He threw open the door and slammed it behind him. Fuming, he smashed a vase on the ground relishing in hearing it break. He stepped forward crushing the porcelain under his boot. 

All of this work just to be a puppet strung along by Signoria and Zhongli. He had been sent on this mission to prove himself only for The Tsaritsa to have planned for Signoria to step in from the very start. What did he have to do to prove that he wasn’t a child?

And Zhongli, Childe was just about ready to tackle him to the ground and face his godly wrath for that act of deception. He always knew he wasn’t a human, but for him to be a god under his nose? Childe screamed and let out a strike of electro, it hung in the air, cracking. 

On his return to Snezhnaya he would be humiliated in front of the other Harbingers. He took his mask that lay perched on the side of his head and looked at it, it was the representation of himself as a Harbinger, the mask seemed to laugh back at him. Another burst of electro jumped forth just as the door opened.

“Hey! Calm down, you nearly electrocuted me!” He saw you register his state, his back turned to you standing above a shattered vase and your expression changed to one of concern 

“What happened at the bank?” You asked softy, the residual electro energy in the hair made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

"What didn’t happen” he huffed, pacing around the room, you stepped into the apartment fully and closed the door behind you. He was still gripping his mask

“ I was never meant to get the gnosis, I was a mere pawn for Signoria and Zhongli to move around as they pleased. I did nothing to prove myself to the other Harbingers and now I look like an impulsive fool! Not to mention Zhongli gave the gnosis directly to Signoria, the bastards had it planned from the very start” He yelled, waving his hands around, his cape flowing behind him like a wave.

There was a flash of confusion across your face as you processed exactly what he had said, piercing together that Zhongli was the allegedly deceased god. You sat down and patted the spot on the couch next to you, reluctantly Childe sat down beside you, letting the mask fall and clatter on the floor.

“All of this was for nothing” He said, voice quieter than before. He rested his head on your shoulder, the rage that had been burning gave way to exhaustion, his body catching up to his over use of Foul Legacy.

You carded you hand through his rusty locks “Let's get you to bed, we can talk about this tomorrow, but right now you've reached the end of your wick”

Childe sighed and got up “Yeah… Yeah you're right. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow”

As Childe left for bed you hung around for a second longer, picking up the mask, you looked into the face of Tartaglia.

[birdofdawning]

The Bookseller’s Eldest Daughter and the Witch’s Girl

The first chapter is here; the previous chapter is here.

Chapter Three

Afterwards the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was never able to tell how long she was at the fairy ball, or much of what she saw and did there.

It was like a hideous fever dream that you can never quite forget nor entirely remember, the sort where small inconsequential things — a fly crawling on a hand, the ornate floral frame around a portrait, the pattern on the carpet under your feet — take on enormous significance while the actual events fade into a hazy malaise. She knew that she had been in a great ballroom and it was dark and crowded and uncomfortably warm, and the air was close and heady and smelt of earth and spices. Candles were everywhere, dripping fatty tallow on the floor and burning with steady red flames that made the laughing faces in the crowd around her loom large and grotesque as they jostled around her, appearing and disappearing into the throng.  

The music pervaded everything, though she never saw the performers. She could feel it in her veins, nudging, beckoning, urging her to join the revelry, and she would discover herself performing a wild galliard with other laughing dancers  — some of whom she felt she ought to know, in that odd half-maddening way we all feel sometimes (if only she could think) — or taking part in a riotous cotillion with a man who seemed to wear hooves upon his feet. A poorly-dressed girl who seemed about her own age danced past her looking exhausted, and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter saw that wherever this girl stepped brambles grew, so that she must keep moving least the thorns catch at her and coil up around her.

She thought that she may have stared for some time at her own distorted reflection in an old mirror, until someone laughed and offered her wine; but when she reached for a cup from their tray she saw that a large toad was sitting solemnly among the vessels and she recoiled, startled. And then everyone laughed again and she laughed too, and they all moved on into the dance.

She explained the intricacies of a Spanish novel she had once enjoyed to tall grey woman who had water dripping down her skin and a sodden gown. While the girl talked the woman silently caressed her face with both hands, which was both a little disconcerting and unpleasantly wet. When the girl got to the really interesting part of story the lady smiled, showing far too many sharp teeth.

She remembered the music slowing at one point, becoming more sombre, and the crowd parting for a languid pavane to pass. All the dancers wore crowns of burning candles, wax dripping down their faces, and among them she thought that she recognised a woman from the next street over who she knew had died two years earlier, and another woman who she was sure was married to the baker on Clock Street.

The pavane moved though the crowd to the end of the ballroom, and she drifted behind it. There, sitting on a great chair and overlooking the ball, was an old beggar that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had seen about the city many times before. But now, over his rags was a cloak of shining black silk, and upon his head was a crown of crystal that shone with a breathtakingly beautiful light in the soft white glow that came from the shadows above. He was quite, quite drunk, and almost swayed off the chair in confusion as the performers of the pavane ended their dance and curtseyed before him. Immediately tall, twisted figures reached out to steady him and another cup of wine was put into his hand. He was staring into it in bewilderment as the revel began anew, and then he was lost to the sight of the girl, who forgot all about him almost immediately.

In fact, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had become so lost in the fairy revel that she may have stayed with them forever if it hadn’t been for a very fortunate thing that happened. She was deep in conversation with a smiling man in a velvet tail-coat; he was speaking of Roman law and she was staring in fascination at the snail that was slowly crawling up his cheek. She was only distracted from this when a child offered her a tray of golden apples. She took one without thinking, bringing it up to her nose to smell. And at once she was beset with the most delicious scent. The apple smelt of sweetness and long summer nights and dark eyes and secret kisses exchanged in an orchard, kisses exchanged with— who? She couldn’t think. The smiling gentleman asked her Why do you not eat? And she was just opening her mouth to take a bite when— oh! She felt a sharp pain in her foot, and looking down she saw— what do you think? An ordinary little black hen, just like the ones everyone kept in their yards in her neighbourhood. And this hen had cocked its head and was giving her a short, cross look, like hens do. Then all at once the girl remembered going out to the coop on frosty winter mornings to let out the hens, and throwing out grain for them, and gathering eggs for her sister to cook. And abruptly the reality of her sister’s awful plight came back to her, making her gasp.

When she looked back down the little black hen had already scuttled away among the throng of the ball, leaving the Bookseller’s eldest daughter feeling like she had just woken up from a heavy sleep. She glanced about her but everything was a nightmare of moving bodies and murmuring voices and that incessant unsettling music that seemed to make her bones vibrate like they were made of glass. The smiling gentleman again urged her to take a bite of the apple, but now she remembered exactly why she shouldn’t eat anything offered to her in this place and she said “Do you know, I think I shall leave it for later,” and dropped it into her satchel. The gentleman immediately lost interest in her and moved on to join another cotillion that had formed nearby and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter tried to think about what she ought to do next. She needed to find her sister’s head, but where?

She had just decided that she would climb up onto a table or chair so she could get a better look at the ballroom when a great cheer went up from the dancers. Looking around she saw that at the end of the ballroom a very Wonderful Person — why, the very same Wonderful Person that she had seen in Mr Prosper’s house only last night! — had stepped up beside the beggar king in the great chair and, lit by a soft white light from above, was smiling down at the company. They wore a brocade dressing gown over a wine-dark suit, and an elegant pair of ram’s horns grew from their forehead. Hands in their pockets they waited for silence, smilingly.

“My dear friends,” the Person finally began in a melodious voice that rang out like a pistol shot, “It is that time of the evening when we must needs recall our kind host, and take a moment to drink a toast to him. Or her. To tell the truth I did not pay much attention. But still, a toast!” And at a gesture from the Wonderful Person a thin, pale young man stepped out of the crowd and handed him a goblet of spun glass that contained some heavy golden liqueur. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter eyes lingered on this young man… there was something slightly familiar about him, as if she had seen him before but did not number him among her acquaintances. But then the thought was broken as all about her revellers lifted up old drinking horns, wooden cups, chalices of crystal or bone. A cup was thrust into her hand by an unseen person and she imitated the others.

Then, with an ironic twist of their mouth, the Very Wonderful Person cried “My friends — to the King!”

To the King! they all repeated, laughing, and drank deeply.

Fortunately, when she was twelve the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had read a slim volume intitled The Parlour Mountebank: Ninety Simple Stratagems to Amuse and Bewilder, and she had been inspired to practice the trick of appearing to drink while actually emptying the liquid down your sleeve, causing her sister (who even then did most of the laundry) to become very annoyed with her. So she downed her cup too and tried to ignore the unpleasant feeling of liquid soaking through her dress.

After drinking the Very Wonderful Person had bowed low to the beggar-king, who looked around them with befuddled eyes. Stepping back and tilting their head, the Person regarded the beggar gleefully.

“How regal our king (or queen) is! How noble! And yet despite his (or her) glaringly obvious upright character our beloved friend has been afflicted — he will not mind me telling you this, I know; we keep no secrets here! — afflicted with such tribulations, such extreme anguishes the nature of which I barely dare hint at for fear that you would fall to the floor weeping in utter devastation! That she has endured so much without ever diminishing the pure and gracious spirit that radiates from her like a sun in miniature is a true credit to her! Or him!”

“Wha—?” said the beggar.

“Quite so, quite so,” said the Very Wonderful Person kindly, and patted the beggar-king’s shoulder. “But fortune favoured our king at last — at last! — when we, his Very Good Friends, found him. And restored him to his rightful estate.” A tear trickled down their shining face while they stared heroically into the middle distance. “How lucky a king to have such excellent friends!” the Wonderful Person whispered.

The company roared and gibbered in accord.

“And he knows it, of course! I’m quite sure he feels nothing but delight when he reflects on the joy his presence brings to his friends.” Here they gave the beggar a rough shove that almost knocked the poor man off his throne. “No, mark my words,” the Wonderful Person said beneficently, “the King loves his Dear Friends!”

A chorus of agreement came from the crowd, but the Very Wonderful Person had suddenly become fascinated with the way the soft white light fell through their goblet and had fallen silent. The viols and pipes struck up and the dance began again, but Wonderful Person turned the spun glass goblet this way and that, admiring the colours that danced upon their fingers. Idly, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter tilted her head back to follow the light back to its source.

And there, suspended in the darkness, floated her sister’s beautiful head, radiant in that unruly place.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter stifled her cry of astonishment and turned to fight her way to the edge of the crowd — narrowly avoiding becoming caught up in another processional — as she tried to see how her sister’s head hung in that darkness like that. Was it dangling from the rafters on a rope? Or floating through some fairy magic? (And if the latter, how on earth was she to retrieve it?) Stepping outside of the ring of guttering candles and shading her eyes, she was finally able to see that an upper gallery ran around the ballroom, with several fine ladies promenading around it and watching the ball through opera glasses. And that at the far end of the gallery her dear sister’s head had been rather brutally tied to one of its railings by her long, brown hair.

Looking quickly about the Bookseller’s eldest daughter saw the stairs leading up to the gallery tucked away in the shadows across the room, and made for them. Two dancers whirled around her, reaching out to pull her into their sport, but the girl ducked away from them. A tiny old man appeared in front of her proffering a tray of plum cakes, but she dodged around him. A great moss-covered person stood by the stairs and glanced toward her as she approached, and she slowed down to a hesitant trot; but after a moment it lost interest and shambled back into the throng leaving her path open, and she started up the stairs.

It took a moment for her eyes to get used to the dim light away from the ball, but when she did she came to an abrupt halt. Half-way up the staircase was a long, crouching figure swathed in a black shroud, and it was slowly coming down the staircase toward her, feeling along each step with its hands as if searching for something. After a moment she took a hesitant step and at once the thing turned toward the noise, reaching out as if to grasp her. But its sleeve-covered hands found only air for it was still a few steps above her; and, with a dreadful sense of relief, she saw that its face was entirely covered with wrinkled cloth. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter tried to think of a plan. If she moved, even backing down the stairs, she was afraid that it would be upon her in an instant. The unexpected had occurred, she realised, and so she must extemporise. What could she do?

Slowly slowly she reached into her satchel and found the golden apple she had put there. Slowly slowly she pulled it out. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she flung the apple past the thing on the staircase — but on the opposite side to where she herself stood. The apple landed with a thud, and then bump! bump! bump! it began rolling back down the steps. The creature had immediately twisted back toward the noise with a swiftness that made the girl’s heart skip a beat, but every time it tried to capture the object that was coming down the staircase, the apple was already upon the step below it. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter squeezed herself against the wall as the thing passed her, and she felt worn fabric and long silky hair brush past her and smelt dust and the scent of a woman’s perfume, and then the figure was lost among the crowd.  

Releasing a breath, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter turned and began ascending the stairs again.

The gallery was lit by fireflies that hovered like stars about the several finely costumed ladies as they walked and talked together, discussing the dances below. Behind them hovered pages holding ready the fans and refreshments of rheir mistresses. No-one even glanced toward the Bookseller’s eldest daughter as she slipped past them like a shadow, though one lady sniffed the air and said “Have you found a new page, my dear? How diverting!” But her interlocutor denied this and said that on the contrary she had been meaning to obtain a new child for some time now, because her current page was beginning to complaining of stiff joints and grey hairs, and it was becoming rather a bore — she would probably turn him into something diverting soon and release the thing he had become upon a village somewhere. The others nodded sympathetically and said What else can one do with mortals?

By now the girl had made her way to the end of the gallery, where it extended over the King’s podium. And here, tied to the railings by her hair as the girl had feared, hung her sister’s head, still radiating that lovely soft light.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter crouched down low beside the railings. From her satchel she took the knife, some string, and the large parcel tightly wrapped in oilcloth. And had any of those fine ladies turned her head to look back down the gallery a moment later, they would have seen her gently cutting away at the hair that tied the Bookseller’s youngest daughter’s head to the railings. And then the head itself was lifted away and gently wrapped in a large white handkerchief. And in its place the thing from the oil-skin parcel was hung.

But all were far too absorbed in their amusements to pay attention to anything else; and in fact the merrymaking continued for several long moments before anything amiss was noticed. Then the Very Wonderful Person, who was still standing in a reverie, felt a drop of liquid strike their shoulder. Glancing at it, they saw that it was blood — and, why, here was another drop! And looking up they saw, not the beautiful face of the Bookseller’s youngest daughter but — what do think? Ah, but you have guessed already — it was a fresh sheep’s head, still dripping from the butcher!

“DECEPTION AND FALSE DEALING!” screamed the Wonderful Person, their face contorting in rage as they pointed an accusing finger. “That base magician has tried to cheat us out of our prize with spiteful and duplicitous counterfeiting!” The music stopped abruptly, and from all around came low growls that rapidly grew into baleful shriekings of fury that were truly dreadful to hear. “To me!” thundered the Wonderful Person, “and onward! We must pay this petty-conjuror back for his unspeakable impertinence!” There was a swirling of shapes and colours, like a kaleidoscope of butterflies enveloping you before flying away, and the sound of a multitude of footsteps trampling over a hard wooden floor. And then the candles all blew out at once and the hall was empty.

