#pocket goodsir

[armisteadrevellion]

Have you ever become so physically ill over a hyperfixation you create a little doll of your blorbo to carry with you and pretend he’s still alive?

I have.

Meet the Pocket Goodsir™️! (not actually trademarked)

For the past week I have been working tirelessly (in between shifts at my part-time job of course) to painstakingly hand sew (I neither own a sewing machine nor even know how to use one) a miniature and bobble-headed version of the one and only Mister Doctor Harry Goodsir. It was a bit of trouble to figure out— partly due to my refusal to follow any plushie sewing guides and very minutely referencing fabric patterns for a pair of pants and a suit vest respectively— but besides that I persevered and I now have my very own special little Goodsir to hold in my hands, leave out in a frozen wasteland and/or throw at the wall as I so choose.

Some detail pictures of my shoddy craftsmanship for your viewing pleasure:

Despite struggling for most of the process due to the tiny scale I was working with, I very much enjoyed this project and I do plan to continue with it! Some upcoming development goals include Goodsir's warm overcoat, his cap and Welsh wig, tiny reading glasses and the world's smallest bone saw. I put a magnet into his right hand so that he will be able to hold any props that I create for him. There's a possibility that I may remake his cravat as well.

This entire project was created from fabrics and materials I already owned.

If you're ever created your own little guy, or plan on doing so eventually, please let me know how it went/your plans for doing so! I love seeing lesser-used artforms for fanart.

that's it bye

[slow-burn-sally]

I was reading Fitzjames' letter describing Harry Goodsir, and it struck me that Goodsir must have been autistic. Fitzjames refers to Goodsir as having a "low, hesitating, monotonous" tone of voice, as walking "upright on his toes" and as keeping his hands "tucked up in each jacket pocket".

Even more telling is how Fitzjames describes Goodsir as being "in ecstasies" over some sort of whale blubber substance, and how he loved making detailed drawings of "the insides" of wild life.

Welcome to the community, Harry Goodsir, you tip toe walking, t-rex arm having, natural sciences nerd.

[the-holy-ghosted]

the account name evolution has been fun to watch. from goodsirs-pocket peglar-mr henry bridgens-bridglars. The John lynch obsession has indeed taken you (just like it did for peglar I suppose).

winter stoat for you!

OH WHAT A FANTASTIC STOAT THANK YOU... and yes I have been utterly and inescapably captivated by that man. It really is only a matter of time before I find a good enough url to switch to that lets me dive fully off the deep end. I still have his books to go through so everybody beware

[stoportotouch]

goodsir is literally the world's smallest man. he's pocket-sized; you could probably lose him down the back of the sofa.

[vasiktomis]

Catboy Crozier Asks Fitzjames to Poll Him

Secret Santa Gift for @sherwood-forests, a dear friend, a sublime writer, and haver of really good taste in sad old men <3

Pairing: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames. Rating: Teen and Up (I GUESS?). Word Count: ~2000. Tags: Character study in the style of catboy fic, James sees a furry and gets gender envy, I studied far too much Presbytarianism for this, Rated T because they're all dying of scurvy and The Madness. Read it on Ao3 Here!

_________________________________

Something is wrong with the Captain, James is convinced. 

Were it not for the passing sickness of thirst, Francis’s recovery might have seen him in a better spot, standing out on the deck, attempting to fill the late Sir John’s shoes with a sermon from the man’s pocket bible to mark the end of the workday. 

The only issue is: even out here, on the pack, in the blistering wind, in recovery — Francis is in nowhere near the shape James had anticipated. 

“- …And when he polled the hair of his head — for at the end of every year he used to poll it. It’d get so long that it’d become heavy and he’d cut it — he weighed the hair of his head. Two hundred shekels by the king’s weight.”

Somewhere in the back of the crew, there’s a whisper. “What’s a shekel?”

Another whisper: “Currency, daft bastard.”

Another, more recognisable considering he’d only heard the man speak minutes prior. Soft. Considerate. Goodsir. “It’s a measurement of weight.”

Jumping to maintain the pride of his superior, James casts a look in the direction of the whispering. It ceases, and silence coats The Terror once again. 

“Then it’s just a whole lot of corn and kisses if I’m being honest.” Francis shuts the book, hard. Social confidence lost to the gale.

To the vast majority of the crew, the Captain’s discomfort might seem no more severe than usual. The vast majority of the crew don’t see the man behind closed doors. No one is quite so privy to the man’s personal suffering as the acquaintance James has reluctantly taken up. Harry has a certain talent for feeling it in the air beyond all his studies, but not even the medical staff see as much of the man as James.

He knows this man. 

He knows something is wrong. 

His skin, leathered from the open wind and the salt of sea spray does have a rosier glow than James had previously observed. Usually the hue is reserved for his nose; a blaring announcement of a secret badly hidden. Now? Pink dusts his cheeks like a newborn. Healthy, James might call it. Far more than what their diet lately would allow. On the topic of diet, Francis’s uniform sits less tailored than typically. Tight around the hips and thighs like a woman — or the closest imitation he’s seen of a woman since Lady Silence.

It stirs thoughts that go beyond concern, and although the mood on deck is remarkably dull, James breaks away to concentrate his gaze on the horizon, to something less scandalous. Dare he say, enviable. 

There’s just no air of sickness about Crozier whatsoever.

Either he’s going out of his way to hide a wound, or Harry has been administering a means to control Francis’s pain.

“Erm…”

The Captain is a fish out of water standing before an audience, much less with a book in his hand. Sir John was at his most natural in this state by comparison; leading from the head, fuelling morale with passion and ambition and above all, devout Christianity. The hierarchy of it all stuck to him like varnish. Francis, meanwhile, offered none of this. Not to say that James hadn’t grown to respect Francis’s operation from within the crew, leading viscerally, escaping eye-contact by busying himself with his hands. Presumably Presbyterian. Clearly he’s never read a verse to anyone but himself. Clearly, he’s never spoken to such a large group of men who weren’t too busy to look upon him while they listened. 

