#pictures I took from my kindle

[akindplace]

Mary Oliver - To begin with, the sweet grass

“We do one thing or another; we stay the

same, or we

change.

Congratulations, if

you have changed”

[vampiremoshpit]

Redrew this fucked up drawing I did of 2D when I was 12

Original under the cut (BEWARE)

[nouearth]

an internship at wayne interprises. (part ii)

bruce wayne x male reader headcanons

part i.

warnings: smut, age gap, bottom reader, breeding, virgin!reader, top!bruce, established relationship, lowkey kind of fluffy, bruce is falling in love.

a/n: aaaand it's finally here! i hope you all enjoy the long awaited part two! i was watching american psycho recently and bruh, i forgot how hot he looked in it. like. i want to run my tongue all over him.

—as intimidating as bruce was, he never found the courage, or time really, to isolate you from your responsibilities.

—was it cowardliness that he was faced with? or was it that returning feeling that churned in his stomach, swelled in his chest, until it made him rethink the thoughts he’s had of you?

—guilt. he never felt it when he was jerking off to your pictures, which have become a daily routine now. 

—but it returned in powerful marches, ached at the center of his heart, ridiculing him for thinking about his employee in such a crude, exploitive way.

—he always felt it when he saw you first thing in the morning, working quietly, mindlessly as your body had begun to become used to the caffeine.

—like wind chimes, you moved around people - around the wind - not with them, as you made your way to the break room. 

—three packets of sugar and two spoons of creamer normally kept you awake, but the frozen pocket pizza in the toaster oven was the real source of your energy. 

—bruce winced as he silently watched you from afar. you yawned, rubbed your eyes as the heat from the toaster oven warmed the surrounding area.

—jesus, no wonder you’re always so tired. look at the shit you’re eating.

—the march of soldiers, rioting against guilt, roared, and he was reminded of his privilege immediately after. a butler that had been providing him three nutritious meals a day since birth, and a garden of wealth that allowed him to afford a home gym with the best equipment; it was all handed to him and while he did his best to give back to the city, it was never enough to pacify the war zone of his chest. he was a person, a wealthy person, but a person nonetheless.

—you were a person.

—though ironically enough, he came to the the image of you hungrily licking the grease off your fingers when you were finished with breakfast later that night.

—there was always something new about you that he would fixate on when his hand met his cock, stroking it with a glorious amount of lube until it dried. 

—though he never fretted, because your lips, your face, your nose - everything about you - milked him until the fresh stock of cum had become the only slime that layered his softening erection.

—like bruce’s nights, you’ve begun infiltrating the routine of his mornings now.

—or rather, bruce began infiltrating yours after he visited you in the break room for the first time.

—good morning, mister wayne…

—oh, new intern, right? your name was…?

—he always feigned his disinterest because he liked hearing your name come out of your handsome mouth.

—(m/n), sir…

—it sounded beautiful. the softness of your voice kindled a tenderness in bruce and it could’ve cradled him to sleep had the coffee from the break room not been so disgusting and cheap.

—the third time, he memorized the pattern you spoke in. your voice always trailed off at the end of a sentence as if it had been stolen by a criminal.

—it’s (m/n), sir…

—he wished he could be that somebody.

—the fifth time, he’d gotten used to the watery aftertaste of the coffee.

—wait, don’t tell me. your name rhymes with…

—and when you laughed because bruce was completely off by a mile, he saw a glimpse of your soul that had been sheltered by intimidation and anxiety.

—he learned he wanted to become a part of your life when he took you out for lunch.

—long overdue, but i usually take my interns out for lunch.

—bruce usually didn’t.

—oh—mister wayne, i don’t think that’s necessary… i already packed lunch.

—great! you don’t have to pack for tomorrow then.

—wait, but i haven’t set up the meeting with—

—i’ll get someone on it—already made reservations, c’mon.

—he’d learned so much about you that day, then the following, and the next; your upbringing, your hopes and dreams, your downfalls, it felt like he was walking on water with the way you willingly opened more of yourself every consecutive day.

—he could listen to you talk for hours, become poisoned by it if your voice was liquid, and bruce accepted that risk when he made another routine to invite you for lunch.

—previous nights were as followed: he stroked his cock to you, breathing heavily into the memory of your cologne, the wrinkles of your shirt, the curl of your lips when he made a joke.

—since he’d gotten to know you as more than a stained selfie, more than the meek statue that stood in the corner; instead of feeding himself with the thoughts of you that derived from pure lust, the reality of his nights had shifted.

—he stroked himself, that never changed. but he closed his eyes, breathing until he could see the ghost of you by his side.

—your shared bodies tensed into one another as his body curved forward into the arc of your back when he pushed in for the first time. you reached back to hold his thigh, pausing his thrusts because you needed to adjust, because you wanted to feel all of him in complete comfort.

—it was intimacy.

—it only melted - your body - when bruce kissed the shell of your ear, telling you that he’ll continue once you were ready. you let him in, sprouted for him like a bud in spring, and felt all of him swell larger inside of you with a whimper.

—it was vulnerability.

—he made sure you were touched, palming your erection as he rocked his own into your bud. from the nape of your neck to the hill of your back, he blessed you in the wet of his mouth, battling the sweat that had gathered on your body to see who would claim the vacancy of your body.

—he made sure to make you feel safe, drowning you in affection with his low voice, with the bridge that had constructed between your soul and his as he thrusted deeper, connected into you when he pressed into a spot that had the heavy air memorize every letter of bruce’s name.

—and finally crossed when he filled you with all of his endearment towards you, heavy and thick in combative sequence. he never pulled away in fret of losing the sentiment—in fret of losing you. 

—it was love.

—from then on, bruce was devoted to melt the frost that had shielded you, just as you had melted his.

—because he was going to protect you now.

—the guilt that had been egging the shelter of his heart wilted in the pit of his stomach when he kissed you for the first time.

—and then completely died when you kissed him back. 

—your arms were around his neck, and his were around your waist. you and bruce slow danced to the tune of his favorite song, in the middle of his living room, and so did your lips when he leaned in again.

—it never progressed further than that, despite the ache in bruce’s pants yelling at him to. he wanted to savor every moment with you, in case he happened to chase you away like he did with the others.

—you were special, and bruce held you like the rarest gem on earth for the first time that night.

—again, when he visited you in mornings to drive you to work.

—again, on nights where you were too tired to drive back to your apartment.

—again, after morning meetings were over and every businessmen and women left the vicinity upon the announcement of food catering a few floors down.

—and then again, when bruce’s thoughts had become a reality.

—b-bruce, ngh…

—you reached back to his thigh like in his thoughts, carefully maneuvering and pacing his thrusts into you. your breath stained deep into the cover of his pillow when bruce applied his weight into you, fitting his broad body to the dip of your back.

—i got you, hm? —nice and slow…

—his voice tickled your nape, soothing it with chaste kisses when your muscles tensed, and you breathed harder into the pillow when you let his thigh go, freeing him to do as he pleased. the warmth of your breath fogged your skin as his girth opened you to a profound feeling you’ve been too intimidated to discover

—faster, please…

—he was humored, not because you were embarrassing like the flush of your skin thought, but because you were still the same person he’d met months ago, appeased by it. you were calmed by an assurance, a kiss to your shoulder then your lips, yet your body only continued to bloom with roses. 

—you’re still so polite even when we’ve done so many things together…

—bruce pressed deeper into you, panting in your ear as he delivered on your timid demands. he knew you now—read you like a book. you were too afraid to ask for anything despite becoming so vulnerable with each other, and he made sure that you were safe with him.

—your requests were silent sans the moans that have escaped, but he heard every single one of them. his hips drove into you harder for a few rhythms, then excruciating slower to coerce a plea out of you—to pull your beautiful moans along with desperation.

—he wanted to hear you, pulling himself completely out of your bud.

—f-fuuuuck, bruce! please—i need you, please.

—more, he needed to hear you want him as much as he’d been wanting you. his arms wrapped around your waist, and his fingers curled over your cock. it provided a friction, a hole for you to press into as his fist was sandwiched between your body and the bed, and you took the opportunity to desperately thrust into it.

—secretly, you’d hope to thrust yourself back onto his cock.

—but again, he knew you; silently observant and logical, and he raised his hips back, avoiding the desperate grinds of your bottom.

—how badly do you need me, hm? —how bad do you want me?

—bruce needed to hear it, to compel a truth to his prophecy. his hand unwrapped around you and you were left desperately grinding into the soft fabric of his sheets with a whine. they were music to his ears, and the drips of his cock dribbled over the curve of your bottom as if they were notes to a stave, to the sound of your torment.

—i-i need you, please…

—he exhaled.

—so bad.

—he gulped.

—so fucking bad…

—he throbbed.

—mister wayne… —please…

—bruce’s two worlds had collided: his previous thoughts of you rocketed into the current with a cloudy explosion, and he succumbed. you looked back at him with glassy orbs, sweat running down the side of your face, and bruce was overwhelmed by the beauty our deepest desires. how quickly it could destroy the barrier that we’ve built, how quickly he could destroy yours and unfurl your vulnerabilities when he finally drove himself back in one long and smooth thrust. 

—f-fuuuuck...

—it was continuous. you wouldn’t admit it, but he knew you preferred being filled like this. he notified the curl of your fingers, clutching at whatever you could to fulfill the aching need to grasp onto something.

—god—

—hard when bruce came down, but slow and affectionate when he pulled out. you felt every thick inch sliding in and out of you. at times, you would purposely tighten in fear of losing bruce, but his thrusts reminded you that you wouldn’t.

—bruce reminded you again when his lips suckled on your shoulder.

—i’m close, (m/n)…

—when his hand stroked your aching cock.

—m-me too…

—and when bruce pushed all of his sweaty weight onto you with one hard thrust.

—shit, shit—

—the boiling feeling in his stomach unfurled inside of you to release his devotion in heavy, white loads. they filled you with heat, spreading thick within you as bruce slowly rocked himself weakly, squeezing every ounce of his love into you until you could feel it yourself.

—bruce—

—your eyes rolled back and you could feel the thick of his cum dripping out of you and down your legs the more he plunged into your hole, and it didn’t take very long for you to come undone yourself. the seam of your mouth kept your moans contained as you blasted bruce’s fist and the sheets with your affection, and it wasn’t until his hand came down to pump you that you exhaled a staggered, breathless groan. the drips came out heavy, sticky, and you rocked into bruce’s fist until they spread themselves thin onto your pelvis, over your cock, and stained deep into the sheets.

—as you both lay breathless, bruce remained on top, puzzled into you as he found comfort in your muscles loosening like the flaccid of your length. he continued playing with your soft flesh, squeezing and spreading the layer of seed that covered his hand, and chuckled when you silently squirmed. 

—not away from him like he’d thought, but back into him.

—because he was your guardian now.

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. and if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[anangelwhodidntfall]

Book Husband: Lewis Hamilton

Formula One Masterlist

word count: 1k

Prompt: Prompt: Person A knows Person B loves to read so they decide to give them a book. At the end of each chapter Person A puts a sticky note with one thing loves about B so that Person B is inspired to finish a  chapter each day. After the last chapter, Person B is about to close the book when they see a bright corner of the last sticky note. They smile expecting another "your beautiful" or "your the best thing to ever happen to me" note but instead they read the four most beautiful words. "Will you marry me?" 

It was no secret you loved to read and that's what Lewis loved about you. More often than not you either had your kindle or a physical copy of a book in your hands. What he loved the most is whenever he had to do paperwork or something, he would just cuddle up beside him and read your book getting lost in whatever story you were reading. He loved how you always ran to tell him your thoughts on the book you were reading and how emotional you got while reading a book. He also loved treating you to books that you mentioned you wanted to read and even build you custom bookshelves to display your books. The fans especially loved it because you would always give them recommendations or randomly give them books and plus they loved whenever you were shown through the race, you could always be seen reading or with a book in your hand. And they always said that Lewis was the embodiment of a book boyfriend. 

Lewis knew he wanted to marry you hell he probably knew that from the second date but he wasn't sure how he wanted to purpose yet. He knew you probably want something low-key and simple that was just the two of you. He decided to go on social media to see if any ideas would show up when he logged on to Tik Tok and saw that you reposted a video where someone's boyfriend had purposed cutting a hole in the book and placing the ring inside of it and writing 'will you marry me' on the book. Lewis saw that you had wrote that this was a cute idea but you would kill your boyfriend if he ever did something like this, which made him laugh but also sort of gave him an idea on how to purpose to you. 

He knew that the next book in the Ice Planet Barbarian Series you loved was coming out, so he went ahead and ordered it. Once it arrived he stole some of your sticky notes and started writing the different things he loved about you and placing each sticky note at the end of each chapter, with the big question "will you marry me?" at the end of the story. 

"Bubs! I'm home!" You said. 

"Be down in just a minute!" He said as he started to clean up his mess. 

He grabbed the book and started to head downstairs to where you were excited to see your reaction to the book and the proposal. He made his way into the kitchen where he saw you looking around for a snack like you always did when you came home from work. 

"Hmm I missed you my gorgeous girl." He said wrapping his arms around and placing a kiss on your cheek. 

"I missed you more my handsome boyfriend." You said turning around and wrapping your arms around him before placing a kiss on his lips. 