A moment later the Bookseller’s eldest daughter crept out from the shadows of the staircase and made her way outside, carefully supporting her satchel.

She emerged from the waters of the river, quite dry as before, and found the little black horse waiting for her. She didn’t say anything, just ran up the steps and threw her arms around its neck, burring her face in its warm shoulder. After a moment the horse began nuzzling her hair in a comforting sort of way.

But after a few minutes the Bookseller’s oldest daughter stepped back from the little black horse, took a breath, and said “I suppose we should go home now,” and the horse stood still while she climbed onto its back. Of course, all she wanted to do was to go straight to her home above the bookshop and restore her sister at once. But she knew that she needed to return the little black horse first, and thank the Witch’s girl for its loan, and also to… well, to thank her for help again and so-on.

So the horse trotted back into that strange blue-lighted mist and they made their way through the dream-city. And perhaps the Bookseller’s eldest daughter dozed a little in the saddle (and if she did, well, no wonder after all her night adventures!) because it seemed to be almost no time at all before they were stepping through the Witch’s back gate behind the Brazier’s Quarter.

The horse came to a stop as the girl rubbed her tired eyes. The sky had lightened enough that she could see the tiny yard with its hen coop and little else. No Witch’s girl emerged from the house to greet them. She slid down to the ground and embraced the horse again, giving it a kiss on the cheek. “I hope you are only a horse, if a wonderful one, and not someone the Witch has turned into a horse as a punishment!” she whispered. “Even if you are a little curmudgeonly.” The creature rolled its eyes and turned its back on her, so she took the hint and left it.

But when the Bookseller’s eldest daughter stepped into the Witch’s kitchen she found it too was quite empty and cold, for the stove hadn’t been lit yet. And here were their tea cups from the evening before, unwashed on the table! She looked about her wondering what she ought to do next, feeling that awkwardness visitors always have when faced with household tasks that obviously need to be done. Perhaps she should go back outside to unsaddle the horse and begin currying it?

That was when the Witch’s girl appeared, coming in behind her carefully carrying several eggs in her apron and dangling from a finger the lantern that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had left tied to the little black horse’s saddle.

“Hallo!” she said, “Here you are, alive and unensorcelled. It must have been a good four-step plan after all, which I find surprising. You will have to tell me all about it while I light the stove.”

So the Bookseller’s eldest daughter carefully sat down at the kitchen table (she was already a little sore from riding) and began telling the Witch’s girl of her night’s adventures. She talked about that strange ride through the city, and discovering the revel being held in the reflection of the old villa, and of her careful preparations. But when she tried to speak of the ball itself, and what she saw and did there, her tongue stumbled in her mouth and her words failed… and then she found she couldn’t go on.

“I… I can’t… Why can’t I…?” she puzzled, and then looked alarmed. “Have I been I enchanted? Is this how the fairies protect themselves from trespassers?” She gripped the table and tried to keep the panic from her voice.

But the Witch’s girl left what she was doing and knelt down beside her. “I don’t think so, my dear,” she said calmly, taking the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s hand, “I think that you have just been through a very frightening experience, and you were able to carry on because you are a brave and clever woman. And now it’s over, and you don’t have to be brave anymore, you can finally feel scared in safety. It’s all quite natural.”

Now I’m sure you yourself have noticed how we can all stay strong and stoic through the direst troubles but as soon as ever someone is kind to us about it we immediately fall apart. And to her great horror, as soon the Witch’s girl said all this of course the Bookseller’s eldest daughter burst into tears.

“Oh my dear!” said the Witch’s girl, embracing her, “Oh my brave girl.” And the Bookseller’s eldest daughter hid her face in her shoulder and wept.

“You poor thing,” said the Witch’s girl as she patted her back kindly, “You have been very courageous indeed. I fancy you only have an inkling of the danger you were in—” At this the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sobbed louder and the Witch’s girl went on quickly: “But you have come through it like a hero! Why, someone could write a poem about you.”

“In iambic pentameter?” sniffed the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“Oh, dactylic hexameter or nothing!” proclaimed the Witch’s girl. “There, there. You’re quite safe now.” And she began absently untangling the verbena from the girl’s hair with her free hand.

“You smell of horse,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter into her shoulder.

“So do you,” said the Witch’s girl.

Finally the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sat back up. “Sorry,” she said, wiping her face on her sleeve in a way that would have annoyed her sister, “I think you were quite right: everything all rather overcame me once I knew it was over.”

“That’s often the way,” said the Witch’s girl wisely, “and a well-deserved cry afterwards is no disgrace. Are you feeling better now? Then let’s have a look at your sister.”

Unwrapped, the Bookseller’s youngest daughter’s head winked and blinked at the two of them in confusion as the Witch’s girl examined her, but, having no breath to speak with, it remained silent.

“I haven’t the least idea of how to swap the heads back,” realised the Bookseller’s eldest daughter suddenly, “Honestly I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“Ho ho,” said the Witch’s girl obligingly, leaning down to look at the severed stump of neck which was as cleanly covered with skin as the rest of the head, “And I must say, your lack of foresight astonishes me. Surely you have some book somewhere-or-other on fastening magically detached heads back onto their bodies? I am afraid your bookshop must be sadly lacking if not. I shall certainly avoid it when next I require reading materials.”

“Not magically detached heads,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, annoyed. “We do have books on anatomy and chirurgy, of course, and—”

The Witch’s girl, stood back up and deftly wrapped the head back in its handkerchief “I think you’ll find,” she said, “that you will have very little problem. The head hasn’t really been separated from its body, not in any important way; that’s how both parts are still alive. Just… I don’t know, nudge the sheep’s head aside with her real head and see what happens.”

“I see,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter doubtfully. “Well then.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. “The sun is rising,” said the Witch’s girl after several heartbeats.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter started and glanced out of the window. “Yes, of course!” she said, spurred into activity. She quickly collected her things. “I expect the Witch will be up soon and wanting her breakfast, so you must get to work. She’s an early riser?”

“Not always,” said the Witch’s girl.

They stepped out into the Witch’s yard and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter turned to face the girl. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly, “For all of your help and for, well…” She trailed off a little helplessly.

The Witch’s girl waited a moment and then she leant up and pressed her lips to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s. They stood like that for a long moment, then the Bookseller’s eldest daughter pulled away and said “No, I was supposed to kiss you, so that doesn’t count. We must start again.” And, surprised at her own boldness, she ran her hand down through the Witch’s girl’s silky hair until she found her chin, which she tilted up until their mouths met again.

Kissing is like anything else — the more you practice the more you improve. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter suspected she was getting better at this, and when the Witch’s girl let out a little sigh she felt sure of it.

Finally the Witch’s girl stepped back. “That’s two,” she said huskily.

“That’s one,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter quickly leaning forward to steal another, “That’s two.”

The Witch’s girl frowned. “Now you have overpaid.”

“I am a Woman of Business,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter airily, “and I consider it no bad thing to be in credit with someone I have had repeated dealings with.”

“Be that as it may,” said the Witch’s girl sternly, “with magic the price must be paid exactly, no more, no less.” She reached up with both hands and pulled the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s head down towards her, bringing their lips together once again. “There,” she breathed some time later, “Our bargain is fulfilled. Good bye.” And she turned and went inside.

The sun was well above the city walls when the Bookseller’s eldest daughter quietly let herself back inside the bookshop. She crept up the stairs and into the girls’ bedroom where the sheep-headed creature still lay passively, staring up at the ceiling. The girl gently encouraged it to sit up, then she opened her satchel and brought out her sister’s head, unwrapping it. “Just… nudge it aside,” she muttered to herself as she held the head up toward its body.

And a moment later her sister was sitting there blinking at her in astonishment.

“Ophelia!” she said. “Where is… what has… Oh! Why is there an old sheep’s head in my lap!” And she leapt to her feet, knocking the horrid thing to the ground so that it rolled away on the floor. “What has been happening!? Oh! Get off me you great lump… you’re squeezing me! Ow! Ophelia! You smell like a tavern! Stop it!”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter released her sister at last and looked her up and down. “What do you remember?” she asked.

The Bookseller’s youngest daughter frowned and thought. “I don’t really remember… Have I been ill? I dreamed that I was watching a-a ball.” She shivered. “It was somehow quite awful, though I can’t now recall why. It’s all fading… But then you were there, and… who was that girl you were with?” Then she started moving her head about. “Why does my head feel so odd?”

“Does it?” said her older sister, rising in alarm.

“Yes, it feels… lighter—” and just at that point she put a hand to the back of her head and immediately she shrieked “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY HAIR”

When the Bookseller arose half and hour later he found his two daughters preparing breakfast in an icy silence. Both had their correct heads, he noted with satisfaction. Whatever it was must be over. He’d be able to marry them off with no-one the wiser.

Musing philosophically over the caprices of women, he sat down at the table and awaited his morning cup of tea.

The next chapter

[limelyrics]

Bring It On/劣等上等

Woah

(Grow up! Nah mean!)

Ooh

Ah

(Track Giga)

(Rin and Len in the house, let’s go!)

Pa pa ru pa ra ra ra ra ah

We’re the best so bring it on

Hoppin’ city, number 1

So, to the childish games and math, we say goodbye

Though the tricks are obvious, I’ve still got no pride

Keeping up appearances is such a red flag

Just keeping up the status quo, how boring is that

(That’s boring)

Come on, turn it up!

Cos’ I’m better than you scrubs!

Why don’t we nip that boredom in the bud

(Ooh)

Mama, no matter what, I can’t end up in a place like this

And maybe I’m going crazy

But I’m so damn bored of all this stupid playground drama

I am moving on up

So goodbye!

Fuck all that boring nonsense

Da da damn, I’m growing up

And you can’t stop me from learning about the bitter when push comes to shove

Pa pa passing all the time

Oh, time is flying by but now I don’t see how I’m in my prime

We’ll adapt, we’ll evolve, and I’m sure we’ll find love

And our past, and our sin, we’ll move on above

So bring it on

(Just bring it on)

(Ha!)

Yeah, all out

Bringing on changes, no doubt

Shut up about that green thot, she’s not hot anymore

Now, burn up

Ace-ing this whole life thing, jealous?

Need a pen, it’s all red

Yeah, I’ll get a hundred percent like I said

Girls, drinking, money, and drugs

That’s all the shit that I love

Chill out, it’s aight

Hey, take a joke, man

Everyday I wanna flip them all the bird

But it so fucking absurd, I don’t have enough hands

So throw them up!

And what’s up?

Loser

Yeah, you always were

Bring it on

Don’t tell me to calm down

Before I die I’ve gotta leave my hometown

Gotta grow a little taller and learn my way around

So blow a kiss, roll the highlights now

So tell me that you’re ready!

Da da damn those boring days

So full of our malaise

Won’t repeat once again when we have found our way

Na na nobody can see whats coming

So then it’s a draw, no one saw what the future brings

Every glitch, every bug, every hole that we dug

We’ll get up, we’ll dust off, we’ll struggle until it’s something we love

(Rin and Len in the show)

No no no, I won’t give up

To those things that I can’t let go of

You catch my busted up aesthetic cause

Now, I know, it’s me myself and

I’ve only got my fist

(I’ve got my whole heart)

Trump card is this

(I’ve got a new start)

Shout out to all the shit

“I’m done! Farewell!”

So this is it!

We’re never giving up!

Da da damn, I’m growing up

And you can’t stop me from learning about the bitter when push comes to shove

Hopefully our paths will cross again

And maybe that is when you’ll see that I’m an adult then

Centuries, wait for me, take opportunities

So go out on a limb

Bring it on and let the story begin

Ah

Lovin’ this era

Say goodbye to all the lies

We’ll see you later!

Bye guys!

[honey-tongued-devil]

⤝Writober - Day 6⤞

���Writober Day 6 “If we ever stop talking send me a song” [Vander]

↠English is not my first language ↠No use of "y/n", gn reader ↠TW: SFW, angst, takes place during the time skip, I had to change a bit the prompt, the song is "our love" from Arcane ↠Character/s: gn reader, Vander, implied Mylo, Claggor, Jinx and Vi ↠wc: 605 words

▶“If we ever stop talking send sing me a song”

“Ooh, like Sunday I'll pray our love will always stay pure… Ooh, while the world turns around, he holds me down for sure”

The voice mixes with the wind, the distant squeak of the gears of the elevator that connects Piltover to that place that has now taken the name of Zaun, the roar of the water of the port, the ticking of the rigid soles of the merchants who move back and forth while talking to each other, the noise of puddles that are hit by the feet of some bandit intent on diverting enforcers.

The underground city is breathing.

It seems almost intolerable in your eyes the audacity with which the city is getting back on its feet, as if time had continued to flow undaunted while, for you, the entire universe remained frozen at that night. Your voice cracks slightly, permeated with melancholy.

He promised you that he would always be there, that he would be your shield, that you would grow old together in that filthy world, making each other’s days less miserable. He promised you that you would work together at the inn, where you would dance every night as soon as the heavy door closed. He promised you that you would raise the children he picked up from the street together, like a real family. The same children he had brought with him as if he had not limited himself to death but had erased every single trace of his passage.

And the worst part is that you have no one to blame, not a single scapegoat to whom you can direct all your hatred, your malaise, your frustration. One part of your brain is angry with him, with the great Vander, the underground hound, who was so intent on saving everyone that he failed to save himself, while another part of you screams that you should have been with him that night, That you knew something was wrong, that maybe you couldn’t prevent it, but you could die there, in peace, next to your family.

The throat knot prevents you from finishing the song.

God, you’re so ungrateful.

You should just be happy that you’re still alive, that you’re okay, that they’re in a place that doesn’t smell like a sewer. But you’re selfish.

You miss them, you miss them in such a heartbreaking way that your heart seems to rip in two every single morning when you wake up in a bed suddenly too big, too empty.

You try to suffocate a cry, squeeze yourself between your own arms, squint with so much strength to see the residual image of that place even with your eyes closed, tighten your jaw feeling every single muscle in your neck in tension.

You can’t cry in front of him. He hates to see you cry.

It takes you a bit before trying to recompose, then you clear your voice with your eyelashes still damp, a deep breath, and start singing again with a stony tone your song, the one that you used to keep away from the jukebox because nobody, except you two, could play it.

"Do you remember, Vander? You said that to me. 'If we ever stop talking, I will sing you a song'. And every day..." the words die in your throat. You see your own reflection in the water at the foot of the statue: your eyes are reddened and dug, your lips are pale and chapped. Who knows if he’d be able to love you even now, even seeing you like this. "...every day for 251 days, I’ve come to sing you a song."