It’s painful. Enough to distract from the ache in his gums and the chill biting at his ungloved fingertips. 

“What did Franklin do with these?” Francis asks, hitting a wall with the story he’s chosen. James leans down to his ear. 

“He liked to draw daily lessons from his readings.”

“Yes. Alright. -…and let this be a reflection that Absalom might not have known the sailor’s — erm — aptitude for lice. So let’s remember our standards and remain… polled.”

James has been Francis’s Second long enough to know that he’s angling for a joke. No one laughs until he himself cracks an amused smile, habit drawing him onto his toes to weigh in.

“Perhaps if we should be beaten by the pack, we might earn ourselves a living in a few hundred pounds of hair.”

That gets a chuckle. Not because it’s funny; just because James is better-liked. From the way Francis’s shoulders sag, he’s not certain if it’s sadness at knowing this, or relief that he’s no longer being looked at.

“As you were. Warm meal awaits.” There’s a little half-wave from Francis. He’s turning tiredly, more than ready to make his escape. “First Officer Fitzjames. With me.” 

— As if the other man wasn’t already striding two steps behind him, dipping his nose a tad to dodge the wooden stop overhead as they make their way to — and through — the lower deck. In the cramped corridor, the Captain’s wake envelopes his Second. It’s a new form of intoxicating, veering off and away from whatever deep spirits Francis can sneak away from the Erebus. A powdered scent carried on perfumed oils and polished silver, carrying him for a moment back to more distinguished moments in his career. There are no pleasant smells aboard the Franklin Expedition, James reminds himself. Must be a vapour off whatever Harry has snuck into the Captain’s system to have him so functional.  

They enter the Captain’s cabin. Francis speeds up, as if he can’t find the bowels of his retreat quick enough. The man winces as he takes a seat, blinking through a pain sharp enough that James’s shoulders tighten at the sight alone. 

He’s suffering far more than he’s been letting on.

It’s a humiliating affair, even carried out alone. What would otherwise have been a night of drink, reduced to observing his own mortality. The weight that he would have to distribute amongst his closest subordinates lest he bear an even more humiliating recovery should he not be able to swallow his own pride. 

There’s a long look exchanged. James, expectant. Francis, not budging.

Ridiculous .

James is halfway to the door when Francis’s head inclines minutely. Conceding the minutest of defeats. Almost praying that such an action would go unseen. That his Second would simply leave without noticing. Not James. There’s nothing about Francis that can escape him. Initially such focus had been out of spite; then gradually, respect, before he’d found admiration to stoke.

He holds onto the spite. It keeps him sharp about the other man. Where blind appreciation led him to believe Sir John infallible, he knows how valuable a keen eye is when it comes to someone so familiar with obscurity.

It’s what has him shutting the door before he’s even opened it an inch. Turning on his heel to stand and watch expectantly.

Francis doesn’t meet his eye. Not right away. Not until James has made his annoyance clear enough in his expression for the other man to read. 

“There is…something you deserve to know.”

James’s stomach drops, but he otherwise maintains an air of impatience. “Does Harry know?” They both know what kind of probe it is. Medical. 

His response comes in a curt nod, and for it, James rejoins Francis at the table. 

“You’re not wounded.” He probes again. “You’ve been recovering from your sickness well enough. If anything, you look healthier than you did at launch.”

“You spend a good deal of time watching me rather than your own crew.” Francis clips back at him. Good thing he didn’t mention the man’s hips, James reflects. Knuckles rap once, twice on the tabletop, and then: “…Sorry.”

“For God’s sake, Francis, just tell me what it is.”

The Captain glares into the middle distance for a long moment. Then he glares at James for just as long. He reaches back, up beneath the underside of his uniform, wincing as he tugs something from his undershirt that doesn’t make itself immediately known. Not until Francis’s attention moves to his cap, gingerly lifting it from his head.

Ears. 

Not human. Feline. Rooted amongst the mess of flattened, thinning hair. 

James can only gawk while the man places his hat on the table, lining it up neatly beside the discarded scissors. An apparent tail flicks in impatience. 

A tail.

The Captain has a tail. 

“Well say something , James!”

The First Officer stammers — a rare event — before finding his words. “Are those yours?” 

“Are they mine? What — are they mine? Use your eyes! Evidently so! They’re bloody well fused to me.” 

He takes a tentative step forward. Then, finding his knees a little wobbly, James slumps into the seat adjoining the other man. “And — erm — Harry knows about… this.” He gestures vaguely at the rather regal tail touching the floorboards between them. 

“You know he’s that dreadful curious sort. ‘Remarkable’ , he called it.” Francis replies, disdained. 

That doesn’t sit well on the palette. No one called Francis Crozier: an Irish, stubborn, drunkard remarkable. Not at least until James was forced to fill Sir John’s role by his side and get to know the man, for God’s sake. Not that he’s verbalised the opinion. 

It’s just —

It’s envy .

Harry’s already well-liked just for being agreeable with the man. He’s soft in a fairytale Good British Men sort of way. Why does he get to call the Captain remarkable when the term would mean so little coming from someone in already such high esteem? 

“Fitzjames.” Francis pulls him out of his thoughts, inclining his head just slightly; just enough that James can make out a little scabbed nick at the  base of one of those remarkable ears. “I need you to get rid of them.”

James’s gaze is pulled down to the scissors. They weren’t discarded. They were laid out for him. “You want me to-…”

“I’m too much a coward to do it myself, James. I’ve tried it. I’m asking you — do this for me. Get rid of the damn things.” Francis insists, nearing desperation. Then, with a touch of awkwardness — perhaps an attempt to make light of his situation: “Poll me.”

The chuckle James offers is absent of amusement. “Sir John would be delighted to hear you use one of the daily lessons according to his habits.”

Francis’s fuzzy ears angle lower, marking just how unimpressed he is with such a statement.

It’s rather endearing. 

