#without nailing myself down to a particular one

[fictionadventurer]

Potential April Reading:

The Weight of Glory by C.S. Lewis

St. Francis of Assisi by G.K. Chesterton

A middle-grade book

A book of poetry

Something related to Theology of the Body

A classic novel (pre-1900)

Light early-twentieth-century (pre-1960) fiction

[thatsthewrongwallcraig]

Le Petit Mort

Summary: That period comfort fic.

Pairing: Lestat de Lioncourt x human!afab!Reader

Word Count: ~1.7k

Content Warnings: Period Blood Flavoured Porn 18+!, Soft!Lestat, A Tiny Bit Angsty, Oral (F Receiving), Period Blood :), Comfort, A Little Somnophilia, A Surprising Amount Of Lestat's Musings About Human Biology

A/N: I just want to crawl into his ribcage and wrap myself around his heart.

No pressure tags: @notgilderoylockhart @queer-crusader @blueberrypancakesworld @theprettiesthead @midnight-mess

And it′s easy done

Our little remedy

And the reason comes on the common tongue of your loving me

- Moment's Silence By Hozier

Eventually, at the point where the latest hours of the night exchanged a brief shake of hands with those of the early morning, the city quieted down. Lamp-lit streets gradually guided fewer creatures of the night, or those who believed to be such, back home, and the spontaneous bursts of music after someone had swung a bar door open died out just like the plenty of colorful lights illuminating the window frames of the neighborhood; one going out after the other like a tiring sparkle of fireflies.

Lestat watched the city quarter slowly slip into a brief slumber, knowing that it would only take a mere handful of hours for the bustling on the streets to start anew, hungry bodies eager to fill themselves with hot beverages and takeaway sandwiches to soak up what was left from the night before. Daytime activities not meant to be entertained by him, however, much more so by you when you’d wake with him already gone, hiding away from the sunlight you were to let yourself bask in with every little stroll of yours to pick up flowers or enjoy some ice cream on the pier whilst he slept to pass the hours between being with and without you again. The pleasantries of being human.

With time, he’d forgotten most about it, had trained and taught himself not to care about the things so far out of his reach but that only lasted until you had come along, crossed his nightly path, slightly yet dangerously enough swaying on a pair of glittery high heels and black mascara running down your face, swept along the soft curve of your cheeks by a wash of heavy tears. Lestat had been out to feed and yet, your appearance that night had evoked a sense of pity inside the rotten pit of his ribcage that had thrown the hunger aside and instead led him to find out what this city had done to you on that particular night.

The undead tried not to dwell on this memory for too long for it wouldn’t bring him anything other than sorrow over something that wasn’t even lost to him yet, quite the contrary, still resting calmly in his embrace.

Exhaling a tender hum, you nuzzled your face against Lestat’s chest, slumbering away soundly whilst he watched over you. The vampire found himself perfectly content with that, having concluded that you couldn’t possibly entertain him at all hours of the night, especially not during the work week. The weekends, however, posed as the sacred frame of time you could actually spend time with one another without any overly negative repercussions. Not so seldomly, he felt a pang of guilt rumble through him for fucking your sleep schedule like that - yet another one of those things the vampire preferred not to sit in longer than necessary.

Shushing the unwelcome musings from his mind, Lestat placed a tender kiss to your hairline, one hand caressing down your back before coming back around your hips again, a hardly noticeable, miniscule tremble making his palm rest just above the waistband of your checkered pajama shorts; he liked them, enjoyed seeing you comfortable.

He had to double-take but it was there, right beneath his fingertips, pointed nails like stained glass barely touching your soft skin, a thrum going through your lower abdomen, a telltale pull inwards not yet strong enough to wake you. If he focused, he was able to feel the muscles tugging, preparing to shed and rid themselves of another months worth of lining and for a moment, he found himself flush with almost childlike wonder and adoration for the human body having well timed mechanisms for everything, be it antibodies to fight against an oncoming cold or an empty womb ready to start the cycle anew.

Sometimes, rarely but not less earnest, he missed it, missed that feeling of an itch scratching at the back of his throat as snow fell outside and he'd warmed himself in front of a fire that burned like vermillion and Amber whilst feeding from a bowl of soup. But then again, the longing withered with the remembrance of coughing his lungs out for weeks, bronchi ablaze with infection and rendered sticky with amounts of mucus that had left him wondering how he hadn’t drowned within himself. Lestat shook the memory with an accompanying, slight shake of his head, fingers still curiously following the pull and tear underneath your skin. It would render painful quickly and he wouldn't want you to wake up with this hurt ripping through your body like that, no, he much rather have you wake up gently and with enough time to take something to help with the discomfort before tucking yourself back in.

The hand that had been resting carefully dipped down, fingers slipping past the elastic easily before they curved and felt tacky wetness; a severe lack of arousal in the current amalgamation but he'd gleefully correct that in time.

A sheen of pinkish red glossed index and middle finger up to the knuckles as he withdrew again and he eyed it for a moment as you softly stirred in his embrace, you wouldn't wake just now, only a little turbulence that ebbed away quickly.

There was no second thought as Lestat raised his hand just enough to gingerly pop both fingers into his mouth to suck them clean. The traces of fresh blood were hardly even there and yet they gave him a brief head rush, fangs pushing through out of sheer instinct and the aftertaste leaving him craving more.

He sucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, dragging every last bit from between his taste buds as he pondered briefly and figured that you wouldn't mind as he slowly shimmy away from you just the tiniest little bit, enough to crouch down, shoulder against the mattress and fingers pulling at your shorts until they hung loose around your thighs. Lestat had to remind himself not to bite…only taste. There was no need for any harm in what he was wanting to do, tongue darting out to lap at you gently to pull from a source that came without violence and again, it egged him into a frenzy as the slightest taste of your blood swept into his mouth.

He hummed into you, palms splayed at your lower back and you groaned in return, subconscious eventually catching up to the careful ministrations.

“Huh?” Your voice low and sleep-drunk as your eyes fluttered open and dropped down immediately.

With Lestat's broad hands warm against your back, the dull sensation of pressure from within didn't come to you immediately, the battling pleasure so kindly donated by your lover spreading much more intense.

“Your bleedin’, ma belle.” Lestat mouthed against your throbbing cunt before pulling away just enough to look up at you, chin glazed with traces of red and fangs prodding against a glistening bottom lip.

If you hadn't been comfortable resting on your bed, you'd have probably just toppled over because the view from above rendered your knees weak in a heartbeat.

“Oh.” It trickled from your mouth, entirely content with what was happening and just in time before the air got knocked from your lungs as Lestat leaned back in, the width of his tongue snaking through soaked labia and eventually pushing inside, gently stretching you around the taut and nimble muscle.

Your fingers found his head, taking a fistful of honey-blonde curls to pull him flush against you as he coaxed a wash of little noises to feather from your lips and into the bedroom.

“You're impossible.” The words came breathless and slightly hoarse as the bridge of your lover's nose nudged against your swollen clit, flushed flesh pressing dangerously close to predatory jaws.

Lestat laughed into you, the vibration nearly sending you flying past the threshold already but you held back, kept tethering on the edge as he fed from you; each and every clench and throb of your cunt easing the growing discomfort whilst pulling the fresh red from you.

If it had been up to Lestat, he could've done it all night, for hours until the sun would come up, however, he was still attentively listening to your body and the way it reacted around him; tongue fucking into you, curling and curving against your insides. He felt how your muscles grew tighter, pressure growing and ready to snap in the very next moment.

He wanted you to let loose, to taste you coming all over his mouth and chin as your blood rendered sweet with the rush of release; a special delicacy. And for a few strokes of his tongue, he pressed in even further, nose rubbing against your sensitive clit. Lestat could feel the electricity jolting through your body, you practically vibrated above him, thighs twitching before the firework of blissed out sensations got set into motion.

A muffled Fuck got lost in fabric and feathers as you shoved your face into a thick pillow, the trembling if your body outside of your control as the contractions flushed any sort of pain right out of you and Lestat lapped at you like a feral animal, immediate overstimulation making you writh as he held you in place until he deemed himself sated.

He pulled away at last, the wet sound emanating from amidst your thighs making your face flush with heat.

“You French pervert.” You groan out halfway laughing.

“Je t'aime, aussi.”, Lestat looked up at you, grinning widely with his cheek pressed against your skin, “I reckon you get something to ease the pain, love.”

“But I have, don't I?” You smiled back, chest swelling with warmth and an overflowing gush of love.

“You sure do, but I was thinking about something that would actually let you sleep, no?”

[joeys-babe]

Joey B Blurbs: Hickey

————————————————————————-

Summary: You prank Joe by using makeup to create a fake hickey on your neck.

Warnings: Fluff, slight sexual tension, unserious/funny, pranks!

Pairing: Joe Burrow x reader

Imagine Universe: Into The Mystic

A/N: Part 1 of Blurb Night! (Sneak Peak)

————————————————————————-

No particular date for this blurb!

Joe and I were currently cuddled up in bed. The twins were already asleep, and they had been for hours. I lay restless due to the baby doing somersaults in my stomach.

“Gah-lee!” - Joe

“Did you feel that?” - you

“Yes! She's not letting up at all, baby.” - Joe

“It’s your fault! You make me sit in the living room and watch UFC with you, she’s probably reenacting everything you commentate to my stomach!” - you

“Aye, let's not point fingers!” - Joe

I rolled my eyes, which Joe didn't like a bit.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me.” - Joe

“You’re not the boss of me.” - you

Joe leaned forward, his lips just barely hovering over mine but not quite touching them.

“I think you’re forgetting who’s in control here, mama. Need a reminder, maybe?” - Joe

His blue eyes flashed darkly as Joe trailed his hand down my arm, over to my belly, and down.

Just as his lips were about to meet mine, the baby kicked as hard as she had all night.

Joe groaned as he pulled away and flopped onto his back.

“You just got cockblocked.” - you laughed

“Probably for the better. Baby girl knew I needed to get ahold of myself since we aren't doing anything like that while you're pregnant.” - Joe

I rolled onto my side and placed my hand on his bare lower stomach, some of my hand covering the waistband of his boxers.

“I don't care to get you off, Joe. All you gotta do is ask.” - you

“You know I can’t do that. I can't just let you pleasure me, and you get nothing in return.” - Joe

My eyes were glued to Joe’s hand as he reached down and rearranged his forming hard-on. God, I wanted him so bad.

“I- I'm gonna splash some cold water on my face…” - you

Joe mumbled a ‘k’ as I quite literally rolled out of bed. I went into the bathroom and shut the door behind me.

After splashing some water on my face, I took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm my raging hormones.

Why does Joe have to be so sexy without trying? I asked myself in a whisper.

I pulled my phone out to check my notifications because there's nothing less sexy than business emails.

That's when I got the idea to prank Joe. It'll be a way to calm us both down and kill some time since there's no way baby girl is settling down anytime soon.

After scrolling through my saved videos, I found the perfect one.

——

“You okay? You were in there for a while.” - Joe

“I’m fine. Just needed to cool down.” - you

“Sorry, guess that's my fault for getting worked up.” - Joe

I got into bed and rolled over into Joe’s chest, scratching my nails over his back.

“Don’t be sorry.” - you

Joe sighed out of contentment and began running his fingers through my hair. He knew I hated it when my hair touched my neck, so Joe began moving my hair away from my neck.

“I love you.” - you

The sentiment made him smile, his eyes still focused on his fingers running through my hair.

His mouth opened, about to say the statement back, but the only thing that squeaked out was a gasp.

“Joe?” - you

“Did you burn yourself curling your hair yesterday?“- Joe

“No… why?” - you

“There's a huge mark on your neck.” - Joe

“Oh.” - you

I reached up and pulled my hair to cover the mark back up. My heart fluttered at the realization that Joe didn't have the same reaction to the prank as most other partners have.

“What is that then? Did you hit your neck on something?” - Joe

Letting him stew over the options for a little bit, I couldn't help but bust out laughing after a few minutes of silence.

“Why are you laughing? That looks like that hurts, baby. Why didn't you tell me? Do you need ice… or ointment?” - Joe

“Joe…” - you laughed

“What?!” - Joe

“It's a prank! It’s supposed to be a hickey.” - you

He stared at me dumbfounded, confused more than anything.

“How is that a prank? I'm the only person giving you a hickey, so if you had one, I would know about it.” - Joe

“You were supposed to think another guy gave it to me, but I think it's sweet your mind didn't go there.” - you smiled

“Oh! No, I never would’ve guessed that. I know I'm the only guy you have eyes on.” - Joe

I rested my hand on Joe’s bare chest, and we lay face to face, just looking into each other’s eyes. It was a sweet moment, and just as Joe began leaning in to kiss me…

The baby kicked again. Joe jumped back and groaned out of annoyance, but I was laughing my head off.

“Damn it!” - Joe

————————————————————————-

Authors note: Can y’all tell that I'm ovulating 💀

This idea came from some TikToks I've seen!

Hope you enjoyed! 💕

[lemonyko0]

Drabble in which jk just rlly wants you to play with his hair...

» koo drabble since his recent live inspired me <3

» fluff, established relationship

so, you made a mistake. well, by normal standards it's not really a mistake, but definitely a recurring pattern since jungkook has learned it's a sure-fire way to get attention and affection from you. it'd be more interesting to say it was some sexy look, or a particular pair of jeans, but unfortunately that's not your reality.

instead, for the third time in one day, you hear the footsteps of your oh-so loving boyfriend pad around the house undoubtedly looking for you.

you tilt your head back on the couch and watch as he comes into view, smiling as he sees you, “y/n~” he coos, excitedly hopping over the back of the couch and right into your lap.

when you last saw him he was playing video games, occupying the tv in your bedroom so you left the room. therefore, there is no true reason why his hair should be as horrifically messy as it is right now, and yet he’s snuggled himself between your legs and is staring at you expectantly, waiting for you to fix his hair. he wants you to run your fingers through it like you always do, to fix his part and comb it with your nails, massage that pretty head of his and sprinkle it with kisses and you'd love nothing more than to give into him, but you don't.

you pretend like you have no idea what he’s after, and smile at him, “hi baby, done playing?”

he nods, leaning his head against your chest and ruining his hair even further, “yeah, my team won each round.”

you grin and instinctively reach a hand out to his head and pull back quickly, and instead rub his cheek. he pouts in response and you ask, “what?”

he sighs as he picks up your hand and moves it to the top of his head and staring at you in wait.

you chuckle as you let your hand slide down to his jaw and pinch his cheek, “does your head hurt? i bought more ibuprofen yesterday.”

