#we love our farm witch friends

[farm-witches-fic-recs]

The winner of the inaugural Farm Which poll was enemies-to-lovers!

The coven thanks you for your participation as we try out some new things. We hope you will enjoy these trope-tastic recs and leave the authors some love!

baby, just say yes - LFTPD

Death of a Socialite - @Obsessedwithdavrick

Good Fences - @agoodpersonrose

Grew up out of ice-frozen ground - yourbuttervoicedbeau ( @kiwana-writes)

I Kissed Ruth Clancy - doingthemost ( @sarahlevys), @lilythesilly

Push and Pull - @samwhambam

Rose from the Ashes - @Likerealpeopledo-on-ao3

Strike Anywhere - @MadLori Weathering the Storm - iola17 ( @beaiola)

[farm-witches-fic-recs]

Thank you!

For Day 8 of the 12 Days of Fandom, I want to celebrate the great work of our two fic rec blogs: @farm-witches-fic-recs and @schittscreekfanficrec. Thanks for all you do to research and share fics to keep the fandom love going strong!

Spread the fandom love, celebrate the 12 Days of Fandom! Get the details here.

[littlemoriflower]

Mori Book Recommendations, by littlemoriflower

Hello, dear-friends!

It's been a while since I have done one of these "longer" posts. I have been very absent, not only from this blog, but from the internet at large. School has been killing me lately, and I let the tiredness get the best of me more often than not.

However, I'd like to state that I continue to love AND wear mori everyday. not that anyone was accusing me of not doing it lmao I've simply been lacking the motivation to make more posts, but I hope that that's about to change! I won't be posting every day, but I'll try to come by and be more active in the community where I found so much happiness and lovely people in!

On another note, I have noticed more people joining the community! ^^ That is so exciting!!! I welcome all of you to our humble corner of the internet, and I hope you find peace and happiness in mori kei, as much as we mori folk do! (✿◡‿◡)

Now, to the post!

The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett

Synopsis:

Mary Lennox, a spoiled, ill-tempered, and unhealthy child, comes to live with her reclusive uncle in Misselthwaite Manor on England’s Yorkshire moors after the death of her parents. There she meets a hearty housekeeper and her spirited brother, a dour gardener, a cheerful robin, and her wilful, hysterical, and sickly cousin, Master Colin, whose wails she hears echoing through the house at night.

With the help of the robin, Mary finds the door to a secret garden, neglected and hidden for years. When she decides to restore the garden in secret, the story becomes a charming journey into the places of the heart, where faith restores health, flowers refresh the spirit, and the magic of the garden, coming to life anew, brings health to Colin and happiness to Mary.

Goodreads

Anne Of Green Gables, by L. M. Montgomery

Synopsis:

This heartwarming story has beckoned generations of readers into the special world of Green Gables, an old-fashioned farm outside a town called Avonlea. Anne Shirley, an eleven-year-old orphan, has arrived in this verdant corner of Prince Edward Island only to discover that the Cuthberts—elderly Matthew and his stern sister, Marilla—want to adopt a boy, not a feisty redheaded girl. But before they can send her back, Anne—who simply must have more scope for her imagination and a real home—wins them over completely. A much-loved classic that explores all the vulnerability, expectations, and dreams of a child growing up, Anne of Green Gables is also a wonderful portrait of a time, a place, a family… and, most of all, love.

Goodreads

Howl's Moving Castle, by Diana Wynne Jones

Synopsis:

Sophie has the great misfortune of being the eldest of three daughters, destined to fail miserably should she ever leave home to seek her fate. But when she unwittingly attracts the ire of the Witch of the Waste, Sophie finds herself under a horrid spell that transforms her into an old lady. Her only chance at breaking it lies in the ever-moving castle in the hills: the Wizard Howl's castle. To untangle the enchantment, Sophie must handle the heartless Howl, strike a bargain with a fire demon, and meet the Witch of the Waste head-on. Along the way, she discovers that there's far more to Howl—and herself—than first meets the eye.

Goodreads

Inkheart, by Cornelia Funke

Synopsis:

One cruel night, Meggie's father reads aloud from a book called INKHEART-- and an evil ruler escapes the boundaries of fiction and lands in their living room. Suddenly, Meggie is smack in the middle of the kind of adventure she has only read about in books. Meggie must learn to harness the magic that has conjured this nightmare. For only she can change the course of the story that has changed her life forever.

Goodreads

By Ash, Oak And Thorn, by Melissa Harrison

Synopsis:

Three tiny, ancient beings - Moss, Burnet and Cumulus, once revered as Guardians of the Wild World - wake from winter hibernation in their beloved ash tree home. When it is destroyed, they set off on an adventure to find more of their kind, a journey that takes them first into the deep countryside and then the heart of a city. Helped along the way by birds and animals, the trio search for a way to survive and thrive in a precious yet disappearing world...

Goodreads

Alice In Wonderland, by Lewis Carrol

Synopsis:

When Alice sees a white rabbit take a watch out of its waistcoat pocket she decides to follow it, and a sequence of most unusual events is set in motion.

Goodreads

[spider-gem]

One thing I absolutely love about the Wizard of Oz is how each of the main characters have to go on a journey in order to gain something they already have.

I did a rewatch of the film after seeing Wicked: Part One, and surely enough my Wicked brainrot melted (ha. hehe. pun unintended at first. but not anymore) and blended with a newfound Wizard of Oz brainrot. Because of this, I’ve been thinking about both a LOT and wanted to share an epiphany I’ve had for a while.

The Scarecrow claims that he is brainless and can’t make up his mind or come up with an intelligent thought because of this. And sure, he has straw stuffed in his head, not brains. However, his actions in the movie show otherwise. We seem him effectively come up with a strategy to taunt the trees into throwing their apples they weren’t willing to give up, effectively giving Dorothy the food she needs. Later on in the movie, it’s his idea to cut down the chandelier in order to get away from the Wicked Witch’s guards. He has multiple clever ideas throughout the film, and if you know what happens in the second act of Wicked (don’t worry, no spoilers here if you don’t) you know the extent of his intelligent plans.

So, is he truly brainless?

The Tinman claims he doesn’t have a heart, and therefore cannot feel love, joy, etc. And sure, bang on his chest and hear for yourself: it’s hallow. However, it’s hard to buy that he can’t feel emotions when he so clearly does throughout the movie. If you plan on watching the movie, pay attention to his face. Our metal friend is crying in almost every situation. He cries when Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion fall asleep in the poppy field, he cries when Dorothy and Toto are taken by the flying monkeys, he cries when he meets the Wizard. You can even see he even cries after the Wicked witch melts. Seems very sensitive for someone without a heart and the ability to feel. He also immediately agrees to help Dorothy get to the Emerald City after seeing the Wicked Witch threaten her ONCE.

So, is he truly heartless?

The Cowardly Lion claims that he has no courage. This is easy to believe when we see how frightened he is at all times. However, courage isn’t measured by how reckless someone is. It’s measured by doing the deed that frightens you. This is something we see the Lion do every time he’s on screen. He’s terrified of leaving the forest, but he does it anyway. He almost turns away from meeting the Wizard, but he does it anyway. He’s scared shizless of facing the Wicked Witch- they ALL are- but he does it anyway. He doesn’t want to let down Dorothy, but he puts aside his fear to save her.

So, is he truly missing his courage?

And finally, Dorothy searches for a way home. It is revealed at the end of the movie that she had the power to return home with her all along, on her feet. So why was this journey necessary and why did Glinda wait until the end to tell Dorothy this?

The group of four seek out the Wizard for something he was never able to give them. He’s a fraud, of course, but that’s beside the point. The point is, they already have what they yearned for. The Scarecrow has intelligence, Tinman has human emotions, the Lion has courage, and Dorothy has the power to get herself home. The journey seems like it was all for nothing, but that is simply not true.

If Dorothy never started her journey, the Scarecrow would still be tied to that post and would never learn that he had the intelligence he yearned for if he never used it. The Tinman would still be rusted and frozen, never learning that he does have the ability to feel and care for others. The Lion would still be alone in his habitat and never be encouraged to face his fears. And Dorothy would have never learned that there is strength and power that she never knew is within her. She’s no longer just a little girl from a farm in Kansas - she is a hero and she is the reason she can get back home.

And THAT is an important message of the Wizard of Oz. You’ll never find your strength if you don’t look within yourself and test it. You just need to step out of your comfort zone in order to find yourself. In turn, you can help others do the same. And yes, sometimes it takes the power of friendship and encouragement to find your intelligence, empathy, courage, and power.

[the-witch-with-the-raven-tattoo]

After about a decade of building up my crystal collection, I can no longer close my eyes to what I've been supporting. Far from the good vibes that crystals are purported to have, I need to be honest that their trade funds the same human rights abuses and environmental destruction that I've spent most of my life decrying. I need to address this cognitive dissonance within myself, and can no longer endorse buying mass-market crystals anymore. I call myself an earth-worshipper, or nature-worshipper, yet I'm contributing to the destruction of the Earth and her people. This no longer sits right with me. Yes, there are likely minerals in my phone that were mined using less-than-ethical practices, however a cell phone in this day and age is kind of a necessity. Decorative crystals and fossils, though, are more difficult to justify in this way.

I'm still going to keep the ones I have for now, because, welp, the damage has already been done, and getting rid of them now won't undo what I've been endorsing with my dollar. I still have a box of gems that I bought to make wire-wrapped jewelery with, and I'm still not sure what I'm going to do with those, so they're tucked away until I can decide.

If there's interest, I may make some pieces with them and put them up for sale as a Crystal Clearout sale, since I did spend a lot of money on those supplies. Or I might wear or gift them. We will see.

Back to my spiritual practice. What am I going to use instead?

River rocks!

Or lake rocks. Park rocks. Parking lot rocks. Farm rocks. Forest Rocks. Anything except store-bought is fine. Look at these cool rocks I've found in my city so far! These are geologically tied to the place I live, they carry the history on the land I'm on, which is not mine to live on. It is Treaty 6 territory—the traditional and ancestral territory of the Cree, Dene, Blackfoot, Saulteaux and Nakota Sioux. This territory is home to the Métis Settlements and the Métis Nation of Alberta, Regions 2, 3 and 4 within the historical Northwest Métis Homeland.

These stones carry the memory of the people who were here before me, and that of a not-so-distant history I need to address time and time again, examine my own biases, and do what I can to address inequalities right here, right now. They are a connection to this land, and those who live on it.

These stones can also hold my own memories, for instance this petrified wood reminds me of a day a friend and I went rock-hunting by the river, and on a trip to Ontario with this same friend, we found some jade (I think). Which brings me to another point. I am not a geologist. I plan to learn about minerals local to me, but I'll never have the assurance of some shopkeeper (whatever that's worth) that what I'm holding is 100% a piece of pure amethyst, and here is a list of its properties. Instead, I'll be able to find my own meaning in the stones, feathers and flowers I find while walking in the world, and use them in my practices the way I feel intuitively guided to.

In spiritual practices, what we are working with is energy and intention. The rest are simply tools, symbols for our brain to understand what we are channeling towards or away from. The most important quality you can develop as a witch, a pagan, a yogi, a spiritualist, whatever you wish to call yourself, is self-trust. Trust that you are enough. Trust that this stone made its way to you so that you would find it exactly when you did. Trust that the herbs you lovingly grew, watered, bundled and dried are sufficient for clearing any stale energies. Learn from those who came before you, but at a certain point, you have to free yourself from reliance on corporations, merchants, readers, authors, course creators, and anyone else looking to make a buck off your lack of experience and confidence.

When you have a true need, harken not to others' greed. (the Wiccan Rede)

Consumerism has its hooks in us to such a point where we feel like we have to buy our way out of all of our real or perceived inadequacies.

Feeling down? Buy this sun lamp!

Tummy hurts? It's this scary new syndrome I just made up! Peer review, what's that? Nevermind. Buy this supplement!

Want to feel really cool and attractive? Buy this new outfit!

Want to make friends? Learn a new hobby! Oh, but this hobby requires you to buy all this gear before anyone thinks you're serious about it! And make sure you buy a t-shirt that says you're into this hobby while you're at it, so you can talk about it to everyone!

McSpirituality works the same way. Feel like you don't belong? It's definitely a past life thing, buy a reading with me to find out! Looking for love? Make sure you buy a rose quartz to send a lover your way within 24 hours. Hmm, it didn't work? It must not be big enough. Make sure you buy this one instead! Trying to get into meditation? You'll need to buy a zafu, some mala beads, and a buddha head with some very questionable history Are you broke after all these purchases? You can just buy this abundance generating spell kit, and this $10K course (I have seen this price point, it's not hyperbole) on dissolving your subconscious blocks to abundance!