"What are you hiding behind your back?" You asked with a raised brow. 

"A little something for you." He said softly placing it in your hands.

You looked at him in shocked when you saw the newest copy of the next book in the ice planet barbarians series. 

"Are you for serious baby? You got it for me?" You asked him excitedly. 

"Of course i did, I knew how much you were excited about it." He said smiling at you. 

"I love it and I love you, thank you." You said leaning up and pressing a kiss on his lips. 

The next day you were finally able to start it on your lunch break and smiled when you saw the sticky note that Lewis that read "i love your kind heart". You quickly took a picture of it and sent it to him while thanking him. Each day as you read a chapter you were surprised with a sticky note at the beginning of each chapter that read different things that Lewis loved about you. 

It was the weekend and you were still reading your book curled up on the couch with Lewis sitting beside you watching tv. Lewis was nervous he had checked that you were almost done with your book so before joining you on the couch, he grabbed the ring shoving it in his pockets and he had been nervous ever since. 

"How's your book going sweetheart?" He asked you. 

"Good Kiera and Ashkeo are finally back home and they are moving in to a new cave with some of the other couples." You said he ran a hand through your hair. 

"I kinda of read a few pages and Kiera and Asheko remind me of us. Don't you think?" He asked you. 

"I really do." You said looking up at him with a smile. 

You went back to finishing your book and were happy with the ending and as you turned the last page you were met with a different colored sticky note that read "will you marry me?" 

"Lewis...?" You asked looking at him only for him to swiftly moved off the couch and on to one knee.

"Y/n my fiery little bookworm. My moon, my stars since the moment I met you I knew that I didn't want to experience life without you, and these past 2 years have been so wonderful. So y/n will you do be the absolute honor of becoming my wife?" He asked you as the tears ran down your face. 

"Ye...yes! Yes Lewis I will." You said as he slide the ring on your ring before standing up and kissing you. 

"You don't know how worried I've been since I gave you that Book?" He said making you laugh. 

"If it counts for anything, I could hardly tell. I loved the sticky notes and proposal." You said smiling at him.

"Really? I may have saw one of your reposts on TikTok where you said you would kill me if I cut a hole in any of your books to put the ring in." He said making you laugh. 

"I really did. And you should do the sticky note thing more often, they were nice to read especially if I was struggling to read or having a bad day while reading." You said to him. 

"I'll keep that in mind. I love you Ms. Hamilton." He said placing a kiss on your lips. 

"I love you Mr. Hamilton." You said smiling at him. 

[anon-e-miss]

Broken Vows - 8

“‘M gonna go look at habs for ya when ya have a rest,” Jazz told Prowl. He avoided the glyph nap which seemed a little mocking to him. As his frame continued to integrate the delicate repairs and with a fragile self-respair systems, Prowl ran out of energy quickly and recharged off and on throughout the mega-cycle.

“Perhaps you might like to take Smokescreen with you?�� Prowl offered. “He would benefit from fresh air.”

“Are ya sure?” Jazz asked.

“I trust you,” Prowl said.

“What about you and Blue?” Smokescreen asked.

“We need more rest than you, Bravespark,” Prowl told him. “I know it is not terribly fun for you when we recharge. There is a fine playground in the park your progenitor and I used to walk in.”

“I’d love to,” Jazz said. “What do ya say, Smokey?”

“Okay!”

“I’ll give ya a list o’ favourites,” Jazz offered Prowl. Prowl just shook his helm.

“I trust you and Smokescreen to select it,” he said. “You know how little I concerned myself with my habsuite.”

“A’ight,” Jazz said. “We’ll do our best.”

Smokescreen was nervous, Jazz knew. His genitor was nervous too. Jazz held Smokescreen’s servo in a firm grip as they walked down the hall and made their way to the tram that would drop them off at the metro. It was faster to drive, of course but Jazz was too nervous to drive Smokescreen and the mechling was far too young to drive on his own. Smokescreen would not have wheels of his own until he was a youngling. Sooner or later, Jazz would give him a ride somewhere but Smokescreen had already gotten lost once on his watch and he was not going to risk getting in a crash with him on their first trip off base. The media were all gone, having been chased off by the Primal Vanguard after Prime had given his speech. That did not mean there might not be opportunists who would sneak a quick shot but Jazz had a plan for that.

“I want ya to wear this,” Jazz told Smokescreen as he magnetized a small device to the collar of his armour.

“What’s it for?” Smokescreen asked.

“If anyone tries to take a picture o’ ya, this’ll scramble it,” Jazz told him. “I know yer ori don’t want yer face all o’er the news.”

“It was the same in Praxus,” Smokescreen said. “He didn’t want me in portraits. He didn’t want Blue either but he wasn’t allowed to say no.”

“‘M sorry yer Ori had to make that choice,” Jazz told him. “I’m sorry I bout’m in that spot.”

“Origin loves you,” Smokescreen said. “And it makes him sad. It always made him sad.”

“He’s got good reason, Sweetspark,” Jazz told him. “I broke his spark. I did it on purpose.”

“You were sick,” Smokescreen defended him and Jazz ruffled his helm. After everything Jazz had said and done, Prowl had excused him to their creation. It was a kindness Jazz did not think he deserved.

“Don’t make the damage any easier to live with, Bitlet,” he said.

“Hmm,” Smokescreen took a seat in the window and Jazz sat next to him. “You feel bad about it.”

“Sure do,” Jazz told him. “I didn’t know I’d kindled ya wit Prowl until I saw yer designation next to his on the casualties list. Even when I was better, I was too scared to face your Ori, even the memories o‘m so I didn’t read his letters, ‘n I lied to myself ‘bout how bad I’d behaved. I didn’t want to remember how bad I’d been. When I saw yer designation I had to face what a monster I’d been. I didn’t think I deserved to mourn ya, either o’ ya. But I needed to. I still carry the ultrasound photos he sent me.”

“Really?” Smokescreen asked. Jazz showed him the ultrasound. “I was just a blob.”

“We all start out that way.”

Jazz knew Smokescreen hoped his procreators would get back together and raise him and his brother together. It was something Jazz was a bit too scared to hope for himself. He loved Prowl dearly. With all the clarity in the world now, Jazz did not shy from this truth. The reality was, however he had hurt Prowl terribly and he had driven him away, laying the groundwork for the direction the Praxian’s life had taken. Every awful thing that had happened after could be placed at Jazz’s peds. At some point, if Prowl ever wanted to hear it, Jazz would like to apologize probably, to make sure he knew that Jazz took responsibility, that he had no excuses for everything he had said and done. He could not ask for a chance to be better for Prowl, for Smokescreen and for Bluestreak. Jazz would have to be better and to let the chips fall however they might.

“I know Origin’s originator and grandcreators were afts,” Smokescreen said. “What about yours? Origin never told me about them.”

“That’s ‘cause I never told’m,” Jazz explained. “My genitors were split-spark twins. They died in a riot in Polyhex ‘n losin’em broke my Ori ’n made ‘m go mad... sorta like I did, I guess. Me ‘n my brother, my twin split up... blamin’ different mecha for what happened. I know they’re alive but that’s all I know.”

“You got better,” Smokescreen said. “I bet he will too.”

Counterpunch had sent Jazz another of his rants that light-cycle. As always, it made no sense. There was no threat to Jazz in particular or the Autobots in general. It was just random glyphs, not even in sentences but almost just splattered across the page. Because Counterpunch did not know he had creations, because Punch had always considered his family to be his and not his alter’s, that he even had the code to the commlink Jazz had only ever shared with his family was still a bit unnerving. Talk of a mechanical spark and grinding gears, even when Jazz read it together with the other notes he had received lately, he found no meaning in it. He wondered if Ricochet got notes like these. His twin would never tell him. Ricochet had blamed Sentinel Prime for the deaths of their progenitors and the madness of their originator, in hindsight Jazz understood why. Ricochet did not forgive Jazz lending is allegiance to that prime as Jazz had blamed terrorists who had worn the Decepticon brand. Whether Ricochet called himself a Decepticon or freelanced, as had been the family business, Jazz did not know. He had not spoken to his twin in millenia and had not laid optics on him for even longer.

“This is our stop,” Jazz took Smokescreen servo and led him down the escalator and out onto the street.

It was just around the corner from Mirror’s, nearer than even Prowl’s old hab and been and a short walk to the park. There were other habsuite on his list to look at but if this one was even close to as good as the ad had suggested, he thought it would be perfect. Smokescreen, of course, would be the one to cast the deciding vote. The property manager shook Smokescreen’s servo after he shook Jazz’s and that was a point in his favour. There were lots of families in the building, or so said the manager and that was a point for the building. No one had lived in the habsuite for a while so it was a completely blank slate. Imagining how it might be set up was not a problem to Jazz. He laughed as Smokescreen ran about, checking every room. The mechling definitely needed sometime in the park to release some energy.

“This room for Origin, because it has a pretty view,” Smokescreen pulled Jazz along for a tour. “This room’s for Blue because its right next door. This rooms for me and this rooms for my grandori and uncle when they come to visit.”

“He’s so sweet,” the property manager said. “And so well behaved.”

“His Ori gets all the credit,” Jazz replied.

“Origin’s going to love it,” Smokescreen declared as they left, key card stored in Jazz’s subspace. As Jazz was an officer in the Autobot Corp, the property manager was quick to sign the habsuite over to Jazz, even having never met the principle tenant. Security was good, it would be better when Jazz added encryptions to the lock. Smokescreen had picked a good room for Prowl, it had a few of the park. He would love it.

“He’ll love that ya picked it for’m,” Jazz said. “How ‘bout we go to the park now ‘n ya can run ‘round like a wild mechanimal?”

“Okay!”

“And who is this?” Jazz jumped. The voice was husky. He knew without looking that it belonged to a wispy femme about his originator’s age.

“Dipole!” Jazz exclaimed. He had met her when she had returned from burying her progenitor. The funds that had seen her get there had been stolen and Prowl had hunted the thief down and returned them too her.

“I’m Smokescreen, Ms Dipole!”

“You look just like your Origin, doin’t you?” Dipole said. “Mirror mentioned you stopped by, to pick up a peace offering. Than she saw the news and she’s been as close to a wreck as I’ve ever seen her.”

“Mirror makes the yummy rust sticks, right?” Smokescreen asked.

“That’s right,” the femme replied.

“Prowl’s got some more healin’ to do but he’ll visit soon,” Jazz promised.

“Mirror always thought of Prowl as something of an adoptive grandcreation,” Dipole said. “What with him being all but orphaned.”

“Can we say hi?” Smokescreen asked.

“Uh...” Jazz thought on it. “I don’t want to take the wind outta yer Ori’s sails, Bravespark.”

“Eh?”

“I thought yer Ori outta be the one to introduce ya to Mirror,” Jazz said.

“He won’t mind,” Smokescreen said. “Especially if we bring more rust sticks. And... if Ms Mirror is worried about Origin, she’ll feel better and Origin’ll feel better knowing she’s not worrying anymore.”

“He is very clever,” Dipole said.

“All credit goes to his Ori,” Jazz replied. “Okay, we’ll say hi to Mirror.”

“They were really buried for vorns?” Dipole asked, softly as they headed to the bakery.

“Yeah,” Jazz replied.

“Mirror wouldn’t look at the casualty list,” Dipole explained. “After he said goodbye, she always figured he’d come back. She said he belonged here and not in Praxus but... well he never came back and then Praxus was gone. She didn’t want to know because if she didn’t know than she could imagine he was well, wherever he was.”

“I promise he’s okay now,” Jazz said. “He thought Smokey outta get out ‘n get some exercise while ‘m ‘n the bitty rest more.”

“It’ll be good to see him,” Dipole said. “He was always one of Mirror’s favourites.”

[edgarbright]

Caleb = Sylus theory

And if that turns out to be incorrect, then renamed as:

My thoughts on Caleb and Sylus!

tl;dr my heart wants Caleb back as a LI and my brain continues to report that Caleb being Sylus makes a lot of sense

General spoiler warning for any game content released up until June 18, 2024. Long post is long and has pictures.

So first things first! I’m going to need everyone to think about Caleb beyond being just our sweet and teasing childhood friend. Because if we viewed the other male leads as plainly as Caleb is often viewed, then Zayne is just a workaholic doctor, Xavier is just a narcoleptic hunter, and Rafayel is just a playful-personality artist.

But we find out Zayne has done work in battle zones as a military medic and we hear how his morals and ethics are held high when organizations like Ever Group try to recruit him. We discover that Xavier is an immortal who has flown across the galaxy in a spaceship and regularly goes toe-to-toe with criminal syndicates and wanderers alike. We learn that Rafayel is a Lemurian, the God of the Sea, and an assassin who carefully and cleverly deals out bloody revenge.

While we don’t have a lot of Caleb content in the first eight chapters and side pieces, there is still a lot of information to work with! Because we know he has been around for years and must be doing something with his time when he’s not talking with MC about coming home.

And one of the clues we’re given is that he is a busy guy. In the character notes, we read that MC doesn’t see Caleb outside of holidays after he became involved with the Aerospace Academy at Skyhaven. He has since become a pilot for the Deepspace Aviation Administration. Then there is their last argument about how they are adults now and they don’t need to keep secrets from each other. But just when Caleb is about to open up, he locks it down. And then he’s gone.