“no.”

“then what?”

the pout grows each second you're not petting him and he whines into your body, “why aren't you fixing my hair?”

“you want me to fix it? i thought you were trying to leave it messy since you keep making it like that.”

you hear him quietly sigh between your arms as he starts to piece it together, “i was just making it messy so you’d fix it. i didn't think you’d catch on.”

you hum, “ahh, so you just wanted me to play with your hair? you could’ve just asked koo.”

he shook his head, “that's not as fun.”

“so it's more fun when you're tricking me into doing it?” he nods cheekily, staring up at you with a grin. “you think you're soooo slick.” you roll your eyes and start to poke at his ticklish places as he squirms around on the couch trying to escape you, but you've got him tied between your legs and weakened by your relentless teasing until he’s pleading with you between giggles and his reddened face.

“pl-please! y/n! i'm s-sorry! please!” he laughs and you pull back, resting against the couch once more as he catches his breath, and if at all possible, his hair is even worse now than it was before.

“gosh, now your hair’s actually a mess.”

he rolls dramatically off of the couch and onto his butt on the floor, “guess i'll go fix it myself.”

you chuckle, watching him not even move a muscle. he slowly looks up to you and just stares in wait. he then pushes himself closer and closer to you until his head is practically in your lap, staring at you with a cheesy grin. “please?”

you take his face in your hands and lean down to him, “i love playing with your hair koo. just ask.”

he nods excitedly, “so will you?”

you pat the couch and he resumes his original spot, just without the pout. he relaxes against you, grabbing your legs and wrapping them around his torso, arranging you exactly how he likes it and asking if your comfy.

“of course.” you kiss the side of his head and you don't need to see his smile to know he is, and to no surprise at all he’s practically purring the second you run your fingers through his hair, and asleep in your lap within only a few minutes.

you can't fault him though, as you're out like a light too in half the time.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚

thanks for reading and if you wish it didn't end so soon, i have tons and tons more in my masterlist, coded and everything <3

masterlist | taglist

taglist: @marvelahsobx @notbotheredtho @fragmentof-indifference @jwnghyuns @isab3lita @shescharlie @kooookie @jeonzll @laylasbunbunny @instabull @xjiminsthighsx @iceykoo @ash07128

[murdrdocs]

cw exhibitionism and public sex (but clothed!)

just thinking about how much chad meeks-martin is in his element when he's at a party. like, at the frat halloween party, he's just allowed to be that charismatic jock that can get along with everybody and who knows most, if not all, of the songs on the better-than-expected playlist.

he's dressed slutty, (good for him) but if you decide to join him, partaking in the one night a year that you can truly be a slut without much judgement, and you dress as a dallas cowboy cheerleader to match him, he's going a little crazy.

he's buzzed, as are you, and he's tried to avoid too much pda by dancing with you instead of pushing you against the wall and kissing you until you could barely breathe in the stuffy atmosphere. but then there's a succession of songs that always manage to get you both, songs that are old enough to be considered Classics among you two, and suddenly you're dancing a lot more provocatively and he's grinding into you, ignorant of the watchful eyes surrounding you both.

maybe you're both just enjoy a healthy amount of exhibitionism, because suddenly tongue fucking against the wall of a frat party doesn't sound too bad. one of his hands roaming your body, the other above your head, trapping you in the space with the buff expanse of his physique.

the kiss is so sloppy, all tongue and teeth, barely any lip. he has you so close to him, both of you almost half naked, but it's not enough. he pressed one of his legs further between yours, and he pushes it up to connect with your core and just the pressure has you gasping a little. but then his hand reaches your waist and he pushes you back and forth and it feels so good. everything is heightened with the circumstances; in public, where it's almost socially acceptable to make out like the horny teenagers that you are, but it's definitely not okay for chad to get you off right here, with your friends (and his sister) somewhere around the house.

but chad can't stop, and you don't want him to. your noises are so sweet and pretty and they're right next to his ear, allowing him to take each little sound in over the thump! thump! of the music. your hands reach for his hips, nails scratching at his belt and the denim of his jeans and his tanned skin.

"jesus, chad. feels 's good. but–" you're about to say something but one particular drag of your hips against the denim pushes the seam of your shorts a certain way and it itches against a particularly sensitive spot and it takes you a second to remember what you were saying.

"'but' what, baby?" chad has to remind you through kisses to your temple.

"but we're in public," you finally finish telling him, your eyes opening to look around you. you bring a hand to the back of his neck, trying to urge him to move off of you but you're not trying that hard.

his head lifts and you can see a smile in only his eyes. he licks his lips, casts his eyes around both of you, and turns back to face you with a smile on his lips too.

"no one's watching. you can continue to grind against my thigh and get yourself off if that's what you wanna do." he's the one getting you off. he's controlling your movements. but he's manipulated the situation to cause a little humiliation.

not that much humiliation, though, because you push your lips to his again and you let both of his hands grip your hips and move them faster against his leg.

it's not long before you're cumming, your moans muffled by sticking your head in the crook of chad's neck. he's talking you through it ("there you go. feels good, doesn't it? you know i couldn't resist you in this little get up, sweetheart. just had to make you feel good, couldn't help myself. didn't know you liked things like this. dirtier than i thought. fuck, love you that way, too"), his words only making you shake and spasm harder until you're leaning back against the wall, your eyes closed and breathing heavy.

when you've come down enough to open your eyes, chad speaks. "heard they have jello shots in the kitchen. wanna get one?"

you stare at him, deadpan, and push at his shoulders. "if you don't take me home right now, chad."

he laughs, head thrown back, and he reaches a hand out to do as you'd told him. but it's then that anika comes around the corner.

"you're needed, big guy."

[lonelym00n]

It's (sometimes) okay to trust a stranger

Sam Carpenter x Hicks!Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Sixteen year old Sam just needs a friend. Despite the odds, she finds one in you.

A/N: this was supposed to be short but for some reason I couldn't stop myself from making it longer. hope u enjoy anyways!

Harshly slamming your front door shut, you stomped towards your car, hopped in, and quickly started the engine. Your chest was heaving up and down furiously and you could feel tears uselessly streaming down your cheeks. In one last fit of anger, you pounded your clenched fists into the steering wheel. Your temporary breakdown is interrupted at the sight of the front door swinging back open, your mom striding quickly towards you. You move faster than her, shifting the car into reverse and flying into the street without a care in the world. 

You hear your mom scream your name as you shift back into drive and absolutely floor it, cruising carelessly into the slowly darkening night. Hopefully she noticed you were going well above the speed limit, you knew it would piss her off even more if she did. 

Reaching one hand up towards your face, you angrily swipe the tears away before clicking the radio on. The volume is unnecessarily loud, just how you like it. 

As you aimlessly drive, you’re finally able to catch your breath and get a grip on your raging emotions. Deep down you know you had no right to be as mad as you are, but you were just so frustrated with your mother’s behavior lately. She expected you to be so perfect and happy and a ray of fucking sunshine all the time and trying to live up to her high standards had you so exhausted. It didn’t help that she constantly compared you to your younger brother, who she so clearly favored.

Tears welled up in your eyes for the second time and you let them fall. You felt hopeless and defeated. Worst of all, there was nothing you could do to make yourself feel better. You could only accept your fate and lay in the bed that was made for you. 

You pull into an empty parking lot, hug your knees tight to your chest, and force yourself to recall the fight between you and your mother. 

***

You sat in your room, humming along to the music you had idly playing in the background. After finishing all of your homework, you had decided to paint your nails. It was something that you found to be oddly relaxing and it had become a form of self-care for you. 

Before you could open up the bottle of nail polish, a knock sounded at your door. “Come in,” you called. 

The small form of your eleven year-old brother, Wes, peeked into your room. “Mommy says it’s time for dinner.” He grins toothily at you, “She got sushi!”

Though sushi was more of his favorite food than it was yours, you smiled brightly for the boy’s sake. “Mm yum” you hummed, “Race ya to the kitchen.”

He laughed as you took off, sprinting down the stairs and skidding to a halt just in front of the dining room. Before you could even begin to situate yourself at the table, your mom’s overly sweet voice broke your inner peace, “Y/N,” she scolded, “No running down the stairs. You or Wesley could easily get hurt.”

Wes apologized, a small frown on his chubby face. You, however, remained silent and clenched your jaw in irritation. Of course within seconds of her being home, she had already found a way to put a stop to your relaxed state.

She handed out the sushi and you all dug into your respective meals. She and Wes chatted about his day at school while you kept to yourself, deciding instead to scroll mindlessly through your phone. Seeing a particular funny post of Kirby’s, you couldn’t stop the light chuckle from sliding out of your mouth.

Your mother tutted and reached across the table to pluck your phone from your hands. “No phones at the table.”

You had to refrain from rolling your eyes, instead choosing to divert your attention to your nails, noting that they would need to be filed before you applied the polish. 

Your mom turned her attention away from Wes and onto you. “So,” she spoke, sounding extremely cheerful, “How’s school going for you, honey?” 

You sighed before responding, “Okay, I guess. Lots of assignments this week so that sucks, but I guess it’s fine since there aren’t any exams.”

She seemed pleased by your response and bit into another piece of sushi. Just as you were about to turn back to your own meal, she spoke again, “Who do you hang around with these days?” 

You groaned internally, knowing by her tone that nothing good could come out of this conversation. Leave it to Deputy Judy to try and police who you decided to hang out with. You scratched your neck before answering, “Mostly just Kirby these days. Other than her I keep to myself.” 

Her eyebrows raised at your answer before she shook her head. You did roll your eyes this time. “What mom? Go ahead, explain to me what the problem with Kirby is.” 

Needless to say, you were annoyed. She never approved of who you were friends with and wasn’t afraid to tell you exactly what she thought of them. “Well,” she spoke indignantly, “To start, the girl has broken about ten different driving laws. She’s constantly participating in underage drinking and has helped Jill Roberts sneak out of her house on several different occasions. She’s a terrible influence, sweetie, and from what I’ve heard, her parents are almost never home. That’s always a bad sign.”

You huffed and raked your hands through your hair in frustration. “Seriously? It’s Jill’s own choice to sneak out and that has nothing to do with Kirby. All you really have on her is that she’s a shit driver.”

Judy gasped and she raised a scolding finger up at you. “You watch your mouth around your brother, young lady. Bet you learned that awful language from her.”

Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head at your mom’s audacity. “Jesus mom, Kirby’s not the only teenager that swears, you’re so obnoxious sometimes.”

“That’s it!” She stood up and stomped her foot on the ground. “You aren’t allowed to be friends with her anymore!” 

You jumped out of your seat and let out a hysterical laugh at her crazy behavior, “Seriously!? Do you not hear how ridiculous you sound?”

“You better quit while you’re ahead missy.”

You scoffed, the anger coursing through your brain making you feel very bold, “You know what mom? I’m not gonna quit while I’m ahead. I’m sick of you trying to decide who I can and can’t be friends with!” Your lip curled up in defiance and you decided to continue, “You always do this. You always try to put yourself in charge of who I hang out with! I’m done with it. It really pisses me off.”

She looked shocked at your outburst but you didn’t care. She refused to listen to you when you talked calmly so if you had to raise your voice to finally get your point across to her, you would do so gladly. “I don’t know where this behavior is coming from Y/N Hicks but I expect an apology right now.”

You laughed loudly at her words. “No! You know what mom, I’ll tell you where this behavior is coming from. I have no friends because of you! No one at school invites me anywhere because they only see me as the deputy’s nark daughter. And the people who do hang out with me? They all leave!” You threw your arms up in the air wildly, “They either leave because you bust their party or because you force me to push them away!” 

At this point your face is bright red as the words spew out of your mouth. You feel frustrated enough to explode. Little Wes sits in his chair, completely silent as he watches the two of you argue.

Your mom speaks up, tone quiet in that way that means you have most certainly crossed a line, “I’m keeping this phone.” She waves your phone in front of you and you want to double over and scream loud enough to shake the whole house. Clearly she hadn’t cared about a word you said.

“Good! I don’t need it anyways!” You trudge over to the entryway and throw your coat over your shoulders, hearing your keys jingle in your pocket at the erratic action. 

“And where do you think you’re going?” She yells from the dining room. 

“Anywhere but here!” With that, you fling yourself out of the house.

***

Your tears have diminished to sniffles at this point. Part of you feels broken and you don’t know what you’re supposed to do to fix it. 

Lost in the crooning sound of the radio and your racing thoughts, you don’t notice the figure creeping towards your car. 

The sudden tap at your window causes you to let out a terrified shriek. Your knee knocks into the horn as you twist towards the source of the tapping noise and you scream even louder at the powerful beep that rings out into the dead of night..  

Your chest rises raggedly as you hesitantly trail your eyes up the figure that looms outside your window. The panic that took over your body calms slightly as you realize that it’s just a girl. You do feel a bit nervous as you recognize the girl to be Samantha Carpenter because even though you were mad at your mom, it doesn’t escape your mind that she had incessantly warned you to stay away from the girl standing outside your car.

She doesn’t look like she’s going to harm you now, with the amused twinkle that sparkles in her brown eyes, so you roll down the window and chuckle awkwardly, “Um hi?”

A teasing smirk stretches across her face, “Hello there. Didn’t mean to scare you half to death.”

You try not to blush at the reference to your moment of panic. “No, don't worry about it, you didn’t.”