It's not your fault, it's the system we all live in. I was, and still am, immersed in it too. If you're in a tough place, it can be so easy to be swept up by the promise of a quick fix, because spiritual work is hard. You'll have to confront yourself in some tough ways, work through traumatic experiences and spend years building discipline and focus.

It's a lot easier to just walk into a crystal shop and pick the one you like, isn't it? But I want to remind myself that life doesn't work that way.

Do you just walk into a store and pick out the partner, the job, the house, the experiences, the circumstances that look prettiest?

Okay, maybe some of you do if you're very lucky or have certain privileges, but these choices aren't always the ones that guarantee long-term compatibility or happiness.

In real life, it's a lot more like walking down a riverbank with a friend, catching up on life, and showing each other the cool thing you found, maybe deliberating on what it might be. Your rock might look different than hers, but you found it and it feels good to you. Maybe the shape feels satisfying and built just for your hand. You feel like it was waiting for you all this time.

Or maybe it's like walking home after a difficult day, and seeing the little sparkle of something glimmering in the sunlight. Maybe this represents hope and silver linings. Maybe a bird eyes you as you examine your rock, offering you company and understanding in a way that words fail to.

That feeling certainly isn't for sale in stores, or online. If I find it at a garage sale, I'll let you know.

[catindabag]

TBOSAS on Crack short take (77)

Hilarius: Wovey! Hey, Wovey!

Wovey: Mr. Rich Clown?

Hilarius: Yes, it’s me!

Wovey: What are you doing here?

Hilarius: I need to tell you something very important.

Wovey: But it’s the middle of the night and I’m going to bed now-

Hilarius: Hear me out, master!

Wovey: No, I’m going to sleep.

Coryo: *joins the scene* Hi, Birdy.

Lucy Gray: Hi, Coryo!

Coryo: Here’s your very expensive facial masks and hair spray.

Lucy Gray: And the cucumber?

Coryo: What cucumber?

Lucy Gray: Did you bring the fresh baby cucumbers?🥺

Coryo: They were too expensive.

Lucy Gray: This bird is sad now.

Sejanus: Here! *throws a bag of vegetables at Lucy Gray* I bought you your stupid baby cucumbers.

Lucy Gray: Thanks!

Sejanus: Pay up.

Lucy Gray: Free cucumbers! Yey!

Coryo: Are you going to eat them?

Lucy Gray: No, I’ll just put them in my eyes and then feed the rest to a sleeping Jessup.😊

Coryo: You do you, Birdy.

Lucy Gray: My squirrel friends also want me to tell you and your rich sugar daddy to buy them a new pair of the Capitol’s coziest socks!

Coryo: For what?

Lucy Gray: for my new puppet show!

Coryo: Your size or mine?

Lucy Gray: Bird size.

Coryo: Noted.

Marcus: What a weirdo.

Sejanus: Hi, Marcus!

Marcus: *goes back to sleep*

Sejanus: Marcus, wake up!

Marcus: No.

Sejanus: Don’t die! I’m here to support and feed you!

Marcus: I would rather die!

Sejanus: Really?

Marcus: If you don’t shut up and leave me alone!

Sejanus: But do you like to eat some baby cucumbers before I go home and cry my heart out again?

Marcus: Ew. No. Go away.

Domitia: I brought cake! Happy birthday, Tan Tan!

Treech: Who’s Tan Tan?

Tanner: Me. I’m Tan Tan.

Marcus: Nice. Let’s eat.

Mizzen: Cake! *screeches like a feral cat* Give! Give it to me!

Domitia: No. This is for Tanner.

Persephone: Hi, Mizzenmast!

Mizzen: Give me the cake, Percy! Give me the cake before the evil sea witch steals it from me!

Coral: Festus, give me a knife.

Festus: Plastic or paper?

Coral: Stainless steel.

Mizzen: Cake! I want cake!

Tanner: My cake ain’t for you, gremlin! It’s for me!

Mizzen: I’m me!

Tanner: It’s my birthday.

Brandy: No, it’s not! Your stupid birthday was last month!

Tanner: I have 2 birthdays.

Brandy: Then I have 4!

Lucy Gray: I have 12.☺️

Mizzen: Everyday’s my birthday!

Reaper: That doesn’t make sense.

Tanner: I’m special.

Mizzen: I’m special too!

Tanner: I’m the birthday boy!

Mizzen: It’s my birthday too!

Tanner: Liar!

Mizzen: You’re the one who’s lying!

Coral: Can somebody give me a f*ckin’ knife?! I need a knife!

Festus: How about a trident?

Coral: A big fork?

Festus: A golden fork.

Coral: You’re the best, bro.

Festus: I’m the best.

Tanner: Excuse me?! I’m the birthday boy. I’m the best!

Sejanus: *starts singing* Happy birthday, Tammy!

Tanner: It’s Tanner.

Coryo: *joins in and claps* Happy Birthday, Tony.👏

Domitia: Happy Birthday!

Festus: Happy Birthday!🎉

Persephone: Happy Birthday, Tommy!

Tanner: It’s Tanner!

Festus: Whatever you say, Tambourine. Now make a wish!

Tanner: Thanks.😑

Domitia: What’s your wish?

Tanner: To marry a super rich farm girl and live a happy life with our cute children and cows.

Domitia: Nice!

Hilarius: Can we sing again?

Lucy Gray: Let’s sing again!

Jessup: *suddenly wakes up* Is it morning already?!

Tanner: No! Go back to sleep.

Jessup: Oh, okay. Goodnight.😴

Tanner: Night.

Wovey: Mr. Rich Clown, I want a strawberry cake. Can you buy me a strawberry cake for lunch tomorrow?

Hilarius: Anything for you, master!

Bobbin: Oi! Oi, you, shoo! Go away!

Hilarius: But-

Bobbin: Do you see that sign?! *points at a random wall*

Hilarius: What sign?

Sejanus: Is it a love sign?😀

Coryo: There’s no sign.

Bobbin: No Capitol idiots allowed after supper!

Hilarius: I’m not an idiot!

Festus: Yo, stop bullying Hilari! He’s already homeless!

Bobbin: No homeless idiots allowed!

Hilarius: I’m not homeless!

Tanner: Let’s eat!

Domitia: So who wants the first slice?😀

Coryo: Me. I’m hungry.

Tanner: I’m the birthday boy!

Mizzen: And I’m Mizzen!

Sejanus: Let me feed you, my love!

Mizzen: You’re ruining my cake!

Tanner: That cake is mine.

Coral: Gremlin, shut up!

Mizzen: Be gone, evil one! Be gone!

Domitia: Here’s a big slice for you, Tan Tan!

Tanner: Thanks, love.

Persephone: Mizzen, my bro, do you want a slice of cake too?

Mizzen: Yes, please. All of it.🥺🙏

Coral: None of it!

Sejanus: Marcus, do you want-

Marcus: I’m sleeping!

Sejanus: It’s chocolate! It’s your favorite!

Marcus: I’m allergic to chocolate.

Sejanus: It’s lactose free!

Marcus: I love milk.

Sejanus: It’s vegan friendly!

Marcus: Do I look like a f*ckin’ vegan to you?!

Sejanus: No.

Marcus: Then shut up!

Sejanus: Marcus, please!

Marcus: I’m going back to bed!

Sejanus: Coryo, help!😫

Coryo: Fine. Marcus, buddy, do you want a slice of Tanner’s cake? It’s chocolate and it’s really good.

Marcus: Make it 2. I’m hungry.

Coryo: Sure. Anything for 2.

Marcus: Thanks, Blondie. You’re the best.

Coryo: Of course I am.

Marcus: Whatever you say, love.

Sejanus: Coryo’s mine! He’s mine!

Marcus: Obviously! I’m not blind, Plinth! Your freaking “love marks” are all over Blondie’s neck!

Lucy Gray: They’re called hickeys, you uncultured swine!

Marcus: I know that!

Sejanus: That’s normal.

Coryo: Unfortunately.

Lucy Gray: Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!

Wovey: What’s a love mark?

Lucy Gray: It’s when-

Dill: Birdy, shut up.

Sejanus: So what do you think?😀

Marcus: About what?

Sejanus: The cake!

Marcus: Ew. I don’t like cake.

Sejanus: But you said-

Coryo: Babe, let me do the talking.

Sejanus: Okay.😞

Coryo: So how’s the cake, bro?

Marcus: It’s super delicious!

Coryo: I know, right?

Marcus: I really love the chocolate cookies and the strawberry filling.

Coryo: True. Love them too.

Marcus: So who baked it?

Coryo: Domitia bought it from an exclusive expensive fancy little cake shop earlier this morning.

Domitia: For Tanner!

Tanner: Thanks, princess.

Domitia: I’m the Dairy Queen.

Tanner: My Dairy Queen.😘

Domitia: Are you my Dairy King?

Tanner: The ever handsome Dairy King of your heart, my love!

Mizzen: More like the diarrhea king!

Tanner: Mizzen, you little sh*t, shut the f*ck up!

Brandy: Yeah! Shut the f*ck up!

Mizzen: I’m the Food Emperor! Fear me and my bacon pizzas!

Coral: I give up. I’m going to bed.

Domitia: I love cows.

Tanner: I love them too.

Domitia: I hate ducks.

Tanner: I hate them too.

Domitia: You’re perfect!

Tanner: I’m special.

Treech: Boo! Get a room!

Reaper: Bro, be normal!

Tanner: I’m special!

Lamina: Can I eat in peace?!

Treech: *bites Lamina’s cake*

Lamina: My cake!😭

Treech: Thanks.

Brandy: By the way-

Tanner: No.

Brandy: Where’s my big ass monster chicken?!

Persephone: No whole chicken today. Sorry.

Mizzen: Feed me more, Percy Price! Feed me more!

Persephone: Airplane or train?

Mizzen: Thomas and friends please.

Persephone: *sighs* Fine.

Wovey: I want strawberries.

Hilarius: Anything for you, master!

Wovey: That’s right!

Bobbin: Is Mr. Rich Clown your personal servant or something?

Wovey: Duh.

Bobbin: How?

Wovey: Bobby, unlike you and your stupid corn dog, I’m not a poor peasant who sleeps in a smelly cardboard box.

Bobbin: Curse you Juno Phipps!

Marcus: Can I have another slice?

Coryo: Sure. Here you go.

Marcus: Thanks. You single now?

Coryo: No, I’m still kissing and marrying my Seji Pie.

Sejanus: That’s right!

Marcus: Why are you even dating idiot Plinth in the first place?

Coryo: To be fair, we’ve been dating since. . .

Sejanus: Forever and ever and ever!

Coryo: Yeah, since forever.

Marcus: That’s rough, buddy.

Coryo: It’s fine. He’s super rich and he really loves me.

Marcus: He’s obsessed with you!

Reaper: Unhealthy obsessed.

Coryo: Same thing.

Treech: I’m super single. Wanna date me, Blondie?

Coryo: Sorry. I can’t. I’m not single.

Sejanus: We’re married!

Lucy Gray: I’m single!😀

Reaper: Thank Panem.

Treech: Thank you, Panem! We don’t need to see more weird talking rainbow birds in the future.

Lucy Gray: Too bad! I’m going to marry Panlo and his hair curlers!

Coral: Lol. The weird bird is going to procreate with the Panini Man!

Lucy Gray: I like bread anyway!

Sejanus: Mine! *hugs Coryo from behind* My Coryo! Mine!

Coryo: See. He loves me.

Marcus: Did idiot Plinth ever f*cked you or what?

Coryo: Literally or figuratively?

Marcus: You tell me.

Coryo: Both.

Marcus: Was he good?

Coryo: He stole my virginity.

Marcus: That’s unfortunate.

Coryo: It’s fine. He gives me a lot of money every time we fu-

Marcus: I don’t want to know!

Lucy Gray: I want to know!

Coryo: He’s sweet.

Sejanus: I’m sweet!

Marcus: He’s a menace.

Coryo: We’re working on it.

Sejanus: Coryo, let’s fu-

Treech: Boo! Get a room!

Sejanus: But I want to-

Treech: Not in front of my cake!

Tanner: It’s my birthday! It’s my cake! I’m the special one!

Treech: Don’t care!

Lamina: Can I have another one?🥺

Mizzen: You’re ruining everything!

Coral: Treech, get the ropes again!

Treech: I’m not your servant!

Coral: Get the duct tape too!

Treech: Ugh! Fine!

Coral: Thanks, peasant.

Treech: Curse you Juno Phipps!

Coryo: Juno is not even here.

Sejanus: Kiss me, my love!

Coryo: In front of Marcus?!