The End? Except I don’t think that’s where his story finishes.

I. Official game descriptions

Caleb: "My childhood friend. Grandma took us in when we were young. Now he works as a fighter pilot for the Deepspace Aviation Administration. Ever since he went to Aerospace Academy in Skyhaven, we don’t often see each other. But we always visit Grandma during the holidays. While he loves teasing me, he’s actually a reliable person whom I trust."

Sylus: "The leader of Onychinus is said to have built his empire on illegal Evol weapons and Protocore deals. He’s the most influential, dominant figure in the N109 Zone. However, he hasn’t been seen for a while."

II. Caleb as a love interest: Brother vs childhood friend

Stating the obvious to get it out of the way: that Papergames had to give Caleb a completely different relationship role with MC in the English-speaking market is akin to a public statement that he is going to be a love interest. They would have saved themselves the trouble by leaving him as brother if he was never going to play a more intimate role with MC.

III. Caleb and MC's lingering connection: the necklace

The “When U come back,” apple-and-dog-tag necklace picked out in a style MC really liked as a present for Caleb before he left for Skyhaven.

The necklace where, in chapter 4.06 ‘Saying Goodbye,’ MC and Caleb share a Kindled moment as we take the necklace from his hand and he leans forward to let us put it on him.

The necklace that Caleb was wearing under the bulk of his jacket when he entered Grandma’s house before the explosion.

The necklace that is nowhere to be seen after the explosion, but suddenly appears on the ground in front of us when MC looks back down. Caleb was wearing that necklace when he entered the house, but here it is now, completely intact. MC’s hands are covered in dirt and ash while the necklace is in clean condition.

Caleb is alive in one way or another. And the necklace, now back in MC’s possession, is a tie that still binds them.

IV. Official Announcement of the Next Male Lead

(Disclaimer: I am only able to go off the English fan translation and google translations so my interpretation is at the mercy of missed nuances from word choice and mis-translations. But we’re just here to be delusional have fun, so play nice!)

During the CBT in 2023, Papergames released this announcement:

Then on February 24, 2024 as part of an apology post to angry Chinese players, Papergames provided a follow-up and official confirmation that hunters will get to meet the next love interest, Qin Che/Sylus, in the next big story update coming this July 2024.

This February announcement does not mention Caleb, but then the original Q&A was clearly only referencing a question regarding a single pre-mentioned person. So between CBT and now, my understanding is that we have only ever been promised one new male lead to top us off at a quartet.

And in that initial announcement in CBT, it continues to strike me as strange that they talk about this mystery man Sylus and then they bring up Caleb. They first talk at length about someone we don’t know at all and then about someone the CBT players were already interested in: our doting brother/childhood friend, someone who clearly likes us, someone whom the MC obviously likes in return, someone with a unique personality from the other LI, and someone we have lost and grieved over and want back.

But the official name of the next male lead is Sylus.

“His identity and your relationship to him,” however, could also suggest that the name “Sylus” may not be his true name. Is there just some guy named Sylus walking around Linkon City or does he become Sylus when associated with Onychinus and when he enters the N109 zone? After all, his identity is a question, it is a mystery, he is mystery, and our relationship to him is a question. Our true relationship to him is in question, because perhaps it is someone we thought we knew but didn’t truly know at all.

V. Sylus: a powerful persona in the N109 zone

As the main story plot progresses and MC sets her sights on entering the N109 zone, she learns that the acquisition of a bold fake identity is a key part to her safety. By the sound of it, even someone like Xavier doesn’t enter as Xavier, but instead as Lumiere as it was Lumiere who was rumored to have caused a mess there recently.

Therefore I’m further encouraged that the name “Sylus” could just be a new identity for someone we already know. Even more so, once ‘Caleb the fighter pilot from the Deepspace Aviation Administration’ has officially been declared dead, the only identity left to him is Sylus.

But strangely enough, after Caleb is gone, even the character description states Sylus hasn’t been seen for a while, either…

VI. Symbols: the jacket and the crow

Caleb is wearing a Deepspace Aviation Administration (DAA) jacket before he begins attending the Airspace Academy at Skyhaven, as seen in the flashback scene. He is still wearing the same jacket on the last day we see him in chapter 4.

Of interest, in chapter 3, we see a crow in the forest watching MC and Xavier after they destroy the developing Aetherwyrm and taking Onychinus's modified Protocore.

Note the diagonal orange bars on the mechanical feature on the crow’s left wing and the design on the jacket on Caleb’s left chest:

The bars mirror one another. The crow seems to have four bars but only three are full whereas the jacket shows four full bars.

Note as well on the jacket's left arm: the crow-like head triangle with the curved wings.

With MC currently entangled in tens of thousands of years of history with three other men, I don’t think this is a game that deals with mere coincidences.

But considering this crow symbol existed on the DAA jacket before Caleb went to the academy teases all types of connections and, most appropriately, spacetime considerations rooted around the Deepspace Tunnel.

VII. The Deepspace Aviation Administration

After completing his training at the Airspace Academy, Caleb rose up to become a pilot in the Deepspace Aviation Administration. His whole job involves flying around and near the Deepspace Tunnel.

The same Deepspace Tunnel that the Linkon broadcaster speaks of so frequently regarding possible Wanderer appearances.

The same Deepspace Tunnel that appeared at the time of the catastrophe.

The same Deepspace Tunnel that Xavier and the Backtrackers took to travel from Philos to Earth.

Just as MC is learning new and weird things about the world while working as a hunter, surely Caleb has come across some new and weird things, too.

MC states that the DAA is secretive but Caleb takes it a step further: it’s not just secretive, it’s spooky! It’s creepy! It’s mysterious! It’s shadowy!

Whatever the DAA is dealing with isn’t, necessarily, normal!

Because while the DAA is of course focused on the Deepspace Tunnel, we have also heard that some of their interests lie in the Lemurian ruins…

So we shouldn’t take the Deepspace Aviation Administration at face value. Honestly, nothing in this game appears to be as good and pure as it seems! It’s suspicious that MC works as a hunter in the Unicorns division when Unicorn was also the code name for her as an experiment. The public face of Ever Group has them seeming to work medical miracles and conducting revolutionary science, but we know they conducted cruel experiments on MC, we have clues they experimented on Lemurians, and it’s revealed they have dark dealings with the Backtrackers.

Note that while Sylus is the leader of Onychinus and built it up as an empire, that doesn’t necessarily mean he is the founder. The Deepspace Aviation Administration could easily have criminal ties of their own or be a cover for a front for their true reason to exist.

But whatever is going on with the DAA, Caleb has been involved in it for many years and has kept it secret from MC this whole time.

VIII. Male Lead Introductions

It feels too strange to think that Sylus will be an entirely new face because not only would that put him at a disadvantage, it would neglect a lot of clues and game features laid out for his association and arrival.

For starters, Xavier, Rafayel, and Zayne are all introduced to MC in the very first chapter. They get faces and little encounters to go along with them.

Meanwhile Caleb is faceless. He is just a voice in chapter 1. But to the MC, it’s the familiar voice of someone she obviously knows and loves and is excited to see again. She has history and memories and a developed relationship with this person.

But even through the teasing affection shared between MC and Caleb over the phone, his face and expressions are left in the dark. He is a mystery to us.

Except… maybe we do see a face of Caleb? In the face of the all-seeing-eye of Onychinus that appears a moment after MC gets off the phone with him.

So, going back to that CBT announcement, Papergames asks if the players found any clues regarding Sylus in the main story… right before they bring Caleb into the conversation, who for all intents and purposes is dead? Whether they were making a hint or not right there it’s too suspicious.

IX. Lore: The Eye in the Sky Watching Over MC

We spot the red eye watching MC on at least three occasions:

[Top left image] At the end of chapter 1: After MC has completed her first day as a hunter and Caleb bids her goodnight after their phone call, she sees the eye for a moment outside her window as the weather begins to turn bad.

[Bottom left image] In chapter 3: MC recalls a reoccurring nightmare when her 7-year-old self was running blindly in pain and fear during the Chronorift Catastrophe. While she initially thinks it is the moon, when she wakes up she realizes it was actually the same eye she saw in chapter 1. Of interest, notice how her description of the eye’s arrival is portrayed rather positively:

Rusty-red rain falls from the sky and seeps into every nook and cranny of the city. I step over the puddles, running away. I sense a powerful force. It's about to burst from my heart. Then the moon appears. Magnificent, it descends before me. It flickers. It seems to be blinking at me.

[Right image] At the Nest in chapter 8: the eye is in a robotic contraption watching events unfold on Hunting Day and when MC is captured.

So it seems this eye has been with her since she was seven years old and it found her before even Xavier did. As an observation vessel, however, it was not able to help her. All it can do is watch. So the question is who has been watching her from the other end? Ever Group? Onychinus? The Backtrackers? Caleb in some form?

X. Caleb is never doing what MC expects

On the phone call in chapter 1, MC thought he would still be in-flight, but he brushes it off by saying they finished early. He uses this surprise “free time” to call her right when she returns home and asks how her first day as a hunter went.

When MC arrives to Grandma’s house in chapter 4, she thought he wouldn’t arrive until the next day at the earliest, but he was already home. He uses this surprise “free time” to cook and have dinner ready for her right when she arrives.

He just always seems to be a step ahead of the MC… for the sake of doting on MC!

But it’s still rather odd that lower-level military personnel would get early clock-outs so conveniently when activity in the Deepspace Tunnel and appearance of Wanderers are on the rise…

And what is he doing that is making him so sleep-deprived?

XI. FM News vs Caleb: Deepspace Tunnel Activity

For the record, all of chapter 1 takes place over a single day. MC starts her morning by receiving her badge; spends the day hunting Wanderers, meeting Xavier, and getting her placement in alpha team; spends the evening with Tara before she meets Rafayel; rushes to her 6pm check-up appointment with Zayne; has a nighttime phone call with Caleb; and spots the eye outside her window before bed.

And from morning to night, the news report and Caleb’s report are complete opposites.

“Hello, Linkon City. DPSC FM here to greet you on this early morning. Did you sleep well last night? Weather's nice today with winds at 5 km/hr. Certain areas have a higher Metaflux index due to the Deepspace Tunnel. Expect Wanderers to appear more often. We would like to thank the hunters in the city for allowing us to live a normal, peaceful life. Next, a detailed report for each district. Areas that are at a "high risk" of being attacked by Wanderers-- All medical personnel, today is going to be another busy day.”

Compared to

MC: "Did you guys encounter any Wanderers in the Deepspace Tunnel? Was it dangerous?" ... Caleb: "All right. It's been peaceful. The field within the tunnel is as stable as it can be. Very few Wanderers. Don't worry." MC: "Really? Every time you tell me not to worry..." Caleb: "Everything else is top secret. My lips are sealed."

Now, it’s entirely possible that he’s lying about the danger in order to make MC feel better, but if he was lying and the situation was more severe, he wouldn’t have gotten off work early and been able to call her.

Which also brings up the question: is he even at Skyhaven or with the Deepspace Aviation Administration at this time...?

XII. Theory Speed Bump: the Exploding House

During the phone call in chapter 1, Caleb sounds very relaxed about MC having become a hunter on her first day. He asks her how it went and when she starts talking about having had some trouble, he teases her to stop--because he knows she did well! They go on to tease each other about when he’s going to next visit and he says a very sweet good night. He doesn’t sound worried for her safety or anxious or anything of the like.

The visit at Grandma’s house in chapter 4 is a little different. He seems more worried.

Caleb shows up a day early—and if he is Sylus, leader of Onychinus who are wildly in-the-know, obviously his connections would have alerted him to the moving activity posing a danger toward MC and Grandma. But considering how well Xavier stays off most radars, the other Backtrackers are quite good at moving in secret, too. Knowing there is danger isn’t the same as knowing where or when exactly it will hit.

From the World Underneath files, Ever Group appears to have lost track of experiment subject “Unicorn,” but they still had tabs on Josephine as one of their former researchers. The files the Backtracker acquired after the explosion that he delivered to the Ever Group’s Raincoat appears to be their confirmation on MC’s identity. Although we’re left listening to the lackey’s discussion, it doesn’t appear that Ever Group intended to do MC harm just yet, but that doesn't mean she couldn't have accidentally been caught up in the explosion, too.

While MC and everyone are at the table eating, the story about the multiple metaflux explosions are shown on the TV.

When MC excuses herself from the table in order to go scout the neighborhood, Caleb, who just voiced concerns for her safety, jumps up and follows her.

Caleb very obviously lies about going shopping (my guy has empty hands when he reappears). He continues to follow her, albeit from a distance as he is not quick enough to get involved in MC’s encounter with the sneaking Backtracker (note how the MC observed that the man sounded much older than he looked).

Although it’s interesting how, after Caleb knows she was attacked and how he stuck by her side as often as he could while they were outside, he enters the house first and leaves her alone outside.

But the only reason he entered the house first and alone was because MC told him to go inside first. He was the one who suggested they return home before Grandma got worried. Whatever danger Caleb was on high alert for, I’m left conflicted if an exploding house was something he considered since it was his idea to return.

His necklace magically appearing in front of MC after the explosion, however, suggests he was involved in the necklace placement in some way.

