#the realisation of the monster you are becoming and its such a... mundane thing something that otherwise would be pretty cool but here it

[trenchcrows]

Thinking about mag102 and the horror that is being able to understand french, truly the most terrifying thing to come from tma

[i-write-boop-spoops]

N Harmonia Fluff Alphabet

One anon asked for an N fluff alphabet and another asked for just any N content, so I hope this sates you both!

Not proof read so rip me

Enjoy!

A = Activities (what do they like to do with their s/o? how do they spend their free time?)

Rather expectantly, N loves looking after Pokemon with you! Whether you’re playing with, feeding or tending to them, he really enjoys seeing you being so sweet and kind to cute little mons and giant scary monsters alike.

He also loves just snuggling up with you and playing with each other’s’ hair. He really cherishes that kind of gentle, intimate affection.

Other than that, he really enjoys doing mundane things with you, stuff like going grocery shopping, cleaning the house, gardening etc, even before you live together. There’s something very comforting about it.

Oh, and he loves dancing with you!

B = Beauty (what do they admire about their s/o? what do they think is beautiful about them?)

He admires your kindness obviously, but also your determination and resilience! He thinks you’re so strong, and in turn, it emboldens him too!

As for physical beauty? He loves your smile, even just a little quirk of your lips makes him so happy. It’s just so precious!

C = Comfort (how do they help their s/o when they feel down? what makes them feel better?)

N isn’t the best at this kind of stuff, but he definitely tries his best to offer you support. Usually he just sits with you and lets you vent, or cry into his shoulder, often bringing a cute pokemon with him to cheer you up. He also likes bringing you on walks, hoping it might clear your head.

His words of affirmation, though few, are quite powerful, so you know he means them.

When he’s sad, he’d like to be treated in a similar fashion, just quiet support and cute Pokemon

D = Dreams (how do they picture their future with their s/o and in general?)

N doesn’t really know how he wants his life to go, the only thing he’s certain of is that he wants to continue improving the relationships between humans and Pokemon, and that he wants to be with you for the rest of time.

E = Equal (are they the dominant one in the relationship or are they rather passive?)

Due to his lack of experience, he’s definitely more on the passive side, preferring to let you take the lead when it comes to dates and stuff. Though he has no problem asserting himself (gently) if he wants to do something else instead.

F = Fight (how quick are they to forgive their s/o? what are they like in an argument? who says sorry first?)

N hates fighting with you, absolutely despises it, so he tends to avoid it when he can. Inevitably, like in all relationships, you end up in a few spats. He’s never mean to you, but he does try talk over you and has a habit of just walking out instead of working out the issue right away. Really he just goes for a walk to calm him down, and he’s usually back in an hour or two, but you probably don’t solve your disagreement until the next day.

He finds it quite easy to admit fault and apologise, so you don’t have to weasel a ‘sorry’ out of him. And due to his earnest nature, you know he means it.

G = Gifts (what kind of things do they gift to their s/o? are they spontaneous or do they stick to special events like anniversaries?)

When N gives a gift, most of the time, he doesn’t even realise it. He just sees something he thinks you’d like and just gives it to you without a second thought. Usually it’s pretty flora or candy, occasionally it’s a plush. Sometimes you get gifts very often, sometimes it’s weeks, maybe months, between each present.

H = Heart Eyes (what are they like in love? is it obvious to others? how do they express their love? do they brag about their s/o to others?)

N can be described as blissfully confused when in love. So soft and blushy and not totally sure what he’s feeling, but he sure does love it, and you. His Pokemon friends pick up on it immediately and root for the two of you.

Unintentionally brags. He just thinks you’re swell and tends to bring that up often, but he’s not trying to gloat.

I = Impression (what first attracted them to their s/o? how accurate was their first impression to how their s/o actually is?)

You seemed to handle that little joltik so carefully as you returned it to its mother galvantula, without an ounce of fear or malice in your eyes, and truly only kindness in your heart. It made him feel so at ease, like he had found a kindred spirit.

Not only was he right, he also found his soulmate too,

J = Jealousy (do they get jealous easily? how do they deal with it?)

N doesn’t quite understand jealousy. Like, you love each other, what does he have to worry about? He likes your friends a lot, and he finds anybody who tries to flirt with you more annoying than anything else

K = Kiss (are they a good kisser? what was their first kiss like? where do they kiss the most?)

At the beginning, N’s kisses are sweet but awkward, he’s so new to it, so he’s a bit afraid he might make a mistake. As your relationships progresses though, he becomes more comfortable and confident with it, and kisses reflect that, so soft and caring and full of meaning

I did a whole thing about N and kissing here

L = Little Things (what are the little things they love about their s/o? are they attentive?)

Really what doesn’t he love? It’s not that he puts you on a pedestal, he just genuinely finds you amazing and he loves you so much

M = Marriage (do they want to get married? how do they propose? what would the wedding be like?)

N doesn’t feel the need to marry you, as long as you’re in love, that’s what matters to him, a piece of paper doesn’t make it any more valid than it is in his eyes.

That being said, if you want to get married, he’s down for it, but don’t expect anything sappy or traditional. No proposal, no huge event, just the two of you exchanging heartfelt vows at the courthouse, with matching rings.

N = Nicknames (what do they call their s/o? what do they get called?)

He doesn’t really use nicknames, just the occasionally “Love” or “Dear”

On the flipside, he loves your nicknames for him. Some of his favourites are “Cutie”, “Sweetie”, “Greenie” and “Nat”

O = Open (do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? is it easy for them to share?)

While I wouldn’t say N is an open book, he doesn’t really hide things from you. He tells you how he feels without much fanfare, and you’re made aware of his past quite early on, even before you started dating.

P = Pancakes (are they a good cook? how often do they cook for their s/o? breakfast in bed or fancy dinner dates?)

N’s actually pretty good at cooking, and tends to cook pretty often, especially when you’re on the road together. His meals are simple and comforting, sometimes spicy, lots of soups and curries and rice.

Since he’s vegetarian, he prefers to cook for the two of you instead of going out, since most restaurants don’t have great options for him. That being said, if you find a place with a good menu, he’s totally down to take you there.

Q = Quirk (a random quality/ability that is beneficial to their relationship.)

N does not understand the concept of BS, so you don’t have to worry about playing weird mind games to find out what he really wants. As a result, your relationship is quite chill

R = Romance (how romantic are they? are they cliché or creative?)

Again, he’s not traditionally romantic, but he does care about you quite a lot and loves making you smile. And while it doesn’t say “I love you” very often, he means it, and that is a lot more valuable than any serenade or flower bouquet

S = Sleep (who falls asleep first? do they need their s/o close to them? do they have any bad habits?)

If you play with his hair, he’s out like a light. While he’s cuddles are lax and loose when he’s awake, he hugs you like a teddy when he’s fast asleep.

His sleep routine is shit though.

T = Thrill (do they need to spice up their relationship with new things or do they stick to a routine? how often do they do new things?)

N loves the cosiness of domestic mundanity, so it’s safe to say he likes to play it, well, safe. It gives him a sense of comfort and stability that he really appreciates.

U = Unity (did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? what traits do they share?)

Through being with you, N learns to be more attentive and emotional (in a healthy way), and to appreciate humans even more. He also feels more human too.

While you already loved Pokemon, he makes you see how truly amazing and special they are, and treat them even better than you did before.

V = Value (how important is their relationship to them? what is it worth compared to other things in their life?)

Your relationship is very important to him, but deep down, you know his love for Pokemon trumps his love for you. Though it never causes an issue with you

W = Wild Card (a random fluff headcanon.)

Likes to make matching flower crowns for the two of you and whatever Pokemon you’’re with at the time!

X = XOXO (do they like to kiss and cuddle? are they upfront about their relationship or rather shy when in public?)

N loves fluttery kisses and really tender hugs and cuddles, ones when you’re loosely tanged together and gently stroking each other’s skin.

He is not a PDA person at all, besides holding your hand and the occasional kiss. Some of it is shyness, but it’s mostly because he doesn’t feel the need to prove your relationship to anyone. He doesn’t use affection lightly.

Y = Yearning (how do they cope when they spend time away from their s/o? do they miss their s/o?)

He’s pretty okay on his own, since he’s quite used to it, but he does still miss you a lot. He finds comfort in things that remind you of him, a certain scent, a flower, a sound, even a Pokemon, it makes him feel like you’re with him

Z = Zoo (do they have pets? do they want some in the future?)

N doesn’t have any pets, mainly because he thinks Pokemon are friends. How many Poke-friends does he have? Too many for even him to count. My man radiates serious Disney Princess energy with the way Pokemon seem to flock to him.

That being said, he’s not against good people having Pokemon as pets, so if you have pokemon, you know he’ll be the best dad to them ever.

[kiingocreative]

The Structure of Story is now available! Check it out on Amazon, via the link in our bio, or at https://kiingo.co/book

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I often feel that it took me thirty years to write my first book, No Pain, No Game. Not because I was physically writing it for that long, but because finally publishing my first novel felt like the culmination of three decades of bad writing, half-finished novels, random short-stories and a million mundane diary entries. It took that long to experiment with my craft, hone my skills, and master the fear of putting my work out there for all to see.

Exaggerations aside, it actually took me three years to write No Pain, No Game, from typing the first word on an otherwise blank page to having a fully-fledged, ready-to-publish novel. Those three years consisted of mostly undisciplined writing, sitting down to work on the story as and when the urge arose, sometimes not looking at it for weeks on end, and only getting back to it when inspiration hit. Only when I got serious about publishing did I put in the hours consistently, whether or not I was in the mood for it. The whole experience felt like not so much like long distance running, but more like a slow, often sluggish stop-start stroll, with a heart-pumping sprint at the very end.

I came out of having published the book revved up from adrenaline, soaking in the momentum, fretting for more and ready to do it all again. Out came the laptop again, the rush to get the first draft over and done with and the mad rush into editing-land.

It’s a Marathon, Not a Sprint (and not interval running, and not a slow leisurely walk)

The thing with sprinting, however, is that if you do it for too long, you quickly run out of breath and I soon learnt that maintaining that level of effort over time was unsustainable. Somewhere in the middle of editing my first draft, I hit a wall.

A big, fat, hundred feet high brick and mortar monster of a wall. I never saw it coming, and I face-planted right into it. For weeks after that I couldn’t look at my manuscript or social media, and I had to take a proper break from it all to restore.

The break gave me a chance to introspect and take stock of what had happened. It felt to me that, if I wanted to keep on writing more books (which I did) I had to pivot from my disorganised style of writing to a more committed endeavour. There’s nothing wrong with a leisurely walk, or random bouts of interval running, but I realised it wouldn’t give me the kind of results I was truly after. I had to look at writing as a marathon, and build the sort of stamina and endurance I needed to do this many times over without burning out.

From Dilettante to Disciplined Writer

When I think back to writing my first book, I wonder if there’s some truth in the saying that ignorance is bliss. Because I was less focused on the outcome at the time, I was better able to enjoy the ups and downs of the process, especially because I only sat to work at it when I felt like it. I was also mostly unaware of the mountain of logistics that come with writing and publishing a book, so I’d be able to see the distance I’d covered, without worrying about the miles that still stretched ahead of me. Yes, ignorance was, most definitely, a little bit like bliss.

Reminiscing on her own experience, author Shamika Lindsay says that, with her first book, ‘the process felt so different and [she] almost felt the pen gliding across the paper but with [the sequel], it was like pulling teeth’. In fact, she adds, starting to write her second book from scratch felt like ‘such a chore and [she] was just so eager to complete it because [she] felt like it took so much from [her] to write than the first book’.

For R. G. Tully, author of the Ardamin series, who put greater emphasis on the editing stage when working on his second book, the process also took longer and wasn’t always enjoyable. ‘The editing grind was exactly that, a grind’, he confesses.

But you have to do it whether you like it or not, because the only way out is through. There are, fortunately or unfortunately, no shortcuts. Fortunately, because it’s the very act of going through that arduous journey that makes you a better writer in the end. And unfortunately, because there can be times it’s just not all that pleasant.

You’ll be surprised the amount of distractions that manifest themselves when you desperately need a reason not to work on your manuscript — it’s actually quite spooky. Treating writing with discipline, organisation and professionalism is exactly what will prevent you falling off tracks, and what ultimately gets the work done. And that’s the difference between a published book and one that’ll sit indeterminately unfinished somewhere in your archives.

A Tough Act to Follow

Unfortunately, there’s still a little bit more to writing your second book than just great discipline. Even when you’re able to get yourself to follow through and show up for your craft, giving your first book a literary sibling can come with its own challenges, especially because you have something to compare it to.

And it’s not only you, but your readers too, who will be expecting certain standards from your writing, especially if it’s a series. Though it shouldn’t come in the way of writing the book you want to write, the relationship of trust you’ve built with your readership through your first book still needs to be honoured, and this can cause certain amounts of pressure.

‘I felt a little pressure to keep the same feel about the story’, R. G. Tully says, ‘and to include more from my secondary characters, give them a little more depth’.

Stormi Lewis, author of the Sophie Lee trilogy, puts it simply: ‘It was a little hard to decide how to exactly start [with the second book]. At first I was worried and became overwhelmed because so many loved the first one. I didn’t want to let anyone down. I had to step back and come to terms that they loved it for being unique. And the only way I could stay true to the story and give them what they really wanted was to focus on the story and not so much about what I thought they wanted for the second.’

For others, the comparison can be more inward-facing, like author Tara Lake, who admits that writing the second book in her series has been a challenge, because she’s ‘struggled with comparison of the self: past Tara had a lot more time to devote to writing, present Tara has much less time with [her] kids being home full time from school during much of the pandemic’.

For others still, some of that pressure can be self-imposed. When writing her second book, Freya McMillan shares that ‘[she] put a huge amount of pressure on [herself] as [she] wanted it to be meaningful in a particular way to honour [her] dad, who died a few years ago. Once [she] stopped doing that, it was much less challenging to write’.

It Ain’t All Bad.

I do want to pause here and add that not everyone faces such challenges. There are authors out there who launched into writing their second book with more ease than the first.

Sabrina Voerman tells me that ‘[her] second book came a lot easier to [her] than [her] first book. The idea hit [her] so hard and fast that it took [her] aback, and [she] could do nothing but write it’, and the entire novel was written in a matter of weeks, whilst her first book took years to finish.

Same for Trevor Wiltzen, who says that writing the sequel to his first book went smoothly, greatly helped by the fact that ‘[he] wrote the second book immediately after the first, [so he] knew the characters really well’. He admits he ‘found it very freeing and really enjoyed the process’.

Even Stormi Lewis, who struggled at first, adds that ‘once [she] got started, [she] was fine’ and that ‘[she] felt the writing was solid and [her] best book yet, simply because [she] really got to develop more of the characters and the story’.

As with everything, we must then conclude, there will be as many types of experiences as there are writers out there. So how can we best prepare for what’s to come?

A Chance to Grow

Performance coach Tony Robbins says that the quality of our lives is intricately linked to the quality of the questions we ask ourselves on a daily basis. So if we need to face something that’s outside our comfort zone — starting again from scratch on your second book for instance — is it a punishment or is it a gift? Is it a curse or an opportunity?

I’m tempted to think that the level of discomfort that can come with writing your second book is a gift, because it gives us a chance to grow.

It’s a chance to take everything we’ve learnt from doing it the first time around and take our learnings for a spin to see if it makes the process easier. It’s an opportunity to improve, to work at our craft in new and wonderful ways.

It’s both daunting and incredibly exciting to face a brand new story — or a different side to the same story for those writing series — and to dare to plunge into the unknown of where it’s fated to take you. It’ll see you grow and evolve as a writer and, in turn, you’ll get to watch your writing morph into something more mature than it was before.

I say look at your writing like you do the passing of seasons: different times will have different qualities, different characteristics, different feels to them. You live and learn through each of them, and gather a wealth of experiences that eventually inform who you become. Maintaining the discipline to write through every single one of them is what will ultimately give your work all its depth and substance.

All it takes is that first word on the page.

And the second.

And the third.

And all the words beyond that.

[rallamajoop]

...and the unironic joys of better living through chemistry

How do I love Venom: The Hunger, let me count the ways…

It’s by far the shippiest Venom/Eddie story to come out of the character’s heyday. It’s the only story of the era to treat Venom’s violent wild-animal instincts not as an immutable fact, but as something that can be managed. It pulls off an aesthetic like nothing else that was being done at the time.

And then there’s the way it says, Does the world around you seem sinister and foreboding? Do you lie awake at night contemplating metaphorical oceans of despair? Well shit, son – have you considered you may be suffering from a mundane neurochemical imbalance, and a round of the right meds could clear that right up for you?

It does all this without breaking the atmosphere, without a whiff that our story has been interrupted for a Very Special Message about mental health.

In the near-decade since I was first prescribed anti-depressants, I don’t think I’ve read another story that lands the message “Sometimes, it’s not you, it’s just your brain chemistry,” so well.

Fair warning: if you have not read The Hunger, I am about to spoil every major plot point. If you have, well, maybe I can still give you a new appreciation for a few details you might have missed.

It’s a strange book, whatever else you take from it. It’s almost the only thing either author or artist contributed to the Venom canon, and it’s so different stylistically and tonally from the 90′s Venom norm that it feels like a tale from some noir-elseworlds setting instead of 616 canon. When you take risks that big with a property, you leave yourself precious little landing space between 'unmitigated triumph’ and ‘abject failure’: if this book hadn’t absolutely nailed it, I’d be dismissing it as edgy, OOC dreck. Fortunately, if The Hunger is nothing else, it is a story that $&#@ing commits – to basically everything it does.

Now, I'm not going to tell you Venom: The Hunger is a story about overcoming depression, because I don't know whether author Len Kaminski even thought about it that way while working on it. There's always space for other readings, and this one take is not gospel. That said: holy shit is this thing unsubtle with its metaphors. And with that in mind, let’s start by talking a little about Kaminski’s take on Eddie himself.

As I may have mentioned before, I like to divide 90′s Eddie into two broad personas: the Meathead, and the Hobo.

Kaminski’s Eddie nominally belongs in the angsty, long-haired Hobo incarnation, but that’s a bit of a simplification: this version certainly has plenty of angst and plenty of hair to his name – but nowhere, not even at his lowest ebb, does he doubt that he and his Other are meant for each other, which is usually Hobo!Eddie’s primary existential quandary.

He’s also taken up narrating his own life like a hardboiled PI.

So that’s... novel.

The only other time Eddie’s sounded like this is, er, in that one other Venom one-shot Kaminski penned (Seed of Darkness, a prequel that sadly isn’t in The Hunger’s league), so I think we can safely file it under authorial ticks.

Then again, Hobo!Eddie’s always been one melodramatic SOB, so maybe this is just how he’d sound after learning to channel his angst into his poetry. You can’t argue it fits the aesthetic, anyway.

We’d also be remiss not to mention Ed Halsted’s art, which I can only describe as gothic-meets-noir-meets-H.R.-Giger. Never before or since has the alien symbiote looked this alien: twisted with Xenompoph-like ridges and veins.

But Halsted doesn’t treat Venom to all that extra detail in every panel. Instead, the distortion tends to appear when the symbiote is separated from Eddie or out of control – and I doubt you need me to walk you through the symbolic importance of that creative decision. More importantly, Halsted’s art provides exactly the class of visuals that Kaminski’s story needs.

Did I mention this is a horror story? You might be surprised how few Venom stories really fit that genre, but if all those adjectives about Halsted’s style above didn’t clue you in, this is one of them.

Anyway, with that much context covered, let’s get into the main narrative of this thing.

As our first issue opens, Eddie’s world has become a dark and foreboding place. He’s not sleeping, though he mostly brushes this off. (Fun fact: trouble sleeping is one of those under-appreciated symptoms of depression. Additional fun fact: the first doctor ever to suggest I might be suffering from depression was actually a sleep specialist. You can guess how that appointment was going.)