It is envy, he’s sure. No revulsion or vicious amusement or anything of the sort. He wants to feel that way, for his own sake and for the sake of the man he’d far prefer to feel only disdain for. Yet, it only manifests in the sort of concern one reserves for adored schoolmates, and in envy. The thought nags at the back of his mind: what if this is contagious in its benefits? What use would there be in vanquishing such a turn?

Moments pass. The scissors, though offered, go untouched. 

“I’d call this insubordination.” Francis ventures to threaten.

“No, it’s madness.” James retorts. “I’m not going to carve into you. Far worse has occurred and you’ve managed to hide it-“

“How in God’s name!” Francis snaps, “Can this be hidden?”

It might have been mistaken for an outburst. A firm hand toward a lesser officer. No, Francis is far more frightening when he’s sincerely angry. This is a tantrum, and James has learned to parent it. 

“What I mean is, perhaps you might consider waiting. From the sounds of it, the affliction hasn’t spread. Whatever condition this is, there may be more benefits to come.” He pauses to consider the risk of his next words. “How is your thirst?”

“I’ve not had any taste for it. The illness all but left me when this change came about.”

“Any other aversions?”

“Not yet seen.”

“That’s alright. Nothing a layer of cheese won’t help.”

“You’re not funny in the slightest.”

James would disagree, but the Captain looks so forlorn about this whole debacle that he deems it wiser just to keep to himself this time. “I’ll bring you something from the kitchen,” He offers, turning to depart, “and allow you to stew, in lieu of marinating.” 

“You’re not funny.”

Francis rises from his seat to acknowledge such a departure. He does not, however, say anything. Not until James has reached the door. 

“Broth sounds nice.”

“And what about a saucer?” James jests.

He is met with a scowl. Francis’s knuckles rap on the table. His lovely tail whips in irritation — or perhaps thought.

His Captain leans forward, fixed on him beneath a heavy, knitted brow.

“You will tell no one of this.”

“Saucer it is.”

[ohelpthekraken]

Title: You May as Well Fire at the Moon

Summary: Post “First Shot’s A Winner.” The fact that the skitterbots hadn’t worked on the creature concerned Lt. Little.

Warnings: Blanky's amputation is non-graphically described, and Edward has suicidal thoughts (but does not act on them) towards the end.

500 words.

Lieutenant Little watched the ship’s boy walking around the deck picking up the deactivated skitterbots. The BN-NX-82 rifles [1] the Marines had used fired a swarm of nanobots that, upon contact with a living target, would skitter around devouring it and use the biomass to self-replicate. They were also dangerous to anyone who touched the poor sod being eaten, hence the use of inorganic medics [2] in situations where skitterbots may be present. Depending on their programming, they would devour each other or deactivate from lack of fuel when the target was gone. He had watched several shots hit the creature’s haunches and seen the skitterbots deploy, and the start of the swarm. But the altered magnetic field that surrounded the beast [3] had disabled them before it could be meaningfully injured. The ship, on the other hand, had been injured.

The creature—the Tuunbaq, he reminded himself—had ripped open part of Terror’s hull like tissue paper causing the compartment to depressurize. Mr. Honey had only just struggled into his enviro suit and begun patching up the hole, sparks flying, and Hickey was redoing the sealing on the hatch he had broken earlier. In Little’s memory the sound of rending metal merged with Blanky’s pained screaming. Over the comms. when the leg of his suit had been breached and Blanky’s leg was sacrificed to the stars, and again in Medbay when MacDonald had cut the remains off. Little imagined what the doctors were currently doing: snipping, pruning, sealing, doing whatever reconstruction they could now that the replication technologies onboard were starting to fail.  And now, Crozier’s pistol was burning a hole in his coat pocket.

Back in the solitude of Edward’s cramped cabin he pulled the pistol out and turned it over in his hands. Examined its construction. Toyed with the safety. Pointed it at the small shaving mirror, making eye contact with the darkness of the bore. Crozier’s pistol wasn’t an NX model, meaning it didn’t fire skitterbots and therefore would not grant him the complete disintegration he wanted and secretly thought he deserved.

Edward thought about the Navy firing two ships of men out into unknown reaches of space and wondered if they were no better than the skitterbots—programmable, mass produced, devouring everything in their path before dropping dead. Edward hoped this sad little expedition would drop dead before they started eating each other.

Well Captain, Little bitterly thought, putting the pistol into a drawer. All our clocks are running out. But I have a duty to the men, so I will prolong my time as much as possible.

Author's Notes:

Thank you for reading a scientific writer's first attempt at creative writing in about a decade! While this was fun to write I struggled a bit, so I may or may not just post a list of ideas of how things work or events might happen in this little AU. Regardless, please feel free to talk to me about it!

The title is a quote from British Army Col. George Hanger about the accuracy of the ‘Brown Bess’ sea rifle (1814).

[1] British Navy NanoExtruder mk. 82. [4]

[2]  Stanley and Goodsir are the inorganic medics on this expedition.

[3] In this AU I picture the Tuunbaq to be the simulacrum of a neutron star’s soul. Not exactly sentient, but able to be directed to an extent. It can manifest in a typically physical sense, but the men perceive it to be surrounded by radiation and strong magnetic and gravitational fields that royally fuck up their equipment. Signal interference.

[4] Lead is the 82nd element ;)

[brassandblue]

"Allow me a moment to explain! l am a doctor! I can help!" (For Dr. Reid, for Goodsir?)

Harry, startled, hadn't expected to come across anyone that night and stopped short under the amber glow of a gas street lamp. It illuminated his dark curls and cast long shadows, causing his naturally weary-looking eyes to look even more fatigued. He'd tried to ignore the stranger--it was late, and Harry was heading back home from his practice (he'd operate out of his own flat but there just wasn't enough space, so he was sharing a premises with a midwife and her husband until he could afford something better)--but clearly, the blood spattering his collar and waistcoat had not gone unnoticed.

He'd only stopped when the man said, "I am a doctor" and now he stood awash in the pool of light, blinking curiously. He carried a small bag tucked under one arm and a cautious hand went to his coat pocket where he kept a knife, but he did not draw it out--such was an unfortunate necessity.