Sejanus: Yes!

Marcus: What a loser.

Sejanus: I’m not a loser! I’m baby!

Marcus: Loser.

Sejanus: Fine! I’ll just crawl under a dark hole and die then!

Marcus: Good!

Sejanus: *starts crying*

Marcus: Cry harder!

Coryo: Bro, please stop bullying my sugar daddy. He’s very sensitive.

Marcus: Do better, Blondie!

Treech: I’m better!

Coryo: I’m doing my best!

Sejanus: I’m the best!😭

Coryo: Whatever you say, Babe.

Dill: Seriously, why are you guys even here?

Coryo: To celebrate Tan Tan’s birthday. Duh.

Dill: Is that all?

Coryo: No, but I can’t tell you.

Lucy Gray: Am I going to sing my love songs on stage now?

Reaper: No.

Lucy Gray: Can I sing on stage now?

Coryo: Maybe.

Reaper: I hope not.

Lamina: I’m scared!😭

Treech: I can backflip.

Tanner: No, you can’t.

Treech: Jealous, Tan Tan?

Tanner: Bobby Corn Poppy can backflip better than you, peasant.

Treech: I’m not a peasant!

Coral: Yo, servant, where’s the duct tape and ropes?!

Treech: I’m not a servant!

Coral: Of course not! You know that you’re not just a regular servant in my eyes, Lumberjack.

Treech: That’s right!

Coral: You’re my servant.

Treech: Curse you Juno Phipps!

Mizzen: Cake! Cake!

Coral: I’m stealing your plate.

Mizzen: Evil! Evil!

Wovey: Can I go back to sleep now?

Hilarius: Fine! I’m just gonna say it! I’m just gonna say it once!

Festus: Hilari, don’t!

Lucy Gray: Say it, clown boy! Am I going to sing on stage while the Magic Man’s cameras are rolling?!

Hilarius: You’re all going to-

Lucy Gray: Sing on television!

Reaper: Heck, no!

Lucy Gray: With the bees and birds!

Treech: I’m allergic to birds!

Hilarius: There’s more!

Coryo: Heavensbee!

Hilarius: You’re all going to perform on live television the day after tomorrow! There! I said it!

Reaper: Perform?!

Lucy Gray: Weewoo! I can’t wait!

Lamina: I’m not ready!😭

Coral: Perform what exactly?!

Hilarius: Anything! Free style! Backflips! Somersaults! Magic tricks! Card games! You tell me!

Treech: Nice!

Reaper: Panem, help me! Panem, help me! *starts praying again*

Dill: But why do we need to perform for the Capitol anyway?

Lucy Gray: Free money!

Coral: I do love money.

Coryo: We need sponsors.

Bobbin: Sponsors?! But you’re rich!

Coryo: I’m poor and so is Hilari.

Hilarius: I’m temporarily poor.

Sejanus: You were disowned.

Hilarius: Temporarily disowned.

Festus: And I have a whole family of rats to feed. So I’m also poor.

Persephone: My werewolf wannabe daddy needs his medication. So I can’t afford anything too fancy or too expensive at the moment.

Domitia: And I’m just a farm girl.

Coryo: A rich farm girl.

Dill: But what about my Mentor? His evil family’s rich, right?

Festus: True. However, our poor Class President’s very powerful mommy will never allow him to sponsor all of you.

Coryo: She won’t even sponsor us.

Dill: Why? She hates you?

Hilarius: She hates me.😔

Sejanus: She likes me. I’m rich.

Coryo: We know, Babe.

Festus: The mad madam is tragically allergic to charity, poor people, mole people, and homeless Hilari.

Reaper: Good for her! I’m allergic to idiots, birds, and weird people.

Lucy Gray: Oh! That explains why you hate yourself so much, Reaper!

Reaper: I don’t hate myself!

Lucy Gray: Poor miserable Reaper.

Reaper: I hate birds! Weird talking birds who can’t seem to shut up!

Treech: Same.

Coral: Me too.

Lucy Gray: That’s so sad! Do you want me to sing a beautiful love song for you?

Reaper: Go away, Baird!

Lucy Gray: I’ll sing a lovely song about weird talking birds then.

Reaper: Break a leg!

Lucy Gray: Thanks, bestie! I Hope you’ll like it!☺️

Reaper: Ew.

Dill: But is that the only reason?

Coryo: What reason?

Dill: The sponsorships and all that television stuff?

Coryo: No, our “prestigious” school is currently facing bankruptcy and we need a lot of money to pay off our debts but don’t ask why.

Reaper: Did you burn a big ass building down or something?

Festus: There was a flood.

Coryo: A man-made flood.

Persephone: It was my fault.

Coryo: Our fault.

Wovey: So what’s a vegan?

[phanfictioncatalogue]

Prince Royalty AU (2) Masterlist

part one

A Fairytale And A Half (fanfiction.net) - authortress

Summary: Prince Philip has a fairytale life, right down to the big quest to save the True Love he’s never met from a witch in a big scary forest. He’s never been outside the castle before, let alone a forest, so when it becomes apparent that Dan - a farm boy -knows the area, he tries to persuade him to be a guide so Phil won’t die before doing whatever it was he was meant to do in there.

An Omega From A Small Town - doomedhowell

Summary: Dan Howell is a teenage Omega boy from a small town, and his parents keep him hidden away in their family home. He’s practically a slave to them. Word gets out that Phil Lester, the prince, is looking for a mate. Dan’s family takes him to meet him, but Dan doesn’t expect he’ll end up with him.

A Prince’s Choice (ao3) - Emejig16

Summary: Prince Phillip reconnects with an old friend at the royal family’s annual Christmas party.

Blessed with a Curse (ao3) - Mirian_Rodrigues Summary: A prince accidentally wrongs a wizard and is cursed so that no woman shall ever love him. Fortunately, the prince is gay and now that the wizard is a little calmer he notices that the prince is super cute.

Sparks fly, and not because of a magic spell.

Enchanted (ao3) - roryonice

Summary: Daniel Howell, the eldest prince of England has just turned 24 and is about to engage in a Bachelorette-style competition between 100 princes to find himself a suitor. Over the course of the summer, Daniel must choose one of these 100 princes to marry. Let the games begin!

first violin (ao3) - olfrogbait

Summary: Princes Dan and Phil agree to get married in order to forge a political alliance.

Forgive Me (ao3) - FollowYourDreams

Summary: The year is 2224. Dan Howell is the prince of Pacis, living in the lavish Community, dreading his 21st birthday. Phil Lester is a servant at the Community, and has been for 6 years ever since he was taken from his home. On a fateful day, Dan and Phil lock eyes for the first time, and everything changes, but neither of them know if it’s for better or worse.

Heart of Gold (ao3) - pasteldanhowells, rainbowchristy

Summary: Following the events of our previous fic, Your Crowning Glory, this is a timestamp a year later. Read as we catch up with Dan and Phil and how Dan’s life has been as king. But, nothing is perfect. When Phil starts acting strange and his name starts popping up in the headlines, Dan fears the worst: Phil’s keeping secrets from him, and trying to steal his crown again.

holy ghost (ao3) - sadlybunny

Summary: A reunion between the prince and his fiancé after Phil has been in Germany.

If The Crown Fits - crystaiskiess

Summary: The Royalty AU nobody asked for in which Prince Daniel falls head over heels for his best friend and servant boy, Phil.

Midnight Garden (ao3) - silentdescant

Summary: He who plants a garden plants happiness.

In which Phil is a gardener at the palace and Dan is a reclusive prince.

My Happily Ever After (ao3) - tol_but_smol

Summary: Phil is a prince and Dan’s his servant

Not Your Type (ao3) - andthenshesaid-write (ladyknight1512)

Summary: Dan has been valet to Prince Phil for ten years and has managed to keep his feelings a secret because he knows they can never be together. When the royal family throws a masquerade ball to celebrate Phil’s 25th birthday, Dan takes the opportunity to finally face Phil as an equal.

pastry chef attempts to steal phil’s heart (ao3) - sierraadeux

Summary: If anyone asks, Prince Philip’s sneaky morning journeys down to the royal pastry kitchen are for nothing more than the perfect cup of coffee.

remember this feeling (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: “And now Dan found himself in the limelight. Of course he knew his moment would be over in a few months, but he had always been told to milk it for as much as it could be worth."When Daniel Howell receives an invitation to discuss his bestselling novel with the actual Prince of England, he’s understandably nervous. But with pressure from his publicist, he attends the event, and soon enough, he and Prince Philip spark an unlikely friendship. The Prince’s adorable corgi probably didn’t hurt either.

Six Ravens (ao3) - iihappydaysii

Summary: Dan meets Prince Philip at a cyberbullying campaign, but what starts as a working relationship grows complicated when Dan realizes he’s falling for the prince and maybe, just maybe, he’s not alone in his feelings.

snowdrops and second chances (ao3) - sierraadeux

Summary: A tale of the prince who set out to rid his kingdom of magic and the healing witch who found him.

That’s The Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be(ao3) - Iceprincessvictuuri (orphan_account)

Summary: The English king and queen are beloved by all throughout the country and they have a son, the prince, who would rather sit in his chambers then find a suitor. Dan already likes the man he ran into at the coffee shop a few blocks away anyways.

The Knight (ao3) - PsychoRadiance

Summary: Prince Daniel of Arabella: second heir to the royal throne, son of King Marcus and Queen Pippin, and a massive pain in the ass. Prince Daniel’s father is seeking a private protection unit for his son, but The Prince seems slightly unwilling to comply to this arrangement.

The Prince’s Protector (ao3) - aby55al (abyssa1)

Summary: Dan is a prince and Phil is his personal bodyguard. Then they have sex.

Your Crowning Glory (ao3) - pasteldanhowells, rainbowchristy

Summary: Dan is 18 years old when the news is suddenly sprung upon him that he is next line to be the next king of Genovia, but things don’t go as smoothly as he thought, between having a suddenly busy schedule, a new lifestyle, an arranged marriage that Dan has no control over, and worst of all, Philip Lester trying to steal his crown.

[satoshi-mochida]

Supernatural life simulation game Moonlight Peaks to be published by XSEED Games and Marvelous Europe

From Gematsu

XSEED Games and Marvelous Europe will publisher supernatural life simulation game Moonlight Peaks in North America and Europe, respectively. It will launch for PC via Steam in 2026. A demo is currently available.

“We always look for projects that offer our audience diverse new titles with our indie publishing efforts, but this time we’ve found a project that’s much closer to home,” said XSEED Games executive vice president Kenji Hosoi in a press release. “Moonlight Peaks is a supernatural fit given our deep experience with the farming / life sim genre, and we look forward to working with the team at Little Chicken to bring their game to life, and our fans!”

Little Chicken Game Company president Yannis Bolman added, “Partnering with Marvelous and their group of companies for a worldwide release was an opportunity we were excited to accept. As pioneers in the farming and life-sim genre with Story of Seasons and then the Rune Factory series, we were thrilled to be invited into their family. Moonlight Peaks will fit seamlessly into their publishing portfolio, and we hope to introduce fans of those series to our own innovative and unique ideas for the genre.”

Here is an overview of the game, via XSEED Games:

About

Moonlight Peaks takes place in its titular town, home to vampires, werewolves, mermaids, and other supernatural denizens who mostly come out at night—where the unnatural is the norm. As the grown-up progeny of Count Dracula, players will have to prove to their skeptical father that an (un-)life of compassion is possible, even for the undead. While players design their perfect vampire lair and learn the art of farming magical crops and witchcraft, they’ll get to know the eclectic mix of human and supernatural residents that also call Moonlight Peaks home, and maybe even find their eternal love! More information about the setting and features of Moonlight Peaks will be revealed at a later date, but players can download a new demo on PC right now for a glimpse at the haunted haven that awaits.

Key Features

Live the vampire life in the magical town of Moonlight Peaks.

Master the art of potions and spells.

Manage your supernatural farm.

Make friends with the local werewolves, witches, and mermaids, and find your eternal love in the supernatural dating scene.

More to come!

Watch an old teaser trailer below.

Teaser Trailer

[townsenddecades]

Introducing the Challenge

Three households, all alike in dignity, in fair Praaven, where we lay our scene -

Alright, let’s not get too Shakespearean here. The man won’t even be born for another around 264 years or so. I just couldn’t resist the allusion. An allusion is all there will be, however, for although I love the dramatic, I am neither as good a storyteller nor as good a wordsmith as our Elizabethan friend.

What I am, at least as regards this challenge, is The Watcher, alleged deity, narrator and occasional snarky commentator. I will be the one to take you on this journey through the (hopefully) centuries.

One thing wasn't just a cheap gimmick, however. Praaven really is gorgeous. Some evidence:

Beautiful, isn't it?