[home-at-nine]

Chapter Three — Terrace

“People are almost always better than their neighbours think they are". - Middlemarch, George Eliot

Welcome to suburbia, dearest reader. It is always nice to have new visitors, although we struggle to know where to put you. Sleep on the sofa of a friend, or under a table, or brave the grime of the pavements, as long as you have enough to keep you warm. But expect to be moved along by the council shortly. We maintain an illusion of pristine space— at least from the outside.

Our glorious corner of the city, wherein we are squeezed like cattle, each house a sliver of the train of brick and mortar. If you were to look from a bird’s eye, there would be nothing to see but lines of grey roofs, barely dust. Not that we get many birds here, anyway. It’s a concrete paradise and most wildlife disappeared a long time ago along with the green space. It is strange to think that where we live could possibly once have been lush and pulsing, now. Return to the bird’s eye and see men scuttling like ants from door to car, escaping for some nine to five, to return scuttling just the same at the day’s end. And don’t think we have any leisure buildings, either: our town is empty of everything except the pure act of surviving. I’m a bartender. I have to drive thirty minutes into the centre to reach where people will pay to stay outside. There is no room for thoughts here. Nothing but incomprehensible bleakness paints the outside of these husks of men inside our husk of a town.

We’re infectious, too. Our cars and our roads are slowly seeping, black tar set to engulf the natural world, and we are all too thick with malaise to do anything about it. No one walks around the neighbourhood here. For the workers, it is because we are miles too far from the city centre, the children because it is too dangerous to play outside in the presence of violently speeding vehicles, and the rest of us because we would prefer to rattle our bones where no one can see us. Pick your private vice to keep going. For many it is booze, cigarettes, binge eating. For myself, I prefer the comforting incessant glow of a screen. To look into a world that isn’t mine. To fully deeply embed myself into the simulacrum.

Once upon a time, people tried living with pets here. Somehow, too many of them felt the pull of the freeway. Missing tends to mean dead.

Is your drive to own your own piece of real estate insatiable, despite your low income? Take a closer look at our dazzling house fronts. Each one is charmingly identical, with all the life and character of old bones. “Rustic”, “cosy”, “quaint”, if you are to believe the advertisements. And we fell for them, each and every one of us. Your neighbour and your neighbour’s neighbour are all trapped in this same prison. Even to look out of your window is to look onto another house front opposite, the same funereal disease.

I’m looking out of my window now. My room is on the second floor, so I have a little bit of height. The house opposite ours belongs to an old couple, retired, the wife decrepit and banging at death’s door so hard it is a wonder he won’t let her in. Late stage Alzheimer’s, if I am to believe the pulse of the gossip my mother feeds me. They’re from Pakistan, or somewhere like that. Not that it really matters. Their garden is barely a garden. There was grass in the patch next to the drive once, but not in the twenty eight years of my life I have lived here. I can see their windowsill though, perhaps the only distinguishing factor for one house to the next. This one has two damp infected photo frames. There’s a small cat made of china, probably bought for a dollar online. And there’s a vase which had flowers the week they moved in, but has since remained empty. It has a blue vine pattern trailing around it. A white net curtain, also grey with damp, remains drawn shut at all times. I have never seen further in than this window. I never want to.

We have never decorated our own windowsill. We like the blank space. Or no one ever gets around to dusting, and then we get allergies.

The house opposite ours has a car pulling in. It comes to a stop along the pavement, slotting into the long row of cars, each belonging to a different house. It’s grey with dust and road grime, although it was probably white once. A shrivelled man takes his time opening the driver’s door. He stumbles, gradually, round to the passenger side. He offers his arm to his almost dead wife. She grabs onto it and it is embarrassing the lack of mobility between the pair of them. They walk to the car’s boot, and the man takes out one plastic bag full of groceries. He tries to slam the boot once, and is too feeble, so has to open it to slam it shut again. They stumble, slower now he is dragging his wife along, to the front door. I watch as he fumbles with his keys, opens the door, drags his wife in with the groceries, and shuts it again. I shut my eyes. I hate to look at them. I hate to know they are here. My head is screaming pathetic pathetic pathetic.

[obscuraspace]

Saying no, reclaiming time

One of the weak justifications I gave K when we first started discussing my past as a writer was that I simply did not have time. From my texts: "I probably still have the skill, but it's just not been a priority at this time. I have seasons. This season is skeeball, indoor cycling, and maybe crocheting. It was a lot easier to write when I didn't have to be employed, ahaha." His response: "Those all sound so cool and like more fun than writing, tbh."

Almost four months later, months full of his loving encouragement and well-natured bullying, I'm close to 10,000 words into my first book. But I was right: the structure and pace of my life has to change in order to get to 80,000. To create the book, I have to also create time. Slowly, laboriously teaching myself to crochet can wait.

"Saying no has more creative power than ideas, insights, and talent combined. Saying no guards time," writes Kevin Ashton in HTFAH. One of the things that challenges me the most is where to cut. Do I see my friends less? Do I put aside skeeball, a hobby that scratches my insatiable itch for competition? How about cycling, which is reshaping my body in a way that stokes my confidence and provides me with much needed health benefits? Do I spend less time supporting my spouse, M, or do I spend less time growing my relationship with my partner, K? Nonmonogamy has taught me well that time is the most finite resource in this life. There is no increasing time, only reclaiming it.

Ever since I reinvented myself six years ago after my move to a new city, I've developed a terminal case of FOMO. Therapists have encouraged me to slow down, friends are shocked when I show them my calendar nightly appointments with no days off. When I first arrived here, it was chains of dates; now, it's split time between two partners, my cherished hobbies, and close friends. The time I use to recoup is during my hours working from home, which has begun to take a toll on my productivity and my boss's esteem. The latter of which will eventually drive me away, it's only a matter of time and my deteriorating resolve.

So where do I cut? So far, I've begun in what was not initially an obvious place: excising alcohol. When I previously have thought about the problematic drinking I developed during COVID lockdown, I never thought about it in terms of time wasted, but the evidence was all in front of me. Hangovers have kept me from working hard, professionally and domestically. In the first year of lockdown, despite having nowhere to go, I read an unusually low number of books... because I couldn't read while buzzed. I logged hours and hours playing mindless games and watching dumb TV. In moderation, good, but drinking was helping me sink into malaise and keeping me incapacitated to climb out.

This month, since a time beyond memory, I have spent almost as many nights sober as I have drinking even one drink. The nights I do drink are more moderate. Magically, sobering up has created time. My mind does not need to rest in the day because it sleeps better at night. I don't wake up still needing to recover. I find my accomplishments, rather than my distractions, relaxing. And when I do distract, it penetrates deeper to peacefulness, like letting your muscles rest after a hard workout.

But alcohol was the toxic panacea I was using to "cure" all my other ailments. K diagnosed the biggest one, and now that I know the root of my unhappiness it only grows faster with my attention on it. It's the structure that holds my life together, it's the scariest thing to destabilize, and it's constricting my time, energy, and soul itself.

I gotta quit my damn job.

[sp00kworm]

Black Oak (Part 2)

Pairing: Alcott Glyn (Headless Horseman) x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: Body Horror, Murder

PART 1 

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The police arrived about an hour after you had woke-up the whole village screaming. Peswick was far away from the nearest city’s response, and you sat shivering, wrapped in a blanket from the house, clutching it close as Mrs Shaw rushed to bring you a hot drink. She and her husband were dressed, but neither went into your house. They rushed back home, bringing you a cup of tea from their own kitchen along with a foil blanket for the shock. You weren’t allowed to touch the body, and you tried to ignore the swinging noise of the corpse as you sat perched on the front doorstep to your home, sniffling into the cup of tea. The police took off their hats as they stepped past your gate, and you watched as the crime scene investigation and forensic van pulled up behind them. The two officers nodded at Mr and Mrs Shaw before smiling as best they could.

“Would you like to come with us, please?” The male officer asked gently, “Lets go inside and we’ll get your statement of events, okay?” The female officer with him looked back at the tree and swallowed hard as Forensics suited up to remove the body and take evidence.

“Come on, Sully.” He ushered his companion as he helped you to your feet and nodded to your neighbours. He whistled and smiled as he opened the door for you, “Nice old place you’ve got here.” He complimented kindly, the corners of his eyes wrinkled with crows’ feet, “Mrs Finch used to live here. Are you a relative?”

 You shook as the officer led you gently into the front room, “It…She was my aunty, distantly.” You whispered as you eased yourself back onto the sofa, clutching the lukewarm tea tightly, as though it was a lifeline in your grasp.

“She was a kind woman. Made a lot of oils out of her garden, but she had nothing but trouble and vandalism with this place. Kids used to make a mess of the sides of the house regularly.” He tipped his head to the wall where the fireplace was, “It was always on the chimney. She never did anything, but the kids called her a witch and all that trollop.” He shook his head.

“You haven’t introduced yourself.” Sue gave him a lopsided smile as she pulled out the clipboards full of paperwork to be completed.

“Ah, so I haven’t!” The officer dipped his head, “I’m Officer Perks.” He pointed to the blond woman with him, “And this is my partner Officer Sullivan.”

You nodded shakily licked your lips, “It was nice to meet you. Thank you for coming. I know...Its far.” A breathy sigh left you as Sullivan took out her pens from her vest and smiled.

“We just need an account of what you did this morning and if you knew the victim.” Percy offered as he sat on your couch, “Spare no details. Even something small to you might be important to us.”

 Conflict burned in your throat and gut as you thought about what had happened, “I don’t remember anything of relevance from last night. I spent the night in bed. I’ve only just moved in, so I was exhausted.” You took a shuddering breath and continued, “I went out this morning to the tree and…and I looked up… and he was hanging there, without his head.” You looked into the tea in your hands, noting that it was now ice cold.

“How long have you been here?” Sullivan asked as she shorthand filled in the details on the paperwork, “You said you moved in recently?” Perks looked from the paper to you and smiled reassuringly.

“I moved in yesterday afternoon.” You whispered and Sullivan gave you a pitying look.

Perks shifted against the cushions, “Did you have anyone with a grudge against you or motive from where you used to live?” He asked.

“No one that I know of.” You answered as you put down the cup of tea, fighting the tears and upset.

“Okay so what time did you find the body?” Perks asked. You took a deep sigh and continued to answer the police officer’s questions well into the afternoon.

 Perks and Sullivan could drink their weight in tea, it turned out, and you offered them many drinks over the course of the few hours. They had a couple each, pens scratching papers as they took notes and an official account of the events for the records. You looked out of the window as Sue and Percy signed the bottom of the page. Crime Scene Investigations were hoisting the body down from the thick black branch of the oak, working to preserve the noose he was swinging by. Three people held the corpse up as they cut the rope carefully, keeping the knot intact and bagging the rope before they got the body down into the bag on the stretcher.

“He’ll need to go to pathology to determine cause of death…though I think I have a pretty good idea.” Sullivan whispered, trying not to be heard as she eyed you sat across from them. Perks rolled his eyes and elbowed his colleague.

“Here. Let me draw the curtains.” Perks stood and reached for the curtains before drawing them over the forensics team dragging the body into the bag, impassive to the blood that stained their tunics and gloves.

“I think we have everything.” Sullivan announced as she stood up and took hold of both their mugs, “I’ll put these in the kitchen for you.” She offered with a small, pathetic smile.

 Perks nodded his head as Sullivan as she left towards the kitchen. You heard her bang the cup on the countertop before you tugged the blanket closer and shifted uncomfortably.

“Thank you for your cooperation today.” Perks took his hat and tucked it under his arm, “I know these kinds of cases are very difficult to talk about. I have this card for you.” He held you out a green printed business card, “That’s the helpline for a couple of organisations and the other side has someone you can seek out if you would like some help talking through all this.”

You looked at the numbers vaguely before nodding and placing the card on the coffee table, “Thank you.” You replied quietly before Perks replaced his hat on his head.

“We’ll see ourselves out. Thank you once again and good afternoon.” He looked at his watch before he opened the lounge door and quietly exited.

Sue scoffed at him in the hall, “Come on. We’ve got these reports to write up.”

“Coming, coming.” Perks grumbled, “Nothing wrong with being nice. They just witnessed a damn corpse…” The voices trailed off as the front door closed behind the two of them with a bang.

 Silence.

 You looked to the curtains and stood up, letting the blankets finally fall from your shoulders as you fisted each side of the heavy curtains. They were old and embroidered with curling leaves. You tugged them open with a heave and watched the police vans trundle away back down the old stone roads, back towards the hills where they had come from this morning. With a deep breath, you tied the curtains back before taking one last long look at the gnarled, black oak in the garden, and heading towards the stairs for a shower and to get dressed. You hoped that a shower would wash away the sticky feeling of malaise on your skin and mind. Hot water usually purged bad thoughts, or so you hoped as you tried to erase the memory of the swinging corpse from the shrivelled branches of the old oak tree.

 You shivered through the house after your shower, wrapped in a jumper and heavy jeans as you tried to navigate the halls without looking out into the garden. The memory of the body lingered with the burning feeling of the heavy box in the other room, filled with an old skull. It was a skull inside. A perfectly preserved ivory skull. The teeth were yellow with age on the enamel, and you looked to the table where the muddy box sat with the key in the lock. The headless creature had moaned and groaned as its head screamed from the other room. You turned and looked at the ornate metal decorations before daring to turn the key again. The lid popped open and flew back to reveal the skull again.

 It sat perfectly still on the cushion, staring at you with empty eyes. With a deep breath, you dared to reach out and touch the skulls surface. It didn’t move. No magical energies tore out of the eye holes. It was perfectly still. It was just a skull. But the memory of it screaming and cursing inside the box was burned into your memory and you carefully picked the skull up, cushioning the bottom of its jaw before your strokes over the place where the eyebrows had once been when it was a man. It had to belong to the headless horseman, but why your aunt had it locked away in her home was another question entirely. You held the skull up to your eyes and peered into the bone of the eye sockets as you pondered your decision. There was a glimmer of gold inside the mouth which caught your eyes, and you dared to open the jaw wide enough to snatch at the shiny object. It was a single heavy golden coin which had been wedge between the back teeth. You looked at the old print and then quickly replaced it, wedging the jaw back shut as you placed the skull away on its pillow.

 It sat and stared at you, and you stared at it, wondering what happened last night as you clutched at your head and sighed. You slammed the lid closed and snapped the lock closed before you placed the box in the centre of the table.

“What the fuck were you up to aunty?” You asked the air as you rushed to the kitchen to make yourself another drink. As you set the water to boil you continued to curse, thinking about the headless man who what invaded your home chasing the poor man who had ended up hanging from the tree in your front yard. The head had screamed ‘witch’ from its confines, but you had no knowledge about what it could mean. You took the hot water and made a drink before looking at the last few boxes of unpacking and scoffing, deciding that the day would be better spent researching what had slaughtered the man and hung him from your tree.