"As-- As am I, sir," Harry offered to the other man. "The blood is not mine, I left my practice having forgotten to change my clothes. I am Dr. Goodsir, of Goodsir and Goody's just a street over--" from the same pocket as the knife, he drew a bit of ephemera, a printed calling card on white paper with the establishment's logo and information, and held it out in the light so that it was legible enough.

[sleepisforcowards]

Chapter 3

July 15th 1942,

Mikey let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding as he raised his fist to the door. While he waited he ran a hand through his hair and looked at his reflection in the window, which stared back at him with furrowed eyebrows. He blew air out of his cheeks, his eyes shooting upwards when a second figure appeared in the rectangular window from the other side of the door.

He was met with the familiar kind smile of Mrs Abigail Moore, though she insisted on him calling her Abbie.

“Michael honey! want me to get Daisy for you?” Her fond gaze rested on the boy- well man she supposed, he was 18 now after all.

His signature grin made its self comfortable on his face as he nodded, hands shoved in his pockets. “If you don’t mind Mrs Moore,”

She shook her head, “how many times do I have to tell you Mikey? Abigail is fine.” She laughed, “besides, getting called Mrs makes me feel old,”

“At least once more Mrs Moore.”

The woman turned round, calling her daughter from inside the house.

Light foot steps, belonging to the girl whom he’d grown.. quite fond of to put it lightly, could be heard coming down the stairs before the young women appeared at the bottom of them.

She was wearing a comfy cerulean dress and had her hair down, loose waves cascading over her shoulder.

“Mikeys here for you sweetheart.” Her mother informed, though it was clear she’d already seen him as she beamed in his direction. The older women looked between the two with a knowing look, she bid Mikey a goodbye and left the two alone.

“Whad’ ya need then Spigsy?” She leant on the door frame, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

He smirked at the nickname though it weakened when he thought about the answer. Plastering his grin onto his face he nodded behind him, “care for a stroll Dais’ ?”

With a nod of agreement she turned to get her shoes, “if you wanted to see me you coulda just said that, yknow?”

“What and give you the satisfaction of knowin’ that?”

She hummed, “don’t act like it’s not true.”

Once slipping on her other shoe she got up and smoothed out her dress, “After you goodsir!” She’d cleared her throat and put on an abominable attempt at a posh English accent.

He looked at her with feign concern, “you’re so weird, I hope you realise that.”

“You love it.”

The pair walked side by side for a while, talking about random topics before Daisy studied the boys face quizzically. He still had the same boyish look as he did when they first met and his face, while not childlike, was still youthful and friendly. He had grown into his looks and his blonde curls complemented his complexion.

As if sensing her stare, Mikey looked to her and raised a brow in question.

“As nice as this is…I doubt you just wanted to walk around?”

Mikey sighed and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets out of habit, “erm’ yeah..I have news”

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow at him, “news?”

“Yes. News.” He looked contradicted with his brows furrowed and his usual grin that almost seemed permanently drawn on his face replaced with a frown.

The girl felt her own lips being pulled into a frown, what news could possibly make the cheery boy look so…nervous? The look unnerved her, like he wasn’t sad for himself but rather for her. Had he done something? Something bad? Maybe he had lost her copy of ‘The Hobbit’ she had lent him? Had he broken the chain necklace she had bought him for his birthday?

Her thoughts where answered by him blurting the ‘news’ out.

“I enlisted.”

She stared dumbly at him for a second, like she hasn’t heard what he had said. Regrettably on her part, she had.

“What?”

“Yeah..with Tommy and some of the others..” he cleared his throat, looking at the girl with the same expression as before but this time she understood why.

Of course she knew they would have to sign up eventually but she’d thought that would be months from now, they all did.

Not wanting to make this any harder, she just nodded her head. “Oh..when..” she cleared her throat for what felt like the millionth time, “when are you leaving?”

“Thursday..” she felt like the earth had crumbled under her at his words and he had obviously noticed, “listen Dais’ I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.. I didn’t know how too” his eyes where almost pleading with her too understand and she hated that he had such an effect on her.

“We can do some real good out there Daisy…I need to do my part, we all do” He continued, “they say the war could be over in less than a year anyways, plus the airborne pays 50 dollars a month..you know my ma could use the money.”

She knew he was right but the thought of him leaving and being out there made her feel ill. She’d hear about the war in Europe over the radio and in the newspapers.

With a few blinks to stop herself from crying she looked at him, “you best stay safe, ya hear?”

He grinned despite her serious expression, perhaps trying to relieve the tension, “yes ma’am”

“I’m serious idiot..” she wrapped her arms tightly around him and buried her head in his neck, her words becoming muffled, “you need to be safe.”

She felt his own arms wrap around her just as tightly and could feel his chest vibrate with a laugh, “what am I gonna do without you looking after me eh?”

“Something stupid…” she mumbled.

“You’ll..you’ll write to me yeah?”

“Course..” she let out a breathy laugh, “I need to make sure you take care of yourself..”

July 14th 1942,

The station was packed with people, mothers holding onto their sons, sisters grasping onto their brothers arms, friends bidding each other goodbye and newly engaged couples whispering promises to each other.

Mikey was stood in the mix of all this, with his parents and sisters. He and Tommy had already said goodbye to all their friends and he was going through the same thing with his own family.

His mother was already crying and he and Esme where doing their best to console her.

“It’s alright Ma, he’ll be okay.”

While Esme rubbed their mothers back soothingly, Mikey crouched down to his younger sisters height.

“Do you have to go?” She pouted, her big eyes staring up at him.

“I’m sorry Flo..I’ll be back before ya know it, okay?” He ruffled up her hair which earned loud complaints from the young girl, her hands swatting at his arm.

“Come here then.” He said with a grin and scooped her into his arms, “wooph’ you’re getting heavy Flo!”

The blonde girl grinned at him, “uh huh! I’m taller than Gemma from next door now!”

He matched her grin, “atta’ girl Flo.” He plopped her down with a final squeeze and turned to Esme.