This medieval world, which I've decided plays the part of northern England for the purpose of the challenge, is the place where the Townsend family’s story will begin. Which means I should introduce the Townsends. Let me show you a family portrait, ca. 1300 (not an actual portrait, however, as they are neither rich nor important enough for one to be painted ot them).

The Townsends are a family of humble peasant farmers. They are not serfs, as Benedict’s father managed to free himself and his son, but they are beholden to their liege lord, the Earl of Petersmarch, and make their livelihood on their land. A small overview of its members at the start of the 14th century:

Benedict (24 y.o.): Benedict’s family is of Scottish ancestry but has lived in England as serfs for some generations. His father was a very prudent, amicable man, and was able to buy them their freedom through his dedication, hard work, and cunning in winning the friendship of their lord. The family of two promptly relocated to the outskirts of the city of Praaven. Sadly, Benedict’s father didn't get to enjoy his freedom for long, as he fell ill and died a few years later when Benedict was still a young teenager. He was determined to not let his father’s sacrifices go to waste and to make sure to give his eventual family a life his father could be proud of. While seeking guidance at the local abbey, he met Anne Howe, an orphan, whom he fell in love with and married. In the years hence, the couple has had three surviving children, and has tried to open up avenues to make their small farm more prosperous for the big family they want to build.

Anne (21 y.o.):  Anne was made an orphan at a young age, when both of her parents died due to illness and she and her remaining siblings were scattered. She herself was raised in the Abbey of St. Wright in exchange for earning her keep as a maid. When she was 13, she met Benedict Townsend, a farmer from the nearby village of Tovar, whom she married at only 15 because the couple had been a bit…overly excited in their affections. She was happy to make a life with him tending to their farm, and even happier to welcome their children, Anna, Edith and Benjamin, into the world. Even as a wife and mother, she can’t rein in her flirtatious attitude sometimes, although she loves her husband deeply and rarely means anything by it. Benedict has never seen this as a reason for jealousy.

Anna (5 y.o.): The elder of Anne’s and Benedict’s twin daughters, born suspiciously soon after their marriage. She is a kind-hearted, personable girl that likes to see others happy, and especially loves making people laugh. She takes her role as the eldest very seriously and is always helping with the livestock and the crop. Absolutely unafraid to walk up to strangers and talk to them.

Edith (5 y.o.): Younger than Anna by minutes, Edith shares her sister’s chores on the farm and her adventurous spirit, but in her case, this spirit makes itself felt by her keen interest in all things occult. Not that there are many occult things in her life, but she is certain that they are out there! Luckily, she is too dutiful and too loyal to her family to go running off to search for witches and ghosts.  

Benjamin (2 y.o.): The proverbial baby of the bunch. At his tender age, Benjamin has not yet had much opportunity to express a personality, but he is always underfoot on the farm and keen to explore everything.

But this is only one of the three households I promised. The other two are far more “alike in dignity” to each other than they are to the humble Townsends. The first of those households is that of the Earl of Petersmarch, Ralph Dudley, and his Countess, Elizabeth. Lord and Lady Petersmarch have three small children: Ralph Jr. (the heir), Clement and Lady Elizabeth the Younger.

Their residence is Praaven Castle, at the far end of the city, although the Earl is frequently absent on royal business, leaving the Countess to rule in his stead.

The other noble family of the area is that of Peter Pelham, Baron Elbenhawke, and Alice Pelham, his Baroness. Their family seat, Elbenhawke Hall, is located in the hills above the village of Tovar, close to which the Townsends live. Lord and Lady Elbenhawke, although no less fashionable, are a bit older than the Earl and Countess, and more reclusive in their lifestyle.

They live with their eldest son and heir, also named Peter, Peter Jr.’s fiancée, Cecilia Grey, and their other children, Joan, Richard and Mary.

We will only follow their stories from afar, but it is important to be acquainted with the local nobility, wouldn't you agree? One never knows where their paths might cross those of our humble protagonists.

And that should be enough to get you started in the world of Praaven. Now it’s time for the story to begin.

Prev <---> Next: 1300, Day 1

[atticnotebook]

"Hawthorne and His Mosses" by Herman Melville

A papered chamber in a fine old farm-house--a mile from any other dwelling, and dipped to the eaves in foliage--surrounded by mountains, old woods, and Indian ponds,--this, surely is the place to write of Hawthorne. Some charm is in this northern air, for love and duty seem both impelling to the task. A man of a deep and noble nature has seized me in this seclusion. His wild, witch voice rings through me; or, in softer cadences, I seem to hear it in the songs of the hill-side birds, that sing in the larch trees at my window.

Would that all excellent books were foundlings, without father or mother, that so it might be, we could glorify them, without including their ostensible authors. Nor would any true man take exception to this;--least of all, he who writes,--"When the Artist rises high enough to achieve the Beautiful, the symbol by which he makes it perceptible to mortal senses becomes of little value in his eyes, while his spirit possesses itself in the enjoyment of the reality."

But more than this, I know not what would be the right name to put on the title-page of an excellent book, but this I feel, that the names of all fine authors are fictitious ones, far more than that of Junius,--simply standing, as they do, for the mystical, ever-eluding Spirit of all Beauty, which ubiquitously possesses men of genius. Purely imaginative as this fancy may appear, it nevertheless seems to receive some warranty from the fact, that on a personal interview no great author has ever come up to the idea of his reader. But that dust of which our bodies are composed, how can it fitly express the nobler intelligences among us? With reverence be it spoken, that not even in the case of one deemed more than man, not even in our Saviour, did his visible frame betoken anything of the augustness of the nature within. Else, how could those Jewish eyewitnesses fail to see heaven in his glance.

It is curious, how a man may travel along a country road, and yet miss the grandest, or sweetest of prospects, by reason of an intervening hedge, so like all other hedges, as in no way to hint of the wide landscape beyond. So has it been with me concerning the enchanting landscape in the soul of this Hawthorne, this most excellent Man of Mosses. His "Old Manse" has been written now four years, but I never read it till a day or two since. I had seen it in the book-stores--heard of it often--even had it recommended to me by a tasteful friend, as a rare, quiet book, perhaps too deserving of popularity to be popular. But there are so many books called "excellent," and so much unpopular merit, that amid the thick stir of other things, the hint of my tasteful friend was disregarded; and for four years the Mosses on the Old Manse never refreshed me with their perennial green. It may be, however, that all this while, the book, like wine, was only improving in flavor and body. At any rate, it so chanced that this long procrastination eventuated in a happy result. At breakfast the other day, a mountain girl, a cousin of mine, who for the last two weeks has every morning helped me to strawberries and raspberries,--which like the roses and pearls in the fairy-tale, seemed to fall into the saucer from those strawberry-beds her cheeks,--this delightful crature, this charming Cherry says to me--"I see you spend your mornings in the hay-mow; and yesterday I found there 'Dwight's Travels in New England'. Now I have something far better than that,--something more congenial to our summer on these hills. Take these raspberries, and then I will give you some moss."--"Moss!" said I--"Yes, and you must take it to the barn with you, and good-bye to 'Dwight.'"

With that she left me, and soon returned with a volume, verdantly bound, and garnished with a curious frontispiece in green,--nothing less, than a fragment of real moss cunningly pressed to a fly-leaf.--"Why this," said I, spilling my raspberries, "this is the 'Mosses from an Old Manse'." "Yes," said cousin Cherry, "yes, it is that flowery Hawthorne."--"Hawthorne and Mosses," said I, "no more: it is morning: it is July in the country: and I am off for the barn."

Stretched on that new mown clover, the hill-side breeze blowing over me through the wide barn door, and soothed by the hum of the bees in the meadows around, how magically stole over me this Mossy Man! And how amply, how bountifully, did he redeem that delicious promise to his guests in the Old Manse, of whom it is written--"Others could give them pleasure, or amusement, or instruction--these could be picked up anywhere--but it was for me to give them rest. Rest, in a life of trouble! What better could be done for weary and world-worn spirits? what better could be done for anybody, who came within our magic circle, than to throw the spell of a magic spirit over them?"--So all that day, half-buried in the new clover, I watched this Hawthorne's "Assyrian dawn, and Paphian sunset and moonrise, from the summit of our Eastern Hill."

The soft ravishments of the man spun me round in a web of dreams, and when the book was closed, when the spell was over, this wizard "dismissed me with but misty reminiscences, as if I had been dreaming of him."

What a mild moonlight of contemplative humor bathes that Old Manse!--the rich and rare distilment of a spicy and slowly-oozing heart. No rollicking rudeness, no gross fun fed on fat dinners, and bred in the lees of wine,--but a humor so spiritually gentle, so high, so deep, and yet so richly relishable, that it were hardly inappropriate in an angel. It is the very religion of mirth; for nothing so human but it may be advanced to that. The orchard of the Old Manse seems the visible type of the fine mind that has described it. Those twisted, and contorted old trees, "that stretch out their crooked branches, and take such hold of the imagination, that we remember them as humorists and odd-fellows." And then, as surrounded by these grotesque forms, and hushed in the noon-day repose of this Hawthorne's spell, how aptly might the still fall of his ruddy thoughts into your soul be symbolized by "the thump of a great apple, in the stillest afternoon, falling without a breath of wind, from the mere necessity of perfect ripeness"! For no less ripe than ruddy are the apples of the thoughts and fancies in this sweet Man of Mosses.

"Buds and Bird-Voices"--What a delicious thing is that!--"Will the world ever be so decayed, that Spring may not renew its greeness?"--And the "Fire-Worship." Was ever the hearth so glorified into an altar before? The mere title of that piece is better than any common work in fifty folio volumes. How exquisite is this:--"Nor did it lessen the charm of his soft, familiar courtesy and helpfulness, that the mighty spirit, were opportunity offered him, would run riot through the peaceful house, wrap its inmates in his terrible embrace, and leave nothing of them save their whitened bones. This possibility of mad destruction only made his domestic kindness the more beautiful and touching. It was so sweet of him, being endowed with such power, to dwell, day after day, and one long, lonesome night after another, on the dusky hearth, only now and then betraying his wild nature, by thrusting his red tongue out of the chimney-top! True, he had done much mischief in the world, and was pretty certain to do more, but his warm heart atoned for all. He was kindly to the race of man."

But he has still other apples, not quite so ruddy, though full as ripe:--apples, that have been left to wither on the tree, after the pleasant autumn gathering is past. The sketch of "The Old Apple Dealer" is conceived in the subtlest spirit of sadness; he whose "subdued and nerveless boyhood prefigured his abortive prime, which, likewise, contained within itself the prophecy and image of his lean and torpid age." Such touches as are in this piece can not proceed from any common heart. They argue such a depth of tenderness, such a boundless sympathy with all forms of being, such an omnipresent love, that we must needs say, that this Hawthorne is here almost alone in his generation,--at least, in the artistic manisfestation of these things. Still more. Such touches as these,--and many, very many similar ones, all through his chapters--furnish clews, whereby we enter a little way into the intricate, profound heart where they originated. And we see, that suffering, some time or other and in some shape or other,--this only can enable any man to depict it in others. All over him, Hawthorne's melancholy rests like an Indian summer, which, though bathing a whole country in one softness, still reveals the distinctive hue of every towering hill, and each far-winding vale.

But it is the least part of genius that attracts admiration. Where Hawthorne is known, he seems to be deemed a pleasant writer, with a pleasant style,--a sequestered, harmless man, from whom any deep and weighty thing would hardly be anticipated:--a man who means no meanings. But there is no man, in whom humor and love, like mountain peaks, soar to such a rapt height, as to receive the irradiations of the upper skies;--there is no man in whom humor and love are developed in that high form called genius; no such man can exist without also possessing, as the indispensable complement of these, a great, deep intellect, which drops down into the universe like a plummet. Or, love and humor are only the eyes, through which such an intellect views this world. The great beauty in such a mind is but the product of its strength. What, to all readers, can be more charming than the piece entitled "Monsieur du Miroir"; and to a reader at all capable of fully fathoming it, what at the same time, can possess more mystical depth of meaning?--Yes, there he sits, and looks at me,--this "shape of mystery," this "identical Monsieur du Miroir."--"Methinks I should tremble now, were his wizard power of gliding through all impediments in search of me, to place him suddenly before my eyes."

How profound, nay appalling, is the moral evolved by the "Earth's Holocaust"; where--beginning with the hollow follies and affectations of the world,--all vanities and empty theories and forms, are, one after another, and by an admirably graduated, growing comprehensiveness, thrown into the allegorical fire, till, at length, nothing is left but the all-engendering heart of man; which remaining still unconsumed, the great conflagration is naught.