Also we don't know what his Evol is exactly. Some players have suggested telekinesis or gravity based on how he was able to take the necklace from MC in the flashback. Magnetic force should also be considered, I think, but I won't open that can of worms here. The question is still: how deep does this rabbit hole go? Was Caleb caught in an explosion he was prepared for and escaped or is another force at work here? We know there have been many Rafayels and Zaynes in the timeline. Maybe there are many Calebs, too.

XIII. Grandma's records have no mention of Caleb

Before she took in MC, Josephine states in the World Underneath files that she has never had children before. Meaning Caleb was not in the picture before MC.

In the game character notes, MC says Grandma took both MC and Caleb in when MC was seven years old.

So where did Caleb come from? And what made her take him in, too?

When we are at Grandma’s house, we also see just one picture frame. The only ones in the picture are MC and Grandma.

In all of Grandma’s notes, there is not one mention of Caleb. There is just one instance where it looks like his name ought to be, but the notes trail off instead with an ellipsis.

Did she herself exclude him from her records or was his name purposefully removed?

Nonetheless, I'm sure the leader of Onychinus would value such anonymity, if it were him.

XIV. "A decisive man as always"

At the family meal, MC expresses concern regarding Grandma’s health. Caleb speaks up and shares that he has taken care to see that Grandma is cared for.

When MC, a little peevish-sounding in English, asks him the when and why, all Caleb does is let out a small laugh and goes back to eating.

Grandma notes that she didn’t know about this plan either. "A decisive man as always," she says with a troubled expression.

And thus Grandma has thrown an interesting character trait into the mix as Caleb always seems so laid-back with MC like he’s simply going with the flow of things. Except it’s clear he’s decisive, determined, and taking care of things behind the scenes. And surely that includes taking care of MC.

XV. Sylus's Character

We have two points of concrete information about Sylus.

The first is the game description, which I’ll repeat here: “The leader of Onychinus is said to have built his empire on illegal Evol weapons and Protocore deals. He’s the most influential, dominant figure in the N109 Zone. However, he hasn’t been seen for a while.”

The second is an observation made by Captain Jenna in chapter 3:

"We speculate it’s not about money, given Sylus’s track record," she says.

So Sylus "is said to have built" a whole empire on illegal sales but apparently he’s OK with his sales taking a loss because it’s not about money. We see in several news reports in-game about the amazing medical progress made due to the use of Protocores. Modified Protocores, especially such revolutionary ones made by Onychinus, should easily be worth more than their weight in gold. The one that MC and Xavier take from the forest is even powerful enough to start the revival process of the strongest type of Wanderer.

So we have this mysterious Sylus who has prioritized power and influence over wealth, but what can he possibly do with those if he’s gone AWOL…?

But such a decisive man who has gained authority over the N109 zone likely has everything under control, right?

XVI. Grandma Josephine vs Caleb

In chapter 4 under the title “Secret,” in part due to the mysterious locked box MC receives, we the player (not MC) learn that Grandma had entrusted MC to Zayne if the “worst-case scenario happens.”

But what about Caleb? We know that he is away from home very often so it’s highly unlikely anyone should consider something bad happening to both her and him. The “us” she uses could mean them both, but it seems more likely she meant Zayne’s promise to Grandma and MC (as MC is the beneficiary).

Let’s go back to that family meal conversation and see the follow-up reactions that show some interesting motives:

We have Caleb taking responsibility for family matters, MC and Grandma caught by surprise—then look at what Grandma does: she doesn’t argue with his decision, but instead turns to MC and immediately encourages her to get back in touch with Zayne.

Caleb’s response to that in turn is to suggest that instead of Zayne and MC meeting alone, Zayne should come for a family dinner. Caleb’s reaction feels rather sarcastic with the emphasis on “looong time.” Zayne is given the treatment of, rather than being a family friend, he is more like that kid they used to know back in grade school. Which is true. Zayne has been absent in MC and Caleb's lives for the past 10 years. Zayne hasn’t been in the picture since MC was about eleven years old and it’s been Caleb looking after MC as her childhood friend/brother this whole time.

So it’s no surprise when MC and Caleb are walking back home together that their conversation turns out like this:

"If not me, who could you possibly turn to for…" he begins, then stops. He smiles bitterly, shakes his head, and plays it off.

Is this him choking up on his yearning? Is this him realizing what Grandma tried to do earlier by bringing up Zayne, and realizing there are other people MC can turn to? Is this him realizing MC is right, that he really can’t protect her forever? Is this him realizing he can’t protect her as just Caleb? Or is there something else going on in that head of his?

It seems to me that not only are Grandma and Caleb not working together at this point, despite them both prioritizing MC's safety, Grandma might not consider Caleb outside of being the family cook!

What does Grandma know about Caleb that would make her turn to Zayne instead?

XVII. What Onychinus knows about MC's Aether Core (spoiler: everything)

Summary: This all happened in the immediate aftermath of the Chronorift Catastrophe. Dr. Noah was bought into the picture shortly after Grandma took MC into her home. Around that same time, one of the researchers who experimented on MC joined up with Onychinus. From that point on, all the other researchers started dying or disappearing—except for Grandma Josephine.

Grandma, however, is eventually killed by the Backtrackers hired by Ever Group, who had been looking for details about their missing Unicorn.

MC notes that Grandma didn’t leave any work files at home. Therefore Caleb wouldn’t have learned anything at the home.

But because Onychinus knows everything through that researcher, Sylus also knows everything that happened to MC. He knows what Josephine did. He knows about MC’s condition. He knows about her special heart. He knows about the Aether Core. He knows what dangers might pursue MC.

And what is Onychinus’s main project? Modifying Protocores.

MC learns that the frequency of her heart matches that of the modified Protocore she found in the restricted zone with Xavier. Both her heart and that modified Protocore had been effected by an Aether Core.

The crucial part I’m getting at is that Onychinus already knows about MC before she ever went to the Nest. They have known about her for around 15 years and during all this time Onychinus have never, ever approached or harmed her!

In this Sylus = Caleb scenario, he already has MC (trust me! he pleads), he already has her Aether Core, and he's trying to keep it secret, he's trying to keep her safe.

The other researchers had to die to keep her safe, because the knowledge they held of her would die with them.

"If not for me, who could you turn to for..." Caleb had once started to say, because if not for him, who else could have protected her all this time? Who else would work so tirelessly and decisively to do what needed to be done?

XVIII. Onychinus is not our enemy

One of the reasons I love Love and Deepspace is because the world building and lore are incredibly interesting. But we must use critical thinking because they are also deceptive. So many characters keep treating Onychinus as dangerous, as deadly, but we not only don’t know their true motive, we have no information on what bad things they’ve actually done besides existing outside normal society.

Both Jenna and Xavier tell us that Onychinus's most famous achievement is modifying Protocores. There is no word of Onychinus ever doing direct or indirect harm using these modified Protocores. We don’t even know to whom, exactly, they sell these Protocores—and we know that it’s not about money.

Onychinus is a mystery! What anyone knows about them is all speculation!

Ever Group, meanwhile, has conducted experiments on Lemurians as explored in Raymond's situation and experiments on MC when she was a child. These actions directly resulted in the "death" of MC numerous times and the probable death of at least one Lemurian if not more. In the World Underneath we discover that Ever Group also knows about the Backtrackers and about Philos. Ever Group hired the Backtracker that destroyed MC’s family. They also use Xavier and are plotting to, for lack of a better word, enslave him once they figure out the chemical compound of the medication he and the other Backtrackers use as injections.

It’s not a mistake, however, that Ever Group is praised by the public for their ingenuity and medical advances for the sake of a better society while Onychinus is treated as dangerous renegades.

Then there is also the Deepspace Aviation Administration who are "unraveling the unknown" at the Deepspace Tunnel while fighting Wanderers.

XIX. I promise you’ll see me every day when you wake up ;)

For the longest time I read Caleb's final promise at face value. He was coming back home to visit, so every morning when MC wakes up at Grandma’s house, she’ll see Caleb.

And I know I’m not the only one who shouted OBJECTION after the explosion (All Men Do Is Lie)!

Except waking up doesn’t have to be literal.

In the pre-registration announcement video released November 1, 2023, Zayne says the following line:

“When you and the world wake up, I hope we do not meet again.”

Perhaps MC just needs to wake up to the truth—the truth of what happened to her before she met Caleb and Zayne and Rafayel and Xavier, the truth of what Grandma and the scientists did to her as a child, the truth… of what she might find in the N109 zone, where Onychinus is, where the question to Sylus and her relationship with him will be answered…

When MC learns the truth, when she opens her eyes to the real world, she will see Caleb again.

(She will get to see him every day just like he promised.)

XX. Theoretical consideration: we’re in a time loop with possible time travel

If there are multiple timelines, it’s possible that the Sylus-Caleb we eventually meet isn’t the Caleb who entered that house before the explosion. They could be the same but different. Perhaps Caleb in one timeline died in that house while a Caleb in another timeline did not. Perhaps the necklace we picked up belonged to a different Caleb.

Because let’s be real, everything is a bit of a mess now: Dawnbreaker and Zayne sharing dreams, Xavier as an immortal alien on a completely different planet, and Rafayel has a millennia of emotional baggage to unpack and a lost civilization he has yet to revive.

There are also the rhythms in which the characters are living in their respected timelines. We have Xavier the immortal who has witnessed the many lives of MC living and dying tragically and being reborn again and again. We have Rafayel who is in a matched reincarnation cycle with MC where he seems to meet her in each life, but she has forgotten him while he may or may not have forgotten her. We have Zayne who is in an unmatched reincarnation cycle with MC where he may or may not meet her in each life, but he sacrifices himself for her sake at each end.

Let's not overlook the possibility of an actual time traveler with Sylus. Perhaps even one who has been looking for a timeline where he can keep MC safe. After all, coming late into the game, Sylus will need to have a new spin to his myth and connection with MC if he's going to compete!

Plus Caleb is also represented by the apple, the forbidden fruit: take even the smallest bite and be banished from paradise. But a bite of the apple also wakes one up to the truth, to the sense of shame, to desire, to sin, to love…

"I promise you’ll see me every day when you wake up," he said.

(And I’m a fool who wants to believe him 🍎)

[heartfullofleeches]

Maybe you can do Snow White for the fairytale thing where the hunter reader is walking in a forest and trips on one of the dwarfs and accidentally kisses Snow White which makes Snow White think they are their true love

The forest was a mystical place.

Anyone with functioning eyes and a boundary with reality would agree. As the sole human resident of the land, you have bore witness to a plentiful share of oddities, but nothing could ever prepare you for what was to come the day after. Mermaids and winged creatures. Giants and fairy folk no bigger than your palm. You developed a tolerance to these beings, but all paled in comparison to the utter headache you gained that fateful day.

The day had begun with you scouring the forest floor for stray branches. A good source of kindling for fires, and keeping out trespassers with varying warning signs and contraptions. With your eyes in the dirt, the events unfolding around you go unnoticed until its too late. Twisted, gnarled trees with hides the color of burnt lumber shooting upright and flourish with a radiant, pinkish glow. The sudden abundant growth of flowers and wildlife. Two harrowing signs of what you were soon to come across.

You start to realize as a squirrel runs by your foot. Narrowly avoiding stepping on the rodent's tail by a hard, you watch the rodent carry the flower in its mouth up a tree and drop down onto a glass container in the middle of the field. It drops the plant over the slumbering face in the coffin and joins the rest of the animals in mourning for the lost soul. As literal tears fall from their eyes you step back - looking for an exit that's already gone. You were not prepared for this.

Every now and again there existed those who didn't heed the warnings. A young woman on her way to her grandmother's. Children abandoned by their parents and taken in by a witch. The forest centered around these individuals and made their lives something out of a picture book. You've experienced this before and they're nothing short of living through a nightmare. You can't return home until their stories are over and sometimes that can take up to years. You never age, but you feel every waking moment to this day.

Who knows how long this time will take? The time isn't a major factor, but you rather not waste a second in this hell. If you wanted to leave on your own accord, you had to do things yourself.

You walk over to the coffin. A young person rests within. Their skin is as pale as fresh snow, rose kissed cheeks the only drop of color to their frozen face. They wear commoner clothing, but the crown tucked into their hair and necklace around their neck tell a different tale. There's a strange lump in their throat, flexing with every minor breath they take. Their lips hang open with the ragged draw of air they suck in, airways clearly blocked.

The forest animals tear into the safety of the trees as you toss your axe aside and shove the lid off the coffin. You drag the unconscious figure onto the forest floor and bend them forward, patting their back with pressured blows that increase in force as they spit and wheeze. When that doesn't work, you get behind and wrap your arms around their chest - thrusting upwards with your forearms. The blockage flies out with the fourth push, the stranger limp in your arms as their breathing controls to a stedy flow. Their eyes flutter open with the most doe like expressions as a faint smile creeps onto their face.

"My love?..."

You shove them off you and try to stand, but they ground you to the floor with surprising strength. Their cold hands grip at your face, moving stray strands of hair and wiping at the dirt that coated your skin. It's never been more clear to you how callused your hands have grown until their porcelain flesh comes into contact with your own.

"I knew you'd come for me... As the apple's curse took hold I didn't fear for a single moment because I knew you'd be there."

You shove their hands away as they ghost over a scar beneath your right eye. "Listen, I'm glad you're okay, but I'm not your lover."