“You be safe now Mikey..or all come down their and sort you out myself!“ she didn’t wait for him to reply before hugging him tightly.

“Love ya Es’..”

“Love you too.”

He lowered his voice, “take care of Flo and Ma for me.”

“Course..” she smiled as they let go of each other and she pushed him to his mother.

Without wasting a second his mother embraced him tight, peppering kisses on his cheeks and pulling him down slightly due to his height.

She pushed away and looked him straight in the eyes, “you be safe, okay mikey? You right to us as much as you can and you make sure you eat enough!”

“I will ma.”

His mother smiled up at him, still holding his face in her hands. “I love ya, okay? I’ll be praying for you and the rest of the boys.” He could tell his mother was fighting back another bout of tears as she looked at him with glossy eyes and a slightly quivering lip.

Daisy was almost positive she had never ran so much in her life..well she supposed she’d never had any reason to run half way across the city for anything before. She’d much prefer a long stroll where she could relax and not feel like her flats where shrinking in size with each strike her feet made to the ground. Alas here she was, shooting down the street as orderly as possible to try and keep at least some of her modesty.

What an image she must have been..hair tussled by the wind and her cheeks red with exhaustion as she high tailed it like a lunatic.

She only had one thing on her mind however, and that was not how she looked to any passersby but the fact that if she didn’t speed up then she wouldn’t be able to say her goodbye to Mikey. Well she’d prefer not to refer to it as a ‘goodbye’ more of a ‘I’ll see you when you get back’ or a ‘I’ll be waiting for you when you return’…goodness, perhaps she had read to many romance novels.

With a huff, she stopped at the entrance to the station and scanned the crowd.

Her eyes where immediately drawn to the familiar blonde curls of her best friend who was being tightly held by his mother. Daisy felt her heart ache at the sight as she made her way over to the family.

It was Esme who spotted her first, giving the slightly younger girl a tight, sad smile, “Heya Daisy..”

Daisy gave the women, who she considered a sister a small squeeze to the arm in an attempt of comfort as she turned to look at Mikey.

He was already looking at her and she couldn’t help trying to memorise his features. From his mop of curls that fell slightly into his sight to his eyes which where like calm seas made bright by the sun and to the exact part of his cheeks where his dulled freckles disappeared and where his, in Daisy’s opinion quite charming, dimples appear whenever a smile graces his face.

Without a word from either of them, Daisy wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him into a tight hug. A silent promise is made between the two and when she squeezes his neck ever so slightly tighter she can tell he knows what is meant.

She feels her throat tighten up as her vision blurs and becomes watery, “I’ll miss you..” if Mikey heard her voice crack,he didn’t acknowledge it, only holding her tighter. She’s confused at his silence at first but when he utters his next words she felt..ambivalent.

‘I love you’

It felt like a growing weight had been lifted off of her chest but simultaneously like she was drowning. Like water was filling her lungs..but at the same time like she could finally breath again.

The whistle from the train interrupted her train of thoughts and the two pulled away from each other.

She watched silently as Mikey gathered up his belongings and with a last goodbye to his mother and sisters made his way onto the train.

They locked as when he turned around, already stood on the train.

Unable to find her voice, she simply nodded at him and hoped that the one gesture could speak the a thousand words she wished to say to him. From the smile he sent her way in return, she was quite sure he’d understood…

‘I love you too’

tags- @oopsiegracie @liebgotts-lovergirl @ronaldspe-daddy @fanfic-obsessionz @meganluz

[an-act-of-hubris]

THE GOODSIR CHRONICLES

FOR MOD EREBUS: Celebrating the birthday of our beloved Harry DS Goodsir 11-3-1819.

The Goodsir Chronicles: A Universe In Which Jane, Harry and Robert Encounter the Mythological and Supernatural

From Mod Terror:  Story 2 Part 1: “The Selich Girl and the Pearls of the Maighdean Mhara Queen”

My dear sister Jane loved fairy stories, legends and ghost tales.  She had a wonderful sense of the otherworldly which she loved to share with Robert and I from the time we were wee.  Of course, she was told repeatedly by my father to refrain from doing so.  Being raised in a household of science and Christian faith, we all held both ideals very dear.  But Jane had a bit of an obstinate streak to match her sense of the fantastical and she would still secretly tell us these yarns any time we were out of earshot of the others.  Her accounts excited something within the three of us which must have opened our minds and hearts to the possibility that these fabled beings could exist in our current natural world.  That’s the only way I can explain the transcendental experiences we three encountered throughout our lives.

November was always one of my favorite times of year, not just because my birthday fell early in this month and I couldn’t wait to see what wonderful gifts my family would surprise me with but also because November is when the Grey Seal pups were born and could be seen on the rocks around the Firth of Forth where I lived.  Unlike the Harbour Seals who’s pups are born in the summer months and can swim from the time they are born, the fluffy white Grey Seal pups were stuck on land for at least a month.  Normally every year in November, my older brothers would take me out to find the pups and John would teach me how to identify the different seal species and I would practice drawing them and we would have such a lovely time.

It was just after my eleventh birthday.  Both my older brothers were preoccupied with their studies and were frustrated with my impatient pestering to go to the firth with me.  John apologized and passed me a very well worn copy of “Invertebrate Fauna of the Firth of Forth” and told me to go out and search the tide pools and identify and draw anything interesting. So, with a new sketch book and Cumberland graphite pencil my mother had gifted me, I set out with my younger brother Robert and sister Jane to walk the coastal trail between our home town of Anstruther and the neighboring town of Crail. My hope was to find and sketch the seal pups along with the creatures of the tide pools but I would never have imagined that I would find much more than that.

It was a lovely fall day with a mild breeze and lots of golden sunlight twinkling off the gentle waves.  Ahead of me, Jane was merrily telling an enraptured Rob a story about a sailor and a maid of the sea while I sauntered along with my hands in my pockets, keeping a wary eye out for my desired marine mammals.  We saw peregrines hunting along the shore line as well as some harbour porpoises playing in the firth.  In the tide pools, we spied sea anemones, sponges and a bright red sea slug.  A delightful hermit crab skittered about the rocks and ended up in Robert’s pail to be brought home later and added to the menagerie we kept in our rooms.