 The village library was barely a few bookshelves put together and you sighed looking at the poor collection of books before you dated to approach the old librarian sat next to the desk. She had her own book open, some trashy romance novel set in the Victorian era, and she looked engrossed as she flipped the page and took another bite of her current tea cake.

“Hello?” You asked quietly in front of her.

The librarian jumped in her seat before she clutched at her chest and adjusted her glasses, “Dearie me! You scared the soul right out of me, love.” she took a moment to take a breath and close her book before she stood with a small wince and smiled, “What can I do for you?”

You could see the questions burning in her eyes. She no doubt knew you were the new person in town, and about what had happened at your home.

“I’m looking for some history books about the town. I wanted to try and get to know the place, but I don’t think there’s anything on the shelves.”

Her face pursed a little before she smiled again and pointed to the last one of the small walls of shelves, “There isn’t a lot but there’s a couple of books on the bottom shelf of the end one. For the records and such I’m afraid you will have to ask at the village hall. Rose keeps them in good nick there, lovely woman she is.”

“Ah, thank you.” You returned her smile and left her to her book as you went to the last set of shelves in the wall and started to rummage through the folklore and history books.

 There wasn’t a lot, she was right, and you sighed after about twenty minutes of pulling out books. You tugged the last, thick history book from the shelf and dusted the cover to reveal a history of the local mines and hills. It wasn’t what you were looking for. You peered at the shelf again and huffed before there was a glimmer of silver lining at the back of the bookcase. You squirmed your hand to the back and plucked the small book from behind the tattered paperbacks. It was a pocketbook, stencilled with an old name in cursive, faded and marred with cage.

‘Maria Theresa Glyn’

You dusted the front and followed the name before looking around and tucking the book into your bag. You felt bad just taking it, but obviously the Librarian had no idea it was there, and the name was familiar to you. You remembered the coat of arms on the old teapot. If this was the diary of someone with the same name it might have clues, or so you reasoned as you plucked a few books from the shelf and took them to the counter after replacing the rest.

 “Did you find what you were looking for, pet?” The librarian asked as you placed the books on the counter. She smiled and pulled out an old paper ticket to write your name onto. She poised the pen over the paper, and you told her your name before she copied it onto another for you and jotted the book codes down. She tutted at the date stamper and fiddled with it to get it to the correct date. Obviously not many people used the library.

“Yes, I found a few interesting things to have a flick through.” You told her as she stamped the tickets inside the books and stacked them in front of you.

“Well, you have fun...and be careful, huh? There’s a lot of weird and wonderful things that go on around here. It would be a shame if you forgot that, and something happened.” She smiled sweetly, but it sent shivers down your spine.

“Thanks. I’ll try.” You smiled awkwardly back at her before you took your arm full of books and made a quick exit back into the chilly air.

 The village seemed to watch you as you wove between the avenue of trees, crunching autumn orange and brown leaves underfoot. The chill in the air mimicked their icy feelings. You were the outsider among them, and soon enough they’d come to hound you out of their home. You only hoped to solve what you had seen. There was no way a headless man was riding around taking heads...right? You tried to console yourself as you made it to your home, and past the gnarled black tree in the front garden. It was twisted and old, and the branches seemed to creak as a greeting on your return. A glare silenced it, or so it seemed, perhaps it was just the wind dying, but the tree went silent as you walked up to the door with your keys in hand. The door swung open when you unlocked it and you clutched at your books as the wind howled into the mouth of the house, screaming down the hall like a ghost before you kicked the front door shut, shivering. The old back boiler chugged in the background as you kicked off your boots and placed the books in the lounge on the small table by the chest.

 When the chest remained still and silent you left to place away your bags and get a drink. You returned, rubbing your eyes as you opened the little journal you had found. It was penned with ink and quill, that much was obvious, and you ran your fingers over the woman’s name again before you touched the crest and went to find the teapot. You grabbed the porcelain handle and placed the two together over your lap. They were the same. The Glyn coat of arms. You placed the teapot down and opened the diary to look at the first passage. It was dated back three centuries ago, back when the alliance was beginning to form between the different races, monsters and humans alike, though you could tell this village hadn’t had such luxury. The entire populace was human, apart from the dairy farmers four miles outside the walls of the village. They were large goblins of some kind, cave dwelling and gangly limbed from years in the dark, but you had only seen them.

 The first passage was written in neat, printed cursive, echoing the care the woman had taken to write her feelings and events down.

‘Today is the day of my birth. My birthday rather. I was given this journal by the kind Mister Glynn, as a gift, and so I find myself beginning to write down the events of my daily life, so perhaps I can look back on it and reminisce when I am old and grey.

 Mister Glyn is a kind soul. He is part of the King’s Royal Entourage and the Commander of a large cavalry unit. Why he is in this small village is unknown to us all, but my father suspects it is because of the Wood Witch. Perhaps he has been tasked with taking her head? It is rumoured the armour he has is enchanted against such magic, but I feel as though those are rumours made about a dangerous and powerful man to excite fear.

 He is nothing but polite to me. I suppose my father will want to marry me off to this one as well.’

 The passages were perhaps a couple of pages maximum, and you flicked through the dates quickly, watching her words change from cold and indifferent to soft and loving of the man see always called Mister Glyn. It wasn’t until a year later in the diary that you saw his true name.

 ‘Alcott escorted me to the capital atop Mallor, his beast of a horse, though the creature seems to like me now that I bring him sugar lumps. Alcott wished to show me the city and its fruits though there is rather less fruit and more muck and grime. I am used to mud on my shoes, but I despised the odour of the place, much to his amusement. As I write, I can hear him snickering at me across the table.’

 There was a few blotches of ink and another set of handwriting.

 ‘She stood in a man’s excrement.’

 Their trip seemed peaceful, and Maria even attended a gathering at court. It seemed well until you found the final page in the diary, written across a page in shaky ink.

 ‘They took his head.’

 There was no fond farewell at the bottom of the page or a cursive signature. It was stark and naked on the yellowed paper, like a bad omen forever preserved. You ran your fingers over the words before you flicked through the last pages seeing nothing but blood splodges and blackened dark blood at the corners. It smelt faintly of rot, and you recoiled from the smell as you looked at the empty bare pages. The back of the book was burned across the inside of the cover. It was mysterious but it seemed like Alcott Glyn had been killed. But by who? You had no idea but as you looked at the chest again and thought of the head inside you shuddered.

 Alcott Glyn. There had to be a grave. You tugged your bag open and stuffed the book inside before you rushed out of the door, locking it quickly as you rushed towards the little church. It was at the top of the hill, sat in a mound of earth, subsiding on one side with props and scaffolding to try and hold it up. It wasn’t used anymore, the town hall was used to any religious needs, but it was haunting. The stained glass was dirty, and the front doors bolted and chained to prevent anyone entering. You rushed around the side of the church and looked at the dates on the graves and the dates in the diary. It had to be the 1700s. You thought back to your history lessons and tried to recall the date of the alliance war. 1774. You rushed around the small paths and glanced at the years, 1770, 1772, 1773... you looked at the gap where the 1774 stone should have stood. There was nothing, just unchurned earth and a set of roses growing from the floor. A troubling feeling settled in your gut as you meandered down the path to the back of the overgrown graveyard. There were old stones, crumbling and forgotten under blackberry vines and leaves. It was chance that you leaned down next to a short stone and looked at the faded name.

 Alcott Glyn.  

 The name was chipped and faded, like the memory of the man. Vines grew in wild abandon over the grave, and the blackberry vines had taken over the base, winding around the whole stone with wide dying leaves. It was perfectly hidden and forgotten about. The village’s little secret in the secluded corner of the graveyard, forgotten and buried. Or apparently, not buried completely. The earth was turned over, like something had ruptured from the ground and burst free. It was a long patch of upturned soil, as long as you were tall, or even longer, and the earth and stones were wet, fresh with the rain from the evening and being upturned, as though someone had run a plower through it.  Carefully, you ran your fingers through the earth, feeling the soil between your fingers before you took a steadying breath.

“Someone came out of this…” You breathed into the chilly air, your breath making mist with the cold as you stood and looked over the grave. You said it again before turning and bolting from the graveyard before the night could fall over the village.

 When you reached home, you threw your bag onto the couch and grabbed the chest, prising the lock open to peer at the skull inside. It was sat, still as a statue, on the cushion, with the glimmer of gold between its jaws. You lifted it from the cushion, carefully, pulling it up to your face level as the sun set over the horizon, bathing you in a golden glow with the skull clasped between your hands. There was nothing but the distant hum of the hot water pipes in the old house to answer your stare. The skull did nothing. It sat in your hands as the sunlight died over the horizon and the night began to settle in. In your gut, disappointment settled with the cold reminder that you were holding a dead man’s skull. A real human skull. Carefully, you placed it back down on the cushion and sighed as you went to draw the curtains, ignoring the creaking of the gnarled oak tree outside your door.

 The wind blew as you looked back at the head in the chest, positioned slightly skewed on the cushion. You chewed your lip and sighed before you stood over it again.

“Alcott Glyn.” You whispered to the skull. Nothing. The old electrics flickered for a moment, dimming before they brightened again. Silence, except for the hum of the back boiler. The breath you had been holding escaped and you turned away with a grumble before the lights surged bright and yellow, like the sun, before the bulbs exploded in a sudden thunder of noise. Glass shattered and flew across the carpet in a shower, and you gasped, covering your ears before you looked back at the cushion.

 The head was sat, jaw agape, with two lights in the blackened sockets, rolling side to side. The little lights rolled like stoned before they settled on you and the open jaw began to jitter, chattering the yellowed teeth together loudly. The skull didn’t move, just snapped it’s teeth like a scared dog before it stopped, and the eyes dimmed. It was only a moment of silence before there were three heavy pounds on your door. With a gasp you rushed to draw the curtains, and gazed upon the creature stood on your doorstep, his steed kicking and throwing it’s head by the twisted roots of the black tree. The body stood there, breathing, its undead chest moving as though it needed the air.

“Alcott Glyn.” You whispered again with a dry mouth. All the moisture dried up from you and you tried not to shake as the skull slammed against the side of the box, it’s eyes glowing.

It shook and chattered its teeth before a voice screamed from between the open jaw, “Let me in, witch!”

Fear twisted your guts as you rushed to slam the chest shut on the screaming skull. It chanted inside the decorative metal, hollering about burning you at the stake before you took it to the front door. The horseman slammed his fist on the door again, repeatedly, as though he was going to tear it open, and you shivered as your fingers shook by the latch and keys.

 The horseman began to bang repeatedly and the head in the chest slammed around, shaking your arms as you struggled to keep hold of it. You took a stuttering breath and unlatched the door, turning the keys before you wrenched it open. The headless horseman heaved puffs of misty breath up from the stump of his neck, his trachea flexing with the movement as the nerves of his spinal cord twitched and thrummed behind it, imitating life in his corpse body.

“Witch!” the skull screamed again, his head you realised as you stepped back, and the creature followed. His boots left muddy smeared marks on the wooden floors, and you looked down to see the crushed blackberries over the soles. Your heart pounded as you realised, he had crawled from the grave you had sat by earlier.

“I saw you by my grave. I will not do business with you again.” His voice came from his body this time, contorted and dark as it leaked from his lungs like a wisp.

“Business? What business have you?” You asked, voice shaking with fear.

The skull laughed in its box, a malicious and evil noise, dark and tempting, as though you were truly stupid for asking, “What business did we not have? Have you forgotten in your age, crone? Death and blood, that’s what you wanted, and I delivered it.”

“Who did you have the deal with?” You steeled yourself.

“You, you pathetic soothsayer.” He droned before his dead fist slammed the door closed, “Now give me my head. Our bargain is met.”

“I am not my aunty.” You tried, “I have no deal with you.”

 The horseman stopped, his body stiffening as his horse brayed and screamed outside, kicking its hooves at the black oak with a great smash. The tree shook, shedding twigs, but didn’t fall. He stalked closer, the bulk of his frame blocking out the light from the moon and the electric fitting overhead.

“But you have my head.” The skull whispered from inside the box before he grabbed for the chest. He touched the metal of the latch and screamed, the noise escaping the corpse before you and the skull inside the box. It was an ear piercing, unholy noise which burned your ears and made your head swim in agony. The horseman clutched at his chest and the stump of his neck, his gloved fingers pressing into the gored wound of his neck as he wobbled towards the wall and grasped at it for balance.

 “Fuck.” You cursed before you whipped the chest open and grabbed his skull by its eye sockets, hanging it over him as he slid down the wall and screamed again in agony, twitching against the wood.

“If I give you your head, horseman, will you indebt yourself to me? Your previous contract will be null, and you will only serve me.” You announced.

The horseman writhed before going deathly still. He laid like a corpse for a moment or two before shakily he braced his arm against the floor and pushed himself up. With a shudder he got onto his knees and kneeled before you, his neck dipped to expose the sore, congealed wound of his decapitation.

“I... I will serve.” The horseman gurgled.

“Then I give you your head to end your torment, Alcott Glyn.” You promised before you held his skull between your palms and lowered it to the spinal column of his body.

 There was a great groan as the spine extended from Alcott’s body and snapped to the skull, holding it in place as the eyes burned bright with purple light, the colour of blackberries, rolling in his skull as he reached and clasped at the bone, howling as light burned from the base of his neck and enveloped his skull with a whoosh of purple fire. The fire abated quickly as the moonlight disappeared behind the curtains and the skull shimmered as muscle and tendons swarmed the bone, linking and covering the surface before the he howled, and skin crept from his neck to his face, covering the surface in a perfect alabaster coating. His eyes however, remained voids of black, the centres beautiful blackberry lights in the dimness of your home. Black waves of hair grew from his head, dripping over his shoulders like ink as he howled, leaned against the old wallpaper. They finished growing with a crackle of fire, purple flames licking at the ends before it disappeared, leaving a heaving, black eyed creature curled against the wooden floor.

 Your mouth hung open as you watched the horseman shake against the wood, heaving as he reached to clutch at the hair that draped from his previously naked skull. The inky waves slid through his gloved hands and was quickly marred with dirt and blood before he peered at you through the curtain, looking at you with the purple lights in his irises which were sunken back into his skull. His lips parted before he took a deep breath, wheezing out dust and muck, coughing like a goose before he kicked the chapped skin and crawled closer to your feet. He only looked at you, staring before one gloved hand whipped out and snatched your ankle, holding it tightly in an iron grip.

“Bound to your bloodline again...” he growled, “Humiliating.” Before he pushed himself back and stood, swaying on his legs like a new-born deer as his balance came back to him. Having a head was a heavy burden.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” You breathed as Alcott slammed the side of his head and beat dirt out of his ears.

“Of course, you don’t. None of you ever do. Now I’m bound here to you until the day you drop dead and rot. Why can you never let me die?” He growled in a worked-up fury, flinging his hands to the windows before he stalked to the door, his boots slamming against the wood. He swung it open, and his mount brayed in greeting, throwing its giant head back before it caught sight of you and snorted, bowing it’s neck like a graceful Swan.