Just to set our scene, here’s all of page 1.

Eddie’s narration has plenty of (ha) venom for his surroundings, but the visuals are here to back him up: panels from Eddie’s POV are edged in twisted, fleshy borders and drained of colour, the people rendered as creepy, goblin-like creatures. A couple of later scenes go even further to contrast Eddie-vision with what everyone else is seeing:

As depictions of depression go this is a little on the nose, but then, you don’t read a comic about a brain-eating alien parasite looking for subtlety, do you?

Eddie  doesn’t see himself as depressed, of course. As far as he’s concerned, he’s seeing the world’s true face: it’s everyone else who’s deluding themselves. He’s still got his symbiote, so he’s happy. He’s yet to hit that all-important breaking point where something he can’t brush off goes irrevocably wrong.

But he’s also starting to experience these weird... cravings.

He just can’t put a name to exactly what he’s craving until a routine bar fight with a couple of thugs takes a turn for the horrific.

(I include this panel partly to point out even in The Hunger, the goriest of all 90′s Venom titles, you’re still not going to see brains getting eaten in any graphic detail. We don’t need to to get the horror of the moment across. The 90′s were a more innocent time.)

Eddie himself is horrified when he comes back to himself and realises what he’s done.

Or rather, what his symbiote’s just made him do.

Kaminski doesn’t keep us in suspense about why, though. Eddie may have just done something horrific, but there’s a reason, and it’s as mundane as a vitamin deficiency. He’s bonded to an alien creature, after all, and his symbiote is craving a nutrient which just happens to be found in human brains. And if Eddie can’t or won’t help it meet that need, it’ll do so alone. 

Now, giving us that explanation so quickly is an interesting creative decision: this is a horror story, and horror lives in what we don’t know. Wouldn’t it be all the more horrifying had the symbiote been unable to explain what’s going on, leaving Eddie without the first real clue as to where this monstrous new hunger had come from?

The Hunger doesn’t take that route though, and I love it. Eddie isn’t a monster, this isn’t his fault: he has a fucking condition, and wallowing in his own moral failings is going to get him nowhere. You might as well try to cure scurvy or rickets with positive thinking. Just like depression can make you feel like an utter failure at the most basic parts of being human, and all the affirmations in the world won’t fix it when it’s fundamentally your brain chemistry that’s the problem. Or like addicts aren’t weak-willed for struggling not to relapse, they’re dealing with genuine chemical dependency – or even like how someone who’s trans isn’t at fault for being unable to reconcile themselves to the bodies and the hormones they were born with by pure force of trying. Free will is more than an illusion, but we’re all messy, biological organisms underneath, and your own brain and biochemistry can and will fuck you over in a hundred wildly different ways for as many wildly different reasons and it’s not your fault.

We aren’t monsters. But if we do, sometimes, find ourselves identifying with the monster, there might be a reason for that.

(Ahem)

I’m just saying, that’s fucking powerful, and we need more stories that say it.

Anyway, in case you missed it during that tangent, issue #1 closes with the symbiote having torn Eddie’s heart in two itself free to go hunting brains without him.

I’m trying not to get too sidetracked at this point talking about Kaminski’s take on the symbiote itself. Suffice to say there are broadly two schools of thought on how it ought to function while separated from its host: the traditional ambulatory-slime-puddle version, and the more recently popular alternative where anything-you-can-do-with-a-host-you-can-also-do-without-one. I’m not much of a fan of the latter, personally: if your symbiote doesn’t actually need a host, I feel you’ve sort of missed the point. (The movie takes the route of saying symbiotes can’t even process Earth’s atmosphere without a host, which is a great new idea that appears nowhere in the comics, and I love it. Hosts or GTFO, baby!)

Kaminski has his own take, and I can only wish it had caught on. Without Eddie, the symbiote becomes an ever-shifting insectoid-tentacle-snake-monstrosity, driven by an animalistic hunger. It’s many things, but it’s never humanoid.

If you absolutely must have your symbiote operating minus a host, I feel this is the way to do it: semi-feral, shapeless and completely alien (uncontrollable violence and cravings for brains to be added to taste).

Issue #2 comes to us primarily through the perspective of the mild-mannered Dr. Thaddeus Paine of the Innsmouth Hills Sanitarium (yes, really).

Yeah, he’s not fooling anyone. Meet our official villain! He joins our story after Eddie is picked up by the police and handed off to the nearest available institution, on account of how completely sane and rational he’s been acting.

Naturally, Dr. Paine soon has copious notes on Eddie’s ‘crazy’ story about his psychic link to a brain-eating alien monster. Fortunately for Eddie, Paine also runs some tests and makes an interesting discovery. 

Congratulations, Venom: the ‘vitamin’ you were missing officially has a name!

Finding the right meds isn’t always this easy. I got lucky – the first ones my psych put me on worked pretty well – but I have plenty of friends who weren't so lucky. In fact, the treatment for Eddie's problems is so straightforward it arguably has more in common with, say, endocrine disorders like thyroid conditions or Addison’s disease, which differ from clinical depression but present many similar symptoms (but can sadly be just as much of a bitch to get correctly diagnosed – please do read author Maggie Stiefvater’s account of the latter when you get the chance, because forget Venom, that is a horror story).

‘True’ depression remains much less well understood by medicine, either in its causes or how to effectively treat it. But simply having a name for what was wrong with me made so much difference, and that’s an experience I imagine anyone who’s dealt with any long undiagnosed medical condition could relate to. It put my life in context in a way nothing else had in years.

(I can’t speak to the accuracy of the way phenethylamine is portrayed in this comic – a quick google suggests there may be some real debate that phenethylamine deficiencies have been overlooked as a contributor to clinical depression, but having no medical background, that one’s well beyond me. Either way, scientific accuracy really doesn’t matter in this context – it’s how it works in-universe for story purposes that we should pay attention to.)

Since this issue is mostly from Paine’s POV, we don’t get Eddie’s reaction to having a healthy amount of phenethylamine sloshing around in his brain again, just the assurance that treatment appears to be ‘completely successful’.

He’s still a paranoid, hostile bastard though. Meds can turn your life around, but they won’t make you not you.

But even if Eddie’s feeling better, he’s still psychically linked to someone who isn’t. Symbiote-vision still comes through drained of colour and edged in viscera.

That’s the thing about meds: they won’t solve all your problems overnight. If you’ve been depressed for a while, there are good odds you have problems stacking up. But working meds can be a godsend when it comes to getting you into a space where you can deal with your problems again, whether said problems are doing-your-laundry or all the way into not-giving-up-completely-and-just-accepting-you’ll-die-alone-on-the-street.

For Eddie, ‘dealing with his problems’ begins with stealing a keycard and busting out of the asylum.

Of course, that’s the easy part. How do you solve a problem like a feral symbiote? Like any good 90′s comic book protagonist, Eddie tackles it by putting on his big-boy camouflage pants and kitting himself out with weapons and pouches while quoting “If you live something, set it free. If it doesn’t come back, hunt it down.”

We can add this to the list of things I love about this comic. Even if The Hunger is a weirdly-stylistic tract about depression at heart, it’s also still a goddamn 90′s Venom comic, and not ashamed to be.

We’re into issue #3 now, and back to hearing the story from Eddie’s POV.

Eddie is very much aware that his symbiote has murdered innocent people while they’ve been separated. Even if this is the result of extreme circumstances, there’s a good case to be made that the symbiote is too dangerous to be allowed to live. Plenty of heroes would treat it like a rabid dog at this point.

But Eddie isn’t a hero, he’s a mess of a character and an anti-hero at best, so we don’t have to hold him to the same standard. He’s well aware his symbiote may be too far gone to save, that he may have to put it down – but that’s only his backup plan. He wants to help it. He wants it back. He’s down in that sewer with screamers and a flamethrower because he knows all his symbiote’s weaknesses, but he’s also carrying a large jar of black-market synthesised phenethylamine, because if he can just get close enough...

Depression can’t make you a literal monster, but it can make you an asshole. Miserable to be around, lacking even the energy to care who else you’re hurting. The depression doesn’t excuse that, but it makes everything harder, and it’s that much easier to sink back into your spiral when everyone around you has given up. It can make you think everyone around has given up even if that isn’t true.

So to have Eddie here say, in effect, I don’t care how many people you’ve eaten, I know it wasn’t your fault. I still love you. You’re still worth fighting for – god, does that get me right in the id.

There’s still a whole issue left at this point – we’ve still got to deal with our real villain, Dr. Paine, who we’ve just learned is into eating brains himself and torturing his patients recreationally, and who wants to capture the symbiote for his own purposes. There’s the scene where Eddie and his symbiote finally bond again, and Venom beats up all Paine’s goons while singing David Bowie because like I said, this is still a 90′s superhero comic and this is what Venom does.

But for our purposes, I'm going to skip to the penultimate page of the story, because the way it mirrors our opening page is really lovely.

Remember that shot of Eddie dealing with a beggar back at the beginning of the story, thinking about how these people would 'get their despair all over you'? Here he is again, cheerfully forking over the last dollar in his pocket to the next man to ask him for change. For all the gothic atmosphere and gore, it’s moments like this that make The Hunger easily one of the most positive, uplifting Venom stories ever written. Funny, that. (I could probably write a whole other essay on sympathy for the homeless as a recurring motif in Venom stories, but that... well, whole other essay and all that.)

What’s Eddie learned from this experience? Don’t take your symbiote for granted. Is ‘symbiote’ a metaphor for mental health here, is paying attention to its needs an allegory for paying attention to your own? I still don’t know how literally Kaminski meant us to take this, but it’s a lovely note to end on no matter how you parse it.

At the end of the day, The Hunger isn’t flawless. The conflict with Paine ends on a thematic but slightly unsatisfying note. Eddie makes much of his symbiote's loneliness and desire for union, but when the two of them are finally reunited, the only reaction comes from Eddie's side. In fact, the symbiote seems to have no response to being able to return to Eddie at all, and that’s an omission that bugs me.

But Kaminski is more interested than any other writer of the era in the truly alien nature of the symbiote, in its relationship with Eddie from Eddie’s side, and though plenty of others talk about the symbiote's love/hate relationship with Spider-man, no-one else had the guts to portray their relationship this much like a romance.

And Venom: The Hunger is no less interesting in the context of Len Kaminski’s other work. You don't have to look far into his Marvel and DC credits to pick up that the guy has a real thing for monsters. (“All of my favourite characters are outlaws, misfits, anti-heroes,” he says, in one of the very few interviews I could find with him, “I wouldn't know what to do with Superman.”) He's written for vampires, werewolves, victims of mad science, and all of three at once, littering his work with biochemistry-themed technobabble, melodramatic monologues, gratuitous pop-culture references, and protagonists who must learn to embrace their inner demons. So The Hunger represents more than a few of his favourite running themes.

For our context, his more notable other work includes Children of the Beast, in which a werewolf must make peace between his human and animalistic sides, and The Creeper, in which a journalist must make peace with the crazy super-powered alter-ego sharing his body. In fact, The Creeper and The Hunger share so much DNA (including an evil doctor posing as a respected psychiatrist who uses hypnosis on our hero while he's trapped in a mental institution) that it’s quite the achievement that they still feel like such very distinct entities beyond that point.

The human alter-egos of both werewolf and Creeper even use prescription meds while wrestling with their respective dark sides. The difference, in both cases, is that these are stories where meds play their traditional fictional role – and that's a role that could be as easily filled by illegal drugs or alcohol without making any substantive difference. You see, if a protagonist is using them, it's a sign of unwillingness to tackle their 'real' problems. Even among work by the same author in the same genre, The Hunger represents an outlier. And that's just a little disappointing – at least to me.

In real life, of course, prescription meds are no magical cure-all elixir. Depression meds that work for one person may not work for another, or may not keep working in the longer term. Everyone has heard stories about quack doctors who prescribe them to the wrong patients for the wrong reasons, about lives ruined by addictions to prescription painkillers, or the supposedly-damning statistics about how poorly SSRI's perform in rigorous clinical trials. The proper way to treat depression is obviously with lifestyle and therapy. People will still airily dismiss medications that we all know previous generations got along just fine without, or suggest that figures like Van Gogh would never have created great art if they hadn't been mad enough to slice off an ear. I mean, the fact you think you need those bogus mediations is probably the best possible sign of just how broken you are, right? Who do you think you’re kidding?

Our popular fiction loves stories about manly men who bury their trauma under a gruff, anti-social exterior and come back swinging at the world that broke them, bravely refusing even painkillers that might dull their manly reflexes. Other genres make space for broken people confronting their demons in grand moments of catharsis, finally breaking down into tears when someone gets through to make them face their problems. "I could barely make it out of bed in the mornings until I found a doctor who started me on this new prescription" is not only wildly counter to the accepted social narrative, it's a hard thing to know how to dramatise.

 Even other Venom comics have been guilty of this.

Believe me, I recognise all of this, and just how much progress we've made in the last few decades. But I haven't the slightest doubt that for so many vulnerable people, the stigma against prescription medications does infinitely more harm than those same meds could ever do. And just having the right to externalise my problems into it's not you, it's your brain chemistry, may have helped me more than the meds themselves.

(And again, no, being prescribed SSRI's didn't fix me overnight, but I honestly don't know if all the talk therapy and tearful conversations with family members in the world could've got me as far as I've come without them.)

I love Venom: The Hunger. It's no-one's idea of high art, but it doesn’t need to be. There is a whole other post’s worth of things I love about it that I’ve already cut out this one as pointless tangents, and that may actually be it’s biggest drawback as a go-to example: I fully recognise that I would not be making this post if The Hunger hadn't also also grabbed me as a great bit of Venom canon, being the massive fan and shipper that I am. Other people who are just as desperate as me for more stories with the same core theme, but not into weird 90's comics about needy goo aliens, probably won't get nearly as much out of it as I have.

But if it sounds anything like your jam, maybe you'll enjoy it as much as I did.

If nothing else, it proves that you can make a viscerally satisfying story out of a message that shockingly unconventional. And you may even have people still discovering it and falling in love with it 25 years after the fact.

[gatherthesuspectspod]

A hundred ways to die in Wales

Hello Tumblr!

My first post ever here! I’m still learning the ropes, so please be kind!

This might be awfully presumptuous of me, but you may recognise the name from a few years back. Before all of this happened, I worked for BBC Radio 4 as their Welsh correspondent - a bit niche, I grant you, but I did alright on social media. I even had a blue tick on Twitter before it went down for good. 

At its peak, whatever media you worked in, scoops were delivered on social media. No one went to the radio or the newspapers for breaking news. Hell, even the TV news was struggling.  So, even radio journalists like me had to be twitter savvy, you know? 

It does make me wonder how Tumblr survived. As a journalist (well, former journalist) I should probably have done some research and found out…  

 My housemate, Jack, suggested I start to keep this blog so that he, in his exact words, ‘wouldn’t have to listen to me moan about not being a journalist anymore.’ So, here I am, coming to scream into the void that is the last social media platform standing (apart from LinkedIn… Shoulda known that even during the apocalypse, start-up CEO Chad Moneybags would still need to post motivational bullshit about 5 am starts and tagging every post with ‘#crushingit’)

Anyway, I’ve strayed slightly from the point… So, this blog isn't going to be full of hard-hitting investigative journalism or even those colourful local news stories you used to see about water skiing hamsters. It’s just going to be me, posting my thoughts about how much more screwed the world is than the previous week. 

Cheerful stuff, right? Well, as REM sang, ‘it’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine’. And you know what, while fine might be stretching a bit, it could be worse...

Before it happened, when people thought about the end of the world, we always pictured some huge catastrophe. ‘The Hollywood Apocalypse,’ Jack calls it. You know the kind - people screaming in the streets as some unspeakable horror unfolds about them. 

In movies, the end of the world was always sudden, over in a flash,  with pockets of humanity left to pick up the pieces of a shattered world. Except, that’s not how it happened, not that we should be surprised, life rarely imitates the movies. 

In fact, it happened so slowly and contained so many individual strands that by the time it arrived, it took us even more by surprise - even the right-wing newspapers didn’t have time to come up with some ‘pithy’ name for it. I’ve always liked the term ‘tipping point,’ The point at which every one of those strands, however linked or disparate, tipped the scales so far against humanity, there was no turning back. 

I mean, we shouldn’t have been surprised. We had been warned, after all. For years (no, decades, even) scientists talked about how we were destroying the earth. From the changing climate to the destruction of entire ecosystems, all in the name of capitalism. 

People warned us it would lead to societal collapse. It wasn’t hard to see it coming, if you were paying attention. But, even if you were paying attention, the sheer magnitude of it was enough to cause even the strongest advocates some blind spots caused by existential terror. Like a Lovecraftian monster rising from the depths of the ocean, who could wrap their head around the true horror.  

Instead, we played out our little culture wars as the planet died… we elected people to distract and not solve… we lied and allowed ourselves to be lied to. Until, in the end, there were so many that no longer cared about the truth that finding a solution was never a possibility.   

The rise of ignorance led to the rise of populism, which led to the rise of fascism, and eventually isolationism. Each country, widowed and trapped in its own poky bachelor apartment of despair. With nothing but memories of past glories to keep it going while the world around slowly burns.

The thing about this kind of creeping apocalypse, this tipping point, is that there is a certain mundanity in it all. There are millions dead, but there was no Hollywood pre-credit sequence of terrified crowds running through Manhattan. 

This apocalypse had an absence of symbols - actually, no. That’s not quite right. I mean, we don’t have the statue of liberty drowning in sand while hyper-intelligent apes roam the planet, sure. But last week, the sea caught on fire… the fucking sea! You’d think after completely decimating the planet for a hundred years, some companies may have learned a lesson or two - like not setting dire to the fucking sea again!

And just today, the newspapers are full of pictures of yet another ghost town in West Wales slowly sinking into the sea. We have our symbols, alright. They are just smaller, more mundane than the Hollywood apocalypse we always felt we deserved - as a species, we are so arrogant that we feel even our extinction deserves something special, something showy. But, like I said, if you are paying attention, there are symbols to be found everywhere. 

Is our slow, boring apocalypse better than the ostentatious apocalypses of Tinseltown, complete with their big budget explosions and alien invasions? I’m honestly not sure. 

One part of me used to think that at least then it would be over quickly. This was a particularly comforting thought during the war, as English shells rained down on Cardiff. But, even the war fizzled slowly, bubbling away around the fringes, with neither country having the resources, will or money to mount any serious threat to the other. It turned out that not even the newly installed Albion dictatorship in England could get away with a costly hot war, while millions of its citizens starved to death. 

It sounds weird to say, but slowly you adjust to it. You know? Slowly, bit-by-bit, the fucking sea being on fire doesn’t seem such a big deal as it did a year ago. Slowly, bit-by-bit, you stop watching the news. You realise the images of starving children 50 miles away over the border have become the norm. 

You become desensitised to the food queues, the extreme swings in weather, the rapidly shrinking coastline. When was the last time you even saw a bee? It’s all just normal. But in spite of all of that, we still sit here, night after night, staring at our tiny plastic phones, reading the latest #crushingit update from that douchebag Chad, half hoping that there is still time for the aliens to show up and finish the job…

I realise that was quite a long run-on sentence, but it’s been a while. I’m out of practice. Like I said, it’s been three years since I last wrote, well, anything! I don’t know if anyone will even read this… I mean how many people can even access Tumblr anymore? But, Jack was right, it did help to get some stuff out.

Until next time (possibly), stay bored out there!

Kara

[inkdemonapologist]

Okay but I do actually want to know both the things you love and the things you could rant about from DCTL?

OH BOY UHHHHHH okay lets see, I'm gonna see if I can do the "add a readmore after you post it" thing and see if that'll keep it stable.......