Of a piece with this, is the "Intelligence Office," a wondrous symbolizing of the secret workings in men's souls. There are other sketches, still more charged with ponderous import.

"The Christmas Banquet," and "The Bosom Serpent" would be fine subjects for a curious and elaborate analysis, touching the conjectural parts of the mind that produced them. For spite of all the Indian-summer sunlight on the hither side of Hawthorne's soul, the other side--like the dark half of the physical sphere--is shrouded in a blackness, ten times black. But this darkness but gives more effect to the evermoving dawn, that forever advances through it, and cirumnavigates his world. Whether Hawthorne has simply availed himself of this mystical blackness as a means to the wondrous effects he makes it to produce in his lights and shades; or whether there really lurks in him, perhaps unknown to himself, a touch of Puritanic gloom,--this, I cannot altogether tell. Certain it is, however, that this grat power of blackness in him derives its force from its appeals to that Calvinistic sense of Innate Depravity and Original Sin, from whose visitations, in some shape or other, no deeply thinking mind is always and wholly free. For, in certain moods, no man can weigh this world, without throwing in something, somehow like Original Sin, to strike the uneven balance. At all events, perhaps no writer has ever wielded this terrific thought with greater terror than this same harmless Hawthorne. Still more: this black conceit pervades him, through and through. You may be witched by his sunlight,--transported by the bright gildings in the skies he builds over you;--but there is the blackness of darkness beyond; and even his bright gildings but fringe, and play upon the edges of thunder-clouds.--In one word, the world is mistaken in this Nathaniel Hawthorne. He himself must often have smiled at its absurd misconceptions of him. He is immeasurably deeper than the plummet of the mere critic. For it is not the brain that can test such a man; it is only the heart. You cannot come to know greatness by inspecting it; there is no glimpse to be caught of it, except by intuition; you need not ring it, you but touch it, and you find it is gold.

Now it is that blackness in Hawthorne, of which I have spoken, that so fixes and fascinates me. It may be, nevertheless, that it is too largely developed in him. Perhaps he does not give us a ray of his light for every shade of his dark. But however this may be, this blackness it is that furnishes the infinite obscure of his background,--that background, against which Shakespeare plays his grandest conceits, the things that have made for Shakespeare his loftiest, but most circumscribed renown, as the profoundest of thinkers. For by philosophers Shakespeare is not adored as the great man of tragedy and comedy.--"Off with his head! so much for Buckingham!" this sort of rant, interlined by another hand, brings down the house,--those mistaken souls, who dream of Shakespeare as a mere man of Richard-the-Third humps, and Macbeth daggers. But it is those deep far-away things in him; those occasional flashings-forth of the intuitive Truth in him; those short, quick probings at the very axis of reality:--these are the things that make Shakespeare, Shakespeare. Through the mouths of the dark characters of Hamlet, Timon, Lear, and Iago, he craftily says, or sometimes insinuates the things, which we feel to be so terrifically true, that it were all but madness for any good man, in his own proper character, to utter, or even hint of them. Tormented into desperation, Lear the frantic King tears off the mask, and speaks the sane madness of vital truth. But, as I before said, it is the least part of genius that attracts admiration. And so, much of the blind, unbridled admiration that has been heaped upon Shakespeare, has been lavished upon the least part of him. And few of his endless commentators and critics seem to have remembered, or even perceived, that the immediate products of a great mind are not so great, as that undeveloped, (and sometimes undevelopable) yet dimly-discernible greatness, to which these immediate products are but the infallible indices. In Shakespeare's tomb lies infinitely more than Shakespeare ever wrote. And if I magnify Shakespeare, it is not so much for what he did do, as for what he did not do, or refrained from doing. For in this world of lies, Truth is forced to fly like a scared white doe in the woodlands; and only by cunning glimpses will she reveal herself, as in Shakespeare and other masters of the great Art of Telling the Truth,--even though it be covertly, and by snatches.

But if this view of the all-popular Shakespeare be seldom taken by his readers, and if very few who extol him, have ever read him deeply, or, perhaps, only have seen him on the tricky stage, (which alone made, and is still making him his mere mob renown)--if few men have time, or patience, or palate, for the spiritual truth as it is in that great genius;--it is, then, no matter of surprise that in a contemporaneous age, Nathaniel Hawthorne is a man, as yet, almost utterly mistaken among men. Here and there, in some quiet arm-chair in the noisy town, or some deep nook among the noiseless mountains, he may be appreciated for something of what he is. But unlike Shakespeare, who was forced to the contrary course by circumstances, Hawthorne (either from simple disinclination, or else from inaptitude) refrains from all the popularizing noise and show of broad farce, and blood-besmeared tragedy; content with the still, rich utterances of a great intellect in repose, and which sends few thoughts into circulation, except they be arterialized at his large warm lungs, and expanded in his honest heart.

Nor need you fix upon that blackness in him, if it suit you not. Nor, indeed, will all readers discern it, for it is, mostly, insinuated to those who may best undersand it, and account for it; it is not obtruded upon every one alike.

Some may start to read of Shakespeare and Hawthorne on the same page. They may say, that if an illustration were needed, a lesser light might have sufficed to elucidate this Hawthorne, this small man of yesterday. But I am not, willingly, one of those, who as touching Shakespeare at least, exemplify the maxim of Rochefoucauld, that "we exalt the reputation of some, in order to depress that of others";--who, to teach all noble-souled aspirants that there is no hope for them, pronounce Shakespeare absolutely unapproachable. But Shakespeare has been approached. There are minds that have gone as far as Shakespeare into the universe. And hardly a mortal man, who, at some time or other, has not felt as great thoughts in him as any you will find in Hamlet. We must not inferentially malign mankind for the sake of any one man, whoever he may be. This is too cheap a purchase of contentment for consious mediocrity to make. Besides, this absolute and unconditional adoration of Shakespeare has grown to be a part of our Anglo Saxon superstitions. The Thirty-Nine Articles are now Forty. Intolerance has come to exist in this matter. You must believe in Shakespeare's unapproachability, or quit the country. But what sort of belief is this for an American, an man who is bound to carry republican progressiveness into Literature, as well as into Life? Believe me, my friends, that men not very much inferior to Shakespeare, are this day being born on the banks of the Ohio. And the day will come, when you shall say who reads a book by an Englishman that is a modern? The great mistake seems to be, that even with those Americans who look forward to the coming of a great literary genius among us, they somehow fancy he will come in the costume of Queen Elizabeth's day,--be a writer of dramas founded upon old English history, or the tales of Boccaccio. Whereas, great geniuses are parts of the times; they themselves are the time; and possess an correspondent coloring. It is of a piece with the Jews, who while their Shiloh was meekly walking in their streets, were still praying for his magnificent coming; looking for him in a chariot, who was already among them on an ass. Nor must we forget, that, in his own life-time, Shakespeare was not Shakespeare, but only Master William Shakespeare of the shrewd, thriving business firm of Condell, Shakespeare & Co., proprietors of the Globe Theater in London; and by a courtly author, of the name of Chettle, was hooted at, as an "upstart crow" beautfied "with other birds' feathers." For, mark it well, imitation is often the first charge brought against real originality. Why this is so, there is not space to set forth here. You must have plenty of sea-room to tell the Truth in; especially, when it seems to have an aspect of newness, as American did in 1492, though it was then just as old, and perhaps older than Asia, only those sagacious philosophers, the common sailors, had never seen it before; swearing it was all water and moonshine there.

Now, I do not say that Nathaniel of Salem is a greater than William of Avon, or as great. But the difference between the two men is by no means immeasurable. Not a very great deal more, and Nathaniel were verily William.

This too, I mean, that if Shakespeare has not been equalled, give the world time, and he is sure to be surpassed, in one hemisphere or the other. Nor will it at all do to say, that the world is getting grey and grizzled now, and has lost that fresh charm which she wore of old, and by virtue of which the great poets of past times made themselves what we esteem them to be. Not so. the world is as young today, as when it was created, and this Vermont morning dew is as wet to my feet, as Eden's dew to Adam's. Nor has Nature been all over ransacked by our progenitors, so that no new charms and mysteries remain for this latter generation to find. Far from it. The trillionth part has not yet been said, and all that has been said, but multiplies the avenues to what remains to be said. It is not so much paucity, as superabundance of material that seems to incapacitate modern authors.

Let American then prize and cherish her writers, yea, let her glorify them. They are not so many in number, as to exhaust her good-will. And while she has good kith and kin of her own, to take to her bosom, let her not lavish her embraces upon the household of an alien. For believe it or not England, after all, is, in many things, an alien to us. China has more bowels of real love for us than she. But even were there no strong literary individualities among us, as there are some dozen at least, nevertheless, let America first praise mediocrity even, in her own children, before she praises (for everywhere, merit demands acknowledgment from every one) the best excellence in the children of any other land. Let her own authors, I say, have the priority of appreciation. I was very much pleased with a hot-headed Carolina cousin of mine, who once said,--"If there were no other American to stand by, in Literature,--why, then, I would stand by Pop Emmons and his 'Fredoniad,' and till a better epic came along, swear it was not very far behind the 'Iliad'." Take away the words, and in spirit he was sound.

Not that American genius needs patronage in order to expand. For that explosive sort of stuff will expand though screwed up in a vice, and burst it, though it were triple steel. It is for the nation's sake, and not for her authors' sake, that I would have America be heedful of the increasing greatness among her writers. For how great the shame, if other nations should be before her, in crowning her heroes of the pen. But this is almost the case now. American authors have received more just and discriminating praise (however loftily and ridiculously given, in certain cases) even from some Englishmen, than from their own countrymen. There are hardly five critics in America, and several of them are asleep. As for patronage, it is the American author who now patronizes the country, and not his country him. And if at times some among them appeal to the people for more recognition, it is not always with selfish motives, but patriotic ones.

It is true, that but few of them as yet have evinced that decided originality which merits great praise. But that graceful writer, who perhaps of all Americans has received the most plaudits from his own country for his productions,--that very popular and amiable writer, however good, and self-reliant in many things, perhaps owes his chief reputation to the self-acknowledged imitation of a foreign model, and to the studied avoidance of all topics but smooth ones. But it is better to fail in originality, than to succeed in imitation. He who has never failed somewhere, that man can not be great. Failure is the true test of greatness. And if it be said, that continual success is a proof that a man wisely knows his powers,--it is only to be added, that, in that case, he knows them to be small. Let us believe it, then, once for all, that there is no hope for us in these smooth pleasing writers that know their powers. Without malice, but to speak the plain fact, they but furnish an appendix to Goldsmith, and other English authors. And we want no American Goldsmiths, nay, we want no American Miltons. It were the vilest thing you could say of a true American author, that he were an American Tompkins. Call him an American, and have done, for you can not say a nobler thing of him.--But it is not meant that all American writers should studiously cleave to nationality in their writings; only this, no American writer should write like an Englishman, or a Frenchman; let him write like a man, for then he will be sure to write like an American. Let us away with this leaven of literary flunkyism towards England. If either we must play the flunky in this thing, let England do it, not us. While we are rapidly preparing for that political supremacy among the nations, which prophetically awaits us at the close of the present century; in a literary point of view, we are deplorably unprepared for it; and we seem studious to remain so. Hitherto, reasons might have existed why this should be; but no good reason exists now. And all that is requisite to amendment in this matter, is simply this: that, while freely acknowledging all excellence, everywhere, we should refrain from unduly lauding foreign writers, and, at the same time, duly recognize the meritorious writers that are our own,--those writers, who breathe that unshackled, democratic spirit of Christianity in all things, which now takes the practical lead in the world, though at the same time led by ourselves--us Americans. Let us boldly contemn all imitation, though it comes to us graceful and fragrant as the morning; and foster all originality, though, at first, it be crabbed and ugly as our own pine knots. And if any of our authors fail, or seem to fail, then, in the words of my enthusiastic Carolina cousin, let us clap him on the shoulder, and back him against all Europe for his second round. The truth is, that in our point of view, this matter of a national literature has come to such a pass with us, that in some sense we must turn bullies, else the day is lost, or superiority so far beyond us, that we can hardly say it will ever be ours.

And now, my countrymen, as an excellent author, of your own flesh and blood,--an unimitating, and perhaps, in his way, an inimitable man--whom better can I commend to you, in the first place, than Nathaniel Hawthorne. He is one of the new, and far better generation of your writer. The smell of your beeches and hemlocks is upon him; your own broad prairies are in his soul; and if you travel away inland into his deep and noble nature, you will hear the far roar of his Niagara. Give not over to future generations the glad duty of acknowledging him for what he is. Take that joy to yourself, in your own generation; and so shall he feel those grateful impulses in him, that may possibly prompt him to the full flower of some still greater achievement in your eyes. And by confessing him, you thereby confess others, you brace the whole brotherhood. For genius, all over the world, stands hand in hand, and one shock of recognition runs the whole circle round.