 “You are all the same!” The horseman shouted before the moon was revealed, a cloud moving away from its white surface. He shuddered and you watched the skin on his face disappear with the muscle, revealing the purple lights in a bare, burning skull. As the cloud recovered the moon, the base of his neck flared with purple smoke and fire, revealing the scar where he was decapitated, and his face reappeared.

“I gave you your head back, Alcott!” You shouted after him.

The horseman shivered and turned back to you, looking at you with his haunting eyes, both hands gripping the pommel and stand of the saddle, “How do you know my name?” He whispered in questioning.

With a small breath, you locked your lips nervously and ducked back to the table, grabbing the little diary from you bag before you stood on your porch and held it out to the wraith, “Maria wrote about you.”

He growled and snatched at the book, and you let him take it with a painful smile, “I know the townspeople killed you. They betrayed you. I don’t know what happened to Maria.” You confessed.

Alcott opened the diary and flicked through it before he looked at the night sky, “She lived in mourning the rest of her life. They institutionalised her after they found her carrying my head, wailing through the town. She died, high on cocktails of medicines, with her head buried in the soft soil of a flower bed.”

 The revelation was something of a shock and you looked at the undead man in front of you with a bitter, pitying look.

“You watched her die, didn’t you?” You asked, barely above a whisper.

The horseman scoffed, “That was the curse after all. To terrorise the town for their betrayal. But not her. I used to try call to her from the window, but she never could bare to look at me. Eventually they gave her more cocktails and she stopped coming to the window all together.”

“Jesus Christ.” You cursed.

“Such foul language.” Alcott sneered as he snapped the diary shut in his gloved hand, “She died from the madness and grief. That is the fault of the town and its yet another reason to run into each of these homes and tear their heads from their bodies.” Alcott spat furiously. As fury overtook him you could see the white scarred seem of where his head had been replaced burning with smoke the purple fumes puffing from it like a new wound before his neck popped and cracked, sending his head to the left, hanging on by a thread of flesh to the other side. You let out a screech and clasped your mouth as the horseman gurgled and reached for his head, grasping it by the hair before he groaned and dragged it back into place, snapping the vertebrae back into place with a twist and a squelch of bloodied tissue. It cracked again quickly, and Alcott held the top of his hair tightly with a groan as the smoke poured from his mouth and his head twisted backwards like a ghoul, spinning on his neck before it snapped again and came free, rolling over the floor to your feet as a skull. The flesh and hair melted in waves of muck from its surface, and you shakily took hold of the skull again.

 The horseman stumbled left and right as he reached towards you for his head.

“MY HEAD, WITCH!” He howled at you, but you dashed back up the porch steps and held it protectively.

“You are under my command. Anything against my wishes is against our contract...so you lose your head. Do you hear me horseman?” You blagged, hoping you were right, “So there will be no killing.”

“Evil, corrupt creature. I'll hang you by your feet and bleed you from the neck!” Alcott threatened as fire and smoke poured from his throbbing trachea. The smoke puffed before he went sent to the floor in agony, the black oak behind him creaking and swaying left and right as though the roots were snaking towards him. Sure enough, the ground rumbled, and the black oak’s roots exploded from the ground, snagging the horseman by his wrists and ankles hoisting him into the air as the branches hissed and his mount, Mallor, brayed and screamed, blood spraying over the fence from the horses broken throat.

 It was a curse. You should have expected as much, but you shook as the tree cinched the man’s limbs, holding them tight before it pulled, making him scream in agony as his joints were pulled tight.

“Stop!” You screamed, and the tree stopped pulling, holding the horseman aloft still as it swayed and bent towards you, its branches touching your head as though trying to figure out who you were.

“He is mine.” You told the tree, “He will obey and submit to the laws of his contract.”

The tree groaned, it’s roots wiggling in the cold, hard earth for a moment before it dropped Alcott like a sack of grain and settled down quietly, smacking at the horse inching closer to its trunk.

Alcott touched at his neck as he rose, swaying as he cracked and snapped his joints back into place like a disjointed puppet.

“Are you going to play nice now?” You asked as the man wheezed in front of you. When he nodded you offered him his skull back and watched the skin and flesh cover its surface again before he snarled behind his curtain of overgrown hair, blackberry-coloured lights burning the void of his eyes.

“You truly are her kin if that disgusting thing listens to you.” He snapped as he headed for his horse and mounted the saddle with a quick bounce on one powerful leg, his thighs locking tight around the beast’s sides as it bucked and brayed. Alcott turned his horse and tipped his head with a wave of purple smoke and fire, “Call on me then, witch, and see what havoc I can wreak for you.” Alcott laughed bitterly as he turned Mallor onto the cobbled drive and rode onto the road, his face becoming bone and flesh intermittently as the clouds passed overhead.

“I’m not a witch!” You screamed after the horseman, but he was gone into the mist and the trees, unlikely to have heard you cursing against the stairs of the porch as you collapsed.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The Sacklers will get to keep billions

The Sacklers engaged in an intergenerational, half-century program of drug-pushing; starting by creating the market for benzos and culminating in creating the opioid epidemic. They made a vast fortune off the misery they created and today they’re richer than the Rockefellers.

The family drug company, Purdue Pharma, created the addictive, destructive opioid Oxycontin, then systematically lied to the public about its safety, while bribing doctors and pharma distributors to overprescribe it, leading to over 850,000 US opioid deaths.

The family used philanthropy to ensure its name was associated with galleries and museums rather than mass murder and had their lawyers threaten their critics (like me) and when that stopped working, they stashed billions offshore.

https://www.reuters.com/article/us-purduepharma-bankruptcy/sacklers-reaped-up-to-13-billion-from-oxycontin-maker-u-s-states-say-idUSKBN1WJ19V

The Sacklers’ deliberate campaign of mass killing made them billions, but it cost the rest of us far more, both in human lives and in the cash-money costs for local governments and states coping with the opioid epidemic. Many of their victims sued for compensation.

The Sacklers aren’t mere world-class drug-dealers and reputation launderers, they’ve mastered the dark art of capturing judges. They owe their long, profitable career as pushers to their ability to get a court to suppress Richard Sackler’s testimony.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-qCKR6wy94U

As the compensation claims poured in, the Sacklers used their judicial connivance to push all their personal liability into Purdue Pharma’s corporate liability, and then declared the company bankrupt:

https://prospect.org/justice/sackler-familys-bankruptcy-scheme/

This would nonconsensually settle all claims — personal and governmental — against the Sacklers. It’s a bold move, one that few judges in America would agree to. Lucky for the Sacklers, they know how to abuse the system to go judge-shopping:

https://www.creditslips.org/creditslips/2021/05/judge-shopping-in-bankruptcy.html

The name of the game is Judge Robert Drain, America’s most billionaire-friendly bankruptcy judge, who has a long history of letting wealthy criminals declare bankruptcy, discharge their obligations, and walk away with billions.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/23/a-bankrupt-process/#sacklers

Getting their case in front of Drain in the Southern District of New York involved some obvious chicanery, like putting a bogus Westchester County address in the machine-readable metadata in their court filings — a White Plains, NY office that the company never used.

The Sacklers’ gambit worked. Their case is going before Judge Drain on Aug 9 and the smart money says Drain will permit the settlement, overriding state AGs’ objections.

https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2021/07/purdue-bankruptcy-plan-moves-closer-to-approval-sacklers-would-make-out-well-and-preserve-much-of-the-family-fortune-despite-the-opioids-crisis.html

The Sacklers will keep billions. They will not have to admit to any culpability in the deaths they profited from. They won’t even have to apologize. States, cities and individual victims will get pennies on the dollars for their claims.

It’s true that a settlement will get some money (a mere fraction of the Sacklers’ blood-fortune) into the hands of people and governments that desperately need it, but at the cost of any accountability. No Sackler will go to jail. No Sackler will go broke.

We tend to think of the opioid epidemic as a symptom of economic malaise, but there’s strong evidence that opioid addiction was the result of the Sacklers’ incredible, innovative frauds and not wider socioeconomic conditions.

Writing in Vox EU, David M. Cutler and Edward Glaeser show that there is no correlation between the opioid epidemic and either a rise in physical pain or emotional distress.

https://voxeu.org/article/understanding-opioid-epidemic-when-innovation-fails

Between 1999 and 2009 — when opioid use was spiking — there was no significant rise in Americans reporting two or more painful conditions; what’s more, Americans’ reported life-satisfaction did not change significantly during those years.

The major change that explains the rise of opioids? The release of the Sacklers’ Oxycontin, and their fraudulent claims about its safety, and their extensive campaign to bribe or trick doctors into prescribing opioids.

This tracks with the history of opioid addiction overall: the spikes in opioid troubles always correlate to technological breakthrough, like 1897’s heroin, a “safe” opium alternative, or 1904’s morphine, sold as a nonaddictive alternative to heroin.

Heroin and morphine went through the same cycle as oxy — sold as a safe alternative to existing painkillers, vastly overprescribed, and then revealed to be every bit as dangerous — or worse — than the products they replaced.

Image: Geographer (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Serpentine_Sackler_Gallery.jpg

CC BY-SA: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

[allthingsfern]

In order, my responses to comments in Reply of my COVID19 era post that was my answer to my question “My answer to my questions: Has the era of COVID19 changed your photography? How? And perhaps also, why?“ I am so confused now...

adventuresofalgy

Algy thinks you are lucky and - certainly if compared with Europeans - perhaps quite unusual in not having experienced a more profound effect on your creative outlets and expression. Many of Algy's creative friends have experienced wide-ranging and often severe impacts on their creativity and associated motivation - and therefore on their mental health as well.

themazette

As @adventuresofalgy Jenny said.... you are lucky...

I am indeed very lucky, or as I think of it, blessed. However, it is no way a US thing, nor even a California thing. I add California, because I know many in the US and around the world think of the Golden State as a haven, a progressive, hippie filled state that is all about peace and love and marijuana. However, that is far from the truth. California is like Germany in the 1920s and 30s. There was Berlin, where there was a wildness in the city that was not shared, and was often looked-down on, by those in the majority of the country, who lived in more conservative areas and who, often, economically could not afford the grand life of partying Berliners. In California it is the same. Except for a few urban areas, the state is full of very conservative folks, and for them, like for those in the cities (and in the rest of the world) this COVID19 era has been devastating. Well, and the fires for Californians have been too.

Even in this cool college town where I live, which is lovely and quiet and inspiring, the painfully empty streets, movie theaters, restaurants, shops (think of all those unemployed people) is (still) staggering. In mid-March last year, right after lockdown, I took several phone videos of the deserted street in our town and the campus, but I could not bring myself to share them, since I knew that so many others here on Tumblr were experiencing the same desolation in many different ways. (I figured: “Why add to the sorrow we are living, almost globally?”) I was overwhelmed by the emptiness of the major (well, major for a small town of around 65,000 people) street where I live and the empty bicycle trails and street on campus. And by empty, I mean that even now, I see maybe 3 cyclists per hour, and very little car traffic. Remember, this is a bicycle town; I do not own a car, doing most all my errands on my bike with its 2 fordable baskets in the rear.

And now, over a year later, that same heavy, oppressive emptiness persists. And no, I am not used to it. And yes, I traveled over the last year, but I found the same suffocating blanket of emptiness in each city I visited, even in Las Vegas. It was unnerving. As a matter of fact, last year when I drove to San Francisco 2 months after lockdown for my birthday, I wound up getting depressed and disoriented, in a city where I lived for almost 7 years. Driving back home across the Golden Gate Bridge with tears of sadness in my eyes on my birthday was not what I expected. However, I did get some solid photos of the malaise that hung thick in the air, a malaise that physically took up the space that once was taken up by crowds of people.

Now, I am also very aware that my situation is unique. (Not a fan of the word exceptional, since it can mean both unique and special, and I do not see my situation as special.) My life situation is very unique in that I have a job I love and I work with a great team of characters. We get work done and we have fun, share about our lives. My job is often, especially since COVID19 first got noticed in early 2020, stressful and demands my colleagues and I learn (and sometimes then teach) lots of new technology and that we adapt to the vagaries of the technology gods, which are sometimes unfriendly and unresponsive. And a big part of my job is trying to figure out how to get the technology gods to like us again and grace us with their gifts. (I never realized, until now, with this discussion, that the troubleshooting that is a big part of my job is creative and probably fuels my photographic creativity. Who knew?) Yet, as a group, my colleagues and I support each other. And I am fortunate to count my closest colleague, Steve, as a friend. We have been a great emotional support to each other over the years and now through this COVID19 era. And I recently was reminded (as if I needed reminding) just how unique my work situation is because I participated in a committee that was going over responses to a UC Davis-wide survey exploring levels of employee satisfaction. My 2 colleagues who were also on that committee and I did not have the complaints that others from other departments shared. We work well together, have supportive management that share what is going on and include us (as mush as possible) in the decision making process. And as a department, we get stuff done.

Possibly the best example of how blessedly unique my situation is is what happened this morning when I was talking (yes, on ZOOM) with my immediate supervisor. We discussed the work related stuff, including how at around 10:30 pm the night before I figured something out about an online tool integration I had never done before that I knew was easy but I did not see as easy until I reread the overly complicated instructions a couple of times and just figured out how and where to cut and paste the lines of code (it was that easy, just fucking cut and paste some lines of JSON code) that got the fucking thing to work. Then we talked about his dealing with his young children returning to school and how “normal” now is not “normal” from before and how disruptive the whole thing has been, yet since we work in a supportive atmosphere (and are both salaried), he was able to deal and keep living.

Then, and you are gonna love this, I shared about my original COVID19 question post and the responses and pretty much said to him what I am sharing here.

We talked for a little over an hour. That kind of rapport is rare, for any job, anywhere.

And then there is another way my situation is unique. In some ways, previous “bad things” were actually a preparation for this era of physical distance and uncertainty. In mid-2019, from July to August, first because of my work related bowling concussion and then an antibiotic resistant infection, I was bedridden for about 5 weeks and then had several absences because of concussion issues, like sudden and extreme anger flare ups, nausea, headaches. But however bad I thought that concussion and infection were, the concussion induced forgetfulness and my desire to sharpen my mind and nurture and nourish it have lead me to become, in my old age, organized. I now often take notes of important stuff, add work and personal dates and notes to my Outlook calendar, and even know what day it is, which bugs my colleagues who often find they have no idea what day and/or date it is. Yep, unique, but the bad concussion shit got me to be organized in ways that I was never able to be before, no matter what I tried. This time, I just fucking get organized, without thinking about it too much. And if I fuck up with my being organized, like I did the other day for work, I admit it, fix it, and move on.