But also, much like Sammy, I am incapable of shutting up unless you strike me in the head with a blunt object, so uh, forgive my wordiness:

THINGS I ENJOY:

- DCTL gave us Sammy's ink addiction and like, if you had asked me before all this "what would you most like to see in a franchise?" I would not have answered "one of the characters drinks ink accidentally and then discovers that he can't stop" but boy that sure is my favourite concept that I LOVE to see handled literally any other way than how the book handled it!!!

- I like what it added to Tom and Allison and Norman!! Like, it's not big twists on their characters or anything -- we already knew Tom felt he was doing the wrong thing, so getting to see his CRUSHING GUILT over creating the machine isn't New Information, but it's nice to see and understand more of him; for all of them I feel a lot more attached to them after getting to see more of them as people.

- Like 90% of the "I LOVE IT" category for me is how the book handled Joey, and Buddy's relationship with Joey. The way Joey isn't a Sinister Mastermind Who’s Just Screwing With Everyone but just manipulative in a more mundane way -- someone who thinks of himself as just the guy with the vision to call the shots; he wants what he wants and this is how he's learned to get it; he exploits people not through devious schemes, but just by offering them something that they want or need and asking too much in return, expecting their loyalty for his favours. And the way he interacts with Buddy, making Buddy complicit with him and keeping Buddy off-balance and insecure while making him a favourite and treating him as Special is just PERFECT --  gives a lot of content to kind of extrapolate off of when pondering what must've drawn the others in and convinced them to ignore the red flags. I was initially frustrated with the idea of Buddy not being an artist and jUST DECIDING TO LEARN TO ANIMATE ON THE SPOT ("I've never done this before but I'm sure I can just do an artist's job" is a weirdly common throwaway thing in media and as an artist iTS A PET PEEVE) but actually the way they use his plagiarism to make him trapped in a lie in ways Joey doesn't even realise ends up being a neat echo of other employees (coughTOMcough), who were involved in much graver sins but suddenly felt they couldn't object or they'd lose their one chance, just like Buddy. There's a lot here that I think is really great.

OKAY THATS THE GOOD STUFF, LET'S COMPLAIN ABOUT SAMMY:

- Uncomfortable Bigotry Vagueness that we all knew was gonna be in this list -- I dunno man, a guy committing a microaggression and getting startled and defensive when he's called out for it doesn't necessarily completely ruin his character I GUESS, but the way this was handled is just SO WEIRD AND VAGUE that it's uncomfortable and it doesn't seem to serve any real purpose. "Is Tom black?" is a question I actually have to ask because the text sort of implies he is while also dancing around it and apparently Word of God said he's not??? which makes Buddy's comment nonsensical???? And I mean, you could go that route, since Buddy wonders to himself if Sammy talks to everyone like this -- HE ACTUALLY DOES!! Even within the text of the novel, he uses "Joey" instead of Mr. Drew, which is consistent with his audiologs in the game -- but that makes the writing suggest "this character THINKS this guy might be racist but actually they're reading too much into it and it wasn't racially motivated at all, he's just a jerk!!" wHICH IS SOMEHOW EVEN MORE ICKY??? Anyway like yeah I guess it's not inconsistent with his character that while Sammy Lawrence may not have any specific grudge against minorities he has probably not checked his privilege or done the work to challenge his own internal biases, but “Your Fav Probably Contributes To Systemic Racism In Ways He Hasn’t Considered, As Do We All When Our Assumptions Go Unchecked” is still a wild thing to wade through in a fun story about demonic cartoons

- but yknow so is T H E   H O L O C A U S T

- Sammy's voice is wrong. I'm actually okay with him being a weird awkward asshole, I already kind of assumed he was and that's part of why I like him!! but there's so many places he doesn't quite... talk like himself? And not just in terms of word choice, like -- so in his monologue at the end, he's described as talking so quickly that his words are "tumbling out faster than he can speak them," which initially seems fine; like yeah, that's a Standard Scene we're familiar with, the person who's been Driven Mad With Insight becoming more and more manic as they try to convey it -- until I tried to imagine it and realised that Sammy doesn't talk like this. That's a really consistent quality I always notice about his voice; whether he's almost giddily excited in prophet mode, or he’s his irritated and overworked human self, or he's violently angry and his voice has that echo effect -- he always speaks very deliberately. He enunciates carefully. There's some circumstances where I'd buy this as showing that he's Not Himself, but I feel like those would kind of need to be in the middle of his transformation, not at the end of it.

- In fact a lot of the scenes with Sammy kind of have this feeling -- that it's not necessarily an exploration of Sammy as a character, but that he is filling a trope or archetype role here. Once he's fully transformed he excitedly describes the process as more of a mental compulsion, which is in contrast to his weird yeerk-infected behaviour when trying to get ink from Miss Lambert. Both of those scenes don't seem wrong on their own because they fit tropes we know -- but they feel weird when you try to fit them together.

- I also just in general am not a fan of the ink acting like a weird yeerk. It can be a parasite I guess but when it starts overwriting and puppeting people and crawling around to enter their body that's just a completely DIFFERENT kind of supernatural story and it’s not what im here for!!!

- THE FREAKIN!!! HE WILL SET US FREE!!!! WHY????????? SAMUEL LAWRENCE WHAT IS HE SETTING YOU FREE FROM??????? Sammy has No Motive for any of what he's doing, other than just Ink Made Me Do It. The whole thing that was INTERESTING about Sammy as a character is the contrast between this frustrated, ornery musician with no specific love for the cartoons he works on, and the manically devoted cultist he becomes. What happened in the middle there? What made him desperate enough to shift his mindset so much? "Something supernatural made him do things that don't benefit him in any way" is a very boring answer to this question!!! Susie was a victim who implies that her transformation has forced her to do things she didn't want to do, but we can still see her motive -- she wanted to be Alice, so she took a sketchy offer to try to get what she wanted. Even now, her violence echoes that goal -- to be a more perfect Alice. What did Sammy want? WHO KNOWS. Even in his ink-addled state at the end, we don't understand what he hopes the Ink Demon will even do for him, and in fact he seems to be responsible for creating the very scenario he's begging Bendy to reverse in the game.

- [sighs loudly into my hands]

- Overall I'm left wondering if the author just..... didn't like Sammy Lawrence? And I don't mean that in the sense of him being a rude jerk -- like, Joey is not a good person, but the author seems to be interested in him and in what makes him tick. There doesn't seem to be that same interest in Sammy. Sammy's role in the story is that of a monster, transformed into something murderous, unable to prevent or choose it. He's not a victim of anyone but the ink, no one had to manipulate him or figure out how his brain worked or what he wanted or what he feared or give him any reason to do the things he does -- ink got in his mouth and overwrote his personality. And we don't even get to see that change, not really. He starts out angry and defensive and continues being angry and defensive up until his very last scene, denying his ink-stealing but not really much else. We see all his prophetic sketches but we never see hints of this in him, we never see him start to act more excited and hopeful, we never see him seek out the demon he desires to please. Why do we never see Sammy struggling between his dismissive angry front and a building religious fervour he can't quite suppress? We don't get to see any of the in-between. There's no interest at all in why or even what it looked like as Sammy became what he became, when, to be honest, I suspect interest in precisely that is one reason he's such a big fav.

- It's funny, in a "cries into my hands" kind of way, when Sammy is just knocked in the head while monologuing and immediately removed from the story without further mention, like...... that sure is the pattern with him, isn't it, he just tries very very hard and never actually gets to matter, but it also fits right in here, too, in this book that doesn't want to think about his motives -- he rambles nonsensically, explaining nothing, gets one trademark phrase, and then is hastily removed so the story doesn't have to think about him anymore.

...................I think that's most of it.

...

Y'all............ I'm not ready for Sent From Above.......... I'm just not.... I'm not emotionally ready...... like..... Sammy has to be in that right..... he’s Susie’s boss and she has that big crush on him..................................... I’m not ready

[drabbledragon]

Linktober: Dark

Next up is day 10: Dark! I just wanted to thank you all for the likes, reblogs, and follows, and that I wish you all a very happy new year! 

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749021/chapters/69732201

Summary: There are circumstances that may lead one to take certain risks, and sometimes those risks lead to disaster.

Warnings: (Temporary) character death, mentions of violence, mentions of alcohol, and swearing.

Day 10: Dark

Wherever Time was, it was dark. There was not a single ounce of light here, and no matter where he looked or where he took a step forward, he was always met with pitch black. The darkness was suffocating, and he could feel his breath start to pick up once his hazy mind realised that there was no exit, that there was nothing to see, that there was no one else here to help him, and soon the whole room was starting to feel like it was closing in on him even though there were no walls and he suddenly couldn’t tell left from right or up from down or whether he was sitting or standing or lying down - it was all just dark, and it was slowly eating away at his sanity.

“You … out … right now …”

His breath caught in his throat. That fiery tone, that sweet, beautiful voice … that was … Malon, right?

Yes, of course. How could he forget the love of his life? The one he decided to settle down with on a small, peaceful ranch in the middle of Hyrule Field? The one who sang along with him whenever he played his ocarina and the one who watched beautiful sunsets with him as the last minutes of the day started to fade away? She was a constant soothing presence in his life, and he would never forgive himself if he ever forgot about Malon.

He stood still, hoping that in some way, listening to his wife’s voice could somehow lead him out of the darkness. It was strange that Malon’s voice was echoing from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, and whatever she was saying was so choppy and fragmented that Time could barely make out the syllables of each word, but her voice was like a lifeline to him, and he was willing to try and latch onto it no matter how distant it was.

“What makes you believe that I should? I have not finished killing all the enemies here, nor have I finished correcting the mistakes in this timeline.”

This voice was deeper, colder, and more unforgiving than Malon’s, and each word rang out unnervingly clear in Time’s mind. The being’s tone was indifferent towards the words it was saying, as if the very notion of killing monsters and fixing mistakes in a timeline was just another mundane task that anyone could do. Time would’ve chuckled if the situation wasn’t all so disorientating. As if fixing something so complicated as a timeline was simple, he should know; he’s been struggling with trying to correct his mistakes for years now, and all his attempts have either led to the eventual destruction of Hyrule or to the creation of more timelines, which would only make his hair turn greyer from the added stress. Honestly, at this point, he was sure that only Hylia herself or some other god could fix this.

Wait. Another god. 

Another god.

His heart was suddenly racing, the thumping in his chest and the rush of blood in his ears getting overwhelmingly loud. Had he really put on the Fierce Deity mask and become that soulless, heartless god? What were even the circumstances that led him to do that? He swore that he would only use that thing if the situation at hand was nearly hopeless - if his or his loved ones’ lives were practically hanging by a thin thread - but surely it hadn’t come to that, had it?

Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t really remember what had happened. The latest memory he had at the moment was having to buy a new shield for Wild because he broke it while shield - surfing, but that was nearly a day ago - or was it just a few hours ago? Or a couple of minutes ago? Or maybe weeks ago? For someone renowned as the ‘Hero of Time’, his namesake was definitely failing him.

How long had it been since he had given the Fierce Deity control over his body? How long had it been since he last saw light? How long had it been since he’d last seen Malon, or any of the other heroes for that matter? Where were the other heroes? Where was he? 

“He … kill me … let … go.”

He lifted his head up at a dizzying speed and his eye widened with fear. No, what was Malon talking about? Why was she suddenly talking about ‘killing’ of all things? She knew so much about the Fierce Deity mask and its bloodlust so why in the world was she tempting that thing?

He sucked in a sharp breath. 

He needs out. He needs out right now.

“Let me out!” Time yelled out to no one, but even if it seemed as such, he knew that the deity could hear him. “ Let me out right now!”

“Link … enough … let … go.”

“I know you can hear me! Let me out right now!”

“... Dead … stop … enough.”

“I will burn you to ashes if you lay a single finger on Malon! You hear me?! I’ll kill you!”

Together, he and Malon pleaded from two different sides, the latter’s coming out in careful demands and the former’s coming out in harsh screams. It was impossible to know what was going on outside, and it made Time feel all the more fearful because he didn’t know if he was off simply killing a few Moblins and Lizalfos, or was about to stab a sword through his wife’s chest. He needs to know what was going on. He needs out.

After what felt like an eternity, he felt the floor tilt from beneath him when the Fierce Deity finally nodded and said, “ Very well.” Time’s world was suddenly flooded with light.

His body was already pitching forward before his mind could even register it, and the feel of strong arms coming to wrap around his chest was barely felt through the numbness in his body. His head lolled wearily onto the person’s shoulder, and he didn’t even bother to move the locks of hair that pressed haphazardly against his face. His whole being was sagging with both fatigue and relief, and when he was finally able to make out the white dress underneath his chin and the sight of ginger locks, he used all his remaining strength to lock Malon into a tight hug.

“Link!” She shouted in surprise, but he only squeezed harder, refusing to let her go as if she would disappear without his hold. He buried his head further into her neck and breathed in the familiar scent of hay and home - cooked meals, slowly easing his shoulders when his mind finally registered that he was free from the deity’s hold, he was able to use his own body again, and that he was back home, safe and sound. He pulled away for a second, ready to scold his wife for even attempting to do something so reckless as standing up to a god, but froze when he saw the state of Hyrule Field.

The field - his home -  was littered with bodies: those of monsters, humans, and Hylians all strewn about like tossed ragdolls. Blood coated the ground in dark, messy paint splatters on a grassy canvas, and the weapons and armor of the multitude of soldiers that came here were all broken into pieces, destroyed with clean and powerful slices. The whole place reeked of death, and it was nothing like the beautiful plains he was used to seeing.

What had the Fierce Deity done?

He didn’t even realise he was staggering until he felt his wife’s arms around him again.

“Link!” A frantic voice called out, and Time was barely able to recognize it as Malon’s. “ It’s going to be alright!”

He would’ve laughed if his throat wasn’t so tight. ‘Alright’? ‘Alright’? There was nothing that could be ‘alright’ about this situation; the Fierce Deity had killed innocent people - he had killed innocent people - and there was no magical way to grab all their souls and force them back into their respective bodies. They were dead, plain and simple.

His wife was leading him towards their home with one of his arms wrapped firmly across her shoulders and another arm delicately pressing his side to hers. Time could barely keep his heavy steps in time with Malon’s strides, and the right side of his face burned hotter than the flames on Volvagia’s back, but he tried to focus all of his attention on the determination etched onto Malon’s face, hoping vainly that he could draw some sort of hope from that.

His wife was settling him on their shared bed before he was even able to register it, and the soft plush of quilts and blankets did nothing to quell the massive pit in his stomach. Neither the sting of alcohol on his skin as his wounds were cleaned nor Malon’s gentle reassurances did nothing to bring him out of his shock; his mind was still lost in Hyrule Field, looking upon the corpses that littered the green like blooming weeds.

He wondered how long he had been gone for. Minutes? Hours? It could’ve very well been days if he was being completely honest. From the time he put on the mask to the time the Fierce Deity took it off, the Hero of Time was stuck in a dark limbo, where neither his senses nor time itself existed. He surmised that the only reason he was even able to rouse was because of Malon’s voice piercing through the darkness like an arrow to the heart, and he used that opportunity to frantically regain control of his body; otherwise, if he just let that chance flitter away, then he was sure the deity would just kill her along with everyone else.

He startled when a light touch settled on his shoulder, and his eye fell onto an anxious redhead.

“Malon?” His voice trembled like that of a fearful child, and the ranchhand smiled sadly at him.

“That’s right, Fairy Boy. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to the market to fetch some more supplies. I’ll be back in ten minutes, so don’t even think about moving, alright?”

With a tight nod, he watched her move towards the door leading to the hallway, but after a sudden thought came to mind, he quickly blurted out, “ The boys?”

He held his breath as his wife paused in the doorway, and he felt each second tick by excruciatingly slow. Finally, after what felt like years of waiting, she finally turned back and quietly said, “ It’ll be alright.”

The Hero of Time’s stomach dropped. The forced smile on his wife’s lips, the way she dug her nails into the wooden doorframe, the reassuring words she uttered trying to get him to relax even though his subconscious was telling him that he shouldn’t get such a luxury - he should’ve known that something was wrong. Something worse had happened while the Fierce Deity had possessed him, and the little child within him was too scared to find out.

The time between Malon coming home and tending to his remaining injuries was an absolute blur. He remembered her walking back into the room with a myriad of potions and bandages in her arms, and the idle small talk she tried to make as she immediately got back to work. Her voice was soothing, and Time did his best to listen to what she was saying but his mind refused to budge from the topic of the Fierce Deity and death, even long after his wife had left. He was just … numb; his body, his senses, his emotions, were all just numb, all because of a memory he could not remember.

A few harsh knocks pulled Time out of his thoughts, and the visitor didn’t even bother to wait for an invitation. Warriors came barging into the room within seconds, with Wild slowly trailing in behind him, his face well - hidden beneath his signature cloak. They stood together at one side of the bedroom, and the Hero of Time couldn’t even muster the courage to look either of them in the eye.

“What did you do?”

Every bit of Warriors’s words were filled with unadulterated rage, even if they were just barely above a whisper. As the seconds ticked by without an answer, he yelled out louder, “ Tell me, Time, what the fuck did you do?!”

The Hero of Time flinched at the words, and could only muster out a small, “ U - Um -.”

“Can you even begin to understand the gravity of your actions?!” And the Hero of Warriors didn’t even concern himself with formalities anymore. “ You killed hundreds of innocent people just for your own sick enjoyment! They were here to help us - sent graciously by the queen herself - and you just slaughtered them as if they were nothing more than pigs and cattle! And the way you killed Legend and Sky … exactly how long were you waiting to do that?”

No - Time’s breath caught in his throat - no, no, Hylia, he didn’t -.

“Are you happy that two of Hylia’s Chosen Heroes are gone now, with two others well on their way? I’m sure Hyrule loves being in a coma, and Twilight is just absolutely thrilled about bleeding to death!”

Time didn’t miss the way Wild stiffened at the mention of his mentor, nor the shuddering breath he took.

Warriors took a step forward as to shield the champion from Time’s gaze and growled out, “ Those four trusted you - we all trusted you - and you stabbed us in the back like the fucking traitor that you are.”

The Hero of Time flinched at the words. Traitors were the thing that their captain hated the most, and when he said that someone was a traitor, he wholeheartedly meant it. 

His fingers twisted harder into the sheets underneath him. As pathetic as it was, he was scared. He was too terrified to ask the dreaded question of how he killed Legend and Sky, too terrified to see how bad off Twilight and Hyrule were, and too terrified to explain that he was under the control of a deity whose powers he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. He betrayed those young heroes who he had considered him as a leader and family, and he had undoubtedly shattered any chance of regaining their trust; all he could do now is wither under the captain’s denouncement and apologize for something that couldn’t be forgiven.

It was Warriors who finally broke the tense silence by sharply turning on his heel and leading the Hero of Wilds and himself out. “ You’re a filthy disgrace to the Kingdom of Hyrule,” He spat out. “ And if I find you anywhere near me or any of the other heroes, I’ll kill you.”

The slam of a door marked their exit, and the Hero of Time was left alone again. 

The room was filled with a warm glow from the fading sunset, and all the small picture frames and knickknacks scattered about the place were highlighted in a beautiful orange - red. He would usually appreciate the breathtaking scene, happy that his cruel and demanding adventures had led him to living on a peaceful farm with his loving wife, but he couldn’t this time, not with the knowledge that this field was stained with the blood of innocent soldiers and heroes long before and after him.

He messed up - he fucked up - and he didn’t even bother to hide the small tears that dribbled down his face and onto the beautifully - quilted fabric. He worked so hard to keep the Kingdom of Hyrule at peace, and did his best to help those in need regardless of how demanding they were, but no amount of good deeds could ever bring back any of the people he mercilessly slaughtered. Who would he even blame for his actions? Hylia? The Fierce Deity? They were both deities that obviously didn’t care what a Hylian said about them; they would just go on with their respective existences, not even batting an eye at the millions they had killed for the sake of getting what they wanted.