"Oh, but you are! My family always told me true love's kiss is the only-"

"I didn't kiss you. You were choking on something and I got it out. This should be over soon so I should be going."

You try to get up again - this time their nails stop you.

"It may not have been a kiss, but there still is a contention between us. I feel it. It was fate that led you to me... Don't throw our chance at true happiness away."

"I told you- I'm not interested!" In an attempt to distance yourself from their claws, you reach for your weapon that was no longer in the vicinity. A short man with pointy ears wields your axe instead. The tool is bigger than his whole body, but he handles it well with the help of another. There's about seven of them in total. When they notice your puzzled stare, they point it at you.

"What are you doing with our Snow?"

"I'm not doing a thing. I'm trying to get home."

The formerly unconscious individual deem as Snow pins you in a chokehold to their chest. "Everyone! My spouse has found me. Like the stories go, true love's embrace has healed me. With their aid I will be able to return home and take the throne from my step mother, and we will bring a new era of peace to all."

The dwarfs break out in cheer which you quickly shoot down. "I am not who you think I am. I'm sure your real prince or... princess is on their way as we speak."

Snow gasps. "Oh no. I think the curse has been transferred over to them! We must return home as soon as possible and get them rested. I fear they might hurt themselves if they are unbound..."

The dwarfs pick up on their message with ease. The near dozen creatures work together to tie you by your wrists and ankles. Their sheer number and Snow's arm around your neck makes it an easier task. As more fuel to the fire, they kiss you when you are completely unable to defend yourself - giggling as thei cohorts pick you up.

"Don't worry, my love. True love's kiss will make you all better. No matter how many it takes."

[redlegumes]

Dec 2nd: Came Back Wrong

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles

prompt: Came Back Wrong | AO3: link | wc: 750 | rating: T | cw: none | tags: Steve Harrington has bad parents, found family, Christmas cards, holiday cards, return to sender

Summary: A holiday card marked 'return to sender' and Eddie remind Steve who his family is.

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

“Looks like one of the cards came back to us babe,” Eddie said, flipping through bills. He handed Steve the battered blue envelope that Steve instantly recognized from their Christmas cards that year.

Steve looked at the neat block lettering the recipient had used to print the words ‘return to sender' above the address, and quickly noticed that the envelope was… altered. It was obvious to Steve that it'd gone through more wear than regular transport could have created.

“Stevie?” Eddie stopped looking through their other mail and set it on the kitchen counter before walking up to Steve. He ran his hands up and down Steve's arms, and began to stare daggers at the offending piece of mail in Steve's hand. “You're a little frozen there. What's wrong?”

Steve cleared his throat to speak, but his own voice still felt a little far away. “It's ‘return to sender,’ but it came back wrong.” 

cont. after the cut

“Uh, looks like a letter sweetheart,” Eddie said. His brow furrowed and Steve caught sight of one eyebrow raising slowly. “Which address was it?”

“Yeah, it- it's just a card,” Steve mumbled, his hands clenched the envelope a little tighter. “It was addressed to my parents.”

Eddie softly asked, “can I see?” Steve didn't respond, or fight when Eddie gently tugged it free from his grip. Instead Steve pictured exactly what was in the envelope. A secular, ‘happy holidays’ card with a blanket sort of sentiment on the front. He and Eddie weren't particularly religious, but they enjoyed the holiday season all the same. The cards they’d chosen that year were blank inside and Steve had spent a long time, not just building a list of recipients but on the letters he wrote out in each one.

The best part of the cards that year were the mall portraits Steve and Eddie ordered. They were in matching red long johns with a Christmas themed background. They even managed to get Lucifer (their three year old tortoise shell cat) and Bird (their mystery mutt) posed with them. Wearing bows. Wrangling the pets into the J.C. Penny photo studio alone had been a feat. Steve normally still chuckled even thinking about it, and Eddie's embellished tale of the event had already come up at multiple holiday parties.

He wondered if the photo would still be inside.

“Ah, I see what you mean now.” Eddie had a grimace on his face as his dexterous fingers turned the envelope over and ran along the top edge. 

Someone had opened the card, and not in an unintentional way. There was no evidence that someone ripped it open, assuming it was a card for them before realizing the mistake and sending it back through the post. No, the envelope had been carefully slit across the top, something one might be able to do with a very sharp letter opener. Steve pictured such a letter opener in detail: being lifted from a wooden, velvet lined box on a desk, the blade sharp, handle heavy, real silver throughout kept free of tarnish.

Eddie practically growled as his nail picked at the single piece of scotch tape that had re-sealed the top edge. “Assholes.” He pulled it off and took out the card, glancing briefly at the careful script Steve had written inside before plucking out their photo. Eddie marched to the fridge where he moved a large souvenir magnet from their California trip to secure it to the front door, centered over the other holiday cards already collaged over the appliance. He hooked Steve’s fingers when he walked back, heading directly to their small home’s fireplace. “We can always use more kindling,” he said, kneeling to nestle the card and envelope between the logs already placed there to light later that day.

Steve nodded, and Eddie took his face in his hands. His calloused grasp was steady, and Steve let himself become absorbed in the hot chocolate brown gaze holding his own. “You made lovely cards this year and our family photo is in the hands of everyone we care about this year. Everyone who loves us sent us cards too.” He kissed Steve’s nose, and sighed. "Are you going to be okay, knowing there was one that came back wrong?”

“I will be,” Steve replied, kissing Eddie on the lips. The kiss was sweet, but Steve also basked in the knowledge he’d built a loving family. One that chose him in return. One that proved, time and time again, what right looked like.

2023 RedLegumes Steddiemas 1 2 3 4 5 6 10 SteddieHolidayDrabbles 1 2 3 4 6 8 9 10

[cleolinda]

"Strength (Bell Donner Gives Her Word)"

I posted this short story on LJ back in 2007, and I said I'd repost it here for Halloween. I did an audio reading 15 (!) years ago that I'd like to redo in better quality in the near future; I'm also curious to see what it would sound like now that I'm the age I imagined the main character to be. This version is lightly revised, but the story is mostly the same.

That fall a number of people in Chesterville were mauled to death by some kind of wild dog or coyote—the kind that apparently wasn’t too afraid to go right up to people as they took out their trash at night, or let their own tame, domestic dog out not too long after dawn. But it was a small town out in the sticks, verging on farm territory: quiet. Not like a wild animal was marauding up and down Times Square or anything. Not like it was in plain view. So people just started being more careful—not venturing out alone until midday, or not venturing out at all without a loaded shotgun—and things were all right for a while. Then, in late October, the animal came back, and this time, someone survived.

An old lady by the name of Edna Mayhew—well, yes, she lost her arm from the elbow down, but she came out of it a damn sight better than any of those who’d come before her. And she said that it was a wolf, definitely a wolf, but it had come at her on two legs, and when she had smacked it in the face with a veiny little fist, it had held her down with two arms and bitten her forearm clean off. The only thing that saved her, she declared, was her neighbor Bill “Thursday” Thurston, who had heard her screaming and come out with both barrels blazing. He claimed that the thing he saw ran away on four legs, but that it was, in fact, Goddamn Huge. This was about the time that that new photo of Bigfoot lumbering around on all fours came out, which several professors and scientists swore up and down was just a bear with mange. Eddie at the Red Brick printed out the picture and taped it up by the bar, and the next time Thursday came in for a beer, he said, yeah, the thing he chased off Miz Mayhew kinda looked like that. Maybe it was a wolf with mange. Mange was a terrible thing, after all. He’d managed to hit it with at least one shot, though, so he didn’t think it’d trouble people too much after that.

So, going into November, that was where things stood. Whatever it was, it had mange, and it had probably gone off and died quiet somewhere. Bell Donner wasn’t terribly worried about it when she went outside one morning to get more wood for her kiln. She threw artisan pottery out on a little farm a few miles to the west of Chesterville anyway; every week or so, she’d go into town for groceries, mail out her online orders, maybe stop at the Brick for a burger and a drink, and hear what was to be heard. She had little to tell about herself, but folks like to tell their stories, and she knew Miz Mayhew from the post office. She learned that people were keeping their guns out, their doors locked, and their pets inside; she heard the recitation of tales. But whatever the thing that Bill Thurston shot had been, it and its mange were not likely to bother Bell. Or so she thought, until that morning when she was piling kindling into the crook of her arm, looked up, and saw it standing at the edge of the yard.

It didn’t have a human face, but it was standing—on two long, lanky legs that curved back into hocks like a dog’s. One—arm?—was held close to its belly. Probably protecting wherever Thursday shot it, thought Bell, her brains feeling thick and logy. That was the best reaction she could dredge up: Yeah, six-foot man-shaped wolf thing hunched over in my yard, probably not feeling too good right now. It didn’t have a human face, but it did have a very human expression—desperate, she thought, and cranky. Maybe resentful, even. And hungry.

Bell put down her armful of kindling and picked the axe back up.

The thing staggered forward a step or two. It was still a good twenty feet away.

“Go on, now,” she said. “Get. Ain’t nothin’ here you want.”

The thing gazed at her, its eyes watching the axe; it almost seemed to—calculate? She’d seen it, after all, and it was hungry. A human murderer wouldn’t have let her live, and this wasn’t even human.

Bell hardened her voice and rode over a quaver like it was a speedbump: “Go on now. I won’t tell nobody if you just go.” It was on the tip of her tongue to offer it some food—she had a pot roast from the other night, and she was still knee-deep in leftovers—and then she thought, You dumbass, you feed it once and you’ll never get rid of it. “G’on now,” she said, her hands tight on the axe handle. “Just get. You got my word. I won’t tell nobody.”

It was still standing there, reckoning. And then it stepped back, making a tactical withdrawal into the brush at the back of the yard. She saw it drop back down on four legs and lope away awkwardly towards the thicket out behind the farm, a scrubby bit of forest that led into some of the foothills. Probably some good caves in there, she thought. The wolf-thing wasn’t the only one out there who could calculate. And when the attacks started in Chesterville again, and then moved a bit north—northeast of Bell’s farm, and then back down to Chesterville, and then southeast of her farm, and then back to town again—she knew it was being careful. It knows better than to shit where it eats, she thought to herself. Or eat where it slept, more precisely, but the saying held the same. There were some people at the sheriff’s office who probably would have given a lot to know about a thicket in the foothills west of Chesterville, particularly since Edna Mayhew was still the only survivor. But Bell Donner had given her word; she valued her word almost as much as she valued her life, and they were pretty much the same thing in this case, she decided. After all, it’s one thing to know where something lives. It’s another when something knows where you live, and a deal was a deal where Bell Donner came from.

[ahundredlifetime]

I finished reading "Don't Ask Forever" by Joyce Bova. I devoured 490 pages in just 2 days T.T (I stayed awake until 4AM for 2 days and get up to work at 9, lol)

I was reading it for free on the internet but ended up buying the kindle version because I know I want to give it a re-read in the future.

My favourite funny bit is probably when Joyce complained it's too cold and Elvis complained he was burning hot when they were sleeping, turned out the remote control for the electric blanket they were using are tangled, so Joyce controlled Elvis' blanket temperature and vice versa. It took some time for them to figure out the main issue and untangled the cable. At the end they went downstairs to the kitchen, checked the fridge, to got something to eat. Out of all food, Elvis chose ice cream, in the winter.

I can just picture it in my head. And I love it because it makes Elvis more.. human. Even "The King" had issue with blanket sometimes.

Compared to Elvis & Me by Priscilla, I love Joyce's book more because there's no sugar-coating in it, it's more honest, and I can feel the distress, the happiness, the love, the sadness, that she was feeling at that time. And I love the way she observed things about Elvis and his surroundings.

My favourite quote:

"... His mysterious doctors and their miracle cures operated there. It was where those drastic mood swings originated, so unpredictable that I was left to wonder if I could ever truly know him, if there even was a true Elvis left to know."

Sorry for rambling, I still can't move on from the bittersweet ending, the angst, the romance, everything. 💕

Oh, the complexity of loving Elvis Presley 😩

[elsa12tmnt]

Epithet Erased: Prison of Plastic, now at your local library!

(It's just my library, sorry. Unless someone else donates a copy to theirs 👀)

I bought both my personal copy and this copy of EE: PoP as soon as the hardcover was available. Took longer than I wanted to get it to the library and evaluated, but it happened! They filed it under YA fiction, so maybe this will be a tween's first angsty feels™ book. I made sure to get a picture of all the official Library™ markings, including the catalog entry.

You can buy your own copy of this lovely rollercoaster of a book from Barne's and Noble, Books-a-Million, Amazon, or directly from Mascot. Or if you want the full experience, you can get the audio book through Soundbooth Theatre! Before the physical copy released, I listened to the audio book and followed along in my ebook copy from Kobo (Apple and Kindle have the ebook as well) so I could see the pretty pictures when they showed up.

(Jello the button on the home page that's supposed to link to the Mascot listing actually leads to Soundbooth Theater. The other Mascot buttons seem fine(?) though.)

(Also I just realized that I bought the ebook from a platform that no longer sells it 😭 but all the other others platforms still have it DW)

[instruth]

Hi,

Good morning from Singapore.

I am pleased to announce the publication on Kindle Store, Amazon, my first book on poetry, entitled, Poetry By Experience - by J. P. LEE.