In treating of Hawthorne, or rather of Hawthorne in his writings (for I never saw the man; and in the chances of a quiet plantation life, remote from his haunts, perhaps never shall) in treating of his works, I say, I have thus far omitted all mention of his "Twice Told Tales," and "Scarlet Letter." Both are excellent, but full of such manifold, strange and diffusive beauties, that time would all but fail me, to point the half of them out. But there are things in those two books, which, had they been written in England a century ago, Nathaniel Hawthorne had utterly displaced many of the bright names we now revere on authority. But I content to leave Hawthorne to himself, and to the infallible finding of posterity; and however great may be the praise I have bestowed upon him, I feel, that in so doing, I have more served and honored myself, than him. For at bottom, great excellence is praise enough to itself; but the feeling of a sincere and appreciative love and admiration towards it, this is relieved by utterance; and warm, honest praise ever leaves a pleasant flavor in the mouth; and it is an honorable thing to confess to what is honorable in others.

But I cannot leave my subject yet. No man can read a fine author, and relish him to his very bones, while he reads, without subsequently fancying to himself some ideal image of the man and his mind. And if you rightly look for it, you will almost always find that the author himself has somewhere furnished you with his own picture. For poets (whether in prose or verse), being painters of Nature, are like their brethren of the pencil, the true portrait-painters, who, in the multitude of likenesses to be sketched, do not invariably omit their own; and in all high instances, they paint them without any vanity, though, at times, with a lurking something, that would take several pages to properly define.

I submit it, then, to those best acquainted with the man personally, whether the following is not Nathaniel Hawthorne,--to to himself, whether something involved in it does not express the temper of this mind,--that lasting temper of all true, candid men--a seeker, not a finder yet:--

A man now entered, in neglected attire, with the aspect of a thinker, but somewhat too rough-hewn and brawny for a scholar. His face was full of sturdy vigor, with some finer and keener attribute beneath; though harsh at first, it was tempered with the glow of a large, warm heart, which had force enough to heat his powerful intellect through and through. He advanced to the Intelligencer, and looked at him with a glance of such stern sincerity, that perhaps few secrets were beyond its scope.

"'I seek for Truth,' said he."

Twenty-four hours have elapsed since writing the foregoing. I have just returned from the hay mow, charged more and more with love and admiration of Hawthorne. For I have just been gleaning through the "Mosses," picking up many things here and there that had previously escaped me. And I found that but to glean after this man, is better than to be in at the harvest of others. To be frank (though, perhaps, rather foolish), notwithstanding what I wrote yesterday of these Mosses, I had not then culled them all; but had, nevertheless, been sufficiently sensible of the subtle essence, in them, as to write as I did. to what infinite height of loving wonder and admiration I may yet be borne, when by repeatedly banquetting on these Mosses, I shall have thoroughly incorporated their whole stuff into my being,--that, I can not tell. But already I feel that this Hawthorne has dropped germinous seeds into my soul. He expands and deepens down, the more I contemplate him; and further, and further, shoots his strong New-England roots into the hot soil of my Southern soul.

By careful reference to the "Table of Contents," I now find, that I have gone through all the sketches; but that when I yeterday wrote, I had not at all read two particular pieces, to which I now desire to call special attention,--"A Select Party," and "Young Goodman Brown." Here, be it said to all those whom this poor fugitive scrawl of mine may tempt to the purusal of the "Mosses," that they must on no account suffer themselves to be trifled with, disappointed, or deceived by the triviality of many of the titles to these Sketches. For in more than one instance, the title utterly belies the piece. It is as if rustic demjohns containing the very best and costliest of Falernian and Tokay, were labeled "Cider," "Perry," and "Elder-berry Wine." The truth seems to be, that like many other geniuses, this Man of Mosses takes great delight in hoodwinking the world,--at least, with respect to himself. Personally, I doubt not, that he rather prefers to be generally esteemed but a so-so sort of author; being willing to reserve the thorough and acute appreciation of what he is, to that party most qualified to judge--that is, to himself. Besides, at the bottom of their natures, men like Hawthorne, in many things, deem the plaudits of the public such strong presumptive evidence of mediocrity in the object of them, that it would in some degree render them doubtful of their own powers, did they hear much and vociferous braying concerning them in the public pastures. True, I have been braying myself (if you please to be witty enough, to have it so) but then I claim to be the first that has so brayed in this particular matter; and therefore, while pleading guilty to the charge, still claim all the merit due to originality.

But with whatever motive, playful or profound, Nathaniel Hawthorne has chosen to entitle his pieces in the manner he has, it is certain, that some of them are directly calculated to deceive--egregiously deceive--the superficial skimmer of pages. To be downright and candid once more, let me cheerfully say, that two of these titles did dolefully dupe no less an eagle-eyed reader than myself, and that, too, after I had been impressed with a sense of the great depth and breadth of this American man. "Who in the name of thunder," (as the country-people say in this neighborhood), "who in the name of thunder, would anticipate any marvel in a piece entitled "Young Goodman Brown"? You would of course suppose that it was a simple little tale, intended as a supplement to "Goody Two Shoes." Whereas, it is deep as Dante; nor can you finish it, without addressing the author in his own words--"It is yours to penetrate, in every bosom, the deep mystery of sin." And with Young Goodman, too, in allegorical pursuit of his Puritan wife, you cry out in your anguish,--

"Faith!" shouted Goodman Brown, in a voice of agony and desperation; and the echoes of the forest mocked him, crying--"Faith! Faith!" as if bewildered wretches were seeking her all through the wilderness.

Now this same piece, entitled "Young Goodman Brown," is one of the two that I had not all read yesterday; and I allude to it now, because it is, in itself, such a strong positive illustration of that blackness in Hawthorne, which I had assumed from the mere occasional shadows of it, as revealed in several of the other sketches. But had I previously perused "Young Goodman Brown," I should have been at no pains to draw the conclusion, which I came to, at a time, when I was ignorant that the book contained one such direct and unqualified manifestation of it.

The other piece of the two referred to, is entitled "A Select Party," which in my first simplicity upon originally taking hold of the book, I fancied must treat of some pumpkin-pie party in Old Salem, or some Chowder Party on Cape Cod. Whereas, by all the gods of Peedee! it is the sweetest and sublimest thing that has been written since Spenser wrote. Nay, there is nothing in Spenser that surpasses it, perhaps, nothing that equals it. And the test is this: read any canto in "The Faery Queen," and then read "A Select Party," and decide which pleases you the most,--that is, if you are qualified to judge. Do not be frightened at this; for when Spenser was alive, he was thought of very much as Hawthorne is now--was generally accounted just such a "gentle" harmless man. It may be, that to common eyes, the sublimity of Hawthorne seems lost in his sweetness,--as perhaps in this same "Select Party" his; for whom, he has builded so august a dome of sunset clouds, and served them on richer plate, than Belshazzar's when he banquetted his lords in Babylon.

But my chief business now, is to point out a particular page in this piece, having reference to an honored guest, who under the name of "The Master Genius" but in the guise "of a young man of poor attire, with no insignia of rank or acknowledged eminence," is introduced to the Man of Fancy, who is the giver of the feast. Now the page having reference to this "Master Genius", so happily expresses much of what I yesterday wrote, touching the coming of the literary Shiloh of America, that I cannot but be charmed by the coincidence; especially, when it shows such a parity of ideas, at least, in this one point, between a man like Hawthorne and a man like me.

And here, let me throw out another conceit of mine touching this American Shiloh, or "Master Genius," as Hawthorne calls him. May it not be, that this commanding mind has not been, is not, and never will be, individually developed in any one man? And would it, indeed, appear so unreasonable to suppose, that this great fullness and overlowing may be, or may be destined to be, shared by a plurality of men of genius? Surely, to take the very greatest example on record, Shakespeare cannot be regarded as in himself the concretion of all the genius of his time; nor as so immeasurably beyond Marlowe, Webster, Ford, Beaumont, Johnson, that those great men can be said to share none of his power? For one, I conceive that there were dramatists in Elizabeth's day, between whom and Shakespeare the distance was by no means great. Let anyone, hitherto little acquainted with those neglected old authors, for the first time read them thoroughly, or even read Charles Lamb's Specimens of them, and he will be amazed at the wondrous ability of those Anaks of men, and shocked at this renewed example of the fact, that Fortune has more to do with fame than merit,--though, without merit, lasting fame there can be none.

Nevertheless, it would argue too illy of my country were this maxim to hold good concerning Nathaniel Hawthorne, a man, who already, in some minds, has shed "such a light, as never illuminates the earth, save when a great heart burns as the household fire of a grand intellect."

The words are his,--in the "Select Party"; and they are a magnificent setting to a coincident sentiment of my own, but ramblingly expressed yesterday, in reference ot himself. Gainsay it who will, as I now write, I am Posterity speaking by proxy--and after times will make it more than good, when I declare--that the American, who up to the present day, has evinced, in Literature, the largest brain with the largest heart, that man is Nathaniel Hawthorne. Moreover, that whatever Nathaniel Hawthorne may hereafter write, "The Mosses from an Old Manse" will be ultimately accounted his masterpiece. For there is a sure, though a secret sign in some works which proves the culmination of the power (only the developable ones, however) that produced them. But I am by no means desirous of the glory of a prophet. I pray Heaven that Hawthorne may yet prove me an impostor in this prediciton. Especially, as I somehow cling to the strange fancy, that, in all men, hiddenly reside certain wondrous, occult properties--as in some plants and minerals--which by some happy but very rare accident (as bronze was discovered by the melting of the iron and brass in the burning of Corinth) may chance to be called forth here on earth, not entirely waiting for their better discovery in the more congenial, blessed atmosphere of heaven.

Once more--for it is hard to be finite upon an infinite subject, and all subjects are infinite. By some people, this entire scrawl of mine may be esteemed altogether unnecessary, inasmuch, "as years ago" (they may say) "we found out the rich and rare stuff in this Hawthorne, whom you now parade forth, as if only yourself were the discoverer of this Portuguese diamond in our Literature."--But even granting all this; and adding to it, the assumption that the books of Hawthorne have sold by the five-thousand,--what does that signify?--They should be sold by the hundred-thousand, and read by the million; and admired by every one who is capable of Admiration.

[farm-witches-fic-recs]

You decided that this week's recs should be "OMG they were roommates", so here are some fics we think you should check out. Give them a read and leave the authors some love!

A Secret Power - @distractivate

oh, we've got trouble now - foxtails ( @ratchet)

Reservations - @obsessedwithdavrick

Sand and Stone - @streetlampsunset

Seating Arrangements - @grapehyasynth

Thin Walls - @ahurston This Modern Love - barelypink

[literaticat]

Hi Jenn. I know you haven't read my book or my query so this might be hard to answer, but I was looking for some tips on how to construct feedback. I've gotten feedback that my query letter(s) read more like "high-level back jacket blurbs" instead of "what is needed for the query". They also said they almost moved on from the letter in their inbox but was hooked by the time they read it all. Could you break this down a bit for me and offer any advice? I can parse most of it but am still confused. (It also says at one point that that there should be more about the MC.) Does this mean I've written nice-sounding blurb that would entice a reader but not an agent? Why would a blurb entice a reader but not an agent? If it would entice a reader, surely it could hook the agent too? I kind of see what they're saying - but I'm also confused and not sure I'm analyzing the feedback right. Thank you so much.

As you note, it's hard to say really, since I don't know what the material is, and also I'm not sure what kind of "feedback" this was -- like was it a paid critique from an agent or editor? A friend just giving advice? MULTIPLE friends? Input on a writer's forum? Random offhand comments from different agents you actually queried put together? (Something else?) -- I feel like all these different people or groups might have different kinds of feedback, and I'd take some of it more seriously than others, you know? BUT ANYWAY:

When I see "high-level back jacket blurbs", that implies to me that you've given a big-picture kind of set-up in the pitch. ("High Level" not being synonymous with something like "Fancy and Sophisticated" or "Gifted and Talented" -- but in this case meaning more like "birds-eye view" kind of thing). Combined with them wanting "more about the MC", I suspect you are giving us a taste of the setting and world and a broad-strokes indication of the problem -- when what tends to be more effective is giving us a way in through the main character, and what THEIR problem is and what the stakes are for them, personally.