But Time wasn’t like that: he was a person with feelings, limits, traumas, and regrets, and no matter how immune he thought he was to the problems of this world, he would always come tumbling back down from his high horse as soon as he couldn’t take being the Hero of Time anymore. He had become arrogant, the years of saving people and being a beacon of hope finally getting to his head and allowing him to take the risk of letting the Fierce Deity have control over him, thinking that in some way, somehow, he could finally regain some resemblance of control and transform back into his usual self. He was beyond stupid to think that such a simple Hylian like him could take on an otherworldly god, and he was beyond stupid to think that his plan, no matter how well thought - out, could outsmart anyone that had existed for millennia. What a terrible decision that was, allowing something as powerful as a deity to keep him in the dark while it went on doing whatever it pleased. If only he could turn back time and - .

He stilled for a second before his head shot up in an instant. He was stumbling to his feet before he even knew it, and was eagerly making his way over to wear his item pouch resided on the dresser. His hand dug greedily into the bag like a hungry wolf, and he didn’t stop until his fingers brushed against a familiar ceramic. The item came out with little resistance, and he couldn’t help but stare as the sun’s rays bounced off his ocarina’s blue shell. 

He could do it: he could turn back time and prevent any of this from ever happening. The instrument was at his lips within milliseconds, his breath already ready to blow out the familiar tune, when a sudden thought came to mind:

What would happen to this timeline? Time knew for a fact that timelines don’t just disappear, if Legend’s and Hyrule’s, Wild’s and Twilight’s, and Wind’s eras were anything to go by, so what exactly would the Malon here be left with? Would the Link she knew just cease to exist? Or would a carbon copy of himself still exist with memories only the past him would know? And what about the other heroes? Would they go on in their travels with only four heroes instead of nine, significantly reducing their manpower and chances of success? And what if they failed to take care of the overarching threat? He could be leaving behind millions of distraught people to a dismal fate with no Hero of Time to blame.

But he couldn’t remain here; not when Sky, Legend, Twilight, and Hyrule were so close to an untimely death, if not already dead. So he would go back in time, prevent the Fierce Deity from ever having any control over him, and make sure that no one died at his hand.

With his mind made up, he blew into the Ocarina of Time, and watched as the seconds ticked backwards.

Time jolted as he was thrown back into time, and anxiously looked at his surroundings: it looked like he was outside a small tavern … yes, the one he and the Links had stumbled upon two days and 16 hours ago, and judging by the moon’s high position in the sky, it appears that this is the time they were about to leave. As if on cue, an irritated Legend groaned out,

“Ugh, does he always do this? I swear, Cityboy is going to drink himself into a coma one day.”

Warriors, the person in question, directed a dramatic pointed look towards the former and slurred out, “ Hey, I’ll go into a coma whenever I want to, thank you very much.”

A cheery Sky readjusted his grip on the captain’s arm and nervously laughed, “ It’s okay; I’m sure he’s a responsible drinker and knows when he’s reached his limit.” But then added in a smaller voice, “ But I don’t think drinking this much in one sitting is a good idea.”

“No, it’s fine! I’ve seen Wars drink a lot more than he did tonight! And the stuff they had here wasn’t even that strong anyways.” Wind chimed in, and Four from beside him could only stare in exasperation at the unlabeled bottle hidden behind the sailor’s back.

Wild jogged to the group seconds after and asked, “ Hey, are we gonna get going soon? Because Twi is rounding up all the dogs here again, and we don’t want another incident like last time.” And as if to emphasize his point, he jabbed his thumb towards the direction where his mentor was busy playing with a large number of said canines.

Hyrule regarded his travelling companion with an empathetic smile as he answered back with, “ Yeah, I think we were about to leave, right Time?” And when he looked to the group’s leader, he asked in a more concerned tone, “ … Time?”

The Hero of Time didn’t even realize he was staring at each one of them until a majority of them were staring back at him, each regarding him with a curious gaze. He quickly shook his thoughts away and said, “ Yes, we should get going before morning comes.”

So the group began to trek forward towards the inn they would eventually settle into approximately an hour later, all the while bustling about each other’s actions. Time smiled warmly at the group’s antics, but quickly set his jaw in a show of determination. He had another chance to set things right, and goddesses - be - damned if he let this opportunity just slip away.

He won’t let anyone die this time.  

[henryobsessed]

The Widow and The Witcher Chapter 11

Summery: Geralt goes to fight the Bruxa and Julia is bonding with Ciri

Word Count: 2500

Warning: Fight Scene, Supernatural event

A/N This is my first fight scene so if this is your thing would love some pointers :) 

Chapter 11

It had taken a full morning to gather his items from the merchants, and the Villager had met Geralt in the marketplace at noon. After eating a quick meal, they set off. It was a quiet Journey, the Villager whose name was Nial only spoke when necessary which suited Geralt's mood. That night they bedded down at a tavern in the next town. Geralt didn't sleep well, instead, his mind kept running through his plan of attack. The Bruxa had uncanny speed and invisibility so he would need the element of surprise, to catch it in the act of enticing someone. He would only have one chance, once it knew he was there he would have to act fast. Hopefully, striking it with his silver sword and if not then last resort allowing it to bite him which was not an option he wished to pursue.

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The day Geralt had left, Julia thankfully had no clients. During the morning Ciri and Julia had distracted themselves in the kitchen with Nessie learning how to bake Nessie's famous chocolate chip cookies. That afternoon Ciri stood in front of a Tobias and 10 other men, she held her sword and instructed them in the art of defensive sword techniques. "Remember to block your opponent, then think strategically don't just act out of anger." Dividing them into pairs they then began to practice her sword movements. Geralt had left instructions for Ciri to teach Tobias and any servants from the estate who wished to learn so there would be more than one prepared to fight.

While they practised Renee and Julia walked in the gardens picking flowers to brighten the bedrooms and the dining hall. As Julia was admiring the vivid colours of the roses, Renee settled her basket next to hers "Julia, I have to tell you something." Julia turned regarding Renee, her young friend seemed to be bursting at the seams with a joy that seemed to radiate from her being. Renee placed her hands on her belly and just smiled at Julia nodding. Pulling Renee into a hug she squeezed her friend, who she now considered as a daughter. Smiling she said "oh Renee, that is so exciting. How long have you known?" blushing Renee said, "I think this is a honeymoon baby"

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The following two days Geralt and Nial travelled at a steady pace arriving at his Village late on the third day. The weary travellers were greeted by Nial's wife Anna along with their youngest daughter. Anna led them into the small cottage. They were not poor, but it was a modest home with a single area that served as a living and eating area, as well as the kitchen. Off to the right of this room were two doors leading to the bedrooms one for the parents and one for the children. They shared a simple meal together of steamed vegetables. Together they sat on cushions on the floor around a small low table which held the steaming bowls of food and their cups of water.

Even though they had a terrible loss, there was a palpable love that was shared between them. It was made evident by a look, a gentle touch, and words of praise as Nial said "Anna, this is a beautiful meal. I have missed your cooking while we have been apart." Once the meal was finished Nial's daughter curled up in her father's lap a peace falling over the child's face as the adults talked. Nial making sure his daughter safely tucked in his arms was sleeping directed a more pointed conversation to Geralt "How are you going to catch and kill this monster. What will be your needs to accomplish this?"

Geralt looked to both Nial and Anna expecting to see anger, revenge on their faces but instead saw only sadness. Anna had moved to lean into Nial at this point and the family unit made Geralt's arms ache for Julia and Ciri. Lowering his head he looked at his hands, unsure of how to answer Nial's question. Looking back up to the grieving family he spoke "I will need to be diligent to keep watch to see if any more young men are enticed away from the village. Once I see that I will be able to follow and dispatch the Bruxa. They are cunning and unless they feel safe will not venture near again. I will sleep in this room as the window faces the forest. I should be able to see from this vantage point."

At this the small group fell silent, the weight of what was ahead for the Witcher weighed heavily on his mind. The small family also sensed this and quietly went about setting up for bed. Geralt watched as Nial stood his sleeping child in his arms. A look of love on his face as he gazed at her while walking to her room. Anna moved silently and quickly, setting up a pallet for Geralt to sleep or rest on as he kept watch from the window. She came to his side and placing a small hand on his arm whispered "Thank you for coming, we are praying to the unnamed God that you are successful in your hunt. We don't want any more families to have to endure the pain we have felt." She shyly reached up and kissed him on the cheek before exiting the room.

Geralt's hand went to his cheek, this was the first time outside of Wolnosci that he had been treated with such care. What was it about these people who sprouted homage to this unnamed God! Frustration was building in Geralt, he missed Julia, missed Ciri, and even missed the dam mundane of the estate. Looking out the window he tried to focus to adjust his eyes to the night. An hour passed as he tried to keep his mind focused and then he saw movement.

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Julia had not been able to relax since Geralt had left three days ago. Renee and Ciri had tried everything to distract her and Renee had almost succeeded with her news. However here she was again full of worry. Ciri, Renee, and Tobias were doing sums over at the table in the library when Ciri looked over to Julia. She was sitting in her chair staring into the flames again her hands balling in her skirt brow furrowed. Wishing she could do something to ease Julia's worry she spoke to Tobias " Can I be excused, I think I need to go talk with Julia" seeing the concern in Ciri's eyes he excused her.

Ciri walked over to Julia and knelt by her chair, taking Julia's balled hands in hers. This startled Julia who looked down at the child with surprise. Seeing the child wanted to be with her she moved to the rug on the floor just as she would have with Geralt. Maneuvering themselves so Ciri was cuddled into Julia, her arms around the young girl Julia sighed. How did this precious child know she needed this physical contact? Ciri spoke quietly "Julia, Geralt will be ok. He's one of the best of the Witcher's." The young girl's voice held so much conviction Julia could not help but be soothed. Sighing Julia stroked Ciri's arm and responded "I know Ciri, but when you care about someone so deeply. It's hard to trust that they will be ok. You want the best for them, and you want to protect them. I hate that he is putting himself in harm's way. That I'm not there to help him if he is injured." Ciri knew what Julia was saying. She herself had pleaded with Geralt to take her with him so she could fight alongside him. It had only been Geralt extracting a promise to stay and protect Julia that made her agree to let him go.

The clock over the mantel struck 10 and as they all prepared to retire for the night Ciri looked to Julia. Feeling Julia needed more comfort Ciri asked: "Can sleep with you tonight?" Julia also sensing the child needed comfort agreed. Together they walked back to her room. Changing into there nightgowns they moved between the warmed sheets and Julia tucked Ciri into her arms. As Ciri's breathing started to even out, indicating she was falling asleep, Julia looked at the child in her arms. This child who had been unexpected had grown on Julia, and right now she was feeling a warm maternal love growing deeper inside her heart for Geralt's child surprise.

Geralt moved silently amongst the trees, just ahead of him he could see the young man and the tall raven-haired beauty. Her skin so white it glowed under the moon's rays making her hair stand out even more stark against her silhouette. She and the boy stood amongst the trees, her body leaning toward the young man who had fallen on his knees before her. Geralt knew he would only have one chance, one opportunity to kill this creature of the night. Confirming it was a Bruxa he took the vial of Black blood from his small bag hoping this would not be how he would kill the monster.  Wanting to cover all his options he swallowed the foul concoction. As he crept closer, he could hear her gentle coaxing, her lullaby of song that held the young man transfixed. Sword in hand he stepped into the clearing and took aim.

The blade connected with the flesh of the creature causing her to scream. The sonic sound echoed through the quiet night. A piercing wave reverberating within his head, causing Geralt to drop his sword, and hold his hands over his ears. The beautiful woman who had been standing in front of the young man now turned into a hideous black bat-like creature. Its hands becoming talons apart from the one which had been removed by the Witcher's first blow. Regaining some equilibrium Geralt dove for his sword as the creature turned from the Man towards its assailant. Grabbing his sword Geralt turned and took another precise swing, slashing the torso of the Bruxa. She screamed again causing Geralt to fall to his knees the sound almost piercing his eardrums this time. He just needed to get close enough to stab her through the chest Geralt thought, as the Bruxa jumped on him trying to tear his armour with its good talon. Reaching for his sword Geralt realised it was too far away. He struggled with the Bruxa trying to gain control as the creature looked like it was going for his neck.

Julia sat up in bed in a sweat, she had seen in her dream Geralt fighting with a dark creature. It had him pinned on the ground ready to strike. Ciri also sat up sensing Julia in distress and having also had a bad dream about Geralt. Panting Julia shared her dream, Ciri with surprise confirmed she had also dreamt the same. Julia trying to think what this could mean said "Ciri, we can't do much from here, but will you pray with me. It is all we can do for him" tears running down her cheeks Ciri nodded to Julia and together they held hands. Shutting her eyes Julia spoke with urgency "Unnamed God, we urgently seek your help, please send your angels to assist Geralt. Send them to his aid. We ask for his deliverance from this dark creature" as she spoke Ciri turned to her, her eyes turning a strange colour and she spoke with a different voice. "I hear you, child, do not fear" at that Ciri fainted into Julia's arms.

Geralt was desperate to get his sword or to loosen his hand enough to get his small dagger from its hidden place in his armour. When he thought all was lost and the creature was going to rip into his neck it looked up. Screamed at something in the trees, whatever had distracted the creature it gave him the advantage. He was able to get his silver dagger and plunge it into the Bruxa's chest. Hearing a final scream from the dark creature it fell to its side no breath left in its lungs.

Geralt assessed his wounds. The creature's talons had connected with his skin on his leg and the side of his neck. However, nothing that would not heal. He looked around and found the young man curled up in a ball hidden behind a tree. Kneeling down he spoke softly and with kindness  "its ok, the creature is no more." Placing a hand on the young man's shoulders he turned and looked up. Fear emanated from his eyes. "Come", helping the young man up the two of them walked back to the creature. Geralt needing to complete the job got some matches out from his bag and lit the creature alight. Looking around he saw the talon laying on the ground collecting it as proof he and the young man headed back to the Village.

Nial and Anna met him at the door to their cottage, seeing the young man Anna took him inside to warm him up. Nial saw the talon in Geralt's hand and uncharacteristically started to cry. Not sure what to do with the emotions of the man Geralt dropped the talon and awkwardly believing this is what Julia would have done, gave the man a side hug. He comforted Nial until the man had stopped his weeping, and drew him into the house.

The following day Geralt was taken by Nial to meet the alderman of the town. He was a burly man with a full mop of curly hair hidden under a funny tall hat. He greeted Geralt with a warm handshake and a big smile "Thank you Witcher for riding us of this terrible creature. Here is 3,000 Oren as thanks for your work" Geralt went to refuse payment as Julia had said they didn't need it. However, at the last moment, he had a thought, Geralt took the bag with thanks and turning to Nial said "Do you have a jeweler in town?" a smile crossing his face.

By lunchtime, Geralt had visited the local Jeweler and found exactly what he wanted. With the rest of the Oren, he bought provisions for the way home. With what was left he went to give it to Nial as a blessing to his family. Nial's face burned "no I can't take this Geralt, that's for your family." Geralt knowing this is what Julia would have wanted him to do put the bag in Nial's hand. "Please take it as a blessing from my house to yours" at this Anna gave Geralt a hug. They waved him and Rose off as he began his journey home, home to his family.   

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[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Female Healer Elf x Female Hunter

Undivided Attention

The wind lashed against your face, the rain gashing at your skin, reigns twisting in your fingers in an iron grasp as you attempted chasing away the storm; your hood near to flying off your head as you raced to the closest town.

The mud and dirt were soft and wet underneath your stallion’s hooves, with Cedar sprinting wilfully to overcome the winds as you drove closer in: the streets of the town of Briar were barren, save for a person or two running to get shelter away from the heavy rain. 

Your eyes darted over every door and snug shop and house until you found the place you needed to get to. Gliding Cedar to a halt, you bought him to rest in the nearby stable to rest up, tying him up haphazardly through in a loop as you reeled back to the front of the shop.

The door swung wide with your brute force: accidentally making you recoil at how you had done so without a second thought, immediately being consumed by the heat of the inside of the cosy shop.

The inside hung with lavender and incense in the air, a hearth that lit up the area as you could hear the rain beat against the roof with force; the wind lamenting with wrath as it pounded with ferocity against the shutters.

“Just a second! I’m just in the back.” A pleasant and smooth voice called from the back, where you assumed the owner was.

When the figure emerged from the back room, you couldn’t help but take in their appearance. The first thing you observed was the notable and prominent pointed ears coming out from the sides of her head, obvious in the flowing sea of spun white-silver locks that reached before her back; braided neatly. 

She looked like any other elf, with her high cheekbones, tall and lithe, she carried herself with elegance and grace that they probably didn’t know they had.

Compared to you, you had been a rogue monster hunter for years and the muscle that had you had built in your frame helped you endure longer no matter what elements were thrown at you.

Her flesh was porcelain and smooth with no blemish; her large royal blue eyes taking you in as the door came to swing back behind you; a welcoming smile that made her eyes gleam.

You finally pulled your hood off your head, a hiss coming from lips at the simple action, the elf behind the counter’s smile fell from her face, a high look of disturbance evident on her.

Your skin was colourless, with noticeable blueish-green veins protruded and laid all around your skin, with no area of your skin not covered. They sat grotesquely beneath your flesh, making you look like a walking blister. But that wasn’t the worst part, but your eyes were taken to look inflamed and bloodshot - the pupils darkened to make it look as if you had been caught extensively crying just before you had walked into this healer’s shop.

“Oh my, goodness, what happened?” Her voice was laced with concern for your being, as she didn’t waste time quickly coming round the counter to take a hold of you, leading you into the back room where you assumed was where she performed emergency procedures.

“A silverfang caught me right between the ribs.” You managed to rasp out, how you don’t know you were able to walk nor talk was astonishing, as you had seen the harm those creatures could do to a human or mundane animal. You had fought and dealt with them in the past many times before; with desperate farmers paying you good coin to deal with them in a professional manner.

But this one had been feistier and resilient into being defeated, and it took quite the entire day to kill it off. You hadn’t gotten off lucky, but when you had slashed at its neck to lope the large head off, its stinger had gotten you right in the right side, where its venom remained in you.

The elf before you ushered you to the small bed, clearing everything off the table with a flick of her wrist, as you were laid out on the thin linen. Your face was an incoherent mess, your skin bubbling with sweat.

“Stay with me, traveller, I must see how bad it has become.” She was working in clockwork beside you, gathering things from her small desk beside the window, before she carefully pulled aside your slashed shirt away, inspecting the damage done.

The wound was inflamed, where most of the venom resided, the blue was slashed and mixed with your blood, making it look bruised and blistered like a large puss. There, the area was swollen and enlarged.

The woman beside you hummed in with no knowing how what she was thinking, taking it all in as you laid there deliriously. “Is there a way of helping me?” Your voice was hoarse, and upon noticing, the elf brought a cup of water to your drying lips, from where you gulped like a fish for the liquid, gobbling it down with all might before your throat dried up once more.

“Well, yes, but never have I seen it take effect of a body like this before.” Her voice was wavering, steady at least. Gods, the pain burnt your insides, and it felt as if no matter how much water you drank, it would still feel as if your insides were caught on fire; eternally burning you slowly.

“This may take some time though.” She said earnestly. “Good, as long as I don’t die, I don’t care.” Your voice choked as you screwed your eyes tight from the agony.

The healer gave you a sympathetic smile, one that you didn’t see, but when you heard shuffling beside you, your craned your neck back to look over at her beginning to think over what she had to do.

“I shall need a heothine flower, and some enchantment spells that will lessen the pain, but to drive the virus out of the bloodstream, you shall need to rest and wait for the worst of it to withdraw. The remaining part will cause hallucinations, and it will only be until your body sweats out the remainder will you be restored.”

Gods, when will this torture end? You keened, muttering something along your lips that even you didn't know what, your head drooped to the pillow behind you, your head pulling you in and out of consciousness with you not knowing how long everything had passed.

“You poor thing, you’re in good hands-- stay with me, dear-- here, drink this.”