We were nearing The Coves when we heard a ruckus of high pitched yelps and barks.  There on the rocks was a seal unlike any I had ever seen before which was helplessly caught up in a large fishing net.  Every twist and turn the flippered mammal attempted to make to free itself only ensnared it further.  

“Oh Harry, we have to help the poor creature,” pleaded my sister knowing full well I would never leave another living being to its fate if it could be helped.

“Everyone be calm and move slowly,” I replied. My sister began to hum a lullaby  soothingly as I searched around for a stick with which to keep the seal at bay if it should decide to be aggressive towards us.  “Bob, you stand back and give warning if it looks like the beast will lunge for us,” I instructed. I handed him my drawing implements and John’s book and he stood a keen eyed sentinel.

The seal, fearful of us and tired of its struggle, stopped thrashing for the moment to eye us warily.

“It’s alright,” I said softly, “were not going to hurt you, we want to help.”  I locked eyes with the creature and was surprised at the shockingly ice blue irises.  The seal lay very still almost daring not to breathe but watched me carefully.  With a small knife from my pocket, I started to cut away at the net.  I found that one of the flippers was caught painfully in part of the netting but I made quick work of it and in a short time the seal was free.  

“There now, you’ve been saved,” laughed Jane, “ Harry is your hero!” She gave me a winning smile full of admiration.

The seal looked from Jane to me and continued to lay there as if it was unable to decide what to do.  It was then that I noticed the beautiful silver-white coat with a mottling of black about the ventral side and over the bridge of the nose. I motioned for Robert to bring me my sketch book and hurriedly set about drawing the facial features and spot pattern before it decided to head for the sea.  This was definitely no Halichoerus grypus nor was it a Phocina vitulina.  I almost trembled with excitement at showing John my important new discovery.

After a short time, the seal let out a bark of thanks, then turned and ambled its way back over the rocks to dive into the waves.  It disappeared for a while but then I spied its small head bobbing up and down in the frigid waters as it gave me a last scrutinizing look.  I waved and it took its leave.  And that was that for my valiant moment with the seal, or so I thought.  

We continued on to the Caiplie Caves, or The Coves as we locals called them.  It was a great place to play at pirates and mermaids which we did quite happily for some time.  Robert pretended to be the ruthless pirate captain while Jane was a captured maid of the sea and I was all the characters Bob wanted to command including the luckless sailor who had to walk the plank and the feckless first mate who obediently had to dig a hundred holes with his stick to find the hidden treasure.

I was standing atop the hill behind the caves pretending to be on look-out for the dreaded British Navy and getting ready to switch roles and become the fearless Captain Marryat who would vanquish the privateers and save the mermaid when I spotted a pale figure coming towards us.  It appeared to be a girl around Jane’s age with long silver-white hair.  She seemed to be limping and except for something she held to her chest, she was in a complete state of undress, much to my astonishment.  I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I modestly looked away, then clambered down the hill to alert my siblings.

We decided to send Jane out to meet the unclothed stranger and after a time Jane returned to the cave with the girl wearing Jane’s over-coat and tenaciously clutching what looked like a pelt to her bodice.  Her eyes were the lightest blue I had ever seen.

“Harry, Robert this is Moira,” Jane began, “she is a selich.  In fact it was she you rescued from the net earlier today.” Jane’s eyes sparkled brilliantly as she told us this news. 

My eyes wandered from the pelt to the girl’s left wrist and I saw a rope burn where the net had entrapped her flipper.  Once, Jane had told us a story about a selich which had been tricked out of her fur and made to marry a fisherman but who escaped back to the sea when she found her coat.  My hand went instinctively to my pocket to rub the lammer bead I kept there which had been given me by the Ghillie Dhu in the forest some years ago as protection against the fae.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to hurt you,” said Moira in a small, quiet voice. “You rescued me once today and I can see through your eyes to your soul that you are good.  I’m in terrible danger and I need your help.” Moira gave me that same icy gaze from earlier and I shivered.

“What kind of trouble,” I whispered, “how can we help?”

“I’ve stolen a magical talisman from the Queen of the Maighdean Mhara to save my people and she will stop at nothing to get it back.” Moira drew one of her closed fists out from her pelt and when she opened her pale hand we could see a delicate string of glowing pink-white pearls.

I looked at my siblings...Robert had a look of wide-eyed surprise but Jane had a look of pure bliss...in one afternoon she had learned that both selkies and mermaids were real!

To be continued..............

[terrebus-fc]

FA SUNDAY LEAGUE CUP — ROUND 3

FULL TIME

TERREBUS FC 2-1 ROTTEN BOROUGHS AND ALBION (Le Vesconte '77, Irving '84)

It was a tough visit to Dunny-on-the-Wold for the third round, with Rotten Boroughs and Albion the shoo-in candidates for the win – only to concede defeat to Terrebus, for whom this will be a vote of confidence in the march to the cup final.

Albion took the lead early in the sixth minute, when captain "Old" Sarum forced the ball in off Bridgens, and for a moment it seemed as if they would hold on to their seats; their formidable centre-backs, distinguishable by age if not name, kept Fitzjames in their pocket for much of the first half. The boys' chances were further diminished by Albion's assembled representations to the officials to ensure the majority of decisions went their way.

Other than that, the action was as stale as a chamber of landed gentry debating topics to which they did not relate. Attention therefore swivelled to the George Back benches, money having exchanged hands for the sponsorship of every piece of equipment in the AirB&B Arena. Readers may be interested in some notes of gossip, particularly Goodsir mentioning a wedding invitation moments before Gibson was spotted with a new ring on his finger. Meanwhile, the injured Bobert Peel and "Waterloo" Wellington were explaining their new plan to sell the rights to the home stand on a rotational basis, the This End franchisement scheme, to the crowd.

Tozer attempted a shot on goal just before half time, but Wilberforce tipped his shot over the bar and it clipped Heather's feet instead.