It would be like if you described the Wizard of Oz by telling us about how this is a fantasy about a magical world ruled by four witches, two of them good, two of them evil, and when a girl gets sent there from Kansas by a tornado, and accidentally kills one of the witches, she must go on a dangerous quest with her band of misfit friends, meeting all kinds of munchkins and whatnot along the way to meet a wizard in the Emerald City who might be able to grant them all wishes, but they face a variety of perils and all is not as it seems. In other words, the focus here is "big picture" and mostly setting up the world and the main thing that happens, but not setting up the main character or the stakes.

When what would probably be a more compelling pitch is focusing more on DOROTHY, what she wants, what her problem is, etc. She's the reader's way in to the story -- we want to care about her and find out what happens to her, right? So you might start by asking yourself some questions about her.

*** [ETA: It wouldn't hurt you to follow this "But" and "therefore" advice, either -- the literal "buts" and "therefores" do NOT have to be in the query itself, but it might help when writing out the story beats as below to help you from falling into a boring "and then" trap where you are just listing off events.]****

WHO IS OUR HERO? She's Dorothy! A plucky, resourceful farm girl who lives a hardscrabble existence in Dust Bowl Kansas, but has big dreams of a bigger and brighter world.

WHAT DOES SHE WANT MORE THAN ANYTHING? To get tf out of dusty old Kansas and find rainbows and happiness!

WHAT'S STOPPING HER FROM GETTING IT? She's a child, she has to live with her family, she loves her family but her family lives in Kansas, etc.

WHAT PROBLEM DOES SHE FACE? First there's a massive storm, which is scary -- BUT, her wish to leave Kansas actually DOES come true -- her house is swept up in a twister and deposited in the glittering realm of Oz! YAY! BUT, unfortunately, her wish came true at a cost -- her house crushed a witch when it landed. THEREFORE, though the people of Oz are happy about the witch thing, actually, she's now a murderer, and has been separated from her family with seemingly no way home. :(

SO WHAT CHOICE DOES SHE HAVE TO MAKE? Will she stay and embrace her new life as the pampered Hero of Munchkin-land with every treat and beautiful, magical thing she has ever dreamed of? Or put herself in danger and give up the lollipops to find a wizard nobody has ever even seen who MIGHT be able to help her get back to the farm and her family?

OK, THAT'S BAD -- BUT HOW DOES HER PROBLEM GET WORSE? Not only would the journey be lengthy and hard under normal circumstances, it's made significantly worse by a witch hell bent on killing her and her friends as retaliation for the death of her sister.

If you can answer these questions about your main character in the pitch, I suspect that it will help it feel less "High Level" and more High Stakes, and get the reader wanting to know what happens to the MC more quickly. (Maybe???)

[luckyluan]

Chapter 1.

“What I’m saying is: I’m normal now, Canaan!” he insisted.  

Dr. Livingston Crane threw himself against the door of his townhouse and slid to the floor in a heap of grocery bags and textbooks. The cap of his California Farms Oatmilk popped off the container and he heaved a heavy sigh as the viscous liquid emptied itself onto his organic chemistry textbook. 

“You can’t just be normal.” Canaan countered. “You’re the literal opposite, Liv! You’re Abnormal and you’re the most powerful Naturalist I’ve ever seen. Mama Liliana thought so too.” 

“Well, she’s not here anymore, and I can be whatever I want.” Livingston hissed. “Besides I gave all that up when she passed. I couldn’t save her with my Abnormal powers, so I’m not Abnormal anymore. 

“I get it, Liv. I do. I felt the same way after my pops passed. He taught us everything we know about who we are, and I wasn’t half as powerful as you are! I still wanted to quit!” Canaan whispered. “But we can’t stop being who we are because things get hard. We are born special. Our Abnormalities are our pride, bro! You’re special!” 

“My degrees make me special. My work is my pride. And my research makes me normal. I like my life this way.” Livingston replied. 

“What life, Liv? You don’t come out with us anymore. You don’t date. You don’t do anything but fuss with that creepy Belladonna plant and that godforsaken garden—which I am certain violates five Perliament statutes at minimum. We miss you, man! You have to have some fun! Your life can’t be all about foliage!” 

“Why not?!” Livingston whined. 

“Cause you ain’t no damn house plant, Livingston! You’re a doctor—an actual Doctor of Medicine—not a paper doctor like me. You’ll save humankind after you get some! How long has it been, bro? Be honest.” Canaan chided. 

“Excuse me!” Livingston said. “I still have a roster.” 

“Lies.” challenged his friend. 

“I do!” The doctor defended. 

“Who then?” 

“That cute guy from LSU, Tre. The one with the cornrows I took to Greek formal!” Livingston stammered. 

‘Nigga, that was entry year at Brimmens for us and we graduated three years ago!” Canaan exclaimed. 

Livingston curled his knees into his chest. He lay on the floor with his sleek smartphone sandwiched between the hardwood floor and his ear. A pack of peas defrosted against his calf as his leg jumped. 

“Fine. It’s been a while! So, what?” he defended. 

“So, what? --So, what? You’re wound tighter than that the spool of magic thread that got us out of Harmon’s Haunted Labyrinth last Halloween!” Canaan teased. 

“I still think you should curse Nigel with uneven boobs for locking us down there with that minotaur...” Livingston murmured. 

“Quit whining. It was a baby. At least you could defend yourself. I didn’t have any actives, but we survived; and that’s my point, bro!” Canaan elaborated. “You don’t have any fun anymore! Man, I challenge you to have fun ass, good ass time for the next twenty-four hours. Watch some TV. Some something growing in that hellscape you call a garden, and don’t science shit!” 

Canaan took a deep breath and continued his rant. 

“Call one of these alleged players on your roster if you still have anything in that phone besides Happens All The Thai! Live your life, Livingston Crane!” 

“That’s Dr. Livingston Crane.” he corrected. “And fine. No work tonight.” 

“That’s my guy! Cam wants to hit Tate’s tonight. Wanna slide?” Canaan offered. 

“Ummm...I think I can find my own trouble.” Livingston mumbled. 

“I hope you do, man.” Canaan said. “Cause I would hate to put that picture of you and that leprechaun in the group message--” Canaan started. 

“--you said you deleted that!” Livingston scolded. 

“Being a witch has its perks. I knew this day would come and I am only doing this with your best interest at heart. Have fun tonight, my nigga. You deserve it. Wish on a star or something. I don’t think they’ve made that illegal yet. Love you, man.” 

The line disconnected and Livingston punched the air. He clambered to his feet and glanced around. He, then, waved, his hand through the air and the pool of oak milk retraced its steps. It unspilled into its blue carton and sealed itself with a soft pop. Livingston stepped over his organic chemistry book and headed for the kitchen. 

[bullet-prooflove]

Past Mistakes Part 9: Complicated - Mike Duarte x Reader

Tagging: @spooky-pomegranate @julieelliewrites @telepathay @nessamc​   @xmoonknightlyx​   @jayblackpanther​   @crazy4chickennuggets​   @annetje​   @mysoulisasunflower​    @littleone65 @thesandbeneathmytoes​    @storiesofsvu​  @kabloswrld @xoxabs88xox @katluke25 @mydarkestsecretlol  @bbyxoo @evee87  @adesertdaydream  @the-hinky-panda @kimm4710 @wooshwastaken @justreblogginfics @hearthockey @justreblogginfics @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @multilin21 @letty-olaya @rosaliedepp @storiesofsvu @guitita @smellsliketeensspiryt @legit9thlunaticwarrior @giuls-ver @witches-unruly-heart @melaniecraig80 @elizabeththebat

Part One: Try  

Part Two: Hope (NSFW)

Part Three: California

Part Four: Favours

Part Five: Choices

Part Six: Truth Hurts

Part Seven: Sharing

“You’re going after him.”

Mike almost couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth as he sat in Benson’s apartment, surrounded by the paraphernalia of her family life. No one had the balls to take on McGrath, but then again when he looked at Benson, she didn’t need them. He knew if they played this wrong this was career suicide for all of them, he was prepared to put everything on the line for you. However these two, Benson and Murphy, they didn’t know you. They didn’t know that you liked to sleep curled up in his arms because it made you feel safe, didn’t know that the left side of your mouth quirked up when you were trying to hide a smile, they didn’t know anything about you but here they were still going to bat for you because truly they believed it was the right thing to do.

“We are.” Benson confirmed before clasping her hands together. “But it’s complicated, everything she told you about the assault…”

“There’s no evidence.” Mike said, filling in the blanks. “Back then I should have realised, I saw the dress and…” He sucked in a deep breath trying to steady the tremble in his voice. It weighted on him that he had missed the signs, it left a bitterness on his tongue. “… it’s long gone in a landfill somewhere.”

“I’ve got Muncy trying to chase down the security footage from that night.” Benson told him.

Mike sagged back in the chair, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

“But three years is a long shot.”

He was a pragmatist at heart. What were the chances of someone keeping something like that? McGrath had probably taken care of it the morning after, brushed it under the rug like he did everything else.

“Do you think she’s strong enough for this?” Murphy asked him, leaning forward. “We’re gonna have a hell of a fight on our hands and when this comes out, it drags out everything. Your relationship will be in the spot light, the defence will claim it’s a pattern of behaviour, she’s ambitious, trying to climb the ladder…”

The look Mike gave the other man was murderous. To his credit Murphy didn’t flinch, he maintained eye contact before Mike spoke.

“We were going to get married in the fall after she passed her Sergeant’s exam.” Mike told Murphy, his heart splitting in two as he remembered the ring you used to wear on a chain around your neck. “It’s not a pattern of behaviour, we fell in love.” His voice was rough as he stared down at his hand, at the space where he had once imagined his own wedding ring would reside. He sighed. “I don’t know if she’s strong enough to do this. Everything he has done has been to break her and I don’t know how much more she can take.”

“Do you have somewhere safe for her to go once we extract her?” Benson asked him. “Somewhere she feels safe? Somewhere McGrath won’t be able to find her?”

Mike thought back to his original plan tonight. The two of you driving off into the sunset and all the way to L.A.

“Yea.” He said, thinking back to the plans he’d made with Chris Alonso. “We have friends who are willing to help.”

“With the evidence that she has collected, we have enough to take down the First Nationals including Ryan Rousseau but what SVU is interested in is the breeding farm, getting out those trafficked girls. That’s what Rousseau’s big tour around the states has been about, we thought they were recruiting but he’s been rolling out the model for his breeding farm, inviting leaders from other branches to see it in action so he can franchise it. They pay him, he provides the girls.” Benson informed Mike, her mouth twisting in distaste.

“I have an alias.” Murphy revealed. “It’s from my time on the West Coast. I’ve set up a meeting with Rousseau, I’ve told him I’m only in town tomorrow night. He’s looking for a partner to expand into Utah and Nevada and he thinks I have the connections. From what I gather the main players will all be there from the other charters. It’s his big chance to show everyone his enterprise.”

Enterprise…

The term made Mike feel sick. Turning out girls like that, knocking them up so that could develop their own master race, making a profit from the fucking misery of it. It made Mike want to burn the whole fucking place to the ground.

“Once Declan is in and we have confirmation of the girls, we’ll be launching a joint raid with Hate Crimes on the breeding farm. We’ll be scooping every single one of them up including your girl. Here’s where it gets sticky. As soon as news of this raid hits, McGrath is going to know what’s happening and we need to move her as quickly and as quietly as possible.”

“McGrath has ties to WITSEC, so I’ve taken the liberty of transferring her over to Hate Crimes for the time being.” Murphy told Mike. “We have the budget and the space, if she wants to stay after all this my Chief is happy to make it permanent. She thinks with her knowledge of organisations like this, she’d be a good asset. Once we get her out, my Chief is going to push through the paperwork for medical leave due to her time undercover.”

“Can we trust her?” Mike asked him.

Murphy fixed him with an even gaze.

“My Chief would sooner set herself on fire than do anything to help McGrath.” Murphy told the other man. “There’s a lot of bad blood between the two of them, there always has been.”

“He’s going to be gunning for you.” Benson said quietly to Mike. “Every phone call you make, every time you step out of your apartment, he’s going to have eyes on you. Everything will have to  through Velasco, there can’t be any contact between the two of you.”

He’d seen it coming. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that he’d get the happy ending he wanted but hearing the words out loud still felt like a gut punch. His chest felt tight with anguish, because you were slipping through his fingers all over again. It was the right thing to do, he knew that, but it hurt like hell.

“It’s for the best.” Benson said in low tone, her hand coming to rest on his arm.

His eyes stung as he swallowed hard past the well of emotion that ached in his throat.

“Yea.” He said, his voice raw as he stared down at his ring finger once more. “I know.”