You felt a tender hand coaxing you back to reality, eyes hazy as the elf pulled your head up lightly to take in whatever she was holding in her other. The brew that came to your lips was dry and bitter, hot on the tongue as if it had spice, but overall bland.

You spluttered but managed to grimace it down, and she laid you back down, whilst you finally pulled away to drift into darkness; of a fever dream that made no sense and pulled you through everything, of everything you had witnessed in your life.

Your smiling mother, showing you how to feed the goats at the back of the home you shared, the same woman weeping hot tears, begging you to not leave as you were dragged away by the Stranger, cruelty and scraps of food with maggots dwelling for your meals; whilst you went through torment of fighting, learning how to survive and given extreme changes that couldn’t be humane in the slightest.

’The perfect creation: a monster to destroy other monsters.’

Your murmurs could be heard throughout the small house, all to the morning, where a warm hand came to wipe a wet cloth against your brow, soaking the sweat out of your skin and hair; whispering in a strange language in comfort and encouragement.

When you had finally awoken, the sun was low in the sky, the sunset painting a picture full of mauves and amber; the bubbling of a test-tube boiling close by to your ear with oranges in the air.

You slowly tried sitting up, the shifting of linen brought the attention of elf from a nearby room, and when she appeared from the doorway, she was dressed in a shifting long gown of moss, with kimono sleeves that were flowy with grace and poise. A wide relieved smile rose on her face, as she came to your side.

“It is good to see you awake, traveller. You have been asleep for a very long.”

“How long have I been gone for?” You were helped to sit up properly. The elf gave you a wavering look, one met with a humble smile. "Three days, this is the best process you made."

“Oh.” That was good to know, and you certainly felt slightly better: your head hurt as if you had a minor migraine and there was a dull ache in the side of your ribs, but when you looked to your hand once covered in blistering blue veins, you were astounded to see that they had calmed down and weren’t so visible all over your flesh.

“Thank you, erm miss-”

“You can call me Daelora. Daelora of Ollethnor.” Her smile was warming, and her voice was soothing enough to make you rest and want to sleep once more. The name was unfamiliar to you, but the accuracy in how she said it was dreamy and relaxing, your ears picked up that where she had come from was indeed a place that elves resided in.

“You’re an elf-- as obvious as it is. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.” You spoke sheepishly.

“It is fine, it is quite a small part of the western border, and unfortunately it has been a long time since I last time went.” her eyes fell downcast for a brief second before flickering back up to you, the cheerfulness returning. “But you? I don’t think I’ve seen you about, and I know most of the people in this strange quaint town.”

You grinned, telling her your name and what you were: a hunter who travelled around looking for jobs whenever they came. Jobs were usually driving something out that had been putrefying in the lands, stripping farmer’s crops and livestock, some more minor compared to others, but this one you had encountered outside of Briar was certainly a bigger pain than you had realised.

Daelora gave a charmed look, “Ah, a huntress you are! I was quite shocked to see you first time at my doorstep, it looked as if the Stranger had brought you in just for the sake of keeping alive, not yet ready for you to leave.” She handed you a steamy cup of what you could only describe as tea. “You were very lucky to reach me in time.”

“I guessed there would be a healer closer by in this town, but I had no guess they would be so marvellous in treating me.” Your words had left your mouth before you had time to digest them nor realise what you had said aloud.

Your eyes nervously flittered up to her face, not expecting how she would react. In front of you, Daelora gave a shy smile, the sides of her cheekbones reddening with noticeable rouge. 

“You are too kind, dear. Normally, I have had customers come for specific medications or salves, but never anything so bad as your condition. There had only been one time... a long time ago, but there's had honestly looked more perilous.”

You smiled, relieved to say the least. “That relieves me... erm, I assume you would want me to leave as soon as?”

She interrupted, planting a gentle hand on your shoulder, saying your name in the sweetest voice. “Please, you can stay as long as you need to before you heal fully. You are welcomed here for as long as you need.” Her eyes were so pretty, like glowing gemstones. 

It didn’t take much to agree, and for the next few weeks, you stayed until you had healed fully, then taking it as a decision to go and see if Briar needed any more assistance with jobs once you had been able to stand.

It had been a month since staying in Briar, and you had been returning from a job that consisted of you being out in the freezing cold. Apparently, a dryder had made a nest nearby, and it was stealing sheep, so you had to get rid of the pest.

The rain was pouring heavy as you returned through the gates on Cedar, like a familiar moment that passed, one that could’ve ended very badly.

You arrived, putting Cedar to rest for the rest of the evening as you knocked twice, a pregnant pause to wait before the door opened, and awaiting Daelora waiting for your return with a bright grin.

“My dear, you’re back! And just in time, I made you some supper and apricot tea.” she took you enthusiastically by the hand inside, bringing you into the warmth of her home as you shed off your heavy coat, armour and boots, and meeting her at the furnace to eat dinner. Times like these, you enjoyed, sitting and eating by the fire, keeping warm and enjoying each other’s companies.

The two of you sat in quietness for some time, just enjoying each other’s company and warmth, watching the flames flicker up from the logs; dancing in the hearth. When you glanced to look at Daelora, she was already looking at you, a soft smile on her face, her dark eyes glinting and reflecting the flames in her irises.

“Dear, I had a question to ask you... one that I should’ve asked a month ago,” Daelora spoke softly, bringing your attention to look fully at her, having her undivided attention. She looked to you with woeful eyes, almost debating whether to tell you or not.

“When you came to me that day injured, and you were unconscious during those three days, you were... talking a lot in your dreams, and you were telling someone to stop, begging them to stop whatever horrifying thing they were doing to you.”

Your heart stopped, ribs aching with the knowledge of what she was talking about, and as much as it pained you to think about it all, you knew what you had to do. “Before I became a hunter, I used to live with my mother, before I was... sold into training, and made stronger through modifications, to help me combat monsters. I cannot explain the pain of it all, but it was truly the experience I could never forget.” You looked downcast to stare into the fire. “They made me a monster, Daelora. And what could be more monstrous than I?”

“I would have to disagree, you're no monster to me.” Daelora softly took your hand, tenderly squeezing them. “I may have noticed that you were much more powerful than any other human. Your pulse is extremely slow compared to any mortal, but I knew that there was something in you that helped you to survive, and make you strong.”

When you looked to her, her cheeks were darkened with a blush. She gave you a loving tender look. “There is something about you that I like a lot. You are brave, courageous and powerful, but kind, caring and sympathetic. You risk your own life to fight for strangers in a town you never lived in.”

“W-What are you trying to say, Daelora?” You unintentionally leant in closer to her, enjoying the smell of pine and lemon that filled your nostrils. It was fruity and soft, like her. Daelora gave a sheepish giggle. “I guess you could say I like you a lot.”

“I... I like you too, a lot.” You confessed, and neither one of you at first moved nor did anything for your mind was racing with wanting to just press your lips to hers. 

And so you did. You were inches from her face already, and you brought your fingers to lace in her unbraided hair, stroking her soft skin as you pressed your warm lips against her soft ones. You were overwhelmed with the feeling wanted, loved and cherished, and being in Daelora’s arms made you feel you wanted to be with her for as long as possible.

You both finally pulled away, chuckling clumsily and giving small kisses to one another for the rest of the evening. “You won’t be leaving Briar, will you, dear?”

“No, and besides,” you smiled fondly, pulling her into your arms to cuddle, “I’ve got everything I want right here.”

[amphtaminedreams]

The Eras of Lana Del Rey: Lookbook no.9

Hi to anyone reading,

Hope you’re okay! AND that you didn’t end up here because you searched the Lana Del Rey tag so you could see people ranting about her-you’re about to be very disappointed. Sorry. This is not about to be some Question for the Culture discourse because the world is bleak enough right now and the last thing we all need is to be reminded of that saga. 

Being a Lana Del Rey fan is easy, they said. She’s not a controversial artist, they said. And yet 2020 had to do what it does best and fuck everything up. 

Whether people like her or not, it’s made me so angry reading all the abuse she’s been getting about her appearance for the last couple of weeks, because I really thought that if we could agree on anything it was that attacking individuals for the way they look because you dislike something they’ve done (with the exception of shit like racist tattoos and blackfishing) is, you know, awful and judgemental as fuck? Like you do realise when you treat the word fat as a pejorative that the fat people you don’t have a problem with understood that you meant it as an insult too? I think what all those people tweeting about Lana’s weight, and that includes some of her fans, are forgetting is that she was in her early 20s when she was thrust into the limelight. As much as there’s this conspiracy that her dad bought her a career in the music industry, she’d made the decision to go it alone and had lived in a trailer park as a struggling musician for years. On top of that, we have the unreleased tracks with lyrics seemingly referencing an eating disorder in her younger years. OF COURSE her body is going to look different. Why is it that we treat weight gain as an inherently bad thing without any insight into the other factors that constitute a person’s “health”? It’s fucking insane that so many feel they have the right to comment on other’s bodies in the first place and it breaks my heart that she might be reading these comments. This wasn’t intended to necessarily be a rant about how much I love this woman but all the shit I’ve read about her on the internet these past few months have pushed me to it. You'll respect your queen of alternative music or I shall stan twice as hard on your behalf. You can thank me later when you come to your senses xoxo

I’d love to say it was intentional that I finally finished this post the week Violet Bent Backwards Over the Grass was released but that would imply I have my shit way more together than I actually do. If I’m being completely honest, I’ve only heard L.A Who am I to Love You so far 1). because I want to wait for the hard copy for the rest and that doesn’t turn up til September and 2). because I do not have my shit together, lol. That being said, there is no doubt in my mind that I am going to love it-one thing I have always loved about Lana’s lyrics is how well they paint a picture and this is something that poetry only more freely allows for the exploration of. That ability to create such a strong narrative voice and atmosphere is a talent that extends to her visuals and the production of her records too, and is something I really missed when it comes to the Norman Fucking Rockwell era. I’m just going to say it: a strong aesthetic is to NFR as memorable songs are to Lust for Life. Lacking. Am I allowed to say that as a fan? The collaborations don’t do it for me, okay, and as as NFR is concerned, aside from The Greatest/Fuck It I Love You video which went down the whole neon surfer girl route, it’s hard to identify a cohesive theme. It’s understandable that at this point, she would want to just focus purely on the music, and it goes without saying that NFR will stand the test of time in that regard but I don’t think we can deny that when people think of Lana in the future, it’s not gonna be a green windbreaker that comes into their heads.

^Illustration credit to Filip Kozak (https://filipkozaksart.tumblr.com/?fbclid=IwAR3vwLX2pNxoFNhTPD1ky14LllPqlLtL1GxGlD79xuHxdtzcHLw-6aNBZWo)

And here’s where this Filip Kozak illustration comes into it; after years of it sitting in my camera roll for years, it finally has a use. There’s really nothing better to illustrate how mundane life has become this year than the disproportionate level of excitement my photo-hoarding-self experienced realising it would fit perfectly into this post and is thus eligible for deletion. Up there with being able to fit a whole box of biscuits onto the shelf at work rather than having to individually take out as many as I can and then shove them on top of the existing box of biscuits one by one. Truly riveting content on this Tumblr page. Back to the point-by using this as my stimulus for the post rather than the Lana Del Rey albums as outfits tag that went round on Twitter, I can conveniently exclude NFR as an outfit inspiration category, and that saves me from having to buy a charity shop windbreaker with its price bumped up 150% by some upper middle class Depop e-girl or boy who uses the word peng as a descriptor like it’s a nervous tic. To make up for leaving out NFR, I’ve tried to branch out a bit and do the outfits not just based on the music videos or album covers but also from street style and stage looks and photoshoots from around the same period too. It was hard not to be influenced by the general “vibe” and sound of the albums either when I was planning outfits, whether it’s the grand, orchestral instrumentals of Born to Die or the 70s psychedelic rock inspired riffs of Ultraviolence and hopefully that’ll show as well! Enjoy:D

Born to Die (Release Date: 27th January 2012)

It’s been 8 years, and when you ask most people what they think of when they hear the name Lana Del Rey, they’ll probably dismiss her as the one who sings about being sad and doing coke and sleeping with older men. That’s the Born to Die impact. Say what you want but it’s one of only a handful of albums released by a female artist to have spent more than 300 weeks on the Billboard 200 chart and it really established the mythos of “Lana Del Rey” because before all this, before all the think pieces from other women claiming she’d set feminism back hundreds of years with her music, before she ousted grayscale Effy Stonem as the queen of angsty teen Tumblr (which as you can probably guess was a subsection of the internet I was very much engulfed by, lmao), she was just Lizzie Grant, a relatively normal aspiring singer songwriter in her early twenties. But as Lana Del Rey, she was someone else-some beautiful, mystical being that personified the sentiment of being born in the wrong era. Whilst every other singer’s record labels seemed to be trying desperately to thrust them into the future and keep them on top of all the musical and stylistic trends, it was refreshing to hear someone whose music and visuals captured all the most glamorous elements of the past. Part Priscilla Presley/Jackie O reincarnation (the National Anthem video really illustrated how Lana is just as much a storyteller as she is a musician), part high level mobster’s wayward wife à la Michelle Pfeiffer in Scarface, she was the good girl by day and the bad girl by night, and I think that’s a duality we can all relate to or would like to think we’re interesting enough to relate to deep down.

Her style from around this period was EVERYTHING. She had those grungy Tumblr girl elements, the camo jacket and the oversized pieces and the leather jackets, but she also heavily drew on the styles and silhouettes of the 50s and 60s with the beehives and the new look Dior inspired cinched waist dresses. Even now in 2020, I think this period is what most people would think if they were asked to describe Lana’s style. I made sure I got the grungy pieces in there with the chunky boots and the vinyl and the oversized leather but the foundation of her looks back then were usually these daintier throwback pieces like the white silk dress and the corset and the mint fur trimmed coat (House of Sunny’s Penny Pistachio coat).

Favourite lyrics from the album? “Now my life is sweet like cinnamon, like a fucking dream I'm living in” from Radio. Nobody asked but I’m gonna give it to you anyway.

Born to Die: The Paradise Edition (Release Date: 9th November 2012)

Lana’s Paradise EP contains probably my absolute favourite song of her’s, Ride, and with that, the beautiful opening monologue that will stay in my mind forever. This era was of course ushered in by Tropico, the short film that included the premiere of the songs Bel Air, Body Electric and Gods and Monsters, which established the ethereal tone of this period-it’s in the name, after all. Both the album and the videos were other-worldly and leaned heavily on religious symbolism which I’m sure pissed off many a middle-aged bible basher at the time. Most prominent in her lyrics were reflections on the freedom of the open road which corresponded with visuals of biker gangs and desert dwellers and modern interpretations of the Wild West, as was an attempt to capture the nature of the so-called “American spirit” which as Lana portrayed it shared more qualities with a kind of celestial, transient being than any kind of solid concept or identity. She played an emotionally detached stripper and a haunted saloon-style-bar singer (almost looking like a runaway bride) and Eve the “first woman” all in the same album and honestly, if that’s not iconic, I don’t know what is. We saw SO many incredible red carpet looks in this period too which built upon this idea of her as the fallen angel tempted by original sin that Tropico established; I feel like this era was all about laying bare the soul of the character she played, this broken, delicate but ultimately liberated being that was so dangerous to the idea of the strong, stable modern feminist ideal. She went about it in COMPLETELY the wrong way in a post that betrayed the ignorance of the privilege she has as a white female performer, but I think this is what she was getting at in it and Ultraviolence only went on to bolster her critics.

In response to the criticism she still receives about the choice to wear a Native American war bonnet in her Ride music video, I’d like to say that it really seems like she’s learnt from that-actions speak louder than words and so though it’s not my place to say whether this makes up for that error, the work she’s done with Native American reparations-focussed foundations since and the money she’s donated to the cause says a lot about her intentions. Again, I want to stress that it’s not my place to say! But it’s a detail that is often overlooked so I thought I’d mention it here. 

“I was a singer, not a very popular one. I once had dreams of becoming a beautiful poet. But upon an unfortunate series of events saw those dreams dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky, that I wished on over and over again, sparkling and broken. But I didn’t really mind because I knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted and then losing it to know what true freedom is.”

Ultraviolence (Release Date: 13th June 2014)

AH, Ultraviolence. My favourite of Lana’s albums and imo, a masterpiece. ONE skip. ONE. Sorry Guns and Roses. I got stoned in my back garden and listened to this (for research purposes ofc, heh) and ended up deciding that this is what I want to listen to when I die (also whilst stoned). It sounds dramatic but listening to this album in that state of mind is such a heavenly experience that I’d be too zen to notice myself slipping away into nothingness on the basis that if I didn’t as long as I could stay in that bubble of awe, nothingness forever wouldn’t be so scary after all. I know, I know, that sentence has big Jaden Smith’s old tweets energy. But if an album is what helps me get over an existential crisis, I beg you allow me the nonsensical ramblings about how I felt like I was ascending into the stars.

Though in terms of the lyrical content the public perception is probably correct, I think the reputation Ultraviolence has as Lana’s darkest, most gothic album (which is something I’ve in incorporated into the outfits I put together) is mistaken; instrumentally and visually it drew more on 70s psychedelic rock and the bohemian counter culture of the period than anything, and her stage looks are a clear reflection of that, and also the outfits I was most excited to channel. It seems counter-intuitive to the moody atmosphere I associate the tracklist with but it’s my go-to summer album; it’s raw (probably her most stripped back work along with NFR, lots of the songs are barely edited) and it’s gloomy but let’s be real, hot as fuck-don’t bother making a sex playlist, just put Ultraviolence on shuffle, and you’re good to go. This was the album where Lana debuted some of her most criticised lyrics and where the notion that she glamourises abuse comes from, one of the points she also seemed to be getting at in the Instagram post, but imo it’s fair to say that she sang truthfully about the initial allure of a dangerous relationship and the nature of the mindset that facilitates staying with somebody poisonous where you do feel like you’re nothing without them. Turning horrific experiences into romantic tragedies is how Lana has always made her music and yeah, out of context there are some fucked up lyrics on the album, but policing how a woman expresses her trauma and complaining that she glorifies weakness because she wrote honestly about the reality of a complicated partnership is hardly any more “feminist” than the lyrics themselves. I can only guess that the reason Lana felt the need to bring up this criticism in 2020 is because these darker themes are going to be revisited in her upcoming album and that in spite of the issues with the way she expressed herself, this time critics will be more accepting of how she chooses to address these themes. 

On a lighter note “yeah my boyfriend's pretty cool, but he's not as cool as me” will always be a great line. Simple but effective. If my boyfriend ever is cooler than me it’ll be doing Lana a disservice.

Honeymoon (Release Date: 18th September 2015)

Considering that a lot of other Lana fans are of the opinion that this is her best album, I find it weird that I really don’t remember all that much about this period, other than High by the Beach being released and then hearing Salvatore and Freak for the first time. I guess because she didn’t do a Honeymoon specific tour and didn’t make that many public appearances in this period? It was definitely harder for me to find visual reference points beyond the HbtB music video and the cover art, so I mostly drew on the general vibe of the album, a cinematic accompaniment to a summer in Italy or the South of France, filled with exotic instrumentals and the sense of impending romantic doom that Lana does so well. I suppose if I associate the visuals of this era with anything it’s idyllic florals and warm tones, bygone country club pool days, a rich American’s vacation in Southern Europe, long walks on the beach (and as our Lord and Saviour Jujubee once said, big dicks and fried chicken). Apparently inspired by Lana’s relationship with Francesco Carrozini, it’s a hazy story of some ultra-feminine, submissive archetype becoming unhealthily enchanted by a mysterious “foreign man” who’s ultimately not all that good for her, which as the story goes turned out to be quite prophetic. Going against the grain, it’s my least favourite of her albums after Lust for Life, but in spite of that, I will always remember how obsessed I was with the sax riffs (I think? I don’t know my instruments all that well so forgive me, lol) on Freak and I definitely understand why it’s a firm favourite for so many.