She gives you a look that says you’re full of shit but smiles despite the fact. “So,” she draws out lazily, “What brings you here at this time of night?” 

It’s then that you notice the hazy look that’s in her eyes and with what your mother had told you about the girl, you note that she’s probably under the influence of some kind of drug right now. “Uh,” you struggle for a cool sounding response before lamely gesturing around. “Same as you.” You resist the urge to facepalm as your retort comes out as more of a question than a straight response.

She huffs out a laugh and something inside of you flutters at the sound. She cocks an eyebrow at you, “Oh really? So you mean to tell me the deputy’s daughter is out here high off her ass from whatever drug she had managed to scrounge up for the night?”

Your eyes widen comically, but a grin makes its way across your face regardless. “Yup.”

Samantha seems to find your act kind of funny and you internally cheer and congratulate yourself, before mentally sighing at just how corny you are. 

The lanky girl walks around to the other side of your car and motions for you to unlock the door. Curiously, you do. She quickly steps inside, making a small noise of approval at the warmth she’s provided. It’s then that you notice that she hadn’t been wearing a jacket, her (very) muscular arms completely bare in the black tank top that stretches across her form. Dumbly, you fish out your favorite jacket from the backseat and wordlessly offer it to her. She looks at it with interest but leans up to put it on anyways. You think you imagined it, but for a split second you swear her tan cheeks darken slightly.

She clears her throat and the charged atmosphere that had filled the car moments ago disappears with the action. “Clearly I know who you are, Y/N Hicks, so tell me, why would Judy Hicks’ daughter allow a complete stranger into her car?”

You think for a moment but shrug, “Some company is actually just what I needed right now.” She nods in understanding and you continue, this time bearing the teasing smirk on your own face, “Plus, you’re not the only one with a trick up their sleeve. I know who you are too, Samantha.”

A cheshire grin spreads across her mouth. You think it suits her. “Oh yeah? Mommy told you about me then?” You nod and she barks out a laugh, “All bad things, I hope.”

You chuckle at the mirth that has appeared in her expression. “Most certainly all bad things. I swear that’s all Judy Hicks is capable of seeing.”

She seems to pick up on the heaviness of her tone and you wonder if the drug she has taken has given her some heightened sense of perception. “Things don’t seem to be all perfect in paradise.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Sam smiles but it looks more like a grimace, “Believe me, I do.”

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence. You wonder what exactly happened to Sam to lead her down this path, but you know better than to ask. Despite your mother’s constant warnings, you find that Sam is actually really refreshing to hang around. She sees the world for what it really is, cold and lonely. It’s a nice change of pace to what you’re used to being around.

The peaceful atmosphere is broken as she reaches into her pocket and fishes out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She waits for a beat, anticipating you to chastise her, and looks pleasantly surprised when you don’t speak a word. Your eyes remain locked together as she places the stick into her mouth, rolls the window down, and leisurely lights the cigarette. 

After she takes a long drag, she looks at you curiously. “Y’know you’re nothing like what I thought you’d be.” You motion for her to continue and she does after a short moment, “I figured you’d be a cheery brat like your mom and that you wouldn’t even give someone like me the time of day.”

The last bit of her sentence causes a sad pang to vibrate through your chest. You frown and give her a soft look, “Someone like you? You seem really nice Sam.” She looks at you like you’ve grown three heads, clearly not believing you. “I’m serious,” you say gently, “you must be such a strong person to keep pushing through whatever it is you’re going through. I don’t know you that well, but I know enough to be able to tell that you’re a good person.”

Her eyes brim with tears and she doesn’t even flinch as they spill down her face. Her cigarette, now forgotten, falls from the hand that had been dangling out the window and onto the uneven pavement below. You pull her towards you into a tight hug. After a while of her sobbing softly into your shoulder, she pushes away slightly to meet your eyes. Your heart breaks at how small she sounds when she whispers a tiny thank you up at you. 

You brush the hair out of her eyes and lightly thread your fingers through it. She melts into the contact and you want to cry at how adorable she is. 

The two of you sit like that for what feels like hours, but is more than likely just a few minutes. 

She finally pulls away from you completely and settles back into your passenger seat. Her smirk reappears and you smile at the sight. “Drive. There’s someplace I want to show you.”

You’d known the girl for all of five seconds yet you could already tell that you’d likely do whatever she asked of you, your mother’s opinion be damned. If she had asked you to climb up the rooftop of an abandoned building, you’d likely say yes. And if she had asked you to stay with her up on that same rooftop for the rest of the night, you’d probably (definitely) agree. And if, when the sky began to display a mixture of pink and orange tones, she shyly asked if she could kiss you, you’d press your lips softly to hers in a heartbeat.

Bonus A/N: I've never written a flashback before so I really hope that part turned out okay :)

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is: @oh-stars! ohstars has 91 fics in the Stranger Things fandom and 69 of them are in the Steddie tag!

@lady-lostmind recommends the following works by @oh-stars:

Fuck. I Think I Love You.

The Men We've Become (Series)

Yours (all along)

Hidden Depths

Distance

"ohstars has a way of making heartache feel so good. Every time I read one of their fics I know I'm in for something special, and will inevitably go through a wide range of emotions while I'm brought along for a ride with the characters. I love the way they show so much through small details, letting the characters actions speak for themselves a lot of the time and the insight you get as a reader when you catch glimpses of the story even the character hasn't realized yet and getting to watch them grow throughout the story. They have a way of showing the beauty in the little moments, and letting you linger in the sweet in-between of big points, letting the story build on itself slowly." -- @lady-lostmind

Below the cut, @oh-stars answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

I think a lot of my ships boil down to Golden Retriever x Stoic Character. Add in that I adore when there’s a character who would sacrifice themselves to an inch of survival (if that) that gets the love and comfort they deserve, Steddie hits the spot. I’ve always been a big Steve fan but none of the ships prior to season four really inspired anything in me. And it took a minute for Steddie to click (which I think is the case for a lot of us, volume two just hit different), but when it did, there was no going back. I really enjoy exploring their relationship within the universe and everything that comes with – from sexuality crises, coming out, saving the world, and Stobin struggling with Steve liking a gremlin of a man. They just love each other so freakin much, y’all.

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

Misunderstandings, hurt/comfort, and kidfic are all tied as my favorites. It’s hard to pick just one because it really depends on my mood, but a good hurt/comfort is always the vibe.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

Slow burn. It’s kind of a cop out answer because it can be used in any fic and with any trope, but I love the build up.

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

I read so much that I don’t know if I have one fic that’s my all time favorite. Bandaids for the Heart by LexiRoseWrites and Steve’s First Bruise by cairparavels are ones I think about pretty often.

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

I’ve been toying with a royal au in my head for months, if not a year now. I just haven’t nailed the plot yet to want to put some real effort behind it. Once I have a better idea of the story, I can’t wait to dive in.

What is your writing process like?

Up in the air at the moment. It changes a lot over time. Something will work really well for a few months, then suddenly it doesn’t. Most of the time, I can’t seem to write unless I’m sprinting. Usually that’s a solo sprint, but I love writing with other people. I do a little light plotting ahead of time, then let the characters take the reins… which is probably why I hit so many walls throughout a fic.

Do you have any writing quirks?

I don’t know if I have any quirks that are unique to myself. I’m very particular about my format when writing. I can’t write without it being double spaced, times new roman, 12 pt, and justified, which is 100% a product of schools enforcing that format for projects. And I have a hard time actually sitting down to write without the help of writing games like sprints and the word game. Otherwise, I don’t do much editing? I do the bare minimum and post… which isn’t ideal. That’s the opposite of what I’d advise.

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

I would love to be someone who can post on a schedule consistently, but it rarely happens. Usually I can only succeed with that when a fic is a part of an event, otherwise I always get behind on my schedule.

Which fic are you most proud of?

You carved the space for my sadness to be seen for once (hold on to me) has a very special place in my heart. Out of my Steddie fics, it’s probably the one that I hold most dear, but I’m incredibly proud of The Man That I Could Be. It’s taken a lot for me to be proud of that one, but it was a whirlwind of an experience. I still go back to it and can’t really believe I wrote it to begin with, even though I have vivid memories of writing some of those scenes.

How did you get the idea for Yours (all along)?

I had an initial idea of doing a teacher AU but also wanted to explore lavender marriage Stobin, so I just… ran with it. I didn’t know where I was going in that first chapter’s first draft, just let Eddie’s voice take over. The plot and idea formed the more he revealed to me, with a few standout points acting as markers to get me through.

When writing Yours (all along), what was something you didn’t expect?

I didn’t expect my big bang artist m0momercy to be inspired by as many scenes as they were! Whenever I write a big bang or event fic, I’m very aware of which scenes I think would be visually compelling versus ones that would be harder to create for. I may dabble in art, but I don’t consider myself an artist, so it really took me by surprise that they were able to take the most random (but beloved – that scare scene is everything to me) scenes and create magic out of my words. I adore them and their work (please go check them out!!), so it was really great getting the honor to work with them on this project.

What inspired Hidden Depths?

This one was based on a prompt for @steddiesummerexchange. I had been wanting to do a nerd Steve fic, so this was the perfect opportunity to explore what that would look like!

What was your favorite part to write from Fuck. I Think I Love You.?

The playlist!! imfinereallyy created the playlist for @strangerthingsreversebigbang and the art to go along with it, so I had the opportunity to create a story around their song choices. I listened to that playlist exclusively (rip my spotify history on that one) while writing it, tried to find new ways to interpret the songs and incorporate them into the fic, and I’m really happy with how it turned out.

How do/did you feel writing The Men We've Become?

Honestly, it’s a blur. The first 100k of The Man That I Could Be was written in a month, with the rest over the next few months. It’s a beast of a fic, the longest I’ve ever written. When I think back on that time, I genuinely think something possessed me when writing. I was sitting down and knocking out 5k writing sessions almost daily, tapping into depths I wasn’t really sure I had. It’s kind of insane to me that I finished it.

What was the most difficult part of writing Distance?

I wrote this fic as a part of @steddielovemonth and was doing my own 90-Day writing challenge. Honestly, the hardest part was remembering this was a writing exercise to see a snapshot of Steve and Eddie’s relationship, rather than a longer fic. I wanted it to have the feel of a longer work with the satisfaction of a one-shot. Keeping it short and in the moment, not letting myself get lost in the tangents, and having the fic have a grounded feel was really important to me so I’d hope that I was able to succeed there.

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

I know there are lines that I’m proud of but for the life of me, I could not tell you what they are or where to find them. My two favorite scenes that come to mind though are the opener scene in you carved the space for my sadness to be seen for once (hold on to me) and the scene in chapter four of The Man That I Could Be – aka Steve’s breakdown/grief scene.

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

Oh gosh. I do plan on writing again soon, with a few FandomTrumpsHate fics coming out by the end of the year and new chapters of you carved the space for my sadness to be seen for once (hold on to me) coming soon. Otherwise, I mod a lot of things! @steddiebingo sign ups start November 1st and @steveharringtonbigbang starts January 1st!

Thank you to our author, @oh-stars, and our nominator, @lady-lostmind! See more of ohstars's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

[tigergirltail]

TIGER HRT CHAPTER 2 - MONTH 0 - EXPECTATIONS

FIRST/PREV - NEXT

---

It's been six months. Six months since that weird doctor and his inane little test to prove I'm ready, or at least, ready enough. Six months since I signed a stack of liability waivers forfeiting my right to pursue legal action for any reason up to and including untimely death. Only DAYS left before I can finally claim the entire reason I was there in the first place.

I came home today to find an information package in the mail - things I need to know before making my final commitment to the treatment. It's somewhat reassuring, really. By the sounds of it, this guy has to deal with all kinds of odd requests - I heard a rumour that someone went to him for a chimera treatment at one point - which means that he has to do all this research into side effects personally. …Although there's no telling how much of this is speculation. Concerning.

The information package is divided into different headings, roughly organized by risk factor and how outwardly noticeable they are, as if he's right here with me, trying to scare me off from it.

I decided before I even went to him that I wasn't going to let myself be scared again. Let's see what I'm in for. I sit down and start reading…

SKELETAL STRUCTURE

"Subject's height will noticeably increase. Increase of six inches is expected, increase of one foot is possible."

Huh. I guess I wouldn't mind being taller, but that's definitely going to affect what kinds of clothes I can wear. And I guess I might also get a bit wider proportionally? I'm already plus-size, maybe it'll just level it out.

"Subject may experience a conversion from plantigrade (walking on soles) to digitigrade (walking on toes)."

That makes me stop and think. I'd basically have to re-learn how to walk, and no doubt there's going to be an awkward intermediate period. Will my feet get bigger as well? They're big enough to make me dysphoric as it is. I wonder if I can get custom footwear made… I wonder how much that will cost…

"Subject will experience a reconfiguration of fingers to allow for retractable claws. Persistent soreness is to be expected."

Bluh. I've bitten my nails too close enough times to know how much it sucks not to be able to put pressure on my fingers without pain. I wonder how long that particular effect will last. Due to the lack of timeframe, I can only guess. Months, maybe. Years, I doubt it, but possibly.

"Subject's cranial and facial structure will experience long-term reformation. The effect this will have on brain function is unknown.

And here we get into "you signed a waiver" territory. I had accepted at the outset that death was a possibility, but I'm not sure how to feel about the risk of permanent brain damage. None of the other accounts of therian HRT I've heard seem to mention this, though, so maybe it's just speculation? I move on to the next heading.

DIET

"Tigers, like all felines, are obligate carnivores. Subject will be required to eat real meat (no substitutions) at every meal, or risk symptoms of starvation."

This had already occurred to me, to be honest. Part of the reason a white tiger is my fursona in the first place is because I am an unrepentant meat enjoyer. Heck, maybe a feline body will make meat taste even better.

"Lingering human characteristics may make it possible to digest other food, but the nutritional benefit to subject will be negligible."