J. P. Lee, a Colombo Scholar and a Singaporean Dentist, the author and publisher of fourteen other books, including two novels, and one book on humor (under a different pen name, Manny Larfs), now takes you on another astounding journey of self-discovery in the wonderful world of poetry.

�WHAT IS POETRY?

“Poetry is a language of the soul,

an expression of inner truth,

relayed to and expressed by the mind,

out of a lived experience,

with a vivid imagination.”

- J. P. Lee

ABOUT THIS BOOK

What’s new about this book?

It’s a recipe one can cook

Beside any lake or brook

Catch a fish with a hook

To the sane, eccentric or kook

At any blind corner or nook

It’s take, taken and took

Learned, greenhorn or rook

Honest man, never a crook

Compliant, never a snook

Read, do not just look

Welcome to my sacred book.

These twelve verses may still be unclear, but they do give you an idea what this book is about. I certainly think so. For this is a rather unusual book.

It is a story, related and specially written in a poetic format, describing my journey on a road to the discovery of my love for poetry.

Readers will soon notice and realize that the past is often written in the present tense. This is intentional because love, in the domain of poetry, is very much alive and living in the here and now, precisely as it has been experienced in the past.

In certain sections, timely discourse and appropriate essays are deliberately written with a poetic flare to illustrate that poetry is part and parcel of our lives whether we are aware of it or not.

In this book, there is a wide variety of poems – Contemporary Poems, Haiku, Senryu, Tanka, Haibun, Humor, Teaser, Limerick … and lots of beautiful and colorful pictures - numbered and located at the end of the book for timely reference, under Glossary Of Photos and Pictures which, unless otherwise stated, are taken by the author.

Enjoy.

Do feel free to comment and share.

Thank you.

Cheers and Blessing.

J. P. Lee

——————————————————————

[rjalker]

We had been at the South Pole a week. The outside thermometer read fifty degrees below zero, Fahrenheit. The winter was just beginning.

"What do you think we should transmit to McMurdo?" I asked Rizzo.

He put down his magazine and half-sat up in his bunk. For a moment there was silence, except for the nearly inaudible hum of the machinery that jammed our tiny dome, and the muffled shrieking of the ever-present wind, above us.

(read-more was here)

Rizzo looked at the semi-circle of control consoles, computers, and meteorological sensors with an expression of disgust that could be produced only by a drafted soldier.

"Tell 'em it's cold, it's gonna get colder, and we've both got appendicitis and need replacements immediately."

"Very clever," I said, and started touching the buttons that would automatically transmit the sensors' memory tapes.

Rizzo sagged back into his bunk. "Why?" He asked the curved ceiling of our cramped quarters. "Why me? Why here? What did I ever do to deserve spending the whole goddammed winter at the goddammed South Pole?"

"It's strictly impersonal," I assured him. "Some bright young meteorologist back in Washington has convinced the Pentagon that the South Pole is the key to the world's weather patterns. So here we are."

"It doesn't make sense," Rizzo continued, unhearing. His dark, broad-boned face was a picture of wronged humanity. "Everybody knows that when the missiles start flying, they'll be coming over the North Pole…. The goddammed Army is a hundred and eighty degrees off base."

"That's about normal for the Army, isn't it?" I was a drafted soldier, too.

Rizzo swung out of the bunk and paced across the dimly-lit room. It only took a half-dozen paces; the dome was small and most of it was devoted to machinery.

"Don't start acting like a caged lion," I warned. "It's going to be a long winter."

"Yeah, guess so." He sat down next to me at the radio console and pulled a pack of cigarets from his shirt pocket. He offered one to me, and we both smoked in silence for a minute or two.

"Got anything to read?"

I grinned. "Some microspool catalogues of stars."

"Stars?"

"I'm an astronomer … at least, I was an astronomer, before the National Emergency was proclaimed."

Rizzo looked puzzled. "But I never heard of you."

"Why should you?"

"I'm an astronomer too."

"I thought you were an electronicist."

He pumped his head up and down. "Yeah … at the radio astronomy observatory at Greenbelt. Project OZMA. Where do you work?"

"Lick Observatory … with the 120-inch reflector."

"Oh … an optical astronomer."

"Certainly."

"You're the first optical man I've met." He looked at me a trifle queerly.

I shrugged. "Well, we've been around a few millennia longer than you static-scanners."

"Yeah, guess so."

"I didn't realize that Project OZMA was still going on. Have you had any results yet?"

It was Rizzo's turn to shrug. "Nothing yet. The project has been shelved for the duration of the emergency, of course. If there's no war, and the dish doesn't get bombed out, we'll try again."

"Still listening to the same two stars?"

"Yeah … Tau Ceti and Epsilon Eridani. They're the only two Sun-type stars within reasonable range that might have planets like Earth."

"And you expect to pick up radio signals from an intelligent race."

"Hope to."

I flicked the ash off my cigaret. "You know, it always struck me as rather hopeless … trying to find radio signals from intelligent creatures."

"Whattaya mean, hopeless?"

"Why should an intelligent race send radio signals out into interstellar space?" I asked. "Think of the power it requires, and the likelihood that it's all wasted effort, because there's no one within range to talk to."

"Well … it's worth a try, isn't it … if you think there could be intelligent creatures somewhere else … on a planet of another star."

"Hmph. We're trying to find another intelligent race; are we transmitting radio signals?"

"No," he admitted. "Congress wouldn't vote the money for a transmitter that big."

"Exactly," I said. "We're listening, but not transmitting."

Rizzo wasn't discouraged. "Listen, the chances—just on statistical figuring alone—the chances are that there're millions of other solar systems with intelligent life. We've got to try contacting them! They might have knowledge that we don't have … answers to questions that we can't solve yet…."

"I completely agree," I said. "But listening for radio signals is the wrong way to do it."

"Huh?"

"Radio broadcasting requires too much power to cover interstellar distances efficiently. We should be looking for signals, not listening for them."

"Looking?"

"Lasers," I said, pointing to the low-key lights over the consoles. "Optical lasers. Super-lamps shining out in the darkness of the void. Pump in a modest amount of electrical power, excite a few trillion atoms, and out comes a coherent, pencil-thin beam of light that can be seen for millions of miles."

"Millions of miles aren't lightyears," Rizzo muttered.

"We're rapidly approaching the point where we'll have lasers capable of lightyear ranges. I'm sure that some intelligent race somewhere in this galaxy has achieved the necessary technology to signal from star to star—by light beams."

"Then how come we haven't seen any?" Rizzo demanded.

"Perhaps we already have."

"What?"

"We've observed all sorts of variable stars—Cepheids, RR Lyrae's, T Tauri's. We assume that what we see are stars, pulsating and changing brightness for reasons that are natural, but unexplainable to us. Now, suppose what we are really viewing are laser beams, signalling from planets that circle stars too faint to be seen from Earth?"

In spite of himself, Rizzo looked intrigued.

"It would be fairly simple to examine the spectra of such light sources and determine whether they're natural stars or artificial laser beams."

"Have you tried it?"

I nodded.

"And?"

I hesitated long enough to make him hold his breath, waiting for my answer. "No soap. Every variable star I've examined is a real star."

He let out his breath in a long, disgusted puff. "Ahhh, you were kidding all along. I thought so."

"Yes," I said. "I suppose I was."

Time dragged along in the weather dome. I had managed to smuggle a small portable telescope along with me, and tried to make observations whenever possible. But the weather was usually too poor. Rizzo, almost in desperation for something to do, started to build an electronic image-amplifier for me.

Our one link with the rest of the world was our weekly radio message from McMurdo. The times for the messages were randomly scrambled, so that the chances of their being intercepted or jammed were lessened. And we were ordered to maintain strict radio silence.

As the weeks sloughed on, we learned that one of our manned satellites had been boarded by the Reds at gunpoint. Our space-crews had put two Red automated spy-satellites out of commission. Shots had been exchanged on an ice-island in the Arctic. And six different nations were testing nuclear bombs.

We didn't get any mail of course. Our letters would be waiting for us at McMurdo when we were relieved. I thought about Gloria and our two children quite a bit, and tried not to think about the blast and fallout patterns in the San Francisco area, where they were.

"My wife hounded me until I spent pretty nearly every damned cent I had on a shelter, under the house," Rizzo told me. "Damned shelter is fancier than the house. She's the social leader of the disaster set. If we don't have a war, she's gonna feel damned silly."

I said nothing.

The weather cleared and steadied for a while (days and nights were indistinguishable during the long Antarctic winter) and I split my time evenly between monitoring the meteorological sensors and observing the stars. The snow had covered the dome completely, of course, but our "snorkel" burrowed through it and out into the air.

"This dome's just like a submarine, only we're submerged in snow instead of water," Rizzo observed. "I just hope we don't sink to the bottom."

"The calculations show that we'll be all right."

He made a sour face. "Calculations proved that airplanes would never get off the ground."

The storms closed in again, but by the time they cleared once more, Rizzo had completed the image-amplifier for me. Now, with the tiny telescope I had, I could see almost as far as a professional instrument would allow. I could even lie comfortably in my bunk, watch the amplifier's viewscreen, and control the entire set-up remotely.

Then it happened.

At first it was simply a curiosity. An oddity.

I happened to be studying a Cepheid variable star—one of the huge, very bright stars that pulsate so regularly that you can set your watch by them. It had attracted my attention because it seemed to be unusually close for a Cepheid—only 700 lightyears away. The distance could be easily gauged by timing the star's pulsations.[1]

I talked Rizzo into helping me set up a spectrometer. We scavenged shamelessly from the dome's spare parts bin and finally produced an instrument that would break up the light of the star into its component wavelengths, and thereby tell us much about the star's chemical composition and surface temperature.

At first I didn't believe what I saw.

The star's spectrum—a broad rainbow of colors—was criss-crossed with narrow dark lines. That was all right. They're called absorption lines; the Sun has thousands of them in its spectrum. But one line—one—was an insolently bright emission line. All the laws of physics and chemistry said it couldn't be there.

But it was.

We photographed the star dozens of times. We checked our instruments ceaselessly. I spent hours scanning the star's "official" spectrum in the microspool reader. The bright emission line was not on the catalogue spectrum. There was nothing wrong with our instruments.

Yet the bright line showed up. It was real.

"I don't understand it," I admitted. "I've seen stars with bright emission spectra before, but a single bright line in an absorption spectrum! It's unheard-of. One single wavelength … one particular type of atom at one precise energy-level … why? Why is it emitting energy when the other wavelengths aren't?"

Rizzo was sitting on his bunk, puffing a cigaret. He blew a cloud of smoke at the low ceiling. "Maybe it's one of those laser signals you were telling me about a couple weeks ago."

I scowled at him. "Come on, now. I'm serious. This thing has me puzzled."

"Now wait a minute … you're the one who said radio astronomers were straining their ears for nothing. You're the one who said we ought to be looking. So look!" He was enjoying his revenge.

I shook my head, and turned back to the meteorological equipment.

But Rizzo wouldn't let up. "Suppose there's an intelligent race living on a planet near a Cepheid variable star. They figure that any other intelligent creatures would have astronomers who'd be curious about their star, right? So they send out a laser signal that matches the star's pulsations. When you look at the star, you see their signal. What's more logical?"

"All right," I groused. "You've had your joke…."

"Tell you what," he insisted. "Let's put that one wavelength into an oscilloscope and see if a definite signal comes out. Maybe it'll spell out 'Take me to your leader' or something."

I ignored him and turned my attention to Army business. The meteorological equipment was functioning perfectly, but our orders read that one of us had to check it every twelve hours. So I checked and tried to keep my eyes from wandering as Rizzo tinkered with a photocell and oscilloscope.

"There we are," he said, at length. "Now let's see what they're telling us."

In spite of myself I looked up at the face of the oscilloscope. A steady, gradually sloping greenish line was traced across the screen.

"No message," I said.

Rizzo shrugged elaborately.

"If you leave the 'scope on for two days, you'll find that the line makes a full swing from peak to null," I informed him. "The star pulsates every two days, bright to dim."

"Let's turn up the gain," he said, and he flicked a few knobs on the front of the 'scope.

The line didn't change at all.

"What's the sweep speed?" I asked.

"One nanosecond per centimeter." That meant that each centimeter-wide square on the screen's face represented one billionth of a second. There are as many nanoseconds in one second as there are seconds in thirty-two years.

"Well, if you don't get a signal at that sensitivity, there just isn't any signal there," I said.

Rizzo nodded. He seemed slightly disappointed that his joke was at an end. I turned back to the meteorological instruments, but I couldn't concentrate on them. Somehow I felt disappointed, too. Subconsciously, I suppose, I had been hoping that Rizzo actually would detect a signal from the star. Fool! I told myself. But what could explain that bright emission line? I glanced up at the oscilloscope again.

And suddenly the smooth steady line broke into a jagged series of millions of peaks and nulls!

I stared at it.

Rizzo was back on his bunk again, reading one of his magazines. I tried to call him, but the words froze in my throat. Without taking my eyes from the flickering 'scope, I reached out and touched his arm.

He looked up.

"Holy Mother of God," Rizzo whispered.