“You could be a bad motherfucker, but that don’t make you a man.” was truly a cultural reset of a line.

-on an unrelated note, OMG, I never realised how I have my mouth open in literally every fucking photo I take, somebody tell me how to pose, please and thank you-

Lust for Life (Release Date: 21 July 2017)

Lust for Life is a controversial one. On the one hand, I appreciate that this album was the victory cry of a happier, more independent, politically-aware Lana in spite of it apparently being a far more optimistic sounding album than the one she wanted to release, but on the other there were way too many collaborations for me and this meant that the album lacked a sense of cohesion and the characteristic narrative thread that usually runs throughout her tracklist. Aside from Love, Cherry, Get Free and Tomorrow Never Came, most of the songs on the album aren’t hugely memorable and it’s a crying shame that a collaboration with STEVIE FUCKING NICKS of all people left so much to be desired. Coming from two witchy icons, I expected something absolutely magical so maybe I was setting myself up for failure, but come on. We could’ve had a real anthem there.

Aesthetically speaking however, this is one of my favourite eras for Lana, which is unsurprising when you consider the tracklist contains references to both Woodstock and Coachella. I’m not gonna lie, I think seeing Coachella fashion in my early teens was my style awakening-I remember seeing Vanessa Hudgens’ outfits and being like, wow, I want to be her (oh, what a fall from grace)-so the late 60s/early 70s flower power groupie style Lana adopted in this period really spoke to me. It was all long hair and dreamy pastels, and this era included some of the most head-to-toe coordinated looks we’ve ever seen from her. Of course I couldn’t completely abandon the grungy touches that I love, that I tend to associate with the early Lana street style days and the Paradise and Ultraviolence music videos rather than with this album, but I’m never gonna pass up an opportunity to whack out a good floral two piece and putting together Lust for Life inspired looks is the perfect excuse to do that.

So, that marks the end of this post! If you made it to the end, thank you so much for reading! I have a Yesstyle lookbook and review to edit but now that I’ve finished that, I’m trying to go down more of a style inspiration focussed  route with my lookbooks rather than just putting together outfits from clothes I’ve just bought (though I might still do one every so often to bring in a new season-let’s just ignore the fact that they’re all blending into one bc climate change for now, one catastrophe at a time please universe). I find that if you have a specific idea in mind of what you want, it’s super easy to find something similar on Depop and Ebay and that way you avoid buying new things and also take old things off a person’s hands that might otherwise end up being thrown out by a charity shop and then dumped into a landfill from there. Something I’d LOVE to do before this year is out is put together a lookbook based on the most stylish TV shows of the last decade, but that probably won’t be for a while-even so, if you have any recommendations of series to watch which could fit into this category, let me know! 

To finish, I need to go a little bit off-topic so forgive me, but I truly don’t know why this even needs to be said: WEAR A FUCKING MASK. IT IS NOT A POLITICAL ISSUE. IT IS A BASIC HYGIENIC PRACTICE THAT HELPS SPREAD THE STOP OF A HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS DISEASE! RUDIMENTAL SCIENCE! NOT A CHANCE TO PROVE HOW “EDGY” YOU ARE! SERIOUSLY, STOP MAKING A FUCKING PANDEMIC ABOUT YOURSELF! NOBODY ENJOYS WEARING THEM BUT THEY HELP PROTECT OTHERS! SO UNLESS YOU HAVE A VALID MEDICAL REASON NOT TO BE WEARING ONE, DON’T BE A SELFISH PRICK! 

Sorry to sign off on a rant-y note with something that has nothing to do with Lana, lol, but all the stupidity has been grinding me gears lately and I had to let it out on behalf of all retail workers: if we can wear a mask for 9 hours at a time, YOU can tolerate the mild discomfort of wearing one for 10 minutes. I know this doesn’t apply to the majority of people but there’s always a couple of arseholes, isn’t there!?

Stay safe,

Lauren x

[paullicino]

A Year like No Other

(Taken from, and funded by, my Patreon.)

A lot of people are now calling 2020 the lost year and it’s not difficult to see why. Most of us have never had a year remotely like this last one. For some of us, the calendar began to blur, weeks and even months merging into one another in a sickly, uneasy timelessness that had us double-checking what day it was. For others, there was stress after stress, as we worried about our health, our jobs, our governments, even our countries. And the two experiences certainly weren’t mutually exclusive.

This month, I wanted to take a moment to reflect on that, acknowledging both the struggles and the successes. It’s sometimes been a difficult twelve months for me, but it certainly hasn’t been without its inspirations and its wonderful moments. I wanted to share some of those, to talk about a few ideas and to spotlight the things that helped me through 2020. I hope it helps. I figure it’s as good a time as any for us to be sharing our blessings.

And I think that first involves celebrating you. I think that’s very important. This past month, a year on from the first COVID cases being widely-reported (and also the first reports of cases where I live), I’ve read a lot by people asking questions like “What difference does it all make?” or “What is the point?” when they look back. They ask these questions when they think about things like their life changes, their mask wearing, their activism or their voting. They see an ongoing pandemic, social unrest or political inaction and wonder why they should make an effort while others are lax or apathetic. It’s natural to wonder that. I think anyone can understand the fatigue, the cynicism and the disillusionment.

But I also, get this, have a Hot Take on this that says that the choices you made were vital. When you chose to wear a mask, to socially distance, to restrict when and where you went, you actively helped fight a deadly virus. You may well have saved lives, saved someone’s health, protected livelihoods by acting as you have. When you voted, shared a cause on social media, attended a protest or talked to even one person about helping others or making the world better, you contributed to improving your society.

In fact, I have capital-O Opinions about these things so strap in and hold on, 'cause here they come.

I’ve been very fortunate to share much of my work on the internet over the years, which is a very particular medium, and sometimes that work reaches a lot of people. My experience of this is that you never know who it truly reaches, or when, or even how, and most of the time you never find out. There’s certainly an immediacy to things where you can see, pretty quickly, what the instant reaction to something is, but that’s fleeting. It doesn’t last and, within moments, there’s already something newer demanding more responses.

In time, the true consequences of things shake out. People get back to you with their more considered opinions. Sometimes months, even years after you do something, you find out from someone what they thought about it, how it affected them or even how they were changed. It can take time for a person to realise how they were changed, too, and we rarely have perspective in the moment. Sometimes it takes us years to appreciate the choices and the actions of our friends, our family members, our teachers, our communities. People have contacted me about work I’ve done long, long after I first shared it, and many of those people have come from places that I never expected, have found my work in ways that I never expected. I think, now, that consequence never travels in straight lines. That cause and effect are strangers rather than siblings.

And so I hope it’s clear that the ramble you have so kindly indulged is meant to say that we don’t always notice the good things that we have done. We ask “What difference does it all make?” or “What is the point?” because we don’t get those answers immediately, or for a long time, or sometimes ever. But not knowing when we saved someone’s health, when we changed someone’s mind, even when we inspired someone’s actions doesn’t mean that we aren’t making a difference. There is a point to our life changes, our mask wearing, our activism and our voting.

I hope you can celebrate yourself and give yourself credit for the choices you made this last year. They have mattered.

I also want to thank you so, so much for supporting my Patreon. I know many of you have been with me since day one, for more than two years now, and I’m so grateful for both your capital-P Patronage and your presence, whether that’s in our Discord community or through your comments and your correspondence. That’s made a big difference to me this past year, helping me pay rent and put food on the table during a time when so much has been uncertain. 2020 was to be my first full year back in Canada after a complicated, circuitous absence and I had half-finished projects, freelance ideas and half a dozen tabs open in my browser with writing residencies to apply for, everywhere from nearby Richmond to the Yukon Territory. I hoped this would be a year that I’d both finally see more of Canada and be able to write about it, too. A lot of things didn’t quite work out, freelance budgets were slashed, work timelines lengthened and I became ill, but as I look back now I’m thankful for a great deal.

I still managed to fulfill some ambitions. At the start of 2020 I’d been finishing up some work on Zafir, which had been an absolute delight, and I was not far off starting spring work on Magical Kitties Save the Day. The close of the year saw me resuming work on a Feng Shui expansion and each of these projects has been really good for me. All of them gave me a chance to work with skillful, progressive people and to become a better designer.

As spring continued, I decided to make a one-off video about board gaming and mental health during a pandemic, partly to offer a practical and helpful introduction to playing board games online and looking after yourself, but also because I wanted people to feel that their actions during a pandemic mattered. Among the things I referenced and linked to, I’ve continued dipping into Headspace from time to time, and this helpful list of brief work-from-home tips has been further updated. I’ve also since further investigated the terrific work of Dr. Ali Mattu, a psychologist and therapist who has produced a lot of material over the last year focusing on how to handle the pandemic.

With the summer came widespread protests across the United States, which highlighted the oppressive and fatal consequences of systemic racism and the urgent need for police reform, both issues not exclusive to the that country (for me, the events echoed the protests that began on my Tottenham street in  2011 and the violent response to 2010’s student protests). I shared a list of resources that I thought were important at the time, but there also followed a wide call for white people to make more effort to both seek out, engage with and promote motion pictures made by Black Americans, or which reflected the Black experience. It wasn’t a big ask and, as well as watching films that had been recommended many times over (such as Us, Da 5 Bloods, The Last Black Man in San Francisco and the excellent BlacKkKlansman, which was the best film I saw last year), I also tried to diversify my social media feeds more. Instagram was host to a growing discussion about how the platform seems to (deliberately or accidentally) divide people by race, something which I think may still be the case, and several nature photographers I follow promoted Tsalani Lassiter and Rae Wynn-Grant. To my delight, among many of the things they speak about and share, both are experts on bears.

I thought it was important to look more closely at Canada, too, so I made more of an effort to follow Indigenous issues and have begun reading Indigenous news sources, including First Nations Drum, Windspeaker and the Nunatsiaq News. CBC runs its own Indigenous news section, much of which is written by Indigenous reporters.A lot of freelance and writing opportunities dried up as the pandemic contracted the world’s economies, but in 2020 I was able to start writing for VICE, working with my old colleague and friend Rob Zacny, and interview the world’s most famous board game designer. VICE has written a lot of relevant, helpful and informative material about current events over the last year and I was heartened by the words of a fellow VICE writer, Gita Jackson, who concluded her essay about living in The Cool Zone of historical possibility by reminding us how “In The Cool Zone, we can also rediscover hope.”

This year I was also inspired by Faith Fundal’s widely-shared CBC podcast They and Us, which was an excellent (and still rare) example of a mainstream media exploration of gender identity and trans rights, and really pleased for my friend Brendan, who launched his podcast project Hey, Lesson! in the autumn. Of course, I can’t mention podcasts without again reminding you of my love for the spooky, supernatural Death by Monsters, which I got to host last winter. It was my dear friend Paula, one of its presenters, who recommended that I start streaming regularly, something I now do here. She was absolutely right when she talked about how positive and social an experience it can be. It’s been a real joy, as well as added some important structure and schedule to my week.

And, of course, the arrival of my first full year as a Canadian resident meant that I got to celebrate my first anniversary as a Canadian resident. I paid my taxes! Let me tell you, it was a slightly confusing and esoteric experience, but it was also one of those mundane, humdrum things that confirms and validates you. Though I didn’t get to throw a party for that anniversary, I did get to enjoy my birthday celebrations before the pandemic really hit. My partner surprised me with a trip to the not-quite-remote-but-definitely-secluded Gibsons, on the quiet British Columbia coastline, which was the best birthday gift anyone’s ever given me and a chance to see more of the rocky, forested, mountainous fringes of a place I’ve fallen so in love with. Before Vancouver closed down, I was also able to collect more than a dozen people (representing five different nationalities!) together in a brewery and then a restaurant, something that now feels like an extremely alien concept. For some of us in our friend group, it’s the last memory we have of coming together and being in the same space. That gives it a pronounced poignancy, a bittersweet quality.

Finally, I’d like to share two more things with you. The first is particularly peculiar and personal: I found my wizard. After drafting this piece last summer, then sharing it in the autumn, a few suggestions led me not straight to my goal, but ultimately down the right path. The game that I was thinking of is called The Tomb of Drewan and I very much doubt that anyone, anywhere is likely to have heard of it. It’s thirty-nine years old this year and it was distributed by a publisher in Berkshire, not so far from where I grew up. It only took me three and a half decades to see what it looks like in colour.

Tracking down this game was a softly satisfying experience. It’s exactly as I remember. Everything makes sense. Reading through the manual reminds me of how difficult it was to try and understand this thing through a monochrome monitor, though I also think it was likely way too complex for the child I was. I don’t think I ever got anywhere. I don’t think I ever could have. But I at least know that my memory has served me well. That wizard was as real as could be.

The second thing is something about my own missing year, something that has also resurfaced in my memory as we’ve plodded through 2020. In the long, dark winter months, in the unstructured days and the collapsing weeks, I’ve been transported back to the early 2000s and to a time that now feels very familiar. Here's what that was like.

I’d been writing professionally for a few years, comfortably and competently, while still living in suburban Hampshire. As publishing moved from magazines to the internet, my work began to dry up, my options narrowed and, honestly, I didn’t respond to this shift by producing my best material. I also didn’t know what to do about all this change, becoming directionless and unsure. I didn’t yet have the confidence to take some of the larger steps that I eventually did and, instead, somewhere in all that I began to move backward. I struggled to find work. I slept the strangest hours. I was frustrated, but it also didn’t matter nearly enough to me because also, I was no longer motivated.

I have memories of waking up at all kinds of times of day and night. Of not knowing where to go. Of running out of things to take photographs of, after looking at the same local sights over and over. It was like living at the bottom of a well, with a tiny, distant view of the world and no handholds for climbing out. I wasted time because I had time to waste, something I deeply regret now, and I became crabby, unhealthy and inward-looking. I was far from my best.

The last time I was in England I found myself going through old things from the early 2000s. I found many of the books I read, a great deal of writing I’d done and, in particular, a lot of my old RPG notes. A lot of old RPG notes, an absolute wealth of work that far exceeded anything I’d done outside of any work except that on Paranoia. I’ve written before about my roleplaying past and how I have fond memories of it, but I had completely forgotten exactly how much material I had collected together. I had so many biographies that I’d indexed them. I was starting to form an encyclopedia of everything I’d done, just so that I could find and reference the things I needed.

I had also read so much, which both prepared me for my degree and began to make me a better writer. I’d mostly stopped reading in my mid-teens and this was a new spurt of interest that led me toward many of the tastes and preferences I have today. I began to develop my fiction and non-fiction writing styles and I developed an interest in non-fiction that had paid me back a thousandfold.

I was building a new me.

I see now that I didn’t lose a year. I was certainly caught in a swamp of sorts, struggling to make progress, but the experiences I had during that time still mattered. They didn’t matter right away and they didn’t matter in any way that seemed at all obvious to me at the time, but they helped to shape me and to guide me, to show me both what I wanted and, certainly, what I didn’t want. If I had the chance to repeat it, I’d for sure live that missing year differently. I’d live it so much better, so much wiser and so much more fruitfully, but I can at least see it now as not the waste I long thought that it was.

And so I hope it’s clear that the ramble you have so kindly indulged is meant to say that, some time in the future, you may look back on 2020 and find your successes, your satisfaction, even your strength. I don’t mean to disregard anyone’s suffering or sadness, your feelings are valid and the pain, loss and difficulties you’ve encountered are very real. I don’t much like people who dismiss the feelings of others and I apologise if I’ve been too glib. I think a past version of myself needed to read something like this, a long time ago, and I only want to give them, you or anyone who might see this, hope for the future, a few reasons to be optimistic and, very importantly, a reminder to celebrate yourself.

Happy 2021. You made a difference. You always have.

[invisibleicewands]

Michael Sheen (old) interview

He’s played the prime minister and the messiah – now Michael Sheen is plumbing the psyche of the original man in black. Caroline McGinn asks him about the dark side.                                                                                  

It’s been a big year for Michael Sheen. A lifechanger, in fact. The   42-year-old actor is widely admired for his uncanny ability to play   real-life characters: a Bambi-ish Tony Blair in a trilogy of films that   included ‘The Queen’; David Frost for Peter Morgan’s play-turned-movie   ‘Frost/Nixon’; and most recently, a demon-ridden Brian Clough in ‘The   Damned United’. But no previous role has come close to the Christ-like   leader Sheen played in ‘The Passion’ in his South Wales home town this   Easter: an epic 72-hour piece of community theatre which ended in Sheen being crucified on a local roundabout.

‘The Passion’, a local take on the Gospel commissioned by the storming new National Theatre of Wales, was more than just a play. It was a collective story that Sheen probably couldn’t have told anywhere but in Port Talbot, a town divided by the roaring M4 and dominated by a giant steelworks that was once the largest employer in Wales; a place where churchgoing and storytelling are still alive. It’s also his parents’ home. Sheen was so moved that talking about it makes him choke up. ‘I did this seven-mile procession with the cross,’ he recalls, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘It was boiling hot. There were 12,000-15,000 people. And I was seeing these bare-chested tattooed blokes standing outside pubs with pints, with kids, with tears in their eyes going, “Go on, Michael, you can do it!” It’s quite rare to be in the middle of an experience knowing it is probably the most meaningful one I will ever have in my life. Something in me relaxed after that, I think. I could say, “If I died tomorrow, I did that.”’

Over a glass of red wine in the bar at the Young Vic, where he is about to play Hamlet, Sheen does seem completely relaxed: eager, open and very Welsh, with his squiggle of dark brown hair and his neat, expressive hands. He has a shapeshifter’s face: mobile, not memorable, too blurry and mercurial for a romantic lead. And it is a pleasure to hear his real voice: un-damned by Clough’s nasal, northern scorn or Blair’s prim inflections, it is a gloriously unstoppable lilting flow which seems, to my English ears, to come straight from the Valleys.

Sheen currently lives in LA to be close to his 12-year-old daughter with ex-partner Kate Beckinsale. He is an unlikely denizen of La La Land, with his bike helmet, his puppyish friendliness and his lack of pretensions. His spectacular return to his roots at Easter has, he says, redefined who he thinks he is, and what he wants to do with his work: something which he expresses in probably the longest sentence I’ve ever heard anyone deliver. ‘“The Passion” did for me what I hoped it could do for everyone in the town, potentially, which is to experience your life and your home in a different way, because I think there is a tendency – and I have it, and I notice other people have it too, probably everyone has it but certainly people who come from quite challenged areas – there’s a sense that your life is of no interest, that your story is mundane and there is no, for want of a better word, numinosity, no transcendence, and so to be able to tell a story about the biggest things there can probably be, a version of the “greatest story ever told” in the town that is seen to be the least likely town for that to happen in, then the people in that town, every time they go around that roundabout, which is many times, can go, “Not only is that where I get fish and chips, it’s also where the crucifixion happened,” and the everyday becomes transcendent – to something that is miraculous.’

Thanks to Sheen’s great-grandfather, street preaching runs in the family. But the starry-eyed idealism behind doing a passion play in Port Talbot, to reach thousands of people who would never set foot in a theatre, might easily have backfired. It was an unglamorous risk for a local bloke-turned-Hollywood big shot to take. You can’t imagine the area’s other famous filmmaking sons, ultra-cool customer Antony Hopkins or hard-living Richard Burton, pulling it off – though Burton did enjoy making a splash on the local beach with Liz Taylor and his private helicopter. ‘The Passion’ was supposed to shine a light on the miracle workers who do what Sheen calls the ‘unseemly’ work of care: for the old, the sick, the battered wives and the young offenders. For it to work, its makers had to gain the trust of the town.