Preparation for isolation (and unexpected natural threats) came by way of the 2018 Northern California (the region where I live) fires that year, which caused the campus to shut down for about a week. (As my friend Steve called it, the smoking break.) And for work, my colleagues and I faced a couple of long term, emergency technical outages that impacted all of the UC Davis faculty, one of them for over a month. Pretty much on a professional and personal level, I was, if not ready, at least getting used to the WTF of whatever life decides to surprise me with. (And lets not forget the really bad fire last September, seen in this video I posted of ash “snow” falling. We did not have to shut down the campus because there was no one there anyway.)

Another aspect of this last year, and one that has been present in my life for a few years now, is the BLM movement and the brutal police violence against Black people in this country. As someone who was a teaching assistant and taught in African American Studies and worked closely with students of color on campus in a student run organization, I was and am still devastated, in part because I know, from hearing so many personal accounts, the pain many of my friends, former colleagues, and former students, are still facing and how overwhelmed they felt and still feel. I understand, if as an outsider, their emotional exhaustion. This has been going on for a while, plus add the years of anti-immigrant hate against the Latinx in the US and the rising tide of violent hate against Asians, and yes, it has been sorrowful. Heartbreaking. And I have, in several ways, including my photography, tried to capture the sorrow and resilience of US people of color. It hurts, almost physically, that many people of color are just tired of talking and dealing with the hate.

So, yes, my situation is unique, but with its own emotionally draining weight. And yes, I am extremely grateful. This leads to the other 2 comments in Reply:

kkomppa

Thank you for sharing, Fern. Very interesting. Like you, I would say my output hasn’t changed much. However, I have sought locations deeper in the wilderness. This has been fulfilling.

schwarzkaeppchen

Really interesting thoughts. We live in strange times, but creativity and motivation comes and goes for so many different reasons. My photography has changed a lot. I used to work as a photographer at events and took portraits for fun... Now I'm officially a portrait photographer.

Both of these comments point to another unique aspect of my life situation: For some of us, our photography and how we do it, has not changed much, and if it has, that has been a part of our overall experience with this art form we love so much.

For me, because of my depressive tendencies, the Zen of photography, at least the way I do it, is therapeutic. And I do not use the  term “Zen” lightly here, because my spiritual life has helped me come to terms with the WTF surprises that are pretty much life, if at times the WTF of it is more impactful, as it is during this COVID19 era. And that is part of what I was trying to share with my original post: Before this period of isolation and disorientation, I was already coming to grips with the gospel truth that “creativity and motivation comes and goes for so many different reasons.” as @schwarzkaeppchen​ said. In no way do I diminish the anguish flared up by these bleak times that impact so many around the world. And really, when you think about it, bleak times have been a norm, at least here in the US, since late 2016, though, of course, lockdowns and physical distance make it all worse. But, at least for me, I try to learn from the bleak times, even if I abhor going through them. And when dealing with the highs and lows of creative energy, at least for me, I have a calm certainty that photography is part of my life and I do not have to worry, since I only love it more each day. And the other side to my certainty is that if someday my love of photography fades, some other treasure of creativity will replace it.

Let’s be real, because of photography. I think about stuff like this and get to have discussions with so many great Tumblr original photographers.

And I am grateful for it, and no, this is not unique to my life situation. I know many of us love being here and sharing the good, the bad, the confounding.

Please think about joining @tvoom and me for InConverversation this month. It has been a long time since we talked, and this COVID19 era will be our topic.

I am grateful for all y’all.

[goose-books]

goose-books productions: a 2020 review

view the image in higher quality here! (open the image in a new tab to zoom in.) thank you to my dearest @yvesdot for the template

transcripts and month-by-month details under the cut! for reference, you can find my projects here :-) overall, new and old followers, thank you for another good year over here! [holds your hand] [holds your hand] [holds your hand] [holds your h

january

i spent late 2019-early 2020 working on 2019’s nano project, quark, aka the speculative fiction thing about new york city and prophets and dissections of the chosen one trope and gay people. quark is my second-oldest project (five years!), but it’s also probably the most ambitious, so it’s been... difficult to wrangle into place, and i didn’t end up finishing a first draft. oh, well.

enjoy a snippet that is devastatingly emblematic of everything about quark. the tone. the homoerotic tension. the ensemble cast all talking over each other. the fact that caelum has spent pretty much this entire scene crying. fun autopsy report meeting.

Marble stares at the notebook in Shade’s hands. Or maybe he’s staring at Shade’s hands. Dawn feels a little voyeuristic, so she does what she does and says a dumb and unrelated thing: “Augustus, I think this pizza-on-the-floor thing is hurting my ass.”

Augustus flutters his hands. “Sometimes nonconformity is painful.”

“At least we’re originals,” Caelum mumbles into his sleeve.

“Exactly,” Augustus says.

“True originality doesn’t exist,” Marble says.

“Oh,” Shade deadpans, “it’s going to be a fun autopsy report meeting.”

It isn’t.

february

in january i stressed myself out trying to make the plot of quark work. so in february, i decided to take some time and write something Entirely For Fun. like, entirely for fun, no rules. and. my god. how do i explain the project i started calling “third eye for the bad guy.”

it was an unholy mashup of many of my past hyperfixations, including the gone series, a tale of two cities, warrior cats, and the left hand of darkness. one of the characters was a canon scalie and one was a canon fictionkinnie. it centered around a polycule of wannabe-evil-overlord high schoolers. i only wrote like three chapters but i was lost in the sauce for all of february and then i just… like… wiped it from my mind and moved on? somehow??? one character was a werewolf and that literally wasn’t relevant at ALL

I.

Someone was going to die on these steps.

This had been Ivy Lee Palomo’s thought last year during the all-school photo, and it rose in her mind again now. The one hundred marble stairs leading up to the great double doors of Saint Constantine Academy were the school’s pride and glory, steep as the mountain, sharp as the blade under Ivy Lee’s skirt. With the cutting wind and snow glazing the stone more often than not, with the freshmen wild and wired on their first day of their first year, it was really only a matter of time before someone slipped and cracked their fucking head open.

It wasn’t going to be her. Not when she had Doc Martens and reflexes like an electric coil. Still. Ivy Lee didn’t want to watch someone die. She didn’t get along with dead people.

march

in march, i got back to the project i’d started in 2019 - AMT, my podcast! it’s a shakespeare retelling set in a modern high school; this excerpt is funnier and also more unnerving in context. (double, double, toil and trouble...)

INDRAJIT: What the hell are you doing?

[PAUSE.]

DEE (like she’s lying): Making pasta.

[ALL THREE OF THEM LAUGH.]

NONA: That’s right.

MORA: We have the keys to Mab’s office.

DEE: We’re using her stove.

NONA: To make pasta.

DEE: Do you want some?

[A TENSE PAUSE.]

INDRAJIT: No.

april

and darkling rears its head! all of my other projects have existed for at least a year; darkling (specfic king lear retelling) is... special. it was conceived in april, when i started hyperfixating on king lear, and i still managed to write an absolutely ridiculous amount of content for it. it was like the power of hyperfixation let me speedrun the entire process. which. okay.

iv: control

They say Cressida Stayer was nine years old when she turned her hair to gold. They laid her down in bed blonde, and the next morning, the waves cascading down her shoulders were solid metal, glinting harshly in the sunlight, weighing her down, creating that odd head-cocked expression she still wears now. Nine years old. Two or three years before most people develop enough magic skills to dye a single curl. Much less transfigure their hair into precious metal.

People also say Leovald Stayer’s immediate reaction was to hack it off her head and melt it down for cash. But generally they say that part a lot quieter.

may

in may i wrote AMT episode 15, by which i mean that in may there was a day when i sat in my room with the door shut for literally five straight hours listening to the same three songs on loop as i wrote the climax of one of the plotlines of AMT. so. that sure was… a day.

ISAAC: Do you want… do you want someone to drive you home? Hawk, you’re worrying me -

HAWK (almost cutting him off): Don’t. Don’t say that. I’m here to help. With your… thing.

ISAAC (quietly): I… don’t know if you should be here to see this.

HAWK (a little louder, more audibly upset): Well - what else am I going to do? Go home and - and have my dads talk at me and - and not be able to answer them? Because I can’t? I can’t. I don’t know what to say.

[PAUSE.]

ISAAC (V.O.): I wonder if this is what he feels like, on the outside, looking in at me. Watching someone else hurting. Helpless and afraid.

He still fits perfectly in my arms. I rest my chin on top of his head and pull him close to me, like I can stop him from shaking, like I can stop anything from happening the way I know it’s going to. I bury my face in his hair. He smells so familiar. He’s so warm.

God, Hawk. I love you so much. You shouldn’t be here to see this. Something bad’s gonna happen. And you’re not the kind of person who belongs in a tragedy.

june

okay, honestly, i should talk about “night shift” here, because in june i wrote a whole short story in one night (and then foamed over it for a week), but i am still in the process of submitting it places! so i am terrified to put even a sentence of it online. instead: the other thing i did this month was to finish AMT! (sixteen episodes and somewhere around 175k, iirc, but don’t quote me.) these lines are the opener to the final episode!

RAHMA (V.O.): The combined series of sophomore year disasters stretched through November. It’s June now. It’s taken me… a long time to get this all put together. I was going to make a vlog about it, initially - well, calling it a vlog sounds frivolous. I was going to make a video recounting the whole deal. All of it. From when I kissed Avery Fairchilde to the very last night. I scripted dozens of drafts; I put together dozens of bullet-pointed lists of what to cover… and it was never enough. Because Avery and I weren’t the only ones involved. Even if I was only focused on the two of us, it wasn’t just the two of us.

So… I gathered up everyone else. The whole town of Ellisburg is still talking about the week the town went crazy, but it wasn’t just a week. There was a lot leading up to it. And I think if anyone’s going to talk about it, it should be us. The people who lived it. So here we are. The most ambitious Rahma Ashiq production of all time - at least so far.

july

every july i pause whatever else i’m doing to celebrate the birthday of aurum & argentate, twins from my oldest and dearest WIP The Mortal Realm. july fifteenth! mark your calendars. they’re princes, though argentate would really rather not be; you can read the full birthday piece here.

“Do you… plan to get dressed?” A bit of the usual humor crept back into Aurum’s voice. “Although if you want to speak to the kingdom in your underthings, by all means, you have my full support.”

Argentate scrubbed at his face. He wasn’t dressed, no, but the usual malaise hung over his shoulders like a cloak. Guilt. Nerves. The sick sense that he hadn’t done something he was supposed to. The numb knowledge that it was too late to change a thing.

“I meant to,” he said. “Get dressed, I mean.” The rest went unsaid: I have just been sitting here. On the floor. Thinking about how I should get dressed.

“Ah,” Aurum said, extending his hand. “The traditional route. We’ll save the nude speeches for the future, then.”

Argentate took his hand, stumbling a little as Aurum pulled him to his feet. He steadied himself on the closest wall, taking a few deep breaths. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. His hands found their way to the cross, again and again.

august

this summer, i wrote an entire draft of Valentine Van Velt is Dead, AKA “holden caulfield goes to exposure therapy,” AKA the weird little personal side project i keep tucked into my coat. interesting features include second-person narration from a narrator who doesn’t like the main character all that much. so reading it is kind of like the book wants to kill you? with an added dash of general melancholy.

You used to live here. That’s the thing that’s got you feeling so off.

You didn’t recognize your old house. I mean, you kind of did. You remembered that the road was on a hill. That hill felt like a goddamn forty-five degree angle when you were a kid. But if you didn’t have the address written down you wouldn’t have known it at all. It would have been just another little suburban house in rows of perfect little towns that make your skin crawl.

So now you’re in this diner looking out a gross smudgy window trying to block out the elevator music pumping through the speakers in the ceiling or whatever. I don’t know how speakers work. You’re trying to tune that shit out. The waitress comes over and catches you by surprise so you just point at some coffee thing on the menu so she’ll go away. For the record: you don’t drink coffee.

There’s a public library across the street. A little square building. You probably used to go there. The lady comes over and thunks your coffee on the table and gives you a kind of look, like she wants to know what in the goddamn hell you think you’re doing here and not at school. You sip your coffee and look out the window until she leaves you alone again. And then you spit it back into the cup because, for the record: you don’t drink coffee.

september

i spent september and october prepping for nano, so i was mostly working on darkling...

It’s late spring; still, at this time of night, on a rooftop, there’s a chill. The wind plays with the end of Ruby’s coat, with her hair. She hands the bottle off to Jasper, stares up at the fogged-over sky, wishes she were lying in Dany’s arms in Dany’s bed instead of here. Wishes, even, that Dany were the one on the roof with her. At least then they’d be cold together. At least then she wouldn’t have to imagine what Dany would say; she could just listen, and watch Dany’s flashing smile and her flinty eyes.

(She cuddles. This is another thing Dany does that Dany probably shouldn’t do, based on everything about Dany; it’s not like rattlesnakes cuddle. But Dany likes to nuzzle into Ruby’s side and rest her head on Ruby’s collarbones and toss an arm over Ruby’s chest, and hold her down like she’s worried she’ll float off somewhere. She’ll card her fingers through Ruby’s hair and hum. Even though they could get caught, even though she’s probably got better places to be - Dany cuddles.)

Ruby imagines it, momentarily, both of them on the roof together, sprawled like horrifyingly beautiful gargoyles, sharp teeth flashing, blood running hot. Up here - it’d be like they ruled the world.

But whatever. Jasper’s fun. He’s hot. He’s got a sharp tongue in a lot more ways than one. And she likes when he lets the mask down. She likes seeing the soft bits underneath. She wants to sink her teeth and nails into them so hard she draws blood. Masks don’t bleed. Ruby would know; that’s why she is what she is.

october

...though i was also in creative writing class in school, and thus ended up writing a bunch of poems of varying quality (my teacher had a real thing for poetry) and also one darklingverse short story where rory and cressida hold hands! which you can find here.

Lorelai Rory Flowers is afraid of thunder.

This is a bit of an embarrassing thing to admit, as they’re seventeen (“at least seventeen,” they like to tell people, “maybe two hundred, who’s to say?”) and generally wise beyond their years, or whatever it is that adults say about kids with too much psychological baggage. Being afraid of thunder is not a very wise-beyond-one’s-years trait. And yet the state of affairs remains: loud noises make Rory want to melt into the earth. Back when they still went to school, even the fire alarm sent them scuttling under their desk to hide.

Right now, in the elevator, all they can do is shrink into their sweater.

They haven’t let go of Cressida’s hand yet.

november

and then november of course was nano which was an adventure all the way through. (opening tumblr on the fifth day of nano to find out about d*stiel... was something.)

“Apologize to me. Or get out of my house.”

Gracen’s voice is very, very low. For a moment she thinks he hasn’t heard her at all. Then he spins, eyes blazing. “What did you say?”

Gracen watches her own chest heave. She pushes herself up off the desk, stands with the effort of pushing a mountain off of her back. Leovald is six-foot-four. Gracen is six-foot-two. In her heels, in the heels she must wear to be a professional woman, to be a lady - they are the same height.