When next the teams walked out, it was more of the same – the referee, W. Pitt, no relation to either of Albion's centre-backs, refused to be privy to any of Albion's cheating. Once again the stands were all the more interesting, now for an artist, WP, who was painting scenes from Greek mythology.

At approximately 6.32PM, however, and just as all thought Albion would be holding on to their seats, the leaders seemed to suffer a complete collapse. Manager Earl T. Grey elected to abolish his 4-4-2, and the reformed 5-3-2 soon lost all sense of self. WP's draft of the Medusa was quickly forgotten as Terrebus raced forward, Le Vesconte toeing it in at close range.

A replay seemed on the cards but for Irving, who thundered a shot into Wilberforce's goal from fifteen yards. "God grants us many things in this world, and he does grant us goals," he explained later, graciously.

With the win, Terrebus supporters will all be looking forward to those days of May and the final, while Albion might need to consider its own overhaul. One steward at least, a Will P., was overheard lamenting how his suggestions to refine (though not defund nor abolish) the playing system had been shot down.

Home attendance figures were eleven, all of whom are not resident to Dunny-in-the-Wold.

Vote for your Man of the Match here!

[thegreenmeridian]

I haven’t been to a zoo in a really long time and I’m jonesing for it bad so here’s a niche Terror post.

The Terror characters on a visit to London zoo:

Franklin: Waxes lyrical about when he was a boy and zoo animals were made to do tricks. Makes a point of sponsoring the lions, but only if his name will be on the cage.

Crozier: Wanders off by himself after Fitzjames bangs on about having seen Komodo dragons in the wild. Is later found gazing wistlessly at the penguins in protest to everyone else discarding the map.

Fitzjames: Has seen many of these animals in real life and wants everyone to know it. Gets emotional at the plaque for the aardvark that died in a fire and drops an inordinate amount of money in the donation box as a result.

Little: Dislikes the noise and heat, retreats to the dark of the reptile house and spends a great deal of time trying to spot well hidden frogs. Buys a stuffed tortoise as a gift for someone but decides not to give it.

Hodgson: The only person other than Goodsir to be enthusiastic about the bug house. Gets lost on the walk back to the Tube after getting into a debate with the Jehovah’s Witnesses camped outside the zoo gates.

Irving: Talks too much about “God’s wonderful creations” at every exhibit. Sees two zebras having sex and goes quiet for the rest of the day.

Gore: A huge moth lands on his face in the butterfly enclosure and will not leave until a keeper pokes at it with a stick. The subsequent photo becomes his phone background for next year.

Le Vesconte: Crawls into the tube through the meerkat enclosure that is designed for children and has a great time despite the bruises. Buys a novelty plastic camel that poops chocolate raisins in the gift shop and thinks it’s hilarious.

Stanley: Complains a lot about the price of things in the gift shop and restaurant, and the tickets themselves. Spends some time drawing ibis in the aviary, shows the pictures to no one.

Goodsir: Has facts about every animal and earnestly expounds on the cuteness of the giant African millipede to anyone who’ll listen. Gets into an extended chat with a keeper in the Night Life exhibit about nocturnal adaptations.

MacDonald: Plans his day around animal displays and enthusiastically volunteers to have a peregrine falcon land on his arm. Buys an enormous stuffed sloth in the gift shop and is not remotely bothered by how impractical it is to manoeuvre through the barriers at the Tube station.

Collins: Categorically will not set foot in B.U.G.S. Absolutely enamoured by the jellyfish in the aquarium and briefly researches how to set up a saltwater tank at home before concluding it’s too complicated.

Des Voeux: Keeps tapping on the glass of various exhibits while complaining that the animals within are boring. Considers trying to shoplift a pack of erasers from the gift shop “for a laugh” but ultimately decides against it after realising Silna is watching him.

Morfin: Sees a bull elephant’s dick and finds it absolutely hilarious. Later makes eye contact with a coati and feels emotionally connected to it.

Blanky: Brings several cans of Marks and Spencer’s rum and coke into the zoo and somehow gets away with openly drinking them. Complains about the heat in the Rainforest Life exhibit but spends an inordinate amount of time in there anyway watching a sloth eat a mango.

Hartnell: A goat eats his pocket in the Children’s Zoo, for which he apologises to the keepers profusely. Sees an advert for the zoo lodge overnight stays and vows to save up for it.

Hickey: Finds it hilarious to jump out and scare people in the Night Life exhibit. Claims to have survived a bite from a “Saipan” and doubles down on that when someone asks if he meant “taipan”.

Gibson: Thinks himself far too grown up for a zoo trip of all things. Makes a pressed penny anyway.

Peglar: Gets into various debates with Bridgens regarding how Aristotle might have come up with his more fantastical descriptions of animals. Sneaks away from him in the gift shop to buy a him massive Blue Planet book as a gift.

Bridgens: Brings homemade quiche and posh crisps with him should they get hungry. Particularly taken with the red river hogs and the okapi.

Jopson: In charge of booking all the tickets and coordinating travel, for which he has many contingencies in case of lost personnel or Tube delays. Still manages to enjoy the day himself and falls utterly in love with the otters after hearing them squeak at feeding time.

Armitage: Follows Tozer and Heather around all day. Tries to temper his genuine enthusiasm for the animals for fear of looking childish but fails entirely at the gibbons.

Tozer: Adamantly claims to have no fear at all of the B.U.G.S exhibit but nearly shits himself when accidentally coming across the “encounter with spiders” event and seeing a tarantula on a keeper’s hand. Remains surly for the remainder of the day.

Heather: Strongly debated bailing en route to go to the Imperial War Museum instead. Lets himself be goaded into shoving his hand through the bars to touch the pygmy hippo.

Silna: Successfully spots a well hidden bush baby in the Night Life exhibit and points it out to Goodsir only once everyone else has moved on. Gladly listens to his factoids but flat out refuses to concede that a millipede could be cute.