‘After the Last Supper, when the Manics played, I was put on trial on the back of a truck and the crowd took over,’ he says. ‘It was at that moment I realised they understood it was their story. It was frightening and exhilarating. We didn’t know what was going to happen. Along the procession route people put photos of things they’d lost. Then, on the cross, I did a litany. Of things I remembered, or that I’d gathered from people, of people and places that don’t exist any more.’ It was Sheen’s epic personal connection to South Wales, where his dad once worked as a Jack Nicholson impersonator, and where his great-grandfather got rich when God told him to buy a tin mine. Sheen’s codirector Bill Mitchell and writer Owen Sheers spent a year getting stories from locals, and fed them into the piece. ‘I was just a participant: we all were,’ he says. ‘My mum and dad said a woman came to their house and told them I’d called her mother’s name when I was on the cross, and it had changed something for her. The need that drama first came from was community, witness, celebration and catharsis. We were trying to find a way for that to happen on a large scale.’

The Port Talbot ‘Passion’ has already gone down in theatre history. So where do you go after scaling the twin messianic peaks of Blair and Christ? Down into the doubt-ridden depths of Hamlet, naturally, the biggest role that a young (or young-ish in this case) actor can play. Judging by Sheen’s wordflow, those famous soliloquies won’t be a problem. After all, the actor made his name on stage: he won his first professional role at the Globe opposite Vanessa Redgrave in 1991 before he had graduated from Rada.

His CV is full of monster roles: Caligula, Peer Gynt, Amadeus (playing  Mozart was his break into Broadway in 1999). Clough, and even Blair and  Frost, creep into that list – though he’s obviously bored of talking  about the factional film roles that made him famous: ‘I’ve done  relatively few characters based on real people,’ he protests, just a  little bit too much. ‘I’ve been working on stage now for more years than  I care to mention.’

‘Project Hamlet’ has been on the cards for a while, but Sheen was waiting ‘for the right director and the right theatre’. Unlike recent celebrity Hamlets David Tennant and Jude Law, he didn’t want to do conventional West End Shakespeare, hence the Young Vic, with its younger, mixed audience and its imaginative approach, which includes – mysteriously – reconfiguring the playing space so that ‘Hamlet’ audiences must arrive 30 minutes early to take a ‘different route’ in. Sheen’s director of choice is Ian Rickson, the ex-Royal Court boss who has helped actors achieve career-defining roles (Kristin Scott-Thomas in ‘The Seagull’; Mark Rylance in ‘Jerusalem’). Hamlet tends to demand something very personal from actors: one reason why so many of them crack up over it, though Sheen seems remarkably unfurrowed by the prospect. ‘It is,’ he says, ‘good not to have to worry about people saying, “He doesn’t sound like Hamlet.” It’s me: I’m not doing a voice or playing a character, so to speak. It’ll sound like me and look like me, a bit of Welsh mixed with a bit of posh.’

Sheen sees ‘Hamlet’ as ‘like a portal. Or a living organism in some way. Other Shakespeare plays don’t have that quality of seeming to change. “Hamlet” works on you and sucks up everything you have. It’s a bit like looking into the abyss. What “Hamlet” makes everyone confront are all the things that are most frightening: irrationality, betrayal, madness and abandonment. It is very, very dark, and it dances along through that darkness.’

Sheen’s prince promises to be darker than most. Not just a mad Hamlet, but maybe even a bad Hamlet. ‘Me and Ian have taken a completely different approach,’ he explains. ‘The most interesting way to approach it is not to trust anything that Hamlet says, to assume that he’s an unreliable narrator. And once you do that, you realise how many assumptions there are about the play.’ Sheen cites Philip K Dick, David Lynch and Edgar Allan Poe as influences. The production will be set in a world ‘that feels as if we’re in some sort of institution’. Madness will be the keynote: ‘I discovered when working on it,’ says Sheen, ‘that it’s the first time anyone used the phrase “the mind’s eye”.’ Horatio says, “A mote it is, to trouble the mind’s eye.” Meaning a piece of grit. It sums up what I think the play is. It’s a bit of grit in the mind’s eye of the Western world. We’ve tried to expel it, by smoothing out its inconsistencies and by stopping it from being irritating. That’s a way to neutralise it and make it safer. But actually it’s the most dangerous of plays.’

Rickson and Sheen have found unorthodox inspiration in anti-psychiatrist RD Laing and G Wilson Knight, the twentieth century scholar who wrote an off-beam but brilliant essay on Hamlet, the ‘ambassador of death’ in the land of the living. ‘Laing said that if you take mad people on their own terms then maybe they’re just talking in a sort of heightened language about their lived experience,’ says Sheen. ‘And our take on “Hamlet” definitely questions the boundaries of what you would consider madness to be.’

So where do you go as an actor, after the heights of being crucified, and the depths of Hamlet’s psyche? ‘The answer to that is that I just don’t know,’ says Sheen. There are a couple of projects: Sheen says he was ‘roped in’ on a set visit to a new untitled film by cinema’s man of mystery, Terrence Malick, starring Sheen’s girlfriend and ‘Midnight in Paris’ co-star Rachel McAdams. And there’s also Wales-set thriller ‘Resistance’, out this month. But he has his heart set on directing a film about Edgar Allan Poe. ‘He was an extraordinary character. Very dark.’ The legacy of this life-changing year is a sharper, stronger passion for a live Welsh tradition: storytelling. ‘I just don’t know where you go after “The Passion” and “Hamlet”,’ says Sheen ‘But I do know that I want to tell stories that are powerful, that can reach people and equate to Greek theatre now. People still do need that. They respond to it. But you have to take risks to find them.’

(x)

[cavernovs]

FLESH & BLOOD.

Impromptu Self-Para, ft. @ilbuia​ Jakoris & Scarlett Davenport Manor, Basement.  Word Count: 2.5K + (Voluntary read)

Triggers: mutilation tw, violence tw, NSFW tw, blood and mild gore descriptions tw, toxicity tw.

Underneath flesh lies an infection; a virus formed of magic where dead cells suffer under its own insatiable desire to destroy. Endless it seems is the need where it demonstrates something more than an ordinary pestilence. Jakoris in chains; a method to disavow the spread of such a monster, stop it before it becomes all consuming and leaves only a shell of a beast; a creature that tears apart all in some prerequisite to devour. A virus that’s been reborn in a murderous form; reprograms the functions of the body to instead kill itself and behind it leaves more than apoptosis; a being that cannot be killed by the most mundane forms; The Ripper. The Davenport’s danger to himself and those around him, profound. He knows why he’s there, bound like an animal. The darkness doesn’t hide the man from his own histories, a basement a little too familiar, though, a voraciousness he’s never quite known before.

Never known before powerful magics invaded him at the hands of the High Sage. A replay of memories roll; it’s all he can do in such restrictions, think about his complete loss of control; consider the attack he posed upon his return; the ones he left in pieces on the streets, unrecognisable appendages discarded like rotten meat. It still hadn’t been enough, the nails that rake down his throat, leave ghostly punctures from within. If only there to encourage the Davenport to release all tendrils of whatever is left of him to retain.

The chains rattle when he shifts, a penetrating sound of the door creaking at the other end of the room. Leaves him with the aide-mémoire of why he has to be there; slumped like a lost warrior against the basement wall. Doesn’t stop the predatory eyes from finding the form that obscures the artificial light broken in from the open doorway. Streams in and causes the vampire to squint at the new presence.

SJ’s the last of all his figurations; he knows what he did to her, recalls that vicious attack as if it were only minutes ago. Understands that whilst he’s unforgiving in what he did; it’s a foolish move to send the little vamp in a room with him. Shadows from lack of light cast over the man and strange shapes made clear only by the way fangs glint of the new beams of light; faux and make evident the bloodstains that deface clothes. Soaked is the cotton on his torso, stained deep with a maroon where it’s dried and left him sticky; a discomfort that’s nothing in comparison to the urge that brings him to want to lunge at Scar. Binds the hinderance even an off-kilter man recognises wouldn’t break no matter how strong he thinks he is in that moment.

He doesn’t want her there. Prefers the solace of isolation, at least removes the temptation from being there just out of reach. Like dangling something sweet in front of him and refusing to let him have it, because even if Jack’s aware no matter what he chases he cannot stop the magic the High Sage has riddled deep into his core, she’s better than nothing at all.

It’s formed of desire that way Jakoris is on his feet again, teeth bared at the woman who’s made clear in teasing words that she’s there to play babysitter. An irony where she’s a child herself.

Well, I certainly never thought babysitting you would be on my list of duties.

“Then cross it off and get out,”

That’s how it started, rousing one another; venom so harsh that becomes a contradiction to itself. Jack’s mind doesn’t have the niggle that tells him, stop, the whisper in his mind that’s usually the level on his control, the one that wills him to remain in power. It’s hidden in everything he says, until she kept pushing. Maintains her distance against the man contained, stays aware where most might not – doesn’t let him take her so easily.

But she does let him, eventually.

One broken neck later and a darkening mind that can silver-tongue the manipulator.

She even changed his clothes whilst he slept.

“Enjoying the view now? How kind of you to leave me with some dignity,”

I much preferred the view without them, but I figured I’d play nice.

“Why’d you put them back on then?”

I shouldn’t have.

Words the weapons that clawed hands cannot be when steel grows tighter around Jack’s wrists; a captive in his own home, mercilessly taunted; teased by a woman he’s got no interest in. Only works to grind the cogs in his mind, she never gave him a shirt back in his impromptu defeat and the dark red smears that are sunken into his skin bury in the crevasses of his stomach discolour him like he might never get the crimson off. He deserves everything he gets. Even in the twisted mind of the Ripper, he wonders if she’s there because of what he did; an interest that’s formed of something primitive; an object of desire neither knew of. Jack’s tongue still picks up on the remnants of her blood; craves anything that might offer a reprise from the agony that the virulent parasite reaps on his body. Saps all the energy from him. Only knows to retrieve it from anything that teeth can bury in, that he can entomb himself in; she’s got all of that in front of him.

And he’s never considered Scarlett as that. But there’s a lot of firsts that come from a bitter witch’s spells.

There’s a game being played; chess the closest comparison to anything tangible. Every move they each make isn’t physical; nothing that lets Jack near her to let the beast play with the rules he’s prepared to break. She never listened to him coaxing her back out the room; almost lost beneath the warring of his mind split into two. But he’s not sure he wants her to leave anymore. A philosophical-like need to dig fangs into her once more, if only as a distraction; an excuse that isn’t the plummeting thoughts of how his body refuses to listen; to synchronise.

That’s how his mind begins to gutterball. There’s some rationality in the young vampire when she refuses to cave to his return provocations, forged truths that border a throwback to earlier that day.

“If you were afraid; if you never liked what I did to you, you’d have refused to come into this room, Scar.”

It’s a thought that’s spoken with such a victory that Jakoris’ pull on the restraints feel like they might break as though a code has been cracked. That from within the echoes of the dark they’re in, two sides of sanity – he figures, it’s a foul snarl of impatience almost, a captured vampire that balances on the threshold of his own thoughts. The younger version; potentially as broken as he is, tries to fix herself with something else even more broken.

So what, you think I’m back for more?

“I think you’re looking for something little vamp,”

The throwaway, bitten out through suppressed hunger when the walls feel like they’re closing in, that SJ’s the only thing left within them that matters in the grand scheme. Ideas of Evanora and Jessie out in the fray looking for answers to his affliction long crushed by the hiss of a man deteriorating; becoming heated by consistent taunts. It’s never been obvious to Jack until now that Scar’s as good at the game as Jack thought he was.

Only, she’s not got physical chains holding her back from acting on it.

Until, she suddenly does.

The Davenport never realised how much he missed the sensation of something else than hunger, Scar’s teeth in his throat like she’s finally decided to place his King in check leaves her in close enough proximity that a re-enactment of de ja vu flickers when he returns the favour and with a need he hates to admit is there, digs his own into her. It’s another bout of intimacy, stirs another kind of consciousness to the brink of overflowing. Lust forged from a blood exchange; the aphrodisiac that’s often addictive. Hardens muscles, incites Jack want to curl hands around her, touch her like she’s his if only for his own satisfaction – to balance the pain with the pleasure like he’s all too good at. If only for one evening; in a state of weakness.

Another thing he loathes about the room beyond the surface level of what it means, is how SJ irrevocably has the power over him by default. If he hadn’t been wrestled into chains, if being a word he can’t exactly enjoy in that moment. Not like how Scarlett crumbles to the one they’re playing and he can utilise the rage; the lack of control against someone who claims they can handle it.

The intimacy is broken when she retracts, lingers only in the way that her tongue leaves wet trails on his skin, laps up his blood where hers spills down his chin and leaves droplets on the concrete floor. Messy where he’s unable to govern the actions of the other. Jakoris’ head tips, dares her in a way that he’s not sure of the result, eyes flickering to the chain

“Unlock it Scar,” I fucking dare you. Offers the game with new stakes.

You know I can’t let you leave Jack…I never thought you’d taste so good, can I trust you, Jack?

Could she fuck.

“Probably not, but you really fucking want to,”

The way the tune changes on her side, the way she’s so confident to play the line of fire; dangle the victory flag and poke the viper until it bites. Jack sees that in the hues of her eyes; he’s not sure what lies hidden beyond, but the hands that fall on the chain is his own kind of conquest. And she releases him. A kind of dark chuckle that slips from his lips when she does, is fast enough to wrap around her throat and draw her to it. The consideration of how dangerous she wanted to play; with rules that have been crossed out and replaced with blood and flesh as the only notable pieces on the board, he squeezes her throat. It’s a fleeting image that passes his mind, the idea of just popping it off her spine, snapping it as some childish revenge to how she’d done it to him earlier; left him groaning and agonised as to make some lost point of valour.

Though she’s sacrificed her control and given it back to him; the Ripper that’s got next to none in that moment, but enough to at least choose distraction over the urge to simply tear the woman to pieces. He can do that after he’s done with her. Like her skin under his grip is a tease of its own, when he drags her forward, near makes his half naked body flush against her own, fangs raking down her lobe to follow the line of her chin, the urge to clench his jaw, puncture her like a snake almost wins against the desire that instead pulls him to her lips.

Then he draws blood, lower lip his where he finds an escape that isn’t the one that released him entirely from the prison he’s in; the room; his mind; the parts of his body that want something else completely.

“Take them off Scar,” A delay against her lips, a demand that’s primal. “Now,”

You’re not even gonna say please, Jack? What should I take off first?

Everything plays into his hand from then.

The hooded lids that find her face again, darkens when her hands ghost over his abdomen; run that theme of tease the monster that she’s been adamant to play all evening. And she’s probably still unaware what that leads to, the kind of thing that makes Jack stop understanding the word no and how Scarlett’s lost every opportunity she had to run out that door, because he’s not letting go.

“I’m going to ruin you, Scar.”

The kind of aptitude that drills deep; comes from the way she’s spent her duty as supervisor instead torturing him. The masochist who only feeds that fire with everything his mind allows.

I hope that’s a promise Jack.

If he cared to speak, to continue the toying, he’d have let the words: Oh you’ve no idea, baby, pass his lips when he drags his hand down her, lets her obey his order like submission is finally where she belongs. That she never quite understood the power she once had before she gave it away. On a fucking platter and let him reign over her body like she wants to be torn apart. Her antagonising implies as much, if not more.

Clothes are the first things to vanish, shredded by strong hands and there’s exposure between them both. A tension of bodies at war, one half free to play as the underdog of the battle; of lips, of skin of every time their teeth find a new unblemished spot on pale flesh. Stain it red as though the colour of their desire cannot be anything but. The same association as rage, cracking of bones where masochism hits its limitations; healed fast where fingers works rhythms in places that incite moans that in a vampire’s household, are probably heard if anyone’s fucking listening. And yet, the way blood spills onto the floor, decorates the basement like it’s paint on renovation is all that matters. Teeth on flesh, backs on hard floors, fucks in a way Jakoris could never with anyone mortal.

But Scar heals, and she knows it.

Jack doesn’t recover quite the same – because nothing he takes besides her body fuels him like it should, the weakening of joints that only enrage a ferality in him to go harder to compensate. The wounds she leaves on him, enjoyed in a sick way that leave him with a feeling that overpowers his hunger for nourishment; replaces it with a yearning for her that he can’t shake. And like hell does he care to understand it. The Davenport keeps his promise, leaves her in her own mess, by the third round; a hat trick, he’s beginning to notice the falter in both of them, that each other’s blood isn’t anything more than a turn-on, doesn’t satiate the vampire’s primordial needs to their core.

The rooms in disrepair, red more than grey; glows almost in the darkness of them, Scarlett’s skin shredded and healing, potentially to leave scars. Heavy rise and falls of chests that are heard between satisfied noises that are involuntary, still tight against each other when Jack’s last restriction allows; only imagines what could have been had he been completely free. Then comes the final plummet – after the rest of the countless comings, where Jakoris’ mind cannot process the pain with the pleasure and the hunger starts to viral it’s way back up his veins to pull the thick cords at his jaw. He can’t take anymore from her; he’ll kill her. That whisper of a voice screams at him, but it’s not loud enough.

The sound of footsteps outside the basement door, partnered with the final thrust given that near ceases the vampire fucking in some heated rage; a complicated partnership purely forged of magic and need; distractions and everything that systems the addiction of becoming caught up in a vampiric haze. Jakoris’ hands on Scar’s body, the marks left and the way they pant like animals loose; leaves everything but the carcasses all over the room, fluids that Jack’s likely to be left in when she goes.

Because she has to go and he knows that; the footsteps echo loud and like a desperate creature about to lose its prey, he digs his nails into her to stop her from running.

In their positions, she’s undoubtedly stronger, for once; the little vampire has a strength over the Ripper that can’t find satisfaction in feeding, no matter how hard he tries. And she does tear from him, stumbles where he notes how their legs near buckle under limbs exhausted and like it’s some loss for them all, Jack crashes to his knees, another crack resounds off the walls where Scar manages to catch herself before anything else breaks, a desperation in both their breaths where naked bodies dyed in each other’s blood; torn epithelium from one another’s teeth as they once hunted for that need.

It’s nothing in comparison in the way rabid eyes snap to the door when it moves with someone’s shadow casting a shape below it.

And Jack still wants blood. 

[jeremys-blogs]

OTGW: What is the Unknown?

Though I've always had a love of the aesthetic of Halloween, the ghosts, the pumpkins and all that stuff, I'll fully admit that I've never really had that many Halloween traditions, at least not to the degree that I would for a time like Christmas. When this spookiest time of year creeps along, it's usually just me watching a few old favourites that seem appropriate for it, like the Halloween Tree or Scooby Doo on Zombie Island. But a few years ago, I stumbled on a little gem on Cartoon Network that has since become an absolute must for the month of October. The 2014 ten-episode miniseries, Over the Garden Wall. This show has rightfully gained a great deal of critical acclaim since it first came out, being regarded as one of the best shows Cartoon Network ever put out, which is saying something. The strange journey of Wirt and his brother Greg through the mysterious world of the Unknown as they attempt to find their way home was creepy and engaging in a way that few kids' shows were, and make no mistake, I loved every single bit of it. But while I could gush about it all day, what I truly wish to discuss about it is the question of its central locale. What, exactly, is the Unknown itself?

You see, from the moment I first watched this show, its main setting has always fascinated me. This bizarre other world where magic and monsters exist, yet contains far too many elements of the ordinary and the mundane to be as fantastic as other fictional worlds I've seen. A place where young girls can be controlled by mystical bells, yet also had old-timey schools run by seemingly-ordinary teachers. It's a weird one to be sure, and a lot of the show's feel can be attributed to the sheer mystery of the Unknown itself. Now, I am by no means the first person to speculate on what this place really is, and indeed you'll find that the show in general has been picked apart by numerous others over the years. So don't be surprised if you see ideas here that have been discussed in greater detail elsewhere. But while I fully acknowledge that the nature of the Unknown isn't really what the show is about, nor does it ever try to give any definitive answers about it, there are at least enough things in the story to give some idea of what we're dealing with, most notably in the big question on whether or not the Unknown is actually a real place, though I'll discuss that later.