For a long time we stared silently at the fluttering line dancing across the oscilloscope screen, bathing our tiny dome in its weird greenish light. It was eerily fascinating, hypnotic. The line never stood still; it jabbered and stuttered, a series of millions of little peaks and nulls, changing almost too fast for the eye to follow, up and down, calling to us, speaking to us, up, down, never still, never quiet, constantly flickering its unknown message to us.

The line never stood still; millions of little peaks and nulls calling to us, speaking to us, never still, never quiet, constantly flickering its unknown message to us.

"Can it be … people?" Rizzo wondered. His face, bathed in the greenish light, was suddenly furrowed, withered, ancient: a mixture of disbelief and fear.

"What else could it be?" I heard my own voice answer. "There's no other explanation possible."

We sat mutely for God knows how long.

Finally Rizzo asked, "What do we do now?"

The question broke our entranced mood. What do we do? What action do we take? We're thinking men, and we've been contacted by other creatures that can think, reason, send a signal across seven hundred lightyears of space. So don't just sit there in stupified awe. Use your brain, prove that you're worthy of the tag sapiens.

"We decode the message," I announced. Then, as an after-thought, "But don't ask me how."

We should have called McMurdo, or Washington. Or perhaps we should have attempted to get a message through to the United Nations. But we never even thought of it. This was our problem. Perhaps it was the sheer isolation of our dome that kept us from thinking about the rest of the world. Perhaps it was sheer luck.

"If they're using lasers," Rizzo reasoned, "they must have a technology something like ours."

"Must have had," I corrected. "That message is seven hundred years old, remember. They were playing with lasers when King John was signing the Magna Charta and Genghis Khan owned most of Asia. Lord knows what they have now."

Rizzo blanched and reached for another cigaret.

I turned back to the oscilloscope. The signal was still flashing across its face.

"They're sending out a signal," I mused, "probably at random. Just beaming it out into space, hoping that someone, somewhere will pick it up. It must be in some form of code … but a code that they feel can be easily cracked by anyone with enough intelligence to realize that there's a message there."

"Sort of an interstellar Morse code."

I shook my head. "Morse code depends on both sides knowing the code. There's no key."

"Cryptographers crack codes."

"Sure. If they know what language is being used. We don't know the language, we don't know the alphabet, the thought processes … nothing."

"But it's a code that can be cracked easily," Rizzo muttered.

"Yes," I agreed. "Now what the hell kind of a code can they assume will be known to another race that they've never seen?"

Rizzo leaned back on his bunk and his face was lost in shadows.

"An interstellar code," I rambled on. "Some form of presenting information that would be known to almost any race intelligent enough to understand lasers…."

"Binary!" Rizzo snapped, sitting up on the bunk.

"What?"

"Binary code. To send a signal like this, they've gotta be able to write a message in units that're only a billionth of a second long. That takes computers. Right? Well, if they have computers, they must figure that we have computers. Digital computers run on binary code. Off or on … go or no-go. It's simple. I'll bet we can slap that signal on a tape and run it through our computer here."

"To assume that they use computers exactly like ours…."

"Maybe the computers are completely different," Rizzo said excitedly, "but the binary code is basic to them all. I'll bet on that! And this computer we've got here—this transistorized baby—she can handle more information than the whole Army could feed into her. I'll bet nothing has been developed anywhere that's better for handling simple one-plus-one types of operations."

I shrugged. "All right. It's worth a trial."

It took Rizzo a few hours to get everything properly set up. I did some arithmetic while he worked. If the message was in binary code, that meant that every cycle of the signal—every flick of the dancing line on our screen—carried a bit of information. The signal's wavelength was 5000 Angstroms; there are a hundred million Angstrom units to the centimeter; figuring the speed of light … the signal could carry, in theory at least, something like 600 trillion bits of information per second.

I told Rizzo.

"Yeah, I know. I've been going over the same numbers in my head." He set a few switches on the computer control board. "Now let's see how many of the 600 trillion we can pick up." He sat down before the board and pressed a series of buttons.

We watched, hardly breathing, as the computer's spools began spinning and the indicator lights flashed across the control board. Within a few minutes, the printer chugged to life.

Rizzo swivelled his chair over to the printer and held up the unrolling sheet in a trembling hand.

Numbers. Six-digit numbers. Completely meaningless.

"Gibberish," Rizzo snapped.

It was peculiar. I felt relieved and disappointed at the same time.

"Something's screwy," Rizzo said. "Maybe I fouled up the circuits…."

"I don't think so," I answered. "After all, what did you expect out of the computer? Shakespearean poetry?"

"No, but I expected numbers that would make some sense. One and one, maybe. Something that means something. This stuff is nowhere."

Our nerves must have really been wound tight, because before we knew it we were in the middle of a nasty argument—and it was over nothing, really. But in the middle of it:

"Hey, look," Rizzo shouted, pointing to the oscilloscope.

The message had stopped. The 'scope showed only the calm, steady line of the star's basic two-day-long pulsation.

It suddenly occurred to us that we hadn't slept for more than 36 hours, and we were both exhausted. We forgot the senseless argument. The message was ended. Perhaps there would be another; perhaps not. We had the telescope, spectrometer, photocell, oscilloscope, and computer set to record automatically. We collapsed into our bunks. I suppose I should have had monumental dreams. I didn't. I slept like a dead man.

When we woke up, the oscilloscope trace was still quiet.

"Y'know," Rizzo muttered, "it might just be a fluke … I mean, maybe the signals don't mean a damned thing. The computer is probably translating nonsense into numbers just because it's built to print out numbers and nothing else."

"Not likely," I said. "There are too many coincidences to be explained. We're receiving a message, I'm certain of it. Now we've got to crack the code."

As if to reinforce my words, the oscilloscope trace suddenly erupted into the same flickering pattern. The message was being sent again.

We went through two weeks of it. The message would run through for seven hours, then stop for seven. We transcribed it on tape 48 times and ran it through the computer constantly. Always the same result—six-digit numbers; millions of them. There were six different seven-hour-long messages, being repeated one after the other, constantly.

We forgot the meteorological equipment. We ignored the weekly messages from McMurdo. The rest of the world became a meaningless fiction to us. There was nothing but the confounded, tantalizing, infuriating, enthralling message. The National Emergency, the bomb tests, families, duties—all transcended, all forgotten. We ate when we thought of it and slept when we couldn't keep our eyes open any longer. The message. What was it? What was the key to unlock its meaning?

"It's got to be something universal," I told Rizzo. "Something universal … in the widest sense of the term."

He looked up from his desk, which was wedged in between the end of his bunk and the curving dome wall. The desk was littered with printout sheets from the computer, each one of them part of the message.

"You've only said that a half-million times in the past couple weeks. What the hell is universal? If you can figure that out, you're damned good."

What is universal? I wondered. You're an astronomer. You look out at the universe. What do you see? I thought about it. What do I see? Stars, gas, dust clouds, planets … what's universal about them? What do they all have that….

"Atoms!" I blurted.

Rizzo cocked a weary eye at me. "Atoms?"

"Atoms. Elements. Look…." I grabbed up a fistful of the sheets and thumbed through them. "Look … each message starts with a list of numbers. Then there's a long blank to separate the opening list from the rest of the message. See? Every time, the same length list."

"So?"

"The periodic table of the elements!" I shouted into his ear. "That's the key!"

Rizzo shook his head. "I thought of that two days ago. No soap. In the first place, the list that starts each message isn't always the same. It's the same length, all right, but the numbers change. In the second place, it always begins with 100000. I looked up the atomic weight of hydrogen—it's 1.008 something."

That stopped me for a moment. But then something clicked into place in my mind.

"Why is the hydrogen weight 1.008?" Before Rizzo could answer, I went on, "For two reasons. The system we use arbitrarily rates oxygen as 16-even. Right? All the other weights are calculated from oxygen's. And we also give the average weight of an element, counting all its isotopes. Our weight for hydrogen also includes an adjustment for tiny amounts of deuterium and tritium. Right? Well, suppose they have a system that rates hydrogen as a flat one: 1.00000. Doesn't that make sense?"

"You're getting punchy," Rizzo grumbled. "What about the isotopes? How can they expect us to handle decimal points if they don't tell us about them … mental telepathy? What about…."

"Stop arguing and start calculating," I snapped. "Change that list of numbers to agree with our periodic table. Change 1.00000 to 1.008-whatever-it-is and tackle the next few elements. The decimals shouldn't be so hard to figure out."

Rizzo grumbled to himself, but started working out the calculations. I stepped over to the dome's microspool library and found an elementary physics text. Within a few minutes, Rizzo had some numbers and I had the periodic table focused on the microspool reading machine.

"Nothing," Rizzo said, leaning over my shoulder and looking at the screen. "They don't match at all."

"Try another list. They're not all the same."

He shrugged and returned to his desk. After a while he called out, "their second number is 3.97123; it works out to 4.003-something."

It checked! "Good. That's helium. What about the next one, lithium?"

"That's 6.940."

"Right!"

Rizzo went to work furiously after that. I pushed a chair to the desk and began working up from the end of the list. It all checked out, from hydrogen to a few elements beyond the artificial ones that had been created in the laboratories here on Earth.

"That's it," I said. "That's the key. That's our Rosetta Stone … the periodic table."

Rizzo stared at the scribbled numbers and jumble of papers. "I bet I know what the other lists are … the ones that don't make sense."

"Oh?"

"There are other ways to identify the elements … vibration resonances, quantum wavelengths … somebody named Lewis came out a couple years ago with a Quantum Periodic Table…."

"They're covering all the possibilities. There are messages for many different levels of understanding. We just decoded the simplest one."

"Yeah."

I noticed that as he spoke, Rizzo's hand—still tightly clutching the pencil—was trembling and white with tension.

"Well?"

Rizzo licked his lips. "Let's get to work."

We were like two men possessed. Eating, sleeping, even talking was ignored completely as we waded through the hundreds of sheets of paper. We could decode only a small percentage of them, but they still represented many hours of communication. The sheets that we couldn't decode, we suspected, were repetitions of the same message that we were working on.

We lost all concept of time. We must have slept, more than once, but I simply don't remember. All I can recall is thousands of numbers, row upon row, sheet after sheet of numbers … and my pencil scratching symbols of the various chemical elements over them until my hand was so cramped I could no longer open the fingers.

The message consisted of a long series of formulas; that much was certain. But, without punctuation, with no knowledge of the symbols that denote even such simple things as "plus" or "equals" or "yields," it took us more weeks of hard work to unravel the sense of each equation. And even then, there was more to the message than met the eye:

"Just what the hell are they driving at?" Rizzo wondered aloud. His face had changed: it was thinner, hollow-eyed, weary, covered with a scraggly beard.

"Then you think there's a meaning behind all these equations, too?"

He nodded. "It's a message, not just a contact. They're going to an awful lot of trouble to beam out this message, and they're repeating it every seven hours. They haven't added anything new in the weeks we've been watching."

"I wonder how many years or centuries they've been sending out this message, waiting for someone to pick it up, looking for someone to answer them."

"Maybe we should call Washington…."

"No!"

Rizzo grinned. "Afraid of breaking radio silence?"

"Hell no. I just want to wait until we're relieved, so we can make this announcement in person. I'm not going to let some old wheezer in Washington get credit for this…. Besides, I want to know just what they're trying to tell us."

It was agonizing, painstaking work. Most of the formulas meant nothing to either one of us. We had to ransack the dome's meager library of microspools to piece them together. They started simply enough—basic chemical combinations: carbon and two oxygens yield CO2; two hydrogens and oxygen give water. A primer … not of words, but of equations.

The equations became steadily longer and more complex. Then, abruptly, they simplified, only to begin a new deepening, simplify again, and finally become very complicated just at the end. The last few lines were obviously repetitious.

Gradually, their meaning became clear to us.

The first set of equations started off with simple, naturally-occurring energy yielding formulas. The oxidation of cellulose (we found the formula for that in an organic chemistry text left behind by one of the dome's previous occupants), which probably referred to the burning of plants and vegetation. A string of formulas that had groupings in them that I dimly recognized as amino acids—no doubt something to do with digesting food. There were many others, including a few that Rizzo claimed had the expression for chlorophyll in them.

"Naturally-occurring, energy-yielding reactions," Rizzo summarized. "They're probably trying to describe the biological set-up on their planet."

It seemed an inspired guess.

The second set of equations again began with simple formulas. The cellulose-burning reaction appeared again, but this time it was followed by equations dealing with the oxidation of hydrocarbons: coal and oil burning? A long series of equations that bore repeatedly the symbols for many different metals came up next, followed by more on hydrocarbons, and then a string of formulas that we couldn't decipher at all.

This time it was my guess: "These look like energy-yielding reactions, too. At least in the beginning. But they don't seem to be naturally occurring types. Then comes a long story about metals. They're trying to tell us the history of their technological development—burning wood, coal and eventually oil; smelting metals … they're showing us how they developed their technology."

The final set of equations began with an ominous simplicity: a short series of very brief symbols that had the net result of four hydrogen atoms building into a helium atom. Nuclear fusion.

"That's the proton-proton reaction," I explained to Rizzo. "The type of fusion that goes on in the Sun."

The next series of equations spelled out the more complex carbon-nitrogen cycle of nuclear fusion, which was probably the primary energy source of their own Cepheid variable star. Then came a long series of equations that we couldn't decode in detail, but the symbols for uranium and plutonium, and some of the heavier elements, kept cropping up.