Gracen wipes her nose. When she lowers her arm, there’s a streak of blood across the back of her hand. Fire shivers in her chest; her heart rings in her ears; her voice could cut steel.

“I said,” she says, low, slow, volume building, “apologize to me. Or get. Out. Of. My. House.”

december

and finally, the poem i posted this year! it’s called the beast sonnet, and you can find it in its own post over here (with commentary! how sexy.)

i kill the beast and drop down to my knees, my blade stained dark with blood of stygian hue, and for a moment these scarred hands shake free, and hold a world unfurled for me anew. but once-mourned victims, victors, vices find; fear winged me; now its absence strips me bare. my sword now dulls, my legs, my voice, my mind; the beast, pried from my throat, leaves no skill there. and still i hear it laugh, O DEVOTEE— O CHILD DEAR, NO GLORY WITHOUT ME.

i was quite productive this year; i have to think it was because i was avoiding things... the peak of my productivity happened over the summer and in november, AKA, college app hell. (almost done with the last applications! pray for me.)

a general breakdown of what occupied me this year:

(no, i don’t know why the “various other things” category ended up so large... i blame all the one-off projects i wrote a single page for, and also whatever the fuck happened in february. yes, i do know why it looks hideous; it’s because each of my WIPs has a theme color

thank you once again for spending some time at goose-books dot gov this year! what to expect for next year: well, i very much hope i can produce AMT... also hoping to get darkling ready for beta readers, so keep your eyes out!

[iwillnotburnmyjournals]

What Are You Doing, Julie??

I made a decision that is vague and formless and without guarantee, and also requires attention, detail, self-awareness, and tirelessness.

I am not working for a month. No day job, no part-time. I am meditating, working through “The Artist’s Way” by Julia Cameron, and writing music for a month. This may sound ideal to some, stupid or entitled or not a big deal to others. One of many motivations for this month was that I recently had a conversation with a friend who had decided to switch from being an actor to going back to school for social work and possibly an eventual law degree. When I asked her why the switch, she responded, “When I really sat down with myself, I just knew I didn’t actually want to spend my energy putting in the kind of work it would take to be an actor. But I’ll always be a performer at heart.”

And I thought, “Good lord, have I ever been that honest with myself about what I want to do?”

For me, this month is a small protest against my denial of past years as well as an experiment. For almost a decade, I have gone through a series of begrudging and slow admittances. At first, I pretended that I just couldn’t find the correct job or career path, I wasn’t sure of what I wanted to do. (This kept concerned adults off my back for a bit). And so I bought myself some time and meandered in a career-malaise for five years after college, working various and multiple jobs, none of them satisfying whatever I was craving. I had an ex tell me I was never going to find what I was looking for – which is laughable considering no one should ever say that to another person, and also considering that I was years away from saying out loud what I actually was looking for.

I wrote two songs in college. Stopped. Started again in 2016 and wrote most of the songs I have now, maybe 10 “finished” – (are they ever fucking finished?) – songs. Stopped. I didn’t write again for three years, but all the while was reading memoirs of artists and musicians, how-to-creativity books while deeply embarrassed that I needed a how-to at all. In 2019, I admitted that I at least wanted to move to New York City so I could be near music, so I could see live shows, so I could perform if I wanted to. I was inching myself closer to the edge, like a little kid who’s still in swimmies inching her way to dip her toes in the deep end. But I still wasn’t writing.

After having a conversation in April with a fellow musician about Charlie Parker locking himself in his apartment for two years to play music for 16 hours a day and do heroin, I said, “Fuck it. I’m tired of saying I want something and not doing anything to move toward it.” It’s easy to think that if you love something enough, you will magically just find a way to do it. This is not the case for me. It seems that I find every excuse I can not to write. When I told a friend a few years ago how writing for me was often like extracting an arrow lodged in my chest and that I ran away from it as much as possible, his response was, “Well, maybe you just shouldn’t write.” I’ve hated that response ever since he voiced it.

Annie Dillard was the one person who gave me permission to realize and admit that I was cripplingly afraid of writing, and rightly so. Her small masterpiece, The Writing Life, is a mortar and pestle to the ego if you’re stuck in the shadowlands of thinking you want to write when all you really want is attention (large neon blinking arrow to my head.) In representing the frustrating, often fruitless, painstaking process of writing, Annie uses the metaphor of an architect who has a sole worker who refuses to work on the architect’s building design, claiming it is faulty. She writes, “Acknowledge, first, that you cannot do nothing . . . Subject the next part, the part at which the worker balks, to harsh tests. It harbors an unexamined and wrong premise. Something completely necessary is false or fatal. Once you find it, and if you can accept the finding, of course it will mean starting again. This is why many experienced writers urge young men and women to learn a useful trade.” I’ve always hated when artistic types say, “If you can do without this [art], you should try.” It’s always seemed egotistical or pejorative to me. But now I get it. The thought of so much self-accountability, starting and failing and having to be one the one who declares you yourself have failed, terrifies me and seems so pointless.

But I really do have masochist in my bloodstream. Whatever terrifies me, I’m a bloodhound for. So, when I realized I kept saying I wanted to be a singer-songwriter while simultaneously sneaking out the backdoor of my brain and action to get away from just that, I figured I should test myself. At least I’ll know whether I’m a total fraud and attention-grabber, or whether this is what I need to do. Bob Dylan’s words that the world doesn’t need any more songs ring in my ears daily. But I guess that’s a good litmus test if I persist in writing songs while the greatest American songwriter repeats that mantra in my ear.

So, I am dedicating this month to meditation, working through “The Artist’s Way” by Julia Cameron, and writing music. I will be giving updates, either written or video recorded, each day. Not for attention or because “this is so original” but because I read a book years ago called Show Your Work by Austin Kleon and one of his pieces of advice was to share your creative processes with others rather than wait to show a perfected result. That and I am so horribly cock-blocked when it comes to expressing what I truly think and feel that I’m forcing myself to put out processes/anything I’m working on where a roving eye could see it if it wanted. Seeing as how I’m pretty obsessed with people’s sketch books and rough drafts, watching people apply makeup on the subway, and existential crises in the midst of trying to get somewhere, I figured keeping some kind of public record was a good idea.

Good lord, here we fucking go.

[stellar-imagines]

SCENARIO REQUEST: ❝malaise pt 3.❞

[ Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia ] [ Characters: Bakugou Katsuki ]

「The villain attack certainly did damage to you, physically. But there was a good side to it too, Bakugou comes to visit everyday which brightens your mood. The two of you began to build up your supposedly lost relationship. Even so, there are still unsaid things that needed to be said.」

Slight Angst ahead!

[ Part 1 || Part 2 ]

BAKUGOU KATSUKI

"Good work out there, Bakugou! Its a bit late but how about we go grab some dinner together!" 

Kirishima peeked into the locker room to see Bakugou packing his Hero Costume into the metallic suitcase. The blond haired hero spared his co-worker a glance, noticing that he had already changed out of his costume before returning his attention to his unfolded clothes. The red head slowly approached his long time friend who gave no response at all. He knew. Kirishima's smile fell at Bakugou's ignorance. He already knew that the blonde wasn't going to accept any of his offers, he had done this every single day after work and he'd receive whenever he invited Bakugou out to eat or do anything.

"No, I'll pass." the male rose from the bench, carried his suitcase with him and brushed past Kirishima, keeping his head down. 

The red head watched as his co-worker trudged down the hallway, his steps a bit slow and sluggish. In the field, he was hardworking like usual, kicking ass and using his quirk to its full extent. But after the chaos in the field, he'd be silent, not saying a single word. He'd still give replies and responses but Bakugou doesn't seem like himself anymore. When Sero and Kaminari annoyed him, he'd explode and tell them to fuck off or shut up. But now, he'd just brush them off, giving a half-hearted threat. Shortly after Bakugou left, Kirishima jogged up to the blonde and matched his pace and started a conversation about today's work.

As soon as the two boys made it out of the building, they were both greeted by their former classmates, Kaminari, Ashido and Sero. The three were talking with one another not too far away from the building, dressed appropriately to hide their identities from public. Ashido was the first one to spot the two boys leaving together, waving over and calling out their names before jogging over. Both Kirishima and Bakugou stopped as the pink haired girl talked about where they should go to celebrate another successful mission. Kaminari and Ashido soon joined in, throwing in a few suggestions of their own.

"Yakiniku! A celebration calls for meat!" Kirishima raised his hand excitedly.

"How about you, Bakugou? What do ya wanna eat?" Sero turned towards the blonde who had been oddly silent the entire time.

"I don't have time for celebrations. I have places to be." Bakugou grumbled, pulling his mask to cover his mouth before walking off. The four exchanged glanced before their eyes landed on Bakugou who had left on his own. Instead of loitering about, they decided to head over to the chosen yakiniku restaurant.

"Hey. Is it me or recently, Bakugou has been rejecting all our offers to go out?" Kaminari questioned. The half cooked meat sitting on the grill was flipped over by Kirishima while the cooked ones were being picked up by Ashido who put them all on a plate. It was odd that the electric quirked hero noticed after a long time when it was clearly obvious that Bakugou is behaving out of the norm.

"Well, you can't really blame him for ditching us." Ashido huffed, adding a few slices of meat onto her plate.

For Bakugou, it was the same routine everyday. Wake up early in the morning, get ready for work, make breakfast and then go to work. At least every day, work was always different. Different villains cause mischief while he was out on patrol. There'd be some that gave him trouble but he was always partnered up with someone who assisted him in battles. After work it was the same routine, it was the same path every single day. From the agency it would be a few minutes to the station and a few stops to his destination.

The hospital. To be precise, a hospital specially for heroes which is under heavy surveillance. The receptionist recognized him almost immediately, handed him a visitor's pass before wishing him a good day. The blonde walked past the people in the hallway, paying them no heed as he walked towards his goal. Despite being in such a confusing and wide place, Bakugou has completely memorized the path to the room he wanted to go to.

”Hey, I’m back.”

Sitting on the bed, staring at the television was you. The phone on your lap was still on, indicating that you had been playing around with it earlier. As Bakugou stepped closer to the bed you were resting on, he noted that you seem to be doing much better than yesterday. It felt strange to be seeing him under such circumstances. Ever since that incident, he came to visit every day, never skipping a day. You even heard from your nurse that he asked the receptionist to extend his visiting time when he came late. He had a lot of things to say to you. Practices apologies he always revised in his head and bracing himself for the worst. That day when he said he wanted to have a talk with you, he was going to ask for forgiveness.

It's been a month since then and he still haven't conveyed his feelings. He prepared for the worst, for you to completely break up with him and move on with your own lives. Honestly, he thinks that's the most likely outcome but before that happens, he wants to tell you one more time. Bakugou wants to make sure that he gets his feelings through your head. He still loves you, even if you don't love him anymore or hate him for what he did, it doesn't matter. All he wants is for you to be happy. Clenching his fists, he looked down at his lap

"Listen, I want to—" he started, finally gathering enough confidence to talk to you.

”Aren’t you tired from work? Why don't we eat together? Mina bought me some curry, a little bit too much." you laughed softly. Bakugou raised his head, only to see you avoiding his gaze and looking out at the window.

"I don't think you've eaten. Let's eat before the food gets cold." you handed him a plastic bag that was previously placed on your bedside. 

Even though he wants to tell you, you're the one preventing him from doing so. It was obvious that you were avoiding the topic, because every single time he starts to get a bit serious, you'd change the conversation or come up with some excuse. Bakugou wanted to get mad but he couldn't because of the look in your eyes — sad and afraid. But maybe, it wasn't so bad at all. Being able to see you everyday, getting better each day and talking with you like you're both lovers again. It always made him forget about the real situation anyways. But living in this delusion wasn't good, for you and himself. You're both just denying reality and keeping things to yourselves.

After his visit, you'd be left alone to do whatever you wanted. Normally you just continue watching TV until you fall asleep but tonight, you decided to look outside. As your bed was by the window, you were able to see Tokyo's beautiful city lights and clear skies. You could see Bakugou walking alone with his disguise, a cap and a surgical mask. He seemed to be preoccupied with his phone, calling someone. At that time, you heard your own phone ring. Taking your eyes off the male, you picked up your phone. Your eyes widened when Bakugou's name flashed on the screen. Even though you both drifted apart, you still kept his name as 'Katsuki' with a heart in your contacts.

"Hello?"

"Stop staring at me. I can feel your eyes on me." he said, voice slightly muffled by the mask he was wearing. You turned quickly, seeing that Bakugou was looking at you from a distance.

"What are you talking about? You're the one staring at me. How else would you know I'm staring at you?"

"Yeah, whatever." Bakugou clicked his tongue. Honestly, it was nice that you both can joke around like you normally do again. Behind his mask, Bakugou finds himself smiling. He was worried that you hated him or something and was only putting up a front. Hearing you talk back almost feels nostalgic. At any rate, he was glad that you were behaving like your usual self.

"Take care out there. Be safe. Text me when you get back, okay?" you managed to say without stuttering.

"Yeah, you get better soon too." he said before hanging up.

When Bakugou returned to his apartment, it didn't feel that cold and uninviting anymore. He instinctively pulled out his phone and sent you a text, telling you that he made it home safely. It was odd, he never felt so nervous waiting for your response in a long time. It felt that he was back in the past where he didn't even have the courage to send a text and spent a long time thinking about what to say to you. When his phone dinged, he was already looking at it. You told him to wash up and take a break after work. In addition, you told him about how you saw him in the news today and congratulated him for defeating the villain all on his own. His heart skipped a beat at the fact that you were watching him.

Your stuff was still there, the cute little cups that you insisted on buying when you first moved in and the snacks in the pantry that you loved was untouched. Seeing them didn't make him feel sad for reminding him of you, instead, he looked forward to when you finally hears him out and move in back with him. It was a good sign but He had the day of tomorrow so he vowed to himself that he would tell you tomorrow. 

On the other hand, you sat on the hospital bed as your nurse went through your files and updated you about your condition. The entire time she was talking, you had your attention elsewhere. The only thing you were thinking was telling Bakugou something that you should've told him. It's been a month and you have yet to tell him. Exhaling a breath that you have been holding in, you looked down at your phone and texted Bakugou a goodnight while the nurse sighed. She was aware that you weren't paying attention, the file was placed on your bedside, she told you to have a look yourself before leaving.

The following day came by faster than you both expected. You woke up in the morning, ate and did your usual morning routine in the hospital. When Bakugou arrived, he came with sime of his home cooked food, something you didn't know you missed until you saw it. The two of you ate in silence while the television played whatever show in the background. It wasn't until you both finished your meal that Bakugou decided to make his move.

"Hey, I have something to say to you."