Now the first of these ideas is pretty straightforward. The Unknown is simply a magical alternate world that Wirt and Greg somehow managed to transport themselves to after falling into the water. A gateway to another realm, like the wardrobe of Narnia. Admittedly, this isn't a very complicated or revolutionary notion, but the law of Occam's Razor is that the most likely explanation is usually the correct one, and the simple framework of children going to a magical place beyond the normal world is about as basic as you get in these sorts of tales. But simplicity in and of itself is no bad thing, as it provides a good foundation to build great stories on. And that's certainly the case here, as having the Unknown just be some world the brothers could journey to after their traumatic fall is a fine start to give old-school fairy tale and folk story episodes for. It's solid urban fantasy of the unreal hiding just beyond the world of the real, that just so happens to be pierced and entered by these two unwitting boys. It might not be the most imaginative of explanations for what this place is, but I think it was worth getting the easiest explanation out of the way first.

The second major theory on what the Unknown is might be less extraordinary, but it's also an incredibly plausible one, that being that the entire experience is just one big hallucination. That one or both of the brothers, but most likely Wirt, was knocked unconscious by the aforementioned fall into the water and the entire journey was all the creation of his own mind. Now, I realise that the trope of "it was all just a dream all along" isn't exactly a popular one, but let us not forget that plenty of other popular stories have managed to portray it well, like Alice and Wonderland. And to the credit of this show, if that was indeed the angle being worked then it was certainly an interesting way to view it. The biggest hint that this is the case is that much of what we see in the Unknown has to deal with people donning alternate identities to what they truly are, hiding their real selves, which would be an appropriate thing for a boy like Wirt to make up in his head given that he and his brother had just come off from a mass Halloween experience, where costumes and taking on fantasy personas are commonplace. To be sure, there's some ambiguity on whether Greg has the same experience as Wirt if it is indeed a hallucination, but there's no denying that the possibility of it being the work of imagination is there.

The final of the major ideas concerning the Unknown is that it is some sort of afterlife for the two boys. Specifically, that it's a kind of Limbo, between Heaven and Hell, where they must overcome some trial or work through some personal issue before they can move on. To me, this is the theory that seems to hold the most water, as it is only through working past their personal issues, like Wirt learning to be responsible for Greg, that the two manage to get back home. And when you couple that with things like the show's antagonist, the Beast, a clearly demonic-inspired tempter who leads people to their doom, there's definitely some religious undertones here. The fact that the Unknown is a place they only go to after going through an experience that could have killed them certainly adds to this. Consider also that throughout the show we get a gradual transition from an Autumn-like environment to the Winter we see in the final few episodes, a sign of things dying, perhaps to show the boys losing their way and going down the wrong path. Contrast with the likes of the Woodsman, who made a deal with this effective Devil and, as a result, got stuck in a terrible situation for who knows how long, trapped in his own personal Hell.

What gives this particular interpretation a great deal more weight is the inclusion of the show's third major character, the human-turned-bird Beatrice. Now, her being here is very likely to be a reference to the character of the same name from the famed story the Divine Comedy by Dante, better known as Dante's Inferno. Within that tale, Beatrice is the lost love of the book's central protagonist, and acts as a guide to him after he leaves the realm of Limbo and finally makes it into heaven. And since the Beatrice in this story also serves as a guide to those who are no longer within their own world, the connection is pretty easy to make. Granted, there are differences, like how the Unknown is no Heaven and that this particular Beatrice is in no way romantically involved with Wirt, but the general role she plays is far too similar to ignore, and lends massive credence to the theory that the Unknown is indeed a Limbo of some sort. But again, since Wirt is the poetic sort, it could also be that he knew of the literary Beatrice and, if this was the hallucination scenario instead, imagined her along with everything else without even realising he was doing it. Because naturally this sort of thing just couldn't be clear-cut for me.

As you can see from all of this, there's a lot that can be interpreted and theorised about the world of Over the Garden Wall. And really, you could probably take any single episode and create an entire thesis of what all the imagery and characters might mean, it's just that sort of show. As for the central question here of the nature of the Unknown, I don't think it's something we're ever going to get a proper answer to, and anyone watching it will likely have to come up with their own conclusions about it. As for me personally? Well, I've been of one school of thought or another over the last few years since I first watched this underrated gem, but if you were to hold a gun to my head and ask me to pick one and be done with it, I'd likely go for the Limbo theory. Mostly because it seems to strike the perfect balance between being both a fine fantasy idea as well as having just the right level of grimness and macabre for a story like this. After all, for a cartoon that aimed and succeeded to be a Halloween classic, what better scenario to give us that a world found within the place between life and death? 😉

[catsafarithewriter]

Re: prompts: “Hello? Can you let me in? I tried blowing up your door but it didn't work.”

A/N: Inspiration for this one caught me by surprise, prompted by the song Come Along by Cosmo Sheldrake (suggested by glitterowl on Discord), with inspiration creeping in from The Property of Hate webcomic by Sarah Jolley and Counting Stars comic by Strangely Katie. (Oh, and the animated short: Entropy probably had a hand in all this too.)

Right, now I’ve finished plugging all these wonderful creations (check them out though) onwards. 

x

come come come come come along now

run away from the hum-drum

x

In her time in student accommodation, Haru had become accustomed to the strangeness of life. Especially during the wee small hours of the night. There had been the time someone had set the sofa in the common room alight (and sent everyone scurrying out into the quad to wait out the fire alarm) and another incident involving drain pipes being climbed, and another sleepless night spent waiting for the flooded boiler to be fixed.

So Haru didn’t respond immediately when her balcony door shook on its hinges. 

Technically it was a balcony door. There was a balcony beyond it, certainly, but health and safety had seen fit to seal it shut on fear of accidents, so now Haru had a very large glass window with a doorhandle. 

There was a tap at her window-door. 

A polite, wood-against-glass tap, and not something she was used to hearing since she was on the third floor of the building. It was at this point she rolled over towards the sound and saw the figure standing on her balcony. 

“Hello?” it said. “Can you let me in? I tried blowing up your door but it didn’t work.”

She stared. The figure looked almost human - tailored suit and top hat and a cane in one hand - but the outline looked… off. She couldn’t tell if that was just her tiredness or if there was a fancy dress party going on somewhere on campus. With a lot of drink, apparently. 

She leant over and unlatched the small window - that was a window and not a refurbished door - and said, “It’s 3am.”

The figure didn’t move. “Is it? And is that… bad? I can never keep track of human time.”

“I have an 8am class tomorrow. Today.” She blinked and the world swam a little more into focus. She realised the figure wasn’t just on her balcony - they were perched on the railing itself. So much for health and safety. “Go away.“

The figure dissolved away. 

Haru started to think that that was that, when something flipped through the small open window and landed on her desk. It stepped off the desk and dissolved again, and this time Haru could see its form solidifying back into a taller, human-sized form. 

“Go away?” the figure echoed. “And after I’ve come all this way to find you? I think not.” 

Haru stared. Again. She slowly reached across and flicked her bedside light on. The figure’s appearance came into sharp relief, and now she could see not only the top hat and suit, but the feline face and orange tail that had thrown her off originally. Impressive suit, if that’s what it was. Could be, but even the most diehard cosplayer probably couldn’t make themselves shrink at will. 

The figure - cat, creature, monster - tugged at its sleeve, and Haru saw a flash of orange fur between glove and shirt. 

“Am I dreaming?” she asked eventually. 

The cat head tilted. “Goodness gracious, I hope not. Otherwise this trip has gone terribly wrong somewhere.” 

“Only I’m pretty sure I should be dreaming.”

“How so?”

“For starters, human-sized cats don’t exist.”

The feline head tilted the other way. “You have big cats, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, but–”

“And small cats,” the figure continued, “so why not human-sized cats?”

“Cats don’t normally wear suits,” Haru said. 

“There’s your answer then. I am not a normal cat.”

Haru dragged her dressing gown off her chair and pulled it around her shoulders as she swung her feet out of bed. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “So if you’re not a normal cat and you’re not a dream, then what are you?”

“I should have thought that was perfectly clear. I am me.”

Haru wrinkled her nose. “That’s not an answer.”

“Isn’t it? Then what are you?”

“Human. And cold,” she added with a meaningful look to the open window. The creature stood between her and it, and - dream or no - she wasn’t about to go anywhere near the magical stranger. 

The figure didn’t take the hint, waving her answer away with one immaculate white-gloved hand. “Nonsense. That isn’t what you are. Those are merely passing, window-dressing comforts–”

“Being human is passing?” Haru asked. 

“Naturally. With the kind of adventures you’re set to have, you could end up as a squirrel. Or an oak tree. Or an antique chair.” 

“I don’t fancy being a chair.”

“Well, of course you don’t. You’re far too attached to being human - how are you going to change with that sort of attitude?”

Haru eyed it - him? - and raised an eyebrow. “If this is a dream, I’d like to wake up now.”

“Charming.”

“What are you doing here?”

“You wished for me.”

“I… No, I didn’t. Pretty sure I’d remember asking for this,” she said.

“You most certainly did,” the figure said, and gestured to Haru’s desk with a sweeping motion. 

She looked to the jar of folded paper stars.

She had put the last one in only that evening.

“A thousand paper stars for one wish,” the figure said. 

“But,” Haru blurted out, “I never wished for you.” She blinked. “Sorry. That was kinda rude. But still–”

“You wished for adventure,” the figure said, plainly unperturbed by Haru’s curt dismissal. “For other worlds and excitement and action. What form did you think it would take?”

Haru blinked. Again. Maybe she had asked for adventure; her life was predictable and mundane and she was tired of university exams being the monster that clung to her days, but even so… “Even so,” she said, “I didn’t think that it’d actually…”

“Actually what?” the figure asked. “Work? Then why did you wish?”

“I don’t know. Because it was fun and therapeutic and I liked the idea that maybe it was…” She trailed off, suddenly self-conscious. 

“Magic?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled. 

The figure sat down at the desk chair, somehow avoiding the piles of worn clothing. “Young woman–”

“Haru,” she supplied automatically, and then wondered if that had been a mistake. There were tales, after all, of creatures that could steal someone’s soul and mind away once their name was given. 

The figure smiled, but there was no cunning behind it. “Baron.”

It took Haru several more seconds to realise that the figure was giving a name in kind. 

“Miss Haru,” the figure - Baron - started again, “do you think your wish would have brought me here had you wanted a pony, or an unlimited supply of chocolate chip cookies, or eternally good internet access?”

“Not unless you were bringing the pony,” Haru said. Her eyes widened. “Are you telling me I could have wished for perfect wifi?”

“Not exactly–”

“Man, did I waste those stars.”

Baron’s lips twitched, as if he were fighting back the urge to laugh or scowl. Haru hoped it was the former. “Miss Haru, only a person’s truest innermost wish will work on the paper star magic. Whether or not you thought it would work, your wish was honest. You want adventure.”

Haru opened her mouth and found she had no immediate dispute to that. She narrowed her eyes. “Fine, but that still doesn’t give you permission to blow up my window.”

“No harm done, however?”

“You still tried!”

“It wouldn’t open; what other option should I have taken?”

“You could have left.” She inhaled deeply. The dream - if that was what it was - still didn’t disappear. “But you didn’t and here you are. So, what happens now?”

“Well, that is up to you. You wished for adventure and it came knocking. But only you can take that first step.” Baron tapped the sealed door with the crook of his cane and the nails keeping it in place popped out. The handle clicked. 

The door swung easily open. 

“And after the first step?” Haru asked. 

“Adventure.” 

Baron stepped out into the threshold, two steps and his feet lifted up from the balcony floor. His cane tapped against the air, a tap-tap-tap wooden sound, and a staircase built from air swam hazily into view. He smiled at Haru’s expression, and extended a hand towards her. 

“Come along, Miss Haru. You did wish for this.” 

She eyed the offered hand and the offer that went with it, and then to the glittering eyes. Like gems. In fact, she wasn’t sure they weren’t gemstones. Something about this strange individual led her to believe just about anything could be true. 

“If I say yes,” she asked quietly, “what’s going to happen?”

“Oh, absolutely anything.” Those eyes glimmered. “But isn’t that the point?”

She looked to her room - to the walls covered in photos of friends and family from back home and of her time at university, quiet attempts to maker herself feel like a part of something bigger. To the pile of coursebooks and the messageboard with dates and assignments pinned to it. To all the familiar pieces she had collected; her favourite pens, a cuddly toy from childhood, the memorial t-shirt from a concert… All the little things that carved out her space in this lost corner of the universe. 

Everything that cried out to the world: look at me, this is me. 

What was it Baron had said?

I am me.

She looked back to the figure, to his alien silhouette and unearthly eyes and presence that spoke of worlds and magic beyond her own. 

“Come along now,” he said, one gloved hand resting in the space between them. “Don’t you want to run away from the hum-drum?”

[preserving-ferretbrain]

When Harry Met Buffy

by Dan H

Thursday, 14 June 2007

Dan compares portrayals of childhood in the popular media. Or something.~

(This article contains spoilers for a TV series which everybody has seen, and a set of books which everybody has read. Just so you know.)

At some point during my university career, I had to make a choice between actually getting a decent degree and watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Needless to say there was no competition, and I am now the proud owner of a 2.2 in Physics and a lot of information about Sunnydale.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer went off the rails a bit in the later seasons. It went off the rails for a number of reasons - tensions among the cast and crew, Joss Whedon being distracted by other projects, Marti Noxon - but its biggest problem, in my opinion, was that it lost sight of its core metaphor.

The strength of Buffy seasons 1-3 was that it stuck to a very clear, very simple formula. You take a stock Teen Issue (I'm going out with a guy who isn't suitable, my mother is putting me under a lot of pressure, I'm trying to live up to my elder brother) and then give it a supernatural slant (I'm going out with a vampire, my mother is literally possessing my body, I've animated the dead body of my elder brother and am trying to build him a girlfriend out of corpse parts). That was the way it worked. It kept this formula more or less throughout series four and five, but it mixed up the formula a bit: Joyce's illness in series five is wholly mundane, and it's college life that causes Buffy's biggest problems in series four, not the cybernetic killing machine. Series six and seven went even further, making "Buffy never learned to live in the real world because she spent all of her time fighting monsters" a central theme, despite the fact that the "monsters" had always been placeholders for real-world issues.

To put it another way, the great strength of Buffy is that it tackles teenage concerns from a resolutely teenage perspective. When you're sixteen, after all, everything is the end of the world. Buffy's distorted, teenaged view of reality, where a bad breakup is an unimaginable horror and high school is doing its damnedest to kill you becomes literal reality. This works brilliantly for three series, and then they start to run into problems.

The thing is, Buffy grows up. The show covers seven years, and Joss felt that it was very important that she not stay sixteen forever.

The problem is that a big part of growing up is the development of your worldview. Learning that things don't really work the way you thought they did. Or, to put it another way, a big part of being twenty-two is realising what a pillock you were when you were sixteen.

But Buffy can't really do that, because she's a fictional character, and her sixteen-year-old worldview is the literal truth of the earlier series. Angel, her high-school boyfriend, really was the love of her life, and when things went wrong he actually lost his soul and started killing people. You can't get a sense of perspective on something like that. You can't look back on your youth and say "gosh, it seems so silly now to have worried about the Master rising and plunging the world into hell." Its early-season strengths become its late-season flaws. Buffy can never truly grow up, because she is trapped, forever, in a world where her teenage angst is physical reality.

Which brings me to Harry Potter.

Like Buffy, Harry Potter has a seven-year arc, over which his creator takes great pride in telling us that He Will Grow Up. And, like the nutrimatic machine, Harry's problems are Almost But Not Quite Totally Unlike Buffy's.

The Potter books are told exclusively from Harry's point of view: so much so that Harry has to spend half of each book skulking around under his invisibility cloak so he can hear all the plot-dumps Rowling needs to pass on to the reader. However, unlike Buffy, we don't follow Harry from a world inside his own head. We follow him around looking over his shoulder, but we are only observers. Buffy/Angel is convincing because, on some level, we feel what Buffy is feeling, and we are swept away in an overwhelming rush of teenage emotion. Harry/Ginny, on the other hand, feels lacklustre, because we see it from the outside, as two awkward teens fumbling through a parody of romance.

The Potter approach is not without its advantages. It makes the seven-year arc somewhat more consistent: we know from the start that it's Voldemort and the Death Eaters and the War in The Wizarding World which is important, and Harry's journey from two-dimensional eleven-year-old to two-dimensional-eighteen-year-old is essentially one of learning facts about his world. (On a tangent, it's interesting to note that Potter has a detailed, prewritten world with a large mythology, and Buffy doesn't).

In

an earlier article

, I compared the Potter books to the works of Enid Blyton and like Blyton, Rowling writes about children from the outside. She writes about childhood in hindsight, and seems to view it with a mixture of sentimentality and contempt. Your school days, she seems to say, were the most wonderful days of your life, because you were too dumb to realise how crappy the world really was.

All of this would be fair enough, a lot of Children's books do basically work like that: the hero starts out as a picture of youth and innocence, only to have it stripped away by exposure to Real World Issues. It's the To Kill a Mockingbird school of children's fiction: the child gradually learns about the complexities of the real world, progressing from a nave worldview to a sophisticated one over the course of the story. His Dark Materials follows a similar formula. The problem with Potter is that the "real world" of the Potterverse is so utterly childish. Harry is growing up into a world where everybody is still obsessed with school, where the only person that He Who Must Not Be Named is afraid of is his old teacher, where three fifteen year old kids competing in a school sporting event is international news.

So Harry's journey is that of a child growing up and learning about the world, but what he learns is that there is no world outside of Hogwarts. Unlike Buffy, whose later-season problems are the result of legitimate creative decisions, Harry's late-series implausibility is a result of his inhabiting a world which is poorly conceived and badly realised.

Harry Potter is often praised for dealing with difficult real-world themes, like death and racism. It doesn't. It's true that people die in the books, but they do so as a result of magical, fantasy violence, which simply doesn't capture the experience of bereavement in a meaningful way. Quite a lot of children, reading Harry Potter, might well have lost a friend or family member due to illness, old age, or accident. I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that none of them have had anybody they care about killed by evil wizards. The deaths in Harry Potter are part of the fantasy, they're no more real than chocolate frogs and Quiddich.

Then there's the "racism". Wizardry apparently runs in families, and those who don't come from a wizarding line get called "mudbloods". There's some half-baked talk of killing the mudbloods, but nobody ever does anything about it, and it's only ever evil people that even think like that. That isn't confronting the issue of racism, that's using a cheap metaphor for racism as another way to demonstrate how evil your villains are. It is a metaphor, furthermore, which only has any impact if your audience already recognises it - we know that it's wrong for Draco to call Hermione a mudblood, because it's "like racism". It's not using a fantasy world to explore a real world issue, it's using a real world issue to explore a fantasy world.

And this, I think, is why I think Buffy succeeds and Potter - despite sales figures - ultimately fails. Buffy has its metaphors screwed on right. Well, apart from that bit with the crackhouse in series six. Buffy takes issues that its audience will be highly familiar with (academic pressure, romantic disaster, teenage insecurity) and uses the language of the supernatural to explore them in an emotionally believable way. Harry Potter, on the other hand uses real-world issues (racism, slavery, death) as a cheap way to add colour to an otherwise unconvincing fantasy world.

In Sunnydale, Joss Whedon created a world which reflects the mind of a young girl growing up in America, and he succeeded admirably. In Hogwarts, Joanne Rowling attempted to create a dark, believable world for a young boy to grow up in, and she failed dismally.Themes:

J.K. Rowling

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Books

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TV & Movies

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Young Adult / Children

,

Whedonverse

~

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Rami

at 09:00 on 2007-06-15Hmmm... that's interesting. I'm one of the few people who's neither read Harry (though I've seen one of the films) nor watched Buffy (not consistently, at least), but I'm inclined to agree that Whedon's way of presenting his world is deeper and more meaningful though perhaps less immediately obvious. Heck, I didn't appreciate Whedon at all until I saw Firefly...