Love Mike Duarte? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[blackhakumen]

Mini Fanfic #1113: All in This Together (RWBY)

Pyrrha Nikos. A huntress very well known by many to have a promising future ahead of her. A future that was taken too soon by the hands of Cinder Falls during the Fall of the Becon Academy.

She was believed to be dead after that, as hard and heart shattering for her closest love ones to accept overtime. But in some, twisted miracle, she was given the second chance in the living....but as Salem's emotionless puppet whose sole purpose is to physically mess with our group of heroes, Jaune especially. But fortunately, after a long, emotional fight, the gang was able to break their friend free from the witch's control and get to live oit the continue her to live her previously taken life with the people she holds dear, but even that has it draw backs.

Recurring nightmares, anxiety over the future ahead.....It wasn't easy for the young woman to endure, even with the help her friends and family provides for her, which she is eternally grateful for. Try as she might, the past memories would always find some way to mess with her in her dreams until it was too much for her to handle. Like tonight for example. It was bad enough to make her wake up and leave her bedroom without waking up three of her teammates/lovers.

As Pyrrha sits herself down on the living room sofa, letting the TV play on mute, she closes her eyes and let out a sigh, wondering how she's going to handle her recurring problem for good.

?????: Pyrrha?

Pyrrha: (Quickly Opens her Eyes to See a Familiar Farm Boi Standing by the Hallway Entrance) Oscar? What are you doing up so late? Is everything okay?

Oscar: (Sighs While Making his Way to the Living Room) Not completely. (Sits Next to Pyrrha on the Sofa) I just woke up from another bad dream of mines.

Pyrrha: (Starts Getting Worried) Another dream of yours?

Oscar: (Starts Rubbing The Back of his Head Back and Forth) Yeah, it....has been ongoing for a while now I'll admit-ack! (Gets Pulled into a Loving Hug by Pyrrha)

Pyrrha: Oh my poor baby. Why didn't you tell anyone of us about it sooner? What have you even been dreaming about?

Oscar: Mostly everything Salem related. And everything I've been through up until we've finally took her down fpr this time. Kidnapped, tortured, being left for dead....It's a miracle I managed to survived all of that.

Pyrrha: And I'm very thankful for that....(Gives Oscar a Motherly Glare) But still, you should've told us about this sooner! You know as well as I do that we would've done everything we can to help.

Oscar: I-It's not like I wanted to keep this under wraps! You guys are already having a lot on your plate to deal with: rebuilding becon, forming new alliances, hunting down any remaining Grimms. (Looks Away While Frowning a Bit) The last thing I wanted to do is to have you waste your time worrying over me.....

Pyrrha: It's true that we all have been a lot more busier since the world is finally at peace. But you have been through just as much pain and suffering as the rest of us here, if not more. The least any of us can do is provide you all the care and support you need.

Oscar: I know. (Turns Back to Pyrrha) And trust me, I appericate everything you guys done for me so far. I just wish I could return a favor.

Pyrrha: (Smiles Softly) You've being in our lives is far more of a favor than we could ever ask for. And I don't think I need to explain how much we love you to pieces now, do I?~ (Starts Kissing on Oscar's Cheeks)

Oscar: (Chuckles Ticklishly by Pyrrha's Kisses) Okay, okay!~ I love you guys too~ B-But seriously though, what are doing up in this hour? You had bad dream too?

Pyrrha: (Frowns a Bit Sadly) I did unfortunately....It was sort of a back and forth between what happened back at the academy to me becoming Salem's pawn. Among other things I.....don't feel uncomfortable talking about right now.....

Oscar: I see. How are you feeling now that you're awake?

Pyrrha: ('Sigh') Well, I dom feel the need to cry my eyes out this time around, so there's that at least.

Oscar: But the thought of everything that happened to you is getting too difficult to ignore completely.

Pyrrha: Exactly. (Looks Up at the Ceiling) I should blessed, thrilled even, to be given another opportunity to live out the rest of my life with all of you. But as wonderful as this experience has been so far, these thoughts.......(Softly Balled up her Fist Together) the memories........They continue to find ways to haunt me and make me lost sight of what I'm fighting for and needless to say, I'm quite frankly getting tired of all of this

Oscar: Pyrrha.....

Pyrrha: So after giving it some thought, I figured.....maybe it might be time that I take Glynda in on that offer of hers.

Oscar: (Raises an Eyebrow in Confusion) Offer?

Pyrrha: (Nodded in Agreement) It's high time I take therapy sessions. And I want you to do so as well, Oscar.

Oscar: Okay, time out for a second. You're telling me that Ms. Goodwitch is a psychologist now?

Pyrrha: (Happily Nodded) Mmhmm. She actually gotten a master's degree on psychology years before becoming becon's headmistress, even started doing this kind of profession as a part time occupation for quite sometime now.

Oscar: Good to see her do something other than trying to fix the acemdey up back herself. That must've taken a lot out of her.

Pyrrha: I couldn't imagine what she was going through during that time, but that's neither here or there at the moment. (Takes a Deep Breath Before Speaking Again) I know this will probably take a lot of getting used, but if we really want to continue living our lives without the harshness of our past holding both of us back going through, then we have to start from somewhere. I can't really guarantee that it will solve our problems completely......

Oscar: But it could us help us gain the confidence we need to conquer our own fears, am I right?

Pyrrha: Yeah, exactly. Or....at least I hope that'll be the case.....

Oscar: (Place his Hand on Top of Pyrrha's While Giving her a Reassuring yet Determined Look on his Face) Then let's give these sessions a fair shot then.

Pyrrha: (Stares at Oscar For a Brief Second Before Smiling Back With a Determined Nod as She Gently Squeezes the Top of his Hand) Right. Let's. (Let's Out Another Sigh) I'm really starting to feel a lot better now that you're here with me for tonight, Oscar.

Oscar: (Smiles Softly) I'm just glad I was able to help you in some way. You seemed really out it when I first saw you sitting here minutes ago.

Pyrrha: You weren't entirely wrong on that assumption. All this thought about the future has got me feeling on edge as of late.....

Oscar: Make sense. No one can tell what the future has in store for each of us. The best we can do now is keep living the present and see where it takes us from here. (Rests his Head Onto Pyrrha's Shoulder) And honestly, I don't really mind do that so long as I get to live it with you guys.

Pyrrha: (Heart Begins to Melt in Pure Happiness) Ruby was right about you.

Oscar: Hm?

Pyrrha: (Happily Hugs Oscar Once More) You really are the biggest sweetheart ever!~

Oscar: (Starts Snickering) And you're almost as bad as Nora when it comes to smothering~

Pyrrha:: (Smirks Playfully) Oh come now, how could Nora possibly be worse than me, hmm?~

Oscar: The woman literally declared that I'm her son the moment we first saw each other. And don't even get me started on all the times she hug tackled me so far.

????: Hey!

The duo turns to see the rest of their teammates and family standing by the living room entrance way.

Nora: (Pouts at Oscar With her Hands on her Hips) I thought you love my motherly affections!~

Oscar: I do. Doesn't make it any less embarrassing.

Pyrrha: (Smiles Softly at her Three Lovers) You three are finally awake.

Ren: We've noticed you two weren't in respective beds at the time.

Jaune: (Frowns Worryingly) Are you guys okay in here?

Oscar: We are now that we have each other's company.

Pyrrha: And you three are more than welcome to join watch TV for the rest of the night if you like.

Nora: (Smiles Brightly) Would I!?~ (Rushes Over to the Sofa Sitting Next to Oscaron the Other Side) Whatcha you guys watching this time of hour?

Oscar: Uh.... (Takes a Look at The Screen) A western movie I think? We barely even paid any attention to the to.it really.

Nora: (Notices Oscar's Head is on her Shoulder Now) What's this? (Playfully Crosses her Arms) I thought you said my motherly affections was embarrassing~

Oscar: (Already Has a Deadpinned Look on his Face) Nora, we both know that doesn't either one of us from loving each other any less. Besides.....(Starts Blushing a Little) I love having you as a mom.....

Nora: (Heart Begins to Melt in Pure Happiness) Oh Oscar!~ (Finally Hugs Oscar Very Lovingly) Momma Nora loves you sooooo much!~

Oscar: ('Sigh') Love you too, Nora.

Pyrrha: (Starts Pouting at Oscar) Hey!~ You're supposed to be my cuddle partner for tonight, you traitor!~

Nora: Oh don't be such a crybaby, Pyrrha, I don't mind sharing~

Pyrrha: Oh well if that's the case.....(Smiles Brightly With her Arms Spread Wide Open) Don't mind if I do!~

Oscar: ('Sigh') Oh boy......

Pyrrha happily joins in on the Oscar Hugfest.

Jaune: (Starts Chuckling at What's in Front of Him and Ren) Awwww~ It looks like the girls form themselves an Farm Boi sandwich~ Really wish my scroll isn't charging right now, I would've a billion pictures. Pretty sure you'd do the same too, eh Ren?

Ren: (Too Busy Staring at the Trio) ...........

Jaune: Uh... Ren?

Ren: (Immediately Comes Back to Reality) Oh! S-Sorry. I couldn't help but notice that Pyrrha is still here with us right now.

Jaune: (Smiles Softly) I know, right? We've been living together for a while and I still can't believe it. We'll do better in looking out for her this around.

Ren: (Nodded in Agreement) Right. In the meantime......(Pulls Out his Scroll his Pajamas Panrs Pocket With a Bit of a Sly Smirk on his Face) I believe we got some pictures to take, don'tcha think?

Jaune: (Smiles Brightly at his Boyfriend Next to Him) My man.

@albion-93

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@ma-lemons

@maswartz

@bestpony666

@miki-13

[mysticdreamcafe]

Tarot, Oracle, Organized Religion

In my pinned post you'll see a link to the Mystic Tarot Cafe. I do a daily single card draw, unless I need to do a spread because I have a specific question, and will try to remember to do an Oracle spread once a week. Daily for those I feel is over kill. If interested check it out.

I had a post planned but it started to become to broad and religious. I know what I believe and honestly, I don't care what you believe. As long as you don't shove it in my face or hurt people.

To me religion is like nutritional intake, sexual preference, hobbies, etc. It doesn't affect me so I don't care. Gay? I don't care. The only thing I care about is if a lady asks me out and I say no they need to respect that. Just like if a man asked me out and was turned down. If you are vegan and we go to lunch. I won't say nasty things about your food if you don't mine. I'm scared of heights so if you want to jump out of a plane feel free. Just don't try to bully me into joining you.

Makes sense and pretty easy isn't it. What anyone else believes, wears, eats, or does is pretty much ok as long as it doesn't affect my life and wellbeing or those of others without their consent.

It took me years to understand why I felt the way I did and knew the things I did. I'd get a feeling about something and push it aside. Most times I should have listened.

I hid tarot cards and crystals from everyone but my family, and a friend that's a witch who helped me pick a deck and understand the cards, because of the backlash they can still bring. If someone is highly into their religion then I'm playing with Satan and demons or just crazy and in need of conversion.

It's been a year or two since I've opened myself to trusting my inner voice and using the cards when I'm uncertain or curious. What amazes me is how accurate they are. Even when I don't understand how a daily card I pulled blends into my life it becomes apparent on it's own throughout the day or I text my friend and ask for help.

It always seems to come together. I know the "if you look for something you'll find it" but around 2 years ago, a few months after I got my first deck we got a puppy. She was a beautiful Australian shepherd that drove my nervous system crazy because she wouldn't slow down or stop. Seriously, the 10 week old puppy wouldn't nap during the day unless I crated her. I should mention we aren't crate people but with her we were at the start.

Each day I did a spread asking "Should we take her back" or something along those lines. She had me so wrecked that I wanted to rehome her though she was a great and beautiful, overly energetic puppy. I've had working dogs and high strung dogs but she made my head swim.

Sometimes I did 2-3 spreads a day asking, in various ways, if she should stay with us. Each time I basically got a suck it up she's here to stay, you got what you asked for so shut up, etc. The cards told me in no uncertain terms she was staying. I tried to get the cards to say he should rehome her or take her back to the farm we got her from but they kept shutting the idea down.

I'll just say my daughter laughed her ass off, she adored Mika, with each read I did and told everyone she could that I couldn't get the cards to say what I wanted them to. She doesn't even believe in Tarot.

Mika was hit by a car shortly after she turned 1 yr old. It was heart breaking and devastated all of us. I was surprised how much I cried for that dog considering how hard I tried to move her on. But she was ours and we loved her, even me, for the energetic goofball she is.

The cards have always been honest with me even when I don't want to hear it. Sometimes, they don't say anything at all. At least it seems that way at first. That's why I do my draws and readings in the morning. I don't want to be influenced by what has happened. I want to see how the card plays out that day. Sometimes it can be surprising.