Then came one line that told us the whole story: the lithium-hydride equation—nuclear fusion bombs.

The equations went on to more complex reactions, formulas that no man on Earth had ever seen before. They were showing us the summation of their knowledge, and they had obviously been dealing with nuclear energies for much longer than we have on Earth.

But interspersed among the new equations, they repeated a set of formulas that always began with the lithium-hydride fusion reaction. The message ended in a way that wrenched my stomach: the fusion bomb reaction and its cohorts were repeated ten straight times.

I'm not sure of what day it was on the calendar, but the clock on the master control console said it was well past eleven.

Rizzo rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. "Well, what do you think?"

"It's pretty obvious," I said. "They have the bombs. They've had them for quite some time. They must have a lot of other weapons, too—more … advanced. They're trying to tell us their history with the equations. First they depended on natural sources of energy, plants and animals; then they developed artificial energy sources and built up a technology; finally they discovered nuclear energy."

"How long do you think they've had the bombs?"

"Hard to tell. A generation … a century. What difference does it make? They have them. They probably thought, at first, that they could learn to live with them … but imagine what it must be like to have those weapons at your fingertips … for a century. Forever. Now they're so scared of them that they're beaming their whole history out into space, looking for someone to tell them how to live with the bombs, how to avoid using them."

"You could be wrong," Rizzo said. "They could be boasting about their arsenal."

"Why? For what reason? No … the way they keep repeating those last equations. They're pleading for help."

Rizzo turned to the oscilloscope. It was flickering again.

"Think it's the same thing?"

"No doubt. You're taping it anyway, aren't you?"

"Yeah, sure. Automatically."

Suddenly, in mid-flight, the signal winked off. The pulsations didn't simply smooth out into a steady line, as they had before. The screen simply went dead.

"That's funny," Rizzo said, puzzled. He checked the oscilloscope. "Nothing wrong here. Something must've happened to the telescope."

Suddenly I knew what had happened. "Take the spectrometer off and turn on the image-amplifier," I told him.

I knew what we would see. I knew why the oscilloscope beam had suddenly gone off scale. And the knowledge was making me sick.

Rizzo removed the spectrometer set-up and flicked the switch that energized the image-amplifier's viewscreen.

"Holy God!"

The dome was flooded with light. The star had exploded.

"They had the bombs all right," I heard myself saying. "And they couldn't prevent themselves from using them. And they had a lot more, too. Enough to push their star past its natural limits."

Rizzo's face was etched in the harsh light.

"I've gotta get out of here," he muttered, looking all around the cramped dome. "I've gotta get back to my wife and find someplace where it's safe…."

"Someplace?" I asked, staring at the screen. "Where?"

[happy-mokka]

2024 in books

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#8 The Lord of the Rings

by J. R. R. Tolkien English

Well. This one doesn't really need an introduction.

I've first read it when I was 15 and it blew me away like no other book before or afterwards.

Since then I've read pretty much all his Middle Earth related work.

This is the one I keep coming back to on a regular basis every 1-2 years or so, for the past 33 years since the 1st read.

I took the title picture from my issue of the Harper Collins Paperback edition from 1995. It was the 1st English book I had read (originating and currently still living in Germany) and in the meantime its pages are pretty worn out and start becoming all yellow. I love it. A few years back I also got me a Kindle edition for practical reasons and did my last re-reads with that one, but now I decided to pick up this old little baby once more. I want to really feel it again and smell the well-aged pages...

So, let the journey begin...

Roads go ever ever on, Over rock and under tree, By caves where never sun has shone, By streams that never find the sea; Over snow by winter sown, And through the merry flowers of June, Over grass and over stone, And under mountains in the moon. Roads go ever ever on Under cloud and under star, Yet feet that wandering have gone Turn at last to home afar. Eyes that fire and sword have seen And horror in the halls of stone Look at last on meadows green And trees and hills they long have known. The Road goes ever on and on, Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with eager feet, Until it joins some larger way Where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say. The Road goes ever on and on Out from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, Let others follow it who can! Let them a journey new begin, But I at last with weary feet Will turn towards the lighted inn, My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

[u2fangirlie-blog]

Book Club Introduction

Recently, I was invited into a book club on Facebook. A friend asked me to join with other friends she knows. I know two out of 30 members. How are people supposed to introduce themselves and get to know each other in FB groups, particularly book clubs? I have no clue! The book club creator and moderators all follow BookTok and have To Be Read lists. I don't do that. It's all new to me.

To start, I read through posts, liked, commented, and replied to interesting and relevant posts. I thought this would be a good way to get to know new people. Then I took a risk and wrote an introduction. The post was viewed by half the crowd. My friend H. replied, but there were no other comments. Just silence. Not even a clock ticking in the background.

The first book selected is Murder at the Book Club by Betsey Reavley. I want to stay, make new friends, and be introduced to new authors, but I feel like an asshole. My introduction to the book club was dead on arrival, so I'm going to delete it from the group.

Here's the introduction. I put a lot of thought and planning into it and don't want to see words go to waste. Someone might read it in the vast expanse of words on Tumblr.

Hi! H. invited me to join the group. She said you are awesome fun people. H., C., and I have been friends since elementary and junior high school. In the past, I've been part of reading circles where we read and discussed metaphysical books. This is my first online book club. Please guide me in what is appropriate behavior and social conventions for online reading groups. I hope to read books in genres I've never read before. I look forward to getting to know everyone here.

I just want to introduce myself a little bit to the group. I'll start with my reading habits and preferences.

I don't have a TikTok account, so I don't follow any Booktok creators.

On YouTube, I don't follow many Booktube creators. However, I do watch channels that focus on one author or genre. I like Quinn's Ideas. He's the go-to guy for Dune and A Song of Ice and Fire. He also discusses classic hard scifi and new scifi. I enjoy T.L. is Reading, who is doing a Discworld read-along. If I'm interested in a new book or TV series based on a book, I'll look on YouTube. I learned a lot about the Wheel of Time that way.

I prefer print books. My house is stacked to the rafters. Remind me sometime to tell you about the time a tree branch went through the roof, and instead of going to the basement for safety, I ran upstairs to rescue boxes of books from the rain.

I do read some ebooks, usually if it's a long series or older books that are hard to find in print. Discworld has 41 book, so most of my Pratchett collection is in ebooks.

Kindle Unlimited - I don't have it because of the cost of subscriptions. If I get a book, I buy it. One reason I prefer print books over ebooks is that having physical media is forever (exceptions of fire or flood). What's going to happen if Amazon loses rights to books or if there's a major technology failure? We the consumers will lose access to digital media we "own" and paid for and will never get it back. It's already happening with streaming videos. If the Big One happens and if we lose electricity and satellites and the internet and if electronic devices stop working, y'all can come to my house. I own all the books and DVDs. LOL!

Audible - See above. Cost of subs. Potential loss of access to digital media. I listen to bootleg audiobooks on YouTube. I have a few audiobooks on CD. I haven't got any new audiobooks in ages because they're so freaking expensive.

Genres - Sci-fi. Fantasy. Classic literature. Mythology. Metaphysical. Paranormal. Occult. Tarot. Non-fiction essays and articles. Encyclopedias and dictionaries. You read that right. I'm a sucker for an encyclopedia with pretty pictures. I have lots of specialized encyclopedias in mythology, symbolism, gemstones, animals, and plants. I love etymology and enjoy looking up word origins. Classic authors: As an English major, I read a lot of the classics. Jane Austen is okay, not my favorite. I have issues with the Bronte Sisters and other authors who introduced the bad boy lover and gave really unhealthy expectations to young people about relationships.

Authors - Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett, Frank Herbert, Diane Duane, George R.R. Martin, J.R.R. Tolkien, Diana Gabaldon, Jim Butcher, Charlaine Harris, Laurel Hamilton, and Anne Rice (because smut is better with paranormal characters, and their vampires are infinitely better than Stephanie Meyers) J.K. Rowling (before she turned evil), and Neil Gaiman (Yes, I know about the allegations and am still processing how to respond publicly. His alleged behavior is horrible. The Good Omens and Sandman fandoms are fighting and ripping each other apart.)

First, full disclosure: I have a BA and MA in English, with a minor in creative writing and special studies in archetypal myth criticism. I don't write fiction. The creative writing workshops were difficult for me. My professors didn't inspire creativity, but instead they instilled critical analysis of writing, self-criticism, and self-doubt. My teachers critically wounded my desire to write stories, and later it just died. I gave up writing fiction a long time ago. No, I do not secretly want to write fiction.

My strong suit is non-fiction, including articles and essays. Mostly I write short humorous stuff for my social media and a captive audience of about 70 friends and family. Also I write in-depth analyses and criticism of books, movies, and TV series. And sometimes my friends get sick of my BS and think I'm too critical. That's just how my brain works. Analyzing something to the extreme doesn't mean I don't still enjoy it or love it. (Unless it's objectively crap. LOL!) I have a Tumblr blog for publishing what I don't want family to read.

That being said - When I put a lot of time and effort into writing a longer piece (for example an essay with photos) and people either don't read it or they only respond with a like, I feel frustrated and very hurt. I get it. People don't have time and are selective about what they read. I wrote a Tumblr post about it and will share it if anyone is interested.

For the past 7 years, I taught English comp and how to write research papers at a community college. I also ran the writing center with a staff of one (me) and helped students with their papers. If you need help with MLA and APA citations, I'm your girl! I departed for financial reasons. My past work experiences were in office/clerical. Recently, I started a new job in an office. It's good.

Finally, this is my binder full of maps. As an avid fan of fantasy and sci-fi series. maps are important to know where characters are located and the various cities and realms they are in. I'm obsessive. I'm a nerd and a dang weirdo (in the Muppet Gonzo sense of being a weirdo).

Here's a link to the binder of maps from fantasy, sci-fi, and history in literature.

[cvbullshit]

Incorrect Quotes CV edition but with Cassie bc she needs more love

Cassie: Ow! Dust: What’s wrong? Cassie: I have this weird pain right above my eyebrow. Dust: It’s called a stress headache. I got my first one when I was four.

Cassie: GET BACK HERE YOU DUMB FUCK! Dust: LET ME RUN FROM THE CONSEQUENCES OF MY ACTIONS!

Cassie: I wouldn’t put it in those words exactly. Dust: Why not? Cassie: Because I don't know what they mean.

Dust: Who hurt you? Cassie: *snorting* What, do you want a list? Dust: ...Yes, actually.

Dust: What if one day you just suddenly turned into an almond and you couldn't scream or do anything about it because you were just a fucking almond? Cassie: Are you okay?

Cassie: Can we go to a haunted house? Dust: What’s wrong with the one we live in? Cassie: Wh-what? Dust: Goodnight, Cassie.

Dust: I am a responsible adult! Cassie: *raises brow* Dust: I am an adult.

Cassie: So, what are we doing? Dust: Wasting our lives. Cassie: I meant for lunch...

Cassie: I can’t tell if you’re a genius or just incredibly arrogant. Dust: Well, on a good day, I’m both.

Cassie: We’re kind of missing something guys. Xeno: Cohesion? Deonie: Teamwork? Satas: A general sense of what we’re doing? Placid: And Dingle is not here. Xeno: Oh, and that, yeah.

Cassie: If you put 'violently' in front of anything to describe your action, it becomes funnier. Cassie: Violently practices. Satas: Violently studies. Xeno: Violently sleeps. Placid: Violently shoots pictures. Dingle: Violently boxes. Deonie: Violently murders people. Xeno: Violently worries about the previous statement.

Dingle: We have a problem. Xeno: Let me guess, you caused it? Deonie: Gimme a sec, I'm not drunk enough to listen to this yet. Cassie: And it's another Tuesday, your point? Satas: Would shooting you solve this problem? No? Then shut up. Placid: If you're mean the fire, that's our solution to last week's problem.

Deonie: Those moments when straight people assume you're one of them and you feel like a gay secret agent. Cassie: Lesbionage. Satas: Bi spy. Xeno: It's an ace case. Dingle: Secret gaygent.

Deonie: So, does everybody understand? Satas: Yep! Xeno: I don’t think we’re on the same page. Cassie: I don’t think we’re in the same book. Placid: I’m personally on a kindle. Deonie: …I’ll take that as a yes. Satas: Was I supposed to read something???? Dingle: I’d rather watch the movie, thank you.

*The squad's reaction to being told they're the chosen one* Cassie: I will not let you down. Deonie: Sounds fun. Placid: K. Satas: No, I'm fucking not. Xeno: Do I have to be? Dingle: Please god, I am so tired.

Dust: Sometimes I like to place my hands on someone’s cheeks, look into their eyes... Dust: ...And violently jerk their head until it snaps. Cassie: ...That took an unexpected turn. Ruined Roxy: So did their neck.

Cassie: But what about Mr. Dust? Ruined Roxy: Don't worry about him. Ruined Roxy: I once watched him fall down 5 flights of stairs, stand up, and keep eating his hotdog like nothing happened.

Dust: Ruined Roxy has no survival skills, their need to win has replaced them. Cassie: That can't be true! Dust: Watch this. Dust: Hey Ruined Roxy, race you to the bottom of the stairs! Ruined Roxy: *Throws themself out a window*