…Ah. This was less expected. Does this mean I'll have to start thinking of things like bread and fruit as basically candy? Worse, will I have to avoid it? I love me a good grilled cheese, and poutine is basically an addictive substance, am I going to have to swear off some of my longtime favourites? Out of all of the effects so far, this is the one to give me the most hesitation. Yes, I love food, I'm not afraid to admit it.

"Subject is likely to lose cravings for non-meat food entirely."

I have to sit back and process this one. Back when I started human HRT, one of the things that gave me pause was the idea of decreased libido. That was one of the few things about my body that didn't make me dysphoric, unlike a lot of trans people whose stories I'd read. In the first few months, though, I found it settled into a pleasant sort of medium, where I could have it if I wanted, but it wouldn't show up out of nowhere. Maybe this will be the same way? Maybe poutine can still be a sometimes food? Cats eat weird stuff that's not healthy for them sometimes, but it's fine, right?

Some part of me considers holding a funeral for the abstract concept of poutine.

On to the final heading…

SENSORY EFFECTS

"Subject will gain heightened night vision and hearing. This will cause sleep to become significantly more difficult."

Trust a doctor to find the one downside to one of the coolest effects of the treatment… Do you even know how much I want to hear every beat of the world around me? Do you even understand how useful it would be to be able to see in the dark effortlessly? Having a tiger's eyes and ears would be almost worth every single downside by itself.

Besides, I'm a very heavy sleeper.

"Subject's hearing frequency range will become significantly more broad than a human's. High-pitched noises such as dog whistles will be audible and painful."

Well, I'm sure that's going to suck sometimes, but I don't think I'm exposed to such noises on the regular. Although… I suppose I wouldn't know, with my feeble human frequency range. It's something that might be fine or might suck, I guess.

"Subject's sense of touch will be strongly affected by fur growth."

Sure, that tracks, but I'm kind of looking forward to it. Maybe it's comparable to wearing a full-body fursuit? I've actually missed having opportunities to fullsuit, and I've thought about commissioning a new one if I saved up enough money, but I suppose that won't be necessary now.

Much of the rest of the document is a reminder that everything listed is Permanent and Irreversible short of Major Surgery, with some reminders of the various rights to litigate that I've waived. Ultimately, it sounds like I've got some big changes ahead, but nothing I've seen here is a dealbreaker.

It's slightly terrifying, but I'm excited.

I can't wait to hear the rain through a tiger's ears.

[anemonelovesfiction]

Colors of Pandora 5: Blue

Neteyam x Fem! Omatikaya mate

Emotion: Sadness/ Grief

Warnings ⚠️: Character death; otherwise this content is SAFE FOR WORK

Tagging @xylianasblog so she can cry today (sorry boo)

Translation Station

Tanhì: Star

Word Count: 602 (it’s short but gets the point across)

I could feel it in the bond we had created when we decided to take the final step to becoming mates, it was harsh and instantaneous. I felt as though a large part of my existence had been torn out of my body, smashed into a million pieces and placed back in without anyone paying attention to which piece had gone where, as if my heart had been pummeled and my body couldn’t catch up with the pain it felt, like a puzzle missing various pieces; unfinished and broken.

At that instant it felt as though the breath had been knocked out of my lungs, it had been hard to attempt to breathe as everything burned, my stomach had felt upset, and my limbs all felt numb, there was no coming back from this as I had fallen onto my knees, my eyes filled with the tears I wish I could cry at this moment.

But my head had been hurting and I had no more tears left to shed. I’d helped prepare his body and ensure he was as polished as he always seemed. I had unbraided his hair and ensured to run a comb through his precious locks, knowing he would have enjoyed this had he been alive, I slightly feel one of the corners of my mouth sliding upward as I cherish the memory. I’d washed his head and massaged his scalp in the particular way he enjoyed after a rough day of learning the way of water, ensuring to lightly scrape it with my nails to reach all of his pressure points to help him destress, then rebraided his hair and placed his favorite beads back on.

Normally I would have had him paint my body for this type of affair, but I’d had to do it on my own for the first time in a while, deciding to stick with the white color he often enjoyed seeing on my skin, a contrast between the night sky and the stars- his tanhì.

The raft his body had lied on was nothing like the way he’d wanted to be let go, he would have preferred a burial that would amplify his life in the forest, but this would have to do. I stood next to his mother the further we went out into sea, my hands trailing onto his arm as a way to hold on to the memory of who he was.

I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye verbally as I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes again, I believed I had no more tears left to cry but I had been proven wrong, I looked up to see his mother and father staring at me, waiting for me to begin our descent.

I nod and down we went.

Each pang in my heart serving as a reminder as to why I had loved him in the first place. Every moment we would have spent together in the forest, flirting while hunting, dancing during parties, getting drunk off of fermented drinks and enjoying one another's company, it was magical, meaningful, mine. He was mine.

But as I released my hold on his body, I released the love of my life, giving his body back to Eywa to do with it as she pleased. As his body disappeared into the anemone the more I wanted to reach out and beg him to open his eyes, wishing he would say goodbye to me before he disappeared, but it never happened.

And I opened my mouth to say my last goodbye.

“Goodbye my love, my light, ma’Teyam.”

[hibischush]

How about round three of kissing heacdanons? >:3 This time with Balor and Valen, if that's okay with you. Thank you for your time! <3

Of course! Since I did Balor in the previous post, I'll just write Valen here for round four instead 🌺💗

This one is pretty safe but there are suggestive comments; ⚠️minors proceed with caution!⚠️

Similarly to Reina, I think that Valen would take a while to realize that she had romantic feelings for you

And even when she does realize it, it doesn't hit her like a truck nor really affect how she acts around you

I mean, besides flirting

Valen's way of flirting is very direct and honest

So you know when Valen is interested in you, and there's no mistaking that

And you have been crushing on her, so hard

The combination of her dead-panned humor, serious aura, and the way she puts herself together so elegantly just really does it for you lol

I think the place where you two first share a kiss would be at some type of orchestra or opera

Some type of black-tie event that causes you to dress to the nines

Valen always dresses smartly but she is pleasantly chuffed to see you do the same

Don't get her wrong, she finds you attractive even when you're in overalls and covered head to toe in mud

She offers her arm or accepts your arm as you walk into the venue

The event is thrilling both because of the show that is performed in front of you but also because of the tension building between you two

Like y'all are seated next to one another in the theater and she'll trail her nails up and down your arm, and lean over close to your ear to whisper questions about the act or if you're enjoying yourself

She knows what she's doing and it's working

Having fully enjoyed yourselves at the event, you both walk into the cool, crisp night outside the venue

"Did you enjoy yourself, farmer?"

You smile, "Of course, Valen. I always enjoy myself with you,"

Valen returns your smile and looks off into the distance, before saying, "I must confess, I had an agenda bringing you here tonight," and you cock your head in confusion

She clears her throat and begins with your name quietly, before gaining the confidence to continue

"As a doctor, I'm used to taking care of people. I very much enjoy it, too. But after I met and befriended you, I found myself wanting to be taken care of, with you being my caretaker. I wished to tell you that I have romantic feelings for you, and I wonder if you felt the same."

You are so red oml you are so thankful for the cold breeze to cool you down

Of course you accept her confession! You're practically bouncing on the heels of your feet, beaming widely at the white-haired woman

She releases a breath not even she knew she had, before taking your hand and slowly raising it to her lips without breaking eye contact

"Thank you,"

You giggle, flushed, before teasing, "Oh doctor, I think you could do better than that. Don't you know your anatomy? My lips are right here,"

She grins at you, her eyes crinkling, "Careful, I think you'll find that I know my anatomy quite well." she murmurs centimeters away from your lips, her fingers locked under your chin

When you kiss, the night doesn't feel as cold anymore

In moments after, Valen stuck true to her word of knowing your anatomy in particular very well 👀

Valen kisses you softly with purpose, and she loves to kiss you slowly and savor it

She'll usually cradle your face with her hands

She doesn't like to wonder much when kissing, usually sticking to your face

But she loves to come up behind you, wrapping her arms around your waist, and pepper kisses on your shoulders

Don't tell anyone but Valen loves giving and receiving nose rubs while cuddling

And that her jawline is super sensitive but what no I didn't tell you guys that

I have a hard time writing witty, dry-humored characters such as Valen, but through writing hcs it's honestly helped push me out of my comfort zone and be confronted head-on with my struggles. Plus Valen is so mother that I had to lmao

[goblins-riddles-or-frocks]

I’m going to be writing my first novel (original fiction) and I’m already stressing myself out about creating good prose and character dynamics. I have so many ships that I admire and I can tell so much thought went into their dialogue and backgrounds but how are writers writing thousands of words a day with that type of thoughtful writing?? AHHHHH. I think I could only write like 200 words a day to create stuff with the depth of character that I love and want for my own writing

I think your fanfic is good so that’s why I’m asking 🙂‍↕️

That’s really exciting!! Good luck!

Writing is very much a cumulative skill in my experience, the more you write the easier it will be to balance the various elements of plot, prose, character, etc. You’ll also just get a better handle on the patterns of these things. It’ll be easier to quickly formulate plots, to make interesting character choices without having to think about it as hard. So definitely, don’t get discouraged if you’re struggling with the balancing act now! The more you work on it, the more naturally it will come to you.

That being said, a big part of writing efficiently is having a good method. The saying that you can’t edit a blank page is very true. Stressing over getting everything perfect on the first try is just going to needlessly slow you down. Just get it done, and then you can fix it later!

For original projects, I personally like to outline heavily before the drafting process. And then I use that as a roadmap during drafting. Once I have a draft, I go over it several times with a particular focus for each pass (subplots, nailing character arcs, worldbuilding details, etc)

I think it’s just really important to work with purpose. Otherwise you can get lost in the weeds.

Re: character dynamics and dialogue, I think dialogue tends to come organically from character. And then character itself should go hand in hand with plot/premise.

It’s a bit of a chicken or the egg scenario, but I think it’s important to nail down what kind of story you’re trying to tell and what characters can best carry that. I do think that theme is really *really* important, and that’s how you get a cohesive, compelling story as opposed to ten tropes in a trenchcoat.

But yeah like basic questions, who are your characters, what are their arcs? Can you sketch out a basic starting point and end point for them and meaningfully talk about how they’re meant to change? Are these changes cohesive?

Good ships are good because they have interesting premises, conflicts, and interactions. You need to make sure everything is solid on a conceptual level. So much of writing advice rn is like “throw in a dagger to the throat scene, that’s sexy” but like shfhff what does it fucking mean! There needs to be a point to sexy scenes. And vulnerable moments need to be earned. A relationship needs to develop from somewhere.

It’s way more important to flesh out what about the characters are appealing or disruptive to each other, where they align and clash, and to make sure it makes sense, than to write perfect dialogue.

I’m very much a proponent of getting the foundation right and then fixing the aesthetic dressings later. My first drafts, my dialogue is usually in short hand, just to get the gist of it down, and my prose is pretty dry. There’s always room to fix that stuff later.

But yeah my personal tips:

Outline as much as you can! it’s easier to rewrite an outline than an entire book. And you’ll have to rewrite the book multiple times anyway, so might as well make it a bit easier for yourself. I like to personally have a shorter birds eye view outline, and then one that goes into scene level detail. But also I am insane. So, use whatever level of detail works for you.

Be aware of why you make every choice in your story. Could be because of a theme, because you want to set up a later plotline, or because it’s cool. Whatever the reason just make sure you know! That makes it easier to weigh any potential changes against each other, and to figure out your priorities. But also to tell if any elements end up becoming superfluous over your editing process. if you introduced scene A to set up scene B and you end up cutting B, then A doesn’t need to exist anymore.

Each scene should have an arc! You don’t need to outline scenes if you don’t want to (… I like to) but make sure there’s movement in them. My personal rule of thumb is that a scene needs to accomplish at least three things to justify its existence. Those things can be developing character, particular relationships, a subplot, the main plot, or just showcasing a fun setting, but I just like to make sure that multiple things are happening to be efficient.

Start out with high concepts and recognizable tropes (if you want!) but once you get into the details, then you need to aim for specificity. Specificity is so important, that’s where things get interesting. Similarly, characters are most endearing for their flaws and vulnerability. A character written to be generically likeable is less interesting and memorable than a specific character.

Also, be aware of each character’s perspective, both over the course of the story, but also in every scene. What are their goals? How much do they know, what are their impression of events, and how do they want to present themselves to others? Particularly for side characters, is there anything they need to react to that you might not have considered?

This might all sound unrelated to writing quickly, but in my experience the better understanding you have of your story and your characters, the easier it is to draft. That way, you’ve done all the thinking beforehand, so you don’t need to pause and figure everything out as you write!

[hasufin]

Modification

I want to share a little project I've been working on this past week. It may seem like nothing, but it was a lot of work and a big pain until I got it done.

Back when my spouse and I moved into our current house, I immediately recognized a dearth of counter space in the kitchen. We resolved this by purchasing a buffet table from Ikea. The table in question was a "Norden" model, which they have since discontinued. Simple enough table, a bit over a meter long and maybe a third that in depth, two drawers and two additional shelves. Great for holding kitchen appliances on top and storage below.

The first thing I did was add locking casters to the bottom so I could move it around easily. That's been a big bonus, as it makes cleaning much easier. I also put some hooks on the ends to hang my cast iron pans.

The problem arose I guess about three years ago when I upgraded to a commercial-grade espresso machine. The Gaggia was okay, but the Expobar is in a completely different class. And that's GREAT for good coffee. For a tabletop that's made of laminated particle board? Not so much.

Now, I had been aware of this problem for a while. I'd tried to ameliorate it by putting a silicone baking mat on top of that side of the table; that slowed down the deterioration, but did not stop it. It was also a daily annoyance, as the espresso machine moved a bit when I torqued the portafilter in place and it would get bunched up. About once a week I would have to lift the espresso machine and move things back.

This came to a head two weeks ago when I took the espresso machine in for some repairs and had to face that the tabletop was ruined. My initial thought was to get a replacement top from Ikea and then put maybe a piece of stone countertop in where the espresso machine sits.

This ran into two problems. First, as I mentioned before, this particular item is discontinued. Ikea will honor the warranty, and the Ikea rep tried pretty hard to make that work, but the reality is I got it too long ago and whatever abuse it's undergone is my problem; they don't sell the parts for it anymore.

Second, stone countertops are EXPENSIVE. While I just want what might be considered scrap, it was still going to be a lot of money, and I was not able to find a source.

Eventually I want to replace the entire thing with something I build myself, and I have some ideas for that. However, right now I have neither the time nor skill to make that happen. I was going to have to replace the top myself.

Since I didn't want to pay for stone, I opted for metal. I ordered a 4'x2' sheet of metal from McMaster and proceeded to prep the top. I sanded down the areas which were bubbling up and roughed up the rest of the surface.

Then, once the metal arrived I used my angle grinder to cut it to width and round the sharp corners. I had this notion that I might bend it over the top and maybe nail it down, or see if I could knurl the edges. However, while I think that was maybe possible, to do it well would have called for tools I don't have and skills I generally lack. The steel was 0.03" thick rolled mild steel. While that's not exactly a knife's edge, and you can touch it without cutting yourself, it's not exactly safe. And although I got much better with the angle grinder in the process (I had a grinder and hardly ever used it), the cut edges were a but uneven. So, I ordered some rubber edging.

In the meantime, I put the metal on the buffet table and prepared it.

I opted for a matte finish, since I would need better buffing tools than I have to get a mirror finish, and matte is easier to maintain than brushed. Since it's mild steel - which rusts easily - I sealed it with a spray lacquer.

Today, the rubber edging finally arrived. This is the same stuff you have on the edges of your car door. I glued it in place, except for one small section which is removable so I can easily clean detritus like coffee grounds off the table top. I also added two receivers to hold the feet of the espresso machine so it doesn't move when I put in the portafilter.

And, behold!

The result looks almost nothing like the original buffet table from Ikea. Someday I'll make something better, but whatever I make will be strongly informed by this, which has been heavily modified to fit my use case.

[sunshinechay]

10 BL boys that I want carnally

I was tagged by @prapaiwife. Thank you for the tag!

Hmm let’s see if I can figure this out. In no particular order

1. Chen Yi and Ai Di (Kiseki: Dear to Me)

Did I cheat on the very first one by picking both off them?…maybe so.

Tall and broody gets me every time, which means Chen Yi is just my type and Ai Di’s specific brand of chaotic short king just works for me

2. Alan (Pit Babe the series)

The dad energy that radiates off this man is incredible and I am down for it…speaking of dad energy

3. Gumpa (Not Me the series)

Gumpa willingly adopted 5 20-something boys and fostered their love for anarchy and hatred for capitalism and I (and my ovaries) am in love with him for that.

4. Phayu (Love in the Air)

At the risk of telling you guys about 1000% too much information about myself…I wish I were Rain because this man is everything I want (and this is coming from someone who likes prapaisky better as a pairing)

5. Nail (For Him the series)

Gif by @pharawee

This man is a bitch, this man knows what he wants, this man has a way better fashion sense then. I want him and I want his fashion and his honesty.

6. First (Twins the series)

This man and his lost puppy eyes and his grumpiness and his jealously. I want him

7. Kim (KinnPorsche the series)

Can I make this list without including Kim…possibly, but I’m not gonna XD

8. Prapai (Love in the Air)

Are you surprised? You shouldn’t be.

9. Tan (Manner of Death)

Or maybe just Max in general but can you really blame me?

10. Choco (Choco Milk Shake)

Is this man actually a dog? I mean technically but if Jung Woo is allowed to end up with him then why can’t I? Also muscles that they do not show off nearly as much as they should

I’m honestly not sure who hasn’t done this yet so I’m not sure who to tag so if you haven’t done it yet, feel free to consider this me tagging you!

[coyote-nebula]

Another writing process ask!

One thing I love about your fics is that they are often highly connected to the setting. Your Minefield series is a great example of this; Iron Bound never lets your forget the paper factory, the emotions of Tap Out just wouldn’t hit the same if the circumstances surrounding Jason going down were different, poor Timmy lost in the icy woods is perfect for the painful loneliness in Except Tim, and of course the importance of setting for Tim in a Bottle and Harvest go without saying…

What I’m trying to ask is, do you usually think of the setting for a story in conjunction with the plot? Or have any of these stories actually gone through different iterations of the setting before you settled on the version that was published? (:

Oh, interesting question!

I had to mull this one over. Planning the setting isn’t something I think of myself as paying special attention to, but you’re right! Maybe I don’t think of it exactly because the story is often so particular to a location.

I really enjoy having the characters interact with the environment (or be affected by the environment), and it always suggests plot points as I mentally look around the room for ideas… which can’t happen if I don’t know what the setting is yet! Tap Out is a good example of a fic that I walked around looking for stuff to see or do. I’d say the setting is nailed down almost immediately most of the time. Sometimes it precedes the plot, like with Harvest— I wanted Bruce and Jason to spend time together at the Kent Farm, so I had to make up an excuse to get them there 😂 Or in Except Tim, I wanted to get Tim lost in the woods, so I had to make up a reason for him to be there!

Now I’m thinking of getting stuck on a recent wip with an ambiguous setting. I guess it just needs an interesting location!

Thanks for the ask! Tumblr ate my answer to your other one. I’ll rewrite that later lol

[meta-squash]

I did one commentary for a Shameless fic for @shamelessdvdcommentary and I really had fun with it, so I decided to do it for another one of my fics.

Peace In Your Arms And A Home In Your Heart Summary: There's no way his younger self would have imagined this, not in a million years, not even with how much he always loved Ian. He was always just fucked for life. Now he's been there, done that with the fucked for life thing. Now he's everything he never dreamed and it blows him away. Ian and Mickey three years after Mickey's release from prison.

Give us some stats - (when you wrote it, word count, how long it took to finish, is it a one-shot/multi-chapter, etc) I started this fic in January 2018 and didn't finish it until May 2018, even though it's a oneshot and only 6,233 words. It's a fluffy, cuddly fic with absolutely no angst whatsoever, and I'm just so unfamiliar with writing pure fluff that it took me forever, I think.

What was the initial inspiration for your story? I mostly write angst or at least darker character study type fics. I wanted to write a fic where Ian and Mickey were actually happy. I'm obsessed with how comfortable Mickey became with casual affectionate touch in season 5, and I really wanted to explore a future version of that, where Mickey is comfortable with touch and Ian is well and they're able to both fully appreciate casual physical affection. I wrote this before season 10 aired, so in my version Ian got out of prison first, Mickey had a few more years, and when he got out they got an apartment together, and this is three years after that.

What was your favourite scene to write? The two of them just chatting about their day while casually holding each other in a (mostly) non-sexual but affectionate way. I really liked making it feel really normal and sweet and intimate but not horny. Just really soft.

How did you come up with the title? There's a brief moment where Mickey's childhood is compared to a house full of holes and cold and exposed nails, compared to the comfort of his current life with Ian. I also just like this idea that their lives are still pretty hectic and stressful and stuff outside in the world, but when they're at home together they feel more at peace and happy and calm.

Was there anything you struggled to write? If so, how did you overcome this? This whole story was, while not really a struggle, just kind of out of my usual comfort zone. I'm a master at angst and it's what I like to write. So writing a fluffy, happy fic was fun but I was constantly second-guessing myself on whether or not it was too cheesy, or realistic, or too fluffy, or OOC. In the end, I think it turned out great. I'm just not used to writing a fluffy scene without the other shoe dropping sometime later in the fic.

Favourite line in the story? “Get over here, asshole.” Mickey stretches out a hand to reel Ian in when he takes it, tugging him down to catch his lips and curl a hand against the back of his neck. He kisses Ian deep and slow and digs his fingers into the muscles at the back of his neck before pulling away and letting Ian up again. He smiles sleepily when Ian squeezes his hand. “Kick ass out there, man. I love you.”

If you are writing a particular trope or genre, was it your first time writing this? This was my first time writing pure fluff for Shameless. I think it went very well. It's also my only Shameless fic that is purely fluff without some sort of angst or h/c or whatever.

What are you most proud about in the story? (plot, characterisation, dialogue, twist/cliffhanger, etc) The dialogue! I had so much fun with the dialogue in this one. Mickey's way of talking is so fun to write. I really liked writing the dialogue for this because it's so normal and sweet, but they're still going to talk the way they talk. I'm also really happy with the physical affection bits. I didn't want it to be smutty or overly sappy, I just wanted it to be like they finally are somewhere that they're both comfortable and safe and they can touch each other affectionately as much as they want without fear or whatever.

Are there any deleted scenes that didn’t make it to the final story? I don't think so, but I did do the opposite and I added a couple paragraphs after I'd already posted it. I just wanted more of Mickey's internal monologue as he sleepily watches Ian getting ready for work.

Reading back the story now, is there anything you’d change or add? There's a brief moment where Mickey is asleep on the couch and the POV switches to Ian watching him sleep, and then it switches back to Mickey once he wakes up. I wish I'd made the transition to and from Ian's POV a little smoother. But now I'm not sure how I'd do that. I think I struggled with it back then and the way it is now is kind of the best I could do.

Would you ever write a sequel to this story? Maybe? I think it deviates so heavily from what ended up happening in canon that I'm not sure what I'd do with a sequel. It might be interesting to have Ian and Mickey married and being all physically affectionate in the presence of the Gallagher siblings, but none of the Gallagher siblings make a big deal out of it. Or if they do, it's less about mockery or bullshit and more a kind of surprise and/or jealousy at how they support each other and stuff.

If you’ve chosen your most popular story, are you surprised by the popularity? Absolutely. On the one hand I'm not surprised it's the most popular, because people will always go for fluff and probably a lot of people read fluffy fics more than once. But on the other hand I am surprised because I don't write fluff very often, and I feel like I'm not as good at it as other people. I think this fic is great, but stylistically I usually feel more comfortable with my angst writing, so I'm surprised this has the most views of all my Shameless fics.

[pickl-o]

Oop, forgot to put my signature. Anyway, CHAPTER 1

Loomings

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago–never mind how long precisely– having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off–then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs–commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?–Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks glasses! of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster– tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand–miles of them–leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues,– north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?

Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries–stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd’s head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd’s eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among Tiger-lilies–what is the one charm wanting?– Water there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick– grow quarrelsome–don’t sleep of nights–do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing;–no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honorable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,–though I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board–yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;–though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bakehouses the pyramids.

No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the fore-castle, aloft there to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one’s sense of honor, particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off in time.

What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about–however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way– either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But being paid,– what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way– he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:

“Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States. “WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL.” “BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN.”

Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces– though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment.

Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk; the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds, helped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it–would they let me–since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of the place one lodges in.

By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.

CHAPTER 2

The Carpet-Bag

I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was on a Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday.

As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolizing the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great original– the Tyre of this Carthage;–the place where the first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported cobblestones–so goes the story– to throw at the whales, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit?

Now having a night, a day, and still another night following before me in New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port, it became a matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a very dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold and cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had sounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver,–So, wherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of a dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the gloom towards the north with the darkness towards the south–wherever in your wisdom you may conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to inquire the price, and don’t be too particular.

With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of “The Crossed Harpoons”–but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further on, from the bright red windows of the “Sword-Fish Inn,” there came such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and ice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement,–rather weary for me, when I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of the tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don’t you hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are stopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not the cheeriest inns.

Such dreary streets! Blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand, and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of the town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood invitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the uses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble over an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city, Gomorrah? But “The Crossed Harpoons,” and the “The Sword-Fish?”–this, then must needs be the sign of “The Trap.” However, I picked myself up and hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior door.

It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the preacher’s text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of ‘The Trap!’

Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly representing a tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words underneath–“The Spouter Inn:–Peter Coffin.”

Coffin?–Spouter?–Rather ominous in that particular connexion, thought I. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this Peter here is an emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim, and the place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated little wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here from the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a poverty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the very spot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee.

It was a queer sort of place–a gable-ended old house, one side palsied as it were, and leaning over sadly. It stood on a sharp bleak corner, where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than ever it did about poor Paul’s tossed craft. Euroclydon, nevertheless, is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the hob quietly toasting for bed. In judging of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon,” says an old writer–of whose works I possess the only copy extant–“it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside, or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death is the only glazier.” True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my mind–old black-letter, thou reasonest well. Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine is the house. What a pity they didn’t stop up the chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint here and there. But it’s too late to make any improvements now. The universe is finished; the copestone is on, and the chips were carted off a million years ago. Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth against the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters with his shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep out the tempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken wrapper–(he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the privilege of making my own summer with my own coals.

But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up to the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra than here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the line of the equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in order to keep out this frost?

Now, that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the curbstone before the door of Dives, this is more wonderful than that an iceberg should be moored to one of the Moluccas. Yet Dives himself, he too lives like a Czar in an ice palace made of frozen sighs, and being a president of a temperance society, he only drinks the tepid tears of orphans.

But no more of this blubbering now, we are going a-whaling, and there is plenty of that yet to come. Let us scrape the ice from our frosted feet, and see what sort of a place this “Spouter” may be.

CHAPTER 3

The Spouter-Inn

Entering that gable-ended Spouter-Inn, you found yourself in a wide, low, straggling entry with old-fashioned wainscots, reminding one of the bulwarks of some condemned old craft. On one side hung a very large oil painting so thoroughly besmoked, and every way defaced, that in the unequal crosslights by which you viewed it, it was only by diligent study and a series of systematic visits to it, and careful inquiry of the neighbors, that you could any way arrive at an understanding of its purpose. Such unaccountable masses of shades and shadows, that at first you almost thought some ambitious young artist, in the time of the New England hags, had endeavored to delineate chaos bewitched. But by dint of much and earnest contemplation, and oft repeated ponderings, and especially by throwing open the little window towards the back of the entry, you at last come to the conclusion that such an idea, however wild, might not be altogether unwarranted.

But what most puzzled and confounded you was a long, limber, portentous, black mass of something hovering in the centre of the picture over three blue, dim, perpendicular lines floating in a nameless yeast. A boggy, soggy, squitchy picture truly, enough to drive a nervous man distracted. Yet was there a sort of indefinite, half-attained, unimaginable sublimity about it that fairly froze you to it, till you involuntarily took an oath with yourself to find out what that marvellous painting meant. Ever and anon a bright, but, alas, deceptive idea would dart you through.– It’s the Black Sea in a midnight gale.–It’s the unnatural combat of the four primal elements.–It’s a blasted heath.– It’s a Hyperborean winter scene.–It’s the breaking-up of the icebound stream of Time. But at last all these fancies yielded to that one portentous something in the picture’s midst. That once found out, and all the rest were plain. But stop; does it not bear a faint resemblance to a gigantic fish? even the great leviathan himself?

In fact, the artist’s design seemed this: a final theory of my own, partly based upon the aggregated opinions of many aged persons with whom I conversed upon the subject. The picture represents a Cape-Horner in a great hurricane; the half-foundered ship weltering there with its three dismantled masts alone visible; and an exasperated whale, purposing to spring clean over the craft, is in the enormous act of impaling himself upon the three mast-heads.

The opposite wall of this entry was hung all over with a heathenish array of monstrous clubs and spears. Some were thickly set with glittering teeth resembling ivory saws; others were tufted with knots of human hair; and one was sickle-shaped, with a vast handle sweeping round like the segment made in the new-mown grass by a long-armed mower. You shuddered as you gazed, and wondered what monstrous cannibal and savage could ever have gone a death-harvesting with such a hacking, horrifying implement. Mixed with these were rusty old whaling lances and harpoons all broken and deformed. Some were storied weapons. With this once long lance, now wildly elbowed, fifty years ago did Nathan Swain kill fifteen whales between a sunrise and a sunset. And that harpoon–so like a corkscrew now–was flung in Javan seas, and run away with by a whale, years afterwards slain off the Cape of Blanco. The original iron entered nigh the tail, and, like a restless needle sojourning in the body of a man, travelled full forty feet, and at last was found imbedded in the hump.

Crossing this dusky entry, and on through yon low-arched way– cut through what in old times must have been a great central chimney with fireplaces all round–you enter the public room. A still duskier place is this, with such low ponderous beams above, and such old wrinkled planks beneath, that you would almost fancy you trod some old craft’s cockpits, especially of such a howling night, when this corner-anchored old ark rocked so furiously. On one side stood a long, low, shelf-like table covered with cracked glass cases, filled with dusty rarities gathered from this wide world’s remotest nooks. Projecting from the further angle of the room stands a dark-looking den–the bar–a rude attempt at a right whale’s head. Be that how it may, there stands the vast arched bone of the whale’s jaw, so wide, a coach might almost drive beneath it. Within are shabby shelves, ranged round with old decanters, bottles, flasks; and in those jaws of swift destruction, like another cursed Jonah (by which name indeed they called him), bustles a little withered old man, who, for their money, dearly sells the sailors deliriums and death.

Abominable are the tumblers into which he pours his poison. Though true cylinders without–within, the villanous green goggling glasses deceitfully tapered downwards to a cheating bottom. Parallel meridians rudely pecked into the glass, surround these footpads’ goblets. Fill to this mark, and your charge is but a penny; to this a penny more; and so on to the full glass– the Cape Horn measure, which you may gulp down for a shilling.

Upon entering the place I found a number of young seamen gathered about a table, examining by a dim light divers specimens of skrimshander. I sought the landlord, and telling him I desired to be accommodated with a room, received for answer that his house was full– not a bed unoccupied. “But avast,” he added, tapping his forehead, “you haint no objections to sharing a harpooneer’s blanket, have ye? I s’pose you are goin’ a-whalin’, so you’d better get used to that sort of thing.”

I told him that I never liked to sleep two in a bed; that if I should ever do so, it would depend upon who the harpooneer might be, and that if he (the landlord) really had no other place for me, and the harpooneer was not decidedly objectionable, why rather than wander further about a strange town on so bitter a night, I would put up with the half of any decent man’s blanket.

“I thought so. All right; take a seat. Supper?–you want supper? Supper’ll be ready directly.”

I sat down on an old wooden settle, carved all over like a bench on the Battery. At one end a ruminating tar was still further adorning it with his jack-knife, stooping over and diligently working away at the space between his legs. He was trying his hand at a ship under full sail, but he didn’t make much headway, I thought.

At last some four or five of us were summoned to our meal in an adjoining room. It was cold as Iceland– no fire at all–the landlord said he couldn’t afford it. Nothing but two dismal tallow candles, each in a winding sheet. We were fain to button up our monkey jackets, and hold to our lips cups of scalding tea with our half frozen fingers. But the fare was of the most substantial kind–not only meat and potatoes, but dumplings; good heavens! dumplings for supper! One young fellow in a green box coat, addressed himself to these dumplings in a most direful manner.

“My boy,” said the landlord, “you’ll have the nightmare to a dead sartainty.”

“Landlord,” I whispered, “that aint the harpooneer is it?”

“Oh, no,” said he, looking a sort of diabolically funny, “the harpooneer is a dark complexioned chap. He never eats dumplings, he don’t– he eats nothing but steaks, and he likes ’em rare.”

“The devil he does,” says I. “Where is that harpooneer? Is he here?”

“He’ll be here afore long,” was the answer.

I could not help it, but I began to feel suspicious of this “dark complexioned” harpooneer. At any rate, I made up my mind that if it so turned out that we should sleep together, he must undress and get into bed before I did.

Supper over, the company went back to the bar-room, when, knowing not what else to do with myself, I resolved to spend the rest of the evening as a looker on.

Presently a rioting noise was heard without. Starting up, the landlord cried, “That’s the Grampus’s crew. I seed her reported in the offing this morning; a three years’ voyage, and a full ship. Hurrah, boys; now we’ll have the latest news from the Feegees.”

A tramping of sea boots was heard in the entry; the door was flung open, and in rolled a wild set of mariners enough. Enveloped in their shaggy watch coats, and with their heads muffled in woollen comforters, all bedarned and ragged, and their beards stiff with icicles, they seemed an eruption of bears from Labrador. They had just landed from their boat, and this was the first house they entered. No wonder, then, that they made a straight wake for the whale’s mouth– the bar–when the wrinkled little old Jonah, there officiating, soon poured them out brimmers all round. One complained of a bad cold in his head, upon which Jonah mixed him a pitch-like potion of gin and molasses, which he swore was a sovereign cure for all colds and catarrhs whatsoever, never mind of how long standing, or whether caught off the coast of Labrador, or on the weather side of an ice-island.

The liquor soon mounted into their heads, as it generally does even with the arrantest topers newly landed from sea, and they began capering about most obstreperously.

I observed, however, that one of them held somewhat aloof, and though he seemed desirous not to spoil the hilarity of his shipmates by his own sober face, yet upon the whole he refrained from making as much noise as the rest. This man interested me at once; and since the sea-gods had ordained that he should soon become my shipmate (though but a sleeping partner one, so far as this narrative is concerned), I will here venture upon a little description of him. He stood full six feet in height, with noble shoulders, and a chest like a coffer-dam. I have seldom seen such brawn in a man. His face was deeply brown and burnt, making his white teeth dazzling by the contrast; while in the deep shadows of his eyes floated some reminiscences that did not seem to give him much joy. His voice at once announced that he was a Southerner, and from his fine stature, I thought he must be one of those tall mountaineers from the Alleghanian Ridge in Virginia. When the revelry of his companions had mounted to its height, this man slipped away unobserved, and I saw no more of him till he became my comrade on the sea. In a few minutes, however, he was missed by his shipmates, and being, it seems, for some reason a huge favorite with them, they raised a cry of “Bulkington! Bulkington! where’s Bulkington?” and darted out of the house in pursuit of him.

It was now about nine o’clock, and the room seeming almost supernaturally quiet after these orgies, I began to congratulate myself upon a little plan that had occurred to me just previous to the entrance of the seamen.

No man prefers to sleep two in a bed. In fact, you would a good deal rather not sleep with your own brother. I don’t know how it is, but people like to be private when they are sleeping. And when it comes to sleeping with an unknown stranger, in a strange inn, in a strange town, and that stranger a harpooneer, then your objections indefinitely multiply. Nor was there any earthly reason why I as a sailor should sleep two in a bed, more than anybody else; for sailors no more sleep two in a bed at sea, than bachelor Kings do ashore. To be sure they all sleep together in one apartment, but you have your own hammock, and cover yourself with your own blanket, and sleep in your own skin.

The more I pondered over this harpooneer, the more I abominated the thought of sleeping with him. It was fair to presume that being a harpooneer, his linen or woollen, as the case might be, would not be of the tidiest, certainly none of the finest. I began to twitch all over. Besides, it was getting late, and my decent harpooneer ought to be home and going bedwards. Suppose now, he should tumble in upon me at midnight– how could I tell from what vile hole he had been coming?

“Landlord! I’ve changed my mind about that harpooneer.– I shan’t sleep with him. I’ll try the bench here.”

“Just as you please; I’m sorry I cant spare ye a tablecloth for a mattress, and it’s a plaguy rough board here”–feeling of the knots and notches. “But wait a bit, Skrimshander; I’ve got a carpenter’s plane there in the bar–wait, I say, and I’ll make ye snug enough.” So saying he procured the plane; and with his old silk handkerchief first dusting the bench, vigorously set to planing away at my bed, the while grinning like an ape. The shavings flew right and left; till at last the plane-iron came bump against an indestructible knot. The landlord was near spraining his wrist, and I told him for heaven’s sake to quit–the bed was soft enough to suit me, and I did not know how all the planing in the world could make eider down of a pine plank. So gathering up the shavings with another grin, and throwing them into the great stove in the middle of the room, he went about his business, and left me in a brown study.

I now took the measure of the bench, and found that it was a foot too short; but that could be mended with a chair. But it was a foot too narrow, and the other bench in the room was about four inches higher than the planed one– so there was no yoking them. I then placed the first bench lengthwise along the only clear space against the wall, leaving a little interval between, for my back to settle down in. But I soon found that there came such a draught of cold air over me from under the sill of the window, that this plan would never do at all, especially as another current from the rickety door met the one from the window, and both together formed a series of small whirlwinds in the immediate vicinity of the spot where I had thought to spend the night.

The devil fetch that harpooneer, thought I, but stop, couldn’t I steal a march on him–bolt his door inside, and jump into his bed, not to be wakened by the most violent knockings? It seemed no bad idea but upon second thoughts I dismissed it. For who could tell but what the next morning, so soon as I popped out of the room, the harpooneer might be standing in the entry, all ready to knock me down!

Still looking around me again, and seeing no possible chance of spending a sufferable night unless in some other person’s bed, I began to think that after all I might be cherishing unwarrantable prejudices against this unknown harpooneer. Thinks I, I’ll wait awhile; he must be dropping in before long. I’ll have a good look at him then, and perhaps we may become jolly good bedfellows after all–there’s no telling.

But though the other boarders kept coming in by ones, twos, and threes, and going to bed, yet no sign of my harpooneer.

“Landlord! said I, “what sort of a chap is he–does he always keep such late hours?” It was now hard upon twelve o’clock.

The landlord chuckled again with his lean chuckle, and seemed to be mightily tickled at something beyond my comprehension. “No,” he answered, “generally he’s an early bird–airley to bed and airley to rise–yea, he’s the bird what catches the worm. But to-night he went out a peddling, you see, and I don’t see what on airth keeps him so late, unless, may be, he can’t sell his head.”

“Can’t sell his head?–What sort of a bamboozingly story is this you are telling me?” getting into a towering rage. “Do you pretend to say, landlord, that this harpooneer is actually engaged this blessed Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, in peddling his head around this town?”

“That’s precisely it,” said the landlord, “and I told him he couldn’t sell it here, the market’s overstocked.”

“With what?” shouted I.

“With heads to be sure; ain’t there too many heads in the world?”

“I tell you what it is, landlord,” said I quite calmly, “you’d better stop spinning that yarn to me–I’m not green.”

“May be not,” taking out a stick and whittling a toothpick, “but I rayther guess you’ll be done brown if that ere harpooneer hears you a slanderin’ his head.”

“I’ll break it for him,” said I, now flying into a passion again at this unaccountable farrago of the landlord’s.

“It’s broke a’ready,” said he.

“Broke,” said I–“broke, do you mean?”

“Sartain, and that’s the very reason he can’t sell it, I guess.”

“Landlord,” said I, going up to him as cool as Mt. Hecla in a snowstorm–“landlord, stop whittling. You and I must understand one another, and that too without delay. I come to your house and want a bed; you tell me you can only give me half a one; that the other half belongs to a certain harpooneer. And about this harpooneer, whom I have not yet seen, you persist in telling me the most mystifying and exasperating stories tending to beget in me an uncomfortable feeling towards the man whom you design for my bedfellow–a sort of connexion, landlord, which is an intimate and confidential one in the highest degree. I now demand of you to speak out and tell me who and what this harpooneer is, and whether I shall be in all respects safe to spend the night with him. And in the first place, you will be so good as to unsay that story about selling his head, which if true I take to be good evidence that this harpooneer is stark mad, and I’ve no idea of sleeping with a madman; and you, sir, you I mean, landlord, you, sir, by trying to induce me to do so knowingly would thereby render yourself liable to a criminal prosecution.”

“Wall,” said the landlord, fetching a long breath, “that’s a purty long sarmon for a chap that rips a little now and then. But be easy, be easy, this here harpooneer I have been tellin’ you of has just arrived from the south seas, where he bought up a lot of ‘balmed New Zealand heads (great curios, you know), and he’s sold all on ’em but one, and that one he’s trying to sell to-night, cause to-morrow’s Sunday, and it would not do to be sellin’ human heads about the streets when folks is goin’ to churches. He wanted to last Sunday, but I stopped him just as he was goin’ out of the door with four heads strung on a string, for all the airth like a string of inions.”

This account cleared up the otherwise unaccountable mystery, and showed that the landlord, after all, had had no idea of fooling me– but at the same time what could I think of a harpooneer who stayed out of a Saturday night clean into the holy Sabbath, engaged in such a cannibal business as selling the heads of dead idolators?

“Depend upon it, landlord, that harpooneer is a dangerous man.”

“He pays reg’lar,” was the rejoinder. “But come, it’s getting dreadful late, you had better be turning flukes–it’s a nice bed: Sal and me slept in that ere bed the night we were spliced. There’s plenty of room for two to kick about in that bed; it’s an almighty big bed that. Why, afore we give it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny in the foot of it. But I got a dreaming and sprawling about one night, and somehow, Sam got pitched on the floor, and came near breaking his arm. After that, Sal said it wouldn’t do. Come along here, I’ll give ye a glim in a jiffy;” and so saying he lighted a candle and held it towards me, offering to lead the way. But I stood irresolute; when looking at a clock in the corner, he exclaimed “I vum it’s Sunday–you won’t see that harpooneer to-night; he’s come to anchor somewhere–come along then; do come; won’t ye come?”

I considered the matter a moment, and then up stairs we went, and I was ushered into a small room, cold as a clam, and furnished, sure enough, with a prodigious bed, almost big enough indeed for any four harpooneers to sleep abreast.

“There,” said the landlord, placing the candle on a crazy old sea chest that did double duty as a wash-stand and centre table; “there, make yourself comfortable now; and good night to ye.” I turned round from eyeing the bed, but he had disappeared.

Folding back the counterpane, I stooped over the bed. Though none of the most elegant, it yet stood the scrutiny tolerably well. I then glanced round the room; and besides the bedstead and centre table, could see no other furniture belonging to the place, but a rude shelf, the four walls, and a papered fireboard representing a man striking a whale. Of things not properly belonging to the room, there was a hammock lashed up, and thrown upon the floor in one corner; also a large seaman’s bag, containing the harpooneer’s wardrobe, no doubt in lieu of a land trunk. Likewise, there was a parcel of outlandish bone fish hooks on the shelf over the fire-place, and a tall harpoon standing at the head of the bed.

But what is this on the chest? I took it up, and held it close to the light, and felt it, and smelt it, and tried every way possible to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion concerning it. I can compare it to nothing but a large door mat, ornamented at the edges with little tinkling tags something like the stained porcupine quills round an Indian moccasin. There was a hole or slit in the middle of this mat, as you see the same in South American ponchos. But could it be possible that any sober harpooneer would get into a door mat, and parade the streets of any Christian town in that sort of guise? I put it on, to try it, and it weighed me down like a hamper, being uncommonly shaggy and thick, and I thought a little damp, as though this mysterious harpooneer had been wearing it of a rainy day. I went up in it to a bit of glass stuck against the wall, and I never saw such a sight in my life. I tore myself out of it in such a hurry that I gave myself a kink in the neck.

I sat down on the side of the bed, and commenced thinking about this head-peddling harpooneer, and his door mat. After thinking some time on the bed-side, I got up and took off my monkey jacket, and then stood in the middle of the room thinking. I then took off my coat, and thought a little more in my shirt sleeves. But beginning to feel very cold now, half undressed as I was, and remembering what the landlord said about the harpooneer’s not coming home at all that night, it being so very late, I made no more ado, but jumped out of my pantaloons and boots, and then blowing out the light tumbled into bed, and commended myself to the care of heaven.

Whether that mattress was stuffed with corncobs or broken crockery, there is no telling, but I rolled about a good deal, and could not sleep for a long time. At last I slid off into a light doze, and had pretty nearly made a good offing towards the land of Nod, when I heard a heavy footfall in the passage, and saw a glimmer of light come into the room from under the door.

Lord save me, thinks I, that must be the harpooneer, the infernal head-peddler. But I lay perfectly still, and resolved not to say a word till spoken to. Holding a light in one hand, and that identical New Zealand head in the other, the stranger entered the room, and without looking towards the bed, placed his candle a good way off from me on the floor in one corner, and then began working away at the knotted cords of the large bag I before spoke of as being in the room. I was all eagerness to see his face, but he kept it averted for some time while employed in unlacing the bag’s mouth. This accomplished, however, he turned round–when, good heavens; what a sight! Such a face! It was of a dark, purplish, yellow color, here and there stuck over with large blackish looking squares. Yes, it’s just as I thought, he’s a terrible bedfellow; he’s been in a fight, got dreadfully cut, and here he is, just from the surgeon. But at that moment he chanced to turn his face so towards the light, that I plainly saw they could not be sticking-plasters at all, those black squares on his cheeks. They were stains of some sort or other. At first I knew not what to make of this; but soon an inkling of the truth occurred to me. I remembered a story of a white man–a whaleman too– who, falling among the cannibals, had been tattooed by them. I concluded that this harpooneer, in the course of his distant voyages, must have met with a similar adventure. And what is it, thought I, after all! It’s only his outside; a man can be honest in any sort of skin. But then, what to make of his unearthly complexion, that part of it, I mean, lying round about, and completely independent of the squares of tattooing. To be sure, it might be nothing but a good coat of tropical tanning; but I never heard of a hot sun’s tanning a white man into a purplish yellow one. However, I had never been in the South Seas; and perhaps the sun there produced these extraordinary effects upon the skin. Now, while all these ideas were passing through me like lightning, this harpooneer never noticed me at all. But, after some difficulty having opened his bag, he commenced fumbling in it, and presently pulled out a sort of tomahawk, and a seal-skin wallet with the hair on. Placing these on the old chest in the middle of the room, he then took the New Zealand head–a ghastly thing enough– and crammed it down into the bag. He now took off his hat– a new beaver hat–when I came nigh singing out with fresh surprise. There was no hair on his head–none to speak of at least– nothing but a small scalp-knot twisted up on his forehead. His bald purplish head now looked for all the world like a mildewed skull. Had not the stranger stood between me and the door, I would have bolted out of it quicker than ever I bolted a dinner.

Even as it was, I thought something of slipping out of the window, but it was the second floor back. I am no coward, but what to make of this headpeddling purple rascal altogether passed my comprehension. Ignorance is the parent of fear, and being completely nonplussed and confounded about the stranger, I confess I was now as much afraid of him as if it was the devil himself who had thus broken into my room at the dead of night. In fact, I was so afraid of him that I was not game enough just then to address him, and demand a satisfactory answer concerning what seemed inexplicable in him.

Meanwhile, he continued the business of undressing, and at last showed his chest and arms. As I live, these covered parts of him were checkered with the same squares as his face, his back, too, was all over the same dark squares; he seemed to have been in a Thirty Years’ War, and just escaped from it with a sticking-plaster shirt. Still more, his very legs were marked, as if a parcel of dark green frogs were running up the trunks of young palms. It was now quite plain that he must be some abominable savage or other shipped aboard of a whaleman in the South Seas, and so landed in this Christian country. I quaked to think of it. A peddler of heads too–perhaps the heads of his own brothers. He might take a fancy to mine–heavens! look at that tomahawk!

But there was no time for shuddering, for now the savage went about something that completely fascinated my attention, and convinced me that he must indeed be a heathen. Going to his heavy grego, or wrapall, or dreadnaught, which he had previously hung on a chair, he fumbled in the pockets, and produced at length a curious little deformed image with a hunch on its back, and exactly the color of a three days’ old Congo baby. Remembering the embalmed head, at first I almost thought that this black manikin was a real baby preserved in some similar manner. But seeing that it was not at all limber, and that it glistened a good deal like polished ebony, I concluded that it must be nothing but a wooden idol, which indeed it proved to be. For now the savage goes up to the empty fire-place, and removing the papered fire-board, sets up this little hunch-backed image, like a tenpin, between the andirons. The chimney jambs and all the bricks inside were very sooty, so that I thought this fire-place made a very appropriate little shrine or chapel for his Congo idol.

I now screwed my eyes hard towards the half hidden image, feeling but ill at ease meantime–to see what was next to follow. First he takes about a double handful of shavings out of his grego pocket, and places them carefully before the idol; then laying a bit of ship biscuit on top and applying the flame from the lamp, he kindled the shavings into a sacrificial blaze. Presently, after many hasty snatches into the fire, and still hastier withdrawals of his fingers (whereby he seemed to be scorching them badly), he at last succeeded in drawing out the biscuit; then blowing off the heat and ashes a little, he made a polite offer of it to the little negro. But the little devil did not seem to fancy such dry sort of fare at all; he never moved his lips. All these strange antics were accompanied by still stranger guttural noises from the devotee, who seemed to be praying in a sing-song or else singing some pagan psalmody or other, during which his face twitched about in the most unnatural manner. At last extinguishing the fire, he took the idol up very unceremoniously, and bagged it again in his grego pocket as carelessly as if he were a sportsman bagging a dead woodcock.

All these queer proceedings increased my uncomfortableness, and seeing him now exhibiting strong symptoms of concluding his business operations, and jumping into bed with me, I thought it was high time, now or never, before the light was put out, to break the spell in which I had so long been bound.

But the interval I spent in deliberating what to say, was a fatal one. Taking up his tomahawk from the table, he examined the head of it for an instant, and then holding it to the light, with his mouth at the handle, he puffed out great clouds of tobacco smoke. The next moment the light was extinguished, and this wild cannibal, tomahawk between his teeth, sprang into bed with me. I sang out, I could not help it now; and giving a sudden grunt of astonishment he began feeling me.

Stammering out something, I knew not what, I rolled away from him against the wall, and then conjured him, whoever or whatever he might be, to keep quiet, and let me get up and light the lamp again. But his guttural responses satisfied me at once that he but ill comprehended my meaning.

“Who-e debel you?”–he at last said–“you no speak-e, dam-me, I kill-e.” And so saying the lighted tomahawk began flourishing about me in the dark.

“Landlord, for God’s sake, Peter Coffin!” shouted I. “Landlord! Watch! Coffin! Angels! save me!”

“Speak-e! tell-ee me who-ee be, or dam-me, I kill-e!” again growled the cannibal, while his horrid flourishings of the tomahawk scattered the hot tobacco ashes about me till I thought my linen would get on fire. But thank heaven, at that moment the landlord came into the room light in hand, and leaping from the bed I ran up to him.

“Don’t be afraid now,” said he, grinning again, “Queequeg here wouldn’t harm a hair of your head.”

“Stop your grinning,” shouted I, “and why didn’t you tell me that that infernal harpooneer was a cannibal?”

“I thought ye know’d it;–didn’t I tell ye, he was a peddlin’ heads around town?–but turn flukes again and go to sleep. Queequeg, look here–you sabbee me, I sabbee–you this man sleepe you–you sabbee?”

“Me sabbee plenty”–grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe and sitting up in bed.

“You gettee in,” he added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, and throwing the clothes to one side. He really did this in not only a civil but a really kind and charitable way. I stood looking at him a moment. For all his tattooings he was on the whole a clean, comely looking cannibal. What’s all this fuss I have been making about, thought I to myself–the man’s a human being just as I am: he has just as much reason to fear me, as I have to be afraid of him. Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

“Landlord,” said I, “tell him to stash his tomahawk there, or pipe, or whatever you call it; tell him to stop smoking, in short, and I will turn in with him. But I don’t fancy having a man smoking in bed with me. It’s dangerous. Besides, I ain’t insured.”

This being told to Queequeg, he at once complied, and again politely motioned me to get into bed–rolling over to one side as much as to say– I won’t touch a leg of ye.”

“Good night, landlord,” said I, “you may go.”

I turned in, and never slept better in my life.

CHAPTER 4

The Counterpane

Upon waking next morning about daylight, I found Queequeg’s arm thrown over me in the most loving and affectionate manner. You had almost thought I had been his wife. The counterpane was of patchwork, full of odd little parti-colored squares and triangles; and this arm of his tattooed all over with an interminable Cretan labyrinth of a figure, no two parts of which were of one precise shade– owing I suppose to his keeping his arm at sea unmethodically in sun and shade, his shirt sleeves irregularly rolled up at various times– this same arm of his, I say, looked for all the world like a strip of that same patchwork quilt. Indeed, partly lying on it as the arm did when I first awoke, I could hardly tell it from the quilt, they so blended their hues together; and it was only by the sense of weight and pressure that I could tell that Queequeg was hugging me.

My sensations were strange. Let me try to explain them. When I was a child, I well remember a somewhat similar circumstance that befell me; whether it was a reality or a dream, I never could entirely settle. The circumstance was this. I had been cutting up some caper or other– I think it was trying to crawl up the chimney, as I had seen a little sweep do a few days previous; and my stepmother who, somehow or other, was all the time whipping me, or sending me to bed supperless,– my mother dragged me by the legs out of the chimney and packed me off to bed, though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon of the 21st June, the longest day in the year in our hemisphere. I felt dreadfully. But there was no help for it, so up stairs I went to my little room in the third floor, undressed myself as slowly as possible so as to kill time, and with a bitter sigh got between the sheets.

I lay there dismally calculating that sixteen entire hours must elapse before I could hope for a resurrection. Sixteen hours in bed! the small of my back ached to think of it. And it was so light too; the sun shining in at the window, and a great rattling of coaches in the streets, and the sound of gay voices all over the house. I felt worse and worse– at last I got up, dressed, and softly going down in my stockinged feet, sought out my stepmother, and suddenly threw myself at her feet, beseeching her as a particular favor to give me a good slippering for my misbehaviour: anything indeed but condemning me to lie abed such an unendurable length of time. But she was the best and most conscientious of stepmothers, and back I had to go to my room. For several hours I lay there broad awake, feeling a great deal worse than I have ever done since, even from the greatest subsequent misfortunes. At last I must have fallen into a troubled nightmare of a doze; and slowly waking from it–half steeped in dreams–I opened my eyes, and the before sunlit room was now wrapped in outer darkness. Instantly I felt a shock running through all my frame; nothing was to be seen, and nothing was to be heard; but a supernatural hand seemed placed in mine. My arm hung over the counterpane, and the nameless, unimaginable, silent form or phantom, to which the hand belonged, seemed closely seated by my bed-side. For what seemed ages piled on ages, I lay there, frozen with the most awful fears, not daring to drag away my hand; yet ever thinking that if I could but stir it one single inch, the horrid spell would be broken. I knew not how this consciousness at last glided away from me; but waking in the morning, I shudderingly remembered it all, and for days and weeks and months afterwards I lost myself in confounding attempts to explain the mystery. Nay, to this very hour, I often puzzle myself with it.

Now, take away the awful fear, and my sensations at feeling the supernatural hand in mine were very similar, in their strangeness, to those which I experienced on waking up and seeing Queequeg’s pagan arm thrown round me. But at length all the past night’s events soberly recurred, one by one, in fixed reality, and then I lay only alive to the comical predicament. For though I tried to move his arm– unlock his bridegroom clasp–yet, sleeping as he was, he still hugged me tightly, as though naught but death should part us twain. I now strove to rouse him–“Queequeg!”–but his only answer was a snore. I then rolled over, my neck feeling as if it were in a horse-collar; and suddenly felt a slight scratch. Throwing aside the counterpane, there lay the tomahawk sleeping by the savage’s side, as if it were a hatchet-faced baby. A pretty pickle, truly, thought I; abed here in a strange house in the broad day, with a cannibal and a tomahawk! “Queequeg!–in the name of goodness, Queequeg, wake!” At length, by dint of much wriggling, and loud and incessant expostulations upon the unbecomingness of his hugging a fellow male in that matrimonial sort of style, I succeeded in extracting a grunt; and presently, he drew back his arm, shook himself all over like a Newfoundland dog just from the water, and sat up in bed, stiff as a pike-staff, looking at me, and rubbing his eyes as if he did not altogether remember how I came to be there, though a dim consciousness of knowing something about me seemed slowly dawning over him. Meanwhile, I lay quietly eyeing him, having no serious misgivings now, and bent upon narrowly observing so curious a creature. When, at last, his mind seemed made up touching the character of his bedfellow, and he became, as it were, reconciled to the fact; he jumped out upon the floor, and by certain signs and sounds gave me to understand that, if it pleased me, he would dress first and then leave me to dress afterwards, leaving the whole apartment to myself. Thinks I, Queequeg, under the circumstances, this is a very civilized overture; but, the truth is, these savages have an innate sense of delicacy, say what you will; it is marvellous how essentially polite they are. I pay this particular compliment to Queequeg, because he treated me with so much civility and consideration, while I was guilty of great rudeness; staring at him from the bed, and watching all his toilette motions; for the time my curiosity getting the better of my breeding. Nevertheless, a man like Queequeg you don’t see every day, he and his ways were well worth unusual regarding.

He commenced dressing at top by donning his beaver hat, a very tall one, by the by, and then–still minus his trowsers– he hunted up his boots. What under the heavens he did it for, I cannot tell, but his next movement was to crush himself– boots in hand, and hat on–under the bed; when, from sundry violent gaspings and strainings, I inferred he was hard at work booting himself; though by no law of propriety that I ever heard of, is any man required to be private when putting on his boots. But Queequeg, do you see, was a creature in the transition state– neither caterpillar nor butterfly. He was just enough civilized to show off his outlandishness in the strangest possible manner. His education was not yet completed. He was an undergraduate. If he had not been a small degree civilized, he very probably would not have troubled himself with boots at all; but then, if he had not been still a savage, he never would have dreamt of getting under the bed to put them on. At last, he emerged with his hat very much dented and crushed down over his eyes, and began creaking and limping about the room, as if, not being much accustomed to boots, his pair of damp, wrinkled cowhide ones– probably not made to order either–rather pinched and tormented him at the first go off of a bitter cold morning.

Seeing, now, that there were no curtains to the window, and that the street being very narrow, the house opposite commanded a plain view into the room, and observing more and more the indecorous figure that Queequeg made, staving about with little else but his hat and boots on; I begged him as well as I could, to accelerate his toilet somewhat, and particularly to get into his pantaloons as soon as possible. He complied, and then proceeded to wash himself. At that time in the morning any Christian would have washed his face; but Queequeg, to my amazement, contented himself with restricting his ablutions to his chest, arms, and hands. He then donned his waistcoat, and taking up a piece of hard soap on the wash-stand centre table, dipped it into water and commenced lathering his face. I was watching to see where he kept his razor, when lo and behold, he takes the harpoon from the bed corner, slips out the long wooden stock, unsheathes the head, whets it a little on his boot, and striding up to the bit of mirror against the wall, begins a vigorous scraping, or rather harpooning of his cheeks. Thinks I, Queequeg, this is using Rogers’s best cutlery with a vengeance. Afterwards I wondered the less at this operation when I came to know of what fine steel the head of a harpoon is made, and how exceedingly sharp the long straight edges are always kept.

The rest of his toilet was soon achieved, and he proudly marched out of the room, wrapped up in his great pilot monkey jacket, and sporting his harpoon like a marshal’s baton.

CHAPTER 5

Breakfast

I quickly followed suit, and descending into the bar-room accosted the grinning landlord very pleasantly. I cherished no malice towards him, though he had been skylarking with me not a little in the matter of my bedfellow.

However, a good laugh is a mighty good thing, and rather too scarce a good thing; the more’s the pity. So, if any one man, in his own proper person, afford stuff for a good joke to anybody, let him not be backward, but let him cheerfully allow himself to spend and to be spent in that way. And the man that has anything bountifully laughable about him, be sure there is more in that man than you perhaps think for.

The bar-room was now full of the boarders who had been dropping in the night previous, and whom I had not as yet had a good look at. They were nearly all whalemen; chief mates, and second mates, and third mates, and sea carpenters, and sea coopers, and sea blacksmiths, and harpooneers, and ship keepers; a brown and brawny company, with bosky beards; an unshorn, shaggy set, all wearing monkey jackets for morning gowns.

You could pretty plainly tell how long each one had been ashore. This young fellow’s healthy cheek is like a sun-toasted pear in hue, and would seem to smell almost as musky; he cannot have been three days landed from his Indian voyage. That man next him looks a few shades lighter; you might say a touch of satin wood is in him. In the complexion of a third still lingers a tropic tawn, but slightly bleached withal; he doubtless has tarried whole weeks ashore. But who could show a cheek like Queequeg? which, barred with various tints, seemed like the Andes’ western slope, to show forth in one array, contrasting climates, zone by zone.

“Grub, ho!” now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we went to breakfast.

They say that men who have seen the world, thereby become quite at ease in manner, quite self-possessed in company. Not always, though: Ledyard, the great New England traveller, and Mungo Park, the Scotch one; of all men, they possessed the least assurance in the parlor. But perhaps the mere crossing of Siberia in a sledge drawn by dogs as Ledyard did, or the taking a long solitary walk on an empty stomach, in the negro heart of Africa, which was the sum of poor Mungo’s performances– this kind of travel, I say, may not be the very best mode of attaining a high social polish. Still, for the most part, that sort of thing is to be had anywhere.

These reflections just here are occasioned by the circumstance that after we were all seated at the table, and I was preparing to hear some good stories about whaling; to my no small surprise nearly every man maintained a profound silence. And not only that, but they looked embarrassed. Yes, here were a set of sea-dogs, many of whom without the slightest bashfulness had boarded great whales on the high seas–entire strangers to them– and duelled them dead without winking; and yet, here they sat at a social breakfast table–all of the same calling, all of kindred tastes–looking round as sheepishly at each other as though they had never been out of sight of some sheepfold among the Green Mountains. A curious sight; these bashful bears, these timid warrior whalemen!

But as for Queequeg–why, Queequeg sat there among them– at the head of the table, too, it so chanced; as cool as an icicle. To be sure I cannot say much for his breeding. His greatest admirer could not have cordially justified his bringing his harpoon into breakfast with him, and using it there without ceremony; reaching over the table with it, to the imminent jeopardy of many heads, and grappling the beefsteaks towards him. But that was certainly very coolly done by him, and every one knows that in most people’s estimation, to do anything coolly is to do it genteelly.

We will not speak of all Queequeg’s peculiarities here; how he eschewed coffee and hot rolls, and applied his undivided attention to beefsteaks, done rare. Enough, that when breakfast was over he withdrew like the rest into the public room, lighted his tomahawk-pipe, and was sitting there quietly digesting and smoking with his inseparable hat on, when I sallied out for a stroll.

CHAPTER 6

The Street

If I had been astonished at first catching a glimpse of so outlandish an individual as Queequeg circulating among the polite society of a civilized town, that astonishment soon departed upon taking my first daylight stroll through the streets of New Bedford.

In thoroughfares nigh the docks, any considerable seaport will frequently offer to view the queerest looking nondescripts from foreign parts. Even in Broadway and Chestnut streets, Mediterranean mariners will sometimes jostle the affrighted ladies. Regent Street is not unknown to Lascars and Malays; and at Bombay, in the Apollo Green, live Yankees have often scared the natives. But New Bedford beats all Water Street and Wapping. In these last-mentioned haunts you see only sailors; but in New Bedford, actual cannibals stand chatting at street corners; savages outright; many of whom yet carry on their bones unholy flesh. It makes a stranger stare.

But, besides the Feegeeans, Tongatobooarrs, Erromanggoans, Pannangians, and Brighggians, and, besides the wild specimens of the whaling-craft which unheeded reel about the streets, you will see other sights still more curious, certainly more comical. There weekly arrive in this town scores of green Vermonters and New Hampshire men, all athirst for gain and glory in the fishery. They are mostly young, of stalwart frames; fellows who have felled forests, and now seek to drop the axe and snatch the whale-lance. Many are as green as the Green Mountains whence they came. In some things you would think them but a few hours old. Look there! that chap strutting round the corner. He wears a beaver hat and swallow-tailed coat, girdled with a sailor-belt and a sheath-knife. Here comes another with a sou’-wester and a bombazine cloak.

No town-bred dandy will compare with a country-bred one–I mean a downright bumpkin dandy–a fellow that, in the dog-days, will mow his two acres in buckskin gloves for fear of tanning his hands. Now when a country dandy like this takes it into his head to make a distinguished reputation, and joins the great whale-fishery, you should see the comical things he does upon reaching the seaport. In bespeaking his sea-outfit, he orders bell-buttons to his waistcoats; straps to his canvas trowsers. Ah, poor Hay-Seed! how bitterly will burst those straps in the first howling gale, when thou art driven, straps, buttons, and all, down the throat of the tempest.

But think not that this famous town has only harpooneers, cannibals, and bumpkins to show her visitors. Not at all. Still New Bedford is a queer place. Had it not been for us whalemen, that tract of land would this day perhaps have been in as howling condition as the coast of Labrador. As it is, parts of her back country are enough to frighten one, they look so bony. The town itself is perhaps the dearest place to live in, in all New England. It is a land of oil, true enough: but not like Canaan; a land, also, of corn and wine. The streets do not run with milk; nor in the spring-time do they pave them with fresh eggs. Yet, in spite of this, nowhere in all America will you find more patrician-like houses; parks and gardens more opulent, than in New Bedford. Whence came they? how planted upon this once scraggy scoria of a country?

Go and gaze upon the iron emblematical harpoons round yonder lofty mansion, and your question will be answered. Yes; all these brave houses and flowery gardens came from the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian oceans. One and all, they were harpooned and dragged up hither from the bottom of the sea. Can Herr Alexander perform a feat like that?

In New Bedford, fathers, they say, give whales for dowers to their daughters, and portion off their nieces with a few porpoises a-piece. You must go to New Bedford to see a brilliant wedding; for, they say, they have reservoirs of oil in every house, and every night recklessly burn their lengths in spermaceti candles.

In summer time, the town is sweet to see; full of fine maples– long avenues of green and gold. And in August, high in air, the beautiful and bountiful horse-chestnuts, candelabra-wise, proffer the passer-by their tapering upright cones of congregated blossoms. So omnipotent is art; which in many a district of New Bedford has superinduced bright terraces of flowers upon the barren refuse rocks thrown aside at creation’s final day.

And the women of New Bedford, they bloom like their own red roses. But roses only bloom in summer; whereas the fine carnation of their cheeks is perennial as sunlight in the seventh heavens. Elsewhere match that bloom of theirs, ye cannot, save in Salem, where they tell me the young girls breathe such musk, their sailor sweethearts smell them miles off shore, as though they were drawing nigh the odorous Moluccas instead of the Puritanic sands.

CHAPTER 7

The Chapel

In this same New Bedford there stands a Whaleman’s Chapel, and few are the moody fishermen, shortly bound for the Indian Ocean or Pacific, who fail to make a Sunday visit to the spot. I am sure that I did not.

Returning from my first morning stroll, I again sallied out upon this special errand. The sky had changed from clear, sunny cold, to driving sleet and mist. Wrapping myself in my shaggy jacket of the cloth called bearskin, I fought my way against the stubborn storm. Entering, I found a small scattered congregation of sailors, and sailors’ wives and widows. A muffled silence reigned, only broken at times by the shrieks of the storm. Each silent worshipper seemed purposely sitting apart from the other, as if each silent grief were insular and incommunicable. The chaplain had not yet arrived; and there these silent islands of men and women sat steadfastly eyeing several marble tablets, with black borders, masoned into the wall on either side the pulpit. Three of them ran something like the following, but I do not pretend to quote:

SACRED

TO THE MEMORY

OF

JOHN TALBOT,

Who, at the age of eighteen, was lost overboard Near the Isle of Desolation, off Patagonia, November 1st, 1836.

THIS TABLET