He took a deep breath in, before looking at you. He was somewhat relieved that you were actually looking at him right now instead of avoiding his eyes. Even though he said he was gonna tell you today, he was still concerned over a few things. How the hell should he start? Address the problem? Apologize first? Damn, he should've practised more! 'Fuck it!"he cursed to himself. He exhaled and decided to just do it in his own way.

"I still love you, I really do. Even if I apologize a thousand times, you might not forgive me for what I've done. I can't undo that shit. I want a second chance, begging for it would just make me look miserable and you'd be embarrassed by it. But I want you to know this. I need to tell you this before I regret just keeping quiet."

"I want another chance with you. I'll do anything it takes to earn your trust back. I just want to live with you again." he said seriously. It was obvious from his body language, eyes and tone. He was serious and to be honest, you could say that he was actually close to tears too.

"Whenever you apologize, you mean it. I know that more than anyone. If you weren't that sorry, you wouldn't be so desperate. Deep inside, I know, giving you another chance would be worth it. You're stupidly loyal after all. But, I don't think I'm the right person for you anymore. Not because you cheated on me or anything okay! It's just that—"

"You're always like that, avoiding things and dragging the conversation to avoid closure. Why can't just you just tell me what's wrong!?" 

"My legs are the problem!" you screamed back, tears streaming down your face. Your nose was red and you were sniffling. There's no doubt that you look incredibly ugly with snot dripping from your nose and haired dishevelled like you had just woken up.

"What do you mean.....? What is wrong with your legs!?"

"They're....paralyzed. Even if we can live together again, would you want someone who can't even live on their own to just bring you down?" you muttered

"You're a Pro Hero and you're needed at the site for battle! It's your dream right? To be number one? I don't want to be the one holding you back from your dream. Not when you're already so close into being top ten!"

"I want to live with you again too.....but if I'm just gonna be dead weight to you then its better if we just break things off." you sniffled, rubbing at your eyes to wipe away the tears.

Bakugou was stunned but the entire time you rambled, he remained oddly silent. He sat down in the bed, right in front of you. When you felt another weight in the bed, you raised your head to see the blonde sitting in front of you before you could question his actions, he grabbed your wrist gently and moved it away from your face.

"Hey, let me ask you one more thing." he mumbled. You sniffled but nodded anyways, wondering what he wanted.

"Do you still love me?"

That was it. The question that you have heard from your friends, whether you still love him or not, despite what he did. Your answer was the same and every time you said it, you were confident. But being face to face with Bakugou made the words die in your throat. Perhaps it was because of how emotional you are right now. 

"Y-Yes! I still do! I love you so much!" you cried. You didn't care how dishevelled you look. You didn't care about the fat globs of tears that were falling onto the blanket. At least you managed to say it.

"Then, what more of a reason do you need?"

"I'll do everything I can to support you. I'll ask the old hag to come and take care of you. Hire a personal maid or whatever. Paralyzed or whatever, I don't give a damn." he closed in the distance between the two of you, moved his hand to cup your face. Using his thumbs, he wiped away your tears and rested his forehead against your own.

"The only answer I needed was that you still love me."

Total: 2570 words Published: 28.02.2020

Thank you for requesting! *｡٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و*｡ Due to unpopular demand, we finished off Malaise! Not the ending that I really wanted but I guess this will have to do. We’re almost finished with the request in the ask box and we actually have an announcement to make! We hope you enjoyed it!  ― author Hibiki/Lou

Thank you for requesting! Here we are with the last part of Malaise We hope you liked it. We have an announcement to make tomorrow. It might be delayed but it will be tomorrow. Not much people read the announcement anyways so.....― author Natsuki

Please do not mind the grammar mistakes and typos.

[cosmicjoke]

Further commentary on the ending of Banana Fish (Spoilers):

Look, I understand the controversy and upset surrounding the ending of Banana Fish.  My last post on this topic seems to have pissed some people off, which was never my intention.  But I think maybe I could have worded things a bit better, so I’m going to try again to explain why I feel like the ending of Banana Fish was so perfect.

It’s not a happy ending, and I don’t think anyone, anywhere, will try to tell you that the ending was meant to make anyone happy, or satisfied.  That’s the point.  It’s not MEANT to please the reader.  It’s meant to remain true to its narrative realism.  And in that realism, it’s meant to break the readers heart.  And boy does it do both.

I don’t think anyone would tell you, anyone with any ounce of feeling in their heart, anyway, that Ash didn’t deserve a happy ending, or that he deserved to die after all the awful shit he went through.  I think we can all agree that we would have wanted, if we had a choice, to see Ash have a happy, hopeful ending with Eiji in Japan.  We all agree that Ash DESERVED a happy ending, because he was a good person who was dealt about the shittiest hand in life a person can have.  And despite all that shit, he retained that innate goodness of heart that made him who he was.  He never became a monster, like the people who used him up and abused him over and over again.  That’s what makes him such an extraordinary character that’s deeply loved by so many people. He absolutely deserved to be happy.

But that’s the thing. Banana Fish is a story that deals in reality.  Everything that happens in the story, despite the often extraordinary, larger than life circumstances, is dealt with in a way that is, very often, brutally, painfully honest and realistic.  It doesn’t give us what should be, it gives us what IS.  And that makes perfect sense in accordance with its relation to writers like Hemingway and Salinger.  They wrote stories that dealt in brutal honesty and reality too, and both writers are referenced throughout Banana Fish.  And it’s Banana Fish’s commitment to that brutal honesty and reality that makes it an authentic piece of art.  People want a fairy tale ending, where Ash gets to ride off into the sunset with Eiji and live happily ever after, but at no point in Banana Fish are we given any indication that the story is, at any point, going to delve into the realm of unreality and fantasy, and give us such an ending.  To do so would have been a betrayal of the genuine nature of the narrative. It would have ultimately robbed it of its authenticity as a piece of art, and the story, as a result, would have been left hollow and lacking.  

Banana Fish, throughout its narrative, shows us that terrible things happen to good people, and that good people are often forced into doing terrible things.  It never shy’s away from that cruel, heartbreaking reality, and the ending is no exception.  

It affects us so deeply, and leaves us so upset, because it’s so REAL.  It feels genuine to us, it feels real, because it refuses to betray its honesty for the sake of a happy fantasy.  It remains loyal to the harsh truth of reality, and the harsh truth of Ash’s reality in particular.  Ash is a deeply damaged, broken person, who’s experiences in life are the very definition of cruelty.  Here is a boy who, since the age of seven, has experienced sexual, mental, emotional and physical abuse repeatedly and on a scale truly unfathomable to almost all of us. A boy who was forced into a life of prostitution in order to simply survive on the harsh streets of an unforgiving city.  A boy who, again out of a necessity for survival, has had to kill other human beings. A boy who, out of a desperate situation in which he was forced to choose either to save his soulmate or watch him be murdered by his best friend gone berserk in a mad, drug induced insanity, had to kill his best friend by shooting him straight through the heart.  A boy who, each time in his life that he’s tried to build real and meaningful relationships with other people, Griffin, the girl he liked when he was 14, Skip, Shorter, Eiji, he’s had to watch those people he allowed himself to grow close to either die or almost die, over and over again.  All of that combined creates a level of trauma that’s so far beyond the normal scope or understanding of a regular human being, so far beyond any discernable mechanism for coping with trauma, that to expect Ash to just get over it, for it all to magically be okay just because he moves to Japan with Eiji, is the height of unrealistic, and, again, would be a betrayal of the authenticity the story marries itself to from start to finish.  

Ash’s death is a tragedy, as his life was a tragedy, and the story is a reflection of that.  It stays true to that narrative, and never compromises on it.  That’s the point.  Life doesn’t always have a happy ending.  People that have suffered severe, irreversible trauma don’t always recover, and can’t always heal from it.  People who have suffered in the obscene and brutal ways that Ash has aren’t always going to be alright.  Sometimes it’s just too much.  For Ash, it was just too much.  Too much damage.  Too much heartache.  Too much pain.  Too much loss.  Sometimes we can’t overcome our damage, and that reality presented in this story scares people, I think, because it’s so nakedly honest and unapologetically expressed.

The ending is so god awful painful too because we see, in that moment after Ash reads Eiji’s letter, hope bloom inside him.  For an instant, this belief that maybe he can have a happy ending, when he thinks he’ll catch Eiji at the airport, and maybe go with him.  And in the next instant, he’s mercilessly reminded of that hope’s falsity. Hope springs eternal, but not always true.  Hope and happiness were never meant for Ash.  The chance for that was taken from him before he could even understand what those concepts were.  The thematic arc of the story was telling us from the start that it was going to end in tragedy.

People weren’t meant to LIKE this ending.  It wasn’t meant to make them feel good, or okay with what happened, or fulfilled.  In fact, I’d say, it’s meant to make you feel completely devastated.  As the story reflects reality, so often too does real life end in a way that leaves us feeling lost and confused and heartbroken.  Banana Fish is so good because it stays true to that sense of reality, right until the very end.

The ending doesn’t leave us feeling happy, but it sure does leave us FEELING.  Like any real piece of art would.  The emotions it conjures are immense and, for some I guess, too real. That sense of loss and hopelessness and pain it leaves us with is so effective because, again, it’s so honest. And I guess that because those emotions are so real, and felt so deeply, and with such intensity, it leaves some readers and viewers feeling angry.  Lashing out at a reality which they don’t want to accept.  The irony, of course, is that their hatred and rejection of the ending is testament to just how deeply the ending touched them.  It didn’t leave them feeling nothing, it left them feeling too much, and they then go into a state of denial, which is really just a stage of grief.  A refusal to accept.  You know Banana Fish is a true piece of art for that, in how it conjures sincere feelings of grief and mourning in us for its lead character in Ash.  We CARE about him, deeply.  We want him to be alright, because we love him.

But real art isn’t concerned with placation.  It’s concerned with truth.  So many great pieces of literature have unhappy endings, because that’s the truth of the human condition, and the condition of life in general.  Real art won’t shy away from those painful, awful truths, nor is it afraid to conjure the feelings which go hand in hand with those truths in its audience.  

With all that said, the tragedy of the ending doesn’t demand a feeling of meaninglessness or desolation at all.

Eiji’s love for Ash and Ash’s love for Eiji is still so pivotal and, ultimately, essential in how the story ends.  It’s what allows, maybe not a feeling of hope, but a feeling of peace.

You sense throughout the story that Ash knows he’s going to die.  Like he senses that his life is too fucked up, that he’s been through and had to do too many horrible things for it to last very long.  It’s like the saying of he who burns brightest burns twice as fast.  Ash is burning, and he knows it.  He’s already accepted it as an inevitable conclusion.  He doesn’t actively seek death, but he doesn’t fear, nor fight against it.  At points throughout the story, even, he asks for it, when the horror of what’s happening to him becomes too much.  He knows death is coming for him.  The only thing keeping him from giving in so easily I think is his lack of agency in how he will.  Everything has been taken from Ash, and he doesn’t want to give this last thing away. This choice in how he dies.

Eiji’s love is what finally gives him agency in that decision.

Ash died knowing Eiji loved him, and that knowledge, that certainty that he was loved, genuinely loved by another human being, without any strings or conditions attached, simply loved for himself alone, is what allowed Ash to finally find the peace in death which alluded him in life.  He no longer feels like he has to keep fighting, or struggling on through an endless malaise of misery and pain, because he’s finally found the calm and acceptance which comes with knowing he has this one, pure thing for himself, which nobody, none of his abusers, can ever touch or take away.  With everything else that’s been stolen from Ash, his innocence, his sense of agency, his own body, his own mind, Eiji’s love for him is the one thing nobody could ever steal away.  And that’s, I think, why Ash dies smiling, because it’s that knowledge, that he was worthy of another human being’s true love, that at last shows him that he was a human being himself.  Not an animal.  Not a monster.  He was a human being worthy of love.

Ash’s death is heartbreaking, and brutal, but there’s deep consolation to be had in knowing he spent his final moments with the feeling of Eiji’s love for him alive inside his heart, allowing him at last to feel like a person deserving, worthy of love.

It’s that which allows Ash to finally let go of his struggle, and let’s death’s embrace take hold of him.  It’s his own. Eiji’s love, and his choice to let go of life.

It doesn’t make the ending any less heart wrenching or brutal.  It doesn’t make us any less devastated by Ash’s death.  But it gives us a sense of peace, in knowing, even if we are left feeling lost and heartbroken, Ash himself left life with the fulfillment of knowing he was loved.

[263adder]

20 Fics, 20 First Lines

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list the ones you have)! See if there are any patterns, choose your favourite opening line, then tag some of your favourite authors.

Tagging: @girlslikegirlsandbooks, @repeatinglitanies, @mynewblackdress and anyone else who wants to take part.

“What’s this?” You asked curiously, looking at the box before you – wrapped in violet paper and tied with lilac coloured ribbon. Perplexing Presents (Doctor Who)

Five had moved them again. Plastic Roses (The Umbrella Academy)

Vanya wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, finding the entire turn of events bewildering. Leyden Jar (The Umbrella Academy)

“It’s not that bad.” Vanya tried to assure Five, sniffling through her discomfort. Never Again (The Umbrella Academy)

For the Umbrella Academy, and the man who dictated their lives, the outside world was always something of a mystery. Transduction (The Umbrella Academy)

Like every year since the Umbrella Academy had first been unveiled to the world, they were spending their day under the adoration of the city atop their float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Wishbone(The Umbrella Academy)

Vanya was the first one to wake up, just as sunlight started to peek over the horizon. (Bitter)Sweet Sixteen (The Umbrella Academy)

“Remember, dear?” Grace said, shaking two pills into Seven’s hand. Experiment 10080 (The Umbrella Academy)

“Where are we going?” Vanya whispered as Five led them down the street, a blanket from his room folded up under an arm. Labor of Love(The Umbrella Academy)

“You’ll like this one.” The Master promised, opening the door for her. Aractune (Doctor Who)

No matter how much you tried, it seemed no one in the room was capable of rational thought. Knavish Knight (Doctor Who)

It started small. Guileless Guides (Doctor Who) *my favourite

It was meant to be a quick stop. Olara (Doctor Who)

Your dream was progressing fairly normally. Nomadic Nightmares (Doctor Who)

She’d retreated within herself, able to keep calm so long as she remained inside the locked closet with those men far away from her. Newton’s Apple (The Umbrella Academy)

You didn’t want to get out of bed. Malaise Malfunctions(Doctor Who)

Ana had first met O when he’d helped the Doctor find out some useful information about Jack Robertson, the American billionaire they had linked to the giant spiders terrorising Sheffield. Vabivis (Doctor Who)

Phillip (his most recently assumed name) pushed past the slightly sticky door and entered the dimly lit bar. Metamorphosis (The Umbrella Academy)

“Just for a few days. Even one would do.” Daviron(Doctor Who)

Vanya wasn’t sure what was different about this jump. Polchinski’s Paradox (Doctor Who)