[cinemaocd]

Not to blaspheme on this excellent post by bringing up Dan Simmons, but the novel makes different use of Crozier's Irishness, by having Francis remember his Irish granny (Moira) and her gift with ESP being the part of him that can communicate with Silna at the end of the novel. (I don't support Crozier/Silna as it's written in the book, but I do actually like the idea of them communicating telepathically so I kept that in this fic I wrote.

I disagree a bit that Crozier wouldn't have any Irish language, yes the language was suppressed at this time, but there was only so much they could do. My recent research into my own genealogy gives a bit of anecdotal evidence to the contrary. (My relatives probably emigrated at this time and at least one of them listed Irish as the language spoken at home on a census form and the place where they wound up-- Newfoundland-- has Irish language place names and the people even have west country accents to this day!) '

The Irish language revival didn't really start until much later in the century, but the rural areas in the west always had isolated pockets of Gaelic (this is part of why Yeats is buried in Sligo and not Dublin where he was born and raised...) and people were closer to the culture than in the cities.

Also, while we're on the topic of accents, there's that critical scene with Goodsir where he picks apart Hickey's accent and pin points that he comes from poverty. It's amazing that Crozier doesn't pick up on the authenticity of it as well, but of course he's drunk when it comes up and he may never give it another moment's thought. When he finds out the truth in episode 10 I suppose it would be too much for him to be like: wow it makes sense that you did such a great English accent while Tuunbaq is attacking...

ok francis rawdon moira crozier post: everyone’s always (rightly) repeating the “irish and middle born” line but i really don’t see talk about it beyond that — except maybe having him spit some irish gaelic while he fucks fitzjames in a fic, and i guarantee you that man would not have been a fluent irish speaker (see: efforts from both the english and from irish communities to prevent people from speaking irish). and as part of that i’d like to see more discussion of francis’ betrayal of who he is and where he comes from.

he is irish. the famine has just begun. he spends his life attempting to rise through the ranks of, to be a successful arm of, the empire that has ensured his status as a second class citizen, his inability to speak his ancestral language, the genocide of his countrymen. francis has his assertive personality and his vocal objections and his challenges, but ultimately he’s betrayed the very essence of who he is and only does it further upon destroying himself with alcohol — because to the empire, what else would an irishman do?

and he has so little genuine self awareness about it. deep inside himself, in his subconscious, i’m sure he knows. but he could never begin to Truly know it within the conscious or to actually vocalize it. bc how do you even begin to acknowledge or make sense of this about your ENTIRE LIFE?

and ofc this parallels with james and with hickey. pretending to be something you’re not, betraying the very essence of what you are. hiding. he doesn’t know it but THAT is the basis of his initial resentment of those two: they’re betraying themselves.

because to him, at first, hickey is an irishman who has so fully committed to the betrayal he won’t even speak in a way that implies his origin. hickey thinks this double deception makes them comrades, but in reality, would francis really have had hickey punished As A Boy if not for their first exchange? would hickey have mocked francis’ irishness from the gallows if not for the failure of that disguise, this betrayal of a perceived countryman?

the full extent of james’ betrayal is hidden to francis until the cairn but he still sees it, and he sees himself in it. the obedience, the obsequience, the ambition, the admiration, (the queerness,)

so when james confesses his bastardry, his non englishness, his deception, even if francis did not now love him, how could he ever hold it against him? he’s done worse.

and, perhaps most significantly, paralleling that with silna. francis helping the empire to colonize and imperialize other places as ireland was. silna avoiding and almost rejecting her duty for nearly the entirety of the show, seeking shelter with and in some cases allying with the interlopers she despises and who have ruined her life. Tuunbaq Is Dead.

[medicoofthearctic]

Who else remembers that one time we all decided that Goodsir was a scientist from the 70s/80s that had been kidnapped by the Soviet Union and escaped by time traveling back to the Franklin Expedition and was now stuck in a constant Groundhog’s Day loop? And we did this after a single frame showed him using a pocket watch that had something like “CCCP” written on the bottom when he’s taking the photo of Franklin?

Just me?

(Also, hi I’m back)

[boilyerheid]

Fairy Tale AU + Curses + Armitozer?

for his part in standing with the evil witch Hickey in his attempt to lead an uprising against the King and Queen of the realm (Crozier and JFJ), court magician Goodsir transforms Tozer into a toy soldier - cursing him to remain as an inanimate object until he's truly loved.

wee Tommy is given the toy at random and loves it throughout his childhood, which brings Tozer back to life but still in the same form. he can talk and move, but he's a toy. it isn't until Tommy grows up and begins to see the best friend in his pocket as more than a friend that Tozer wakes up one morning full-sized and human again... and realises Tommy must feel more than pure friendship towards him.

[ferociouscharm]

to point here’s what the real James Fitzjames wrote on the real Goodsir who he observed that

“[they] speak in a low, hesitating, monotonous tone of voice, which is not at all times to be understood—this is, I believe, called “cannyness.” Mr. Goodsir is “canny.” He is long and strait, and walks upright on his toes, with his hands tucked up in each jacket pocket. He is perfectly good humoured, very well informed on general points, in natural history learned, was Curator of the Edinburgh museum, appears to be about twenty-eight years of age, laughs delightfully, cannot be in a passion, is enthusiastic about all ‘ologies, draws the insides of microscopic animals with an imaginary-pointed pencil, catches phenomena in a bucket, looks at the thermometer and every other meter, is a pleasant companion, and an acquisition to the mess.”

learning goodsir was intended to be read as autistic saved my life

[grimark]

amusing myself by thinking about a terror frankenstein au-- goodsir is the scientist (crozier would work thematically but goodsir is A Man Of Science) and hickey is the creature, obviously, goodsir accidentally leaves a copy of the thief’s journal by jean genet in the pocket of his labcoat and it gives the creature some really fucking weird ideas about moral philosophy-- but anyway the amusing part for me is imagining the scene where the creature explains to goodsir that you’ve gotta make me a companion otherwise i’ll kill your whole family, and despite what you might have expected i would actually like for the companion to be male, and just to be clear he and i are gonna fuck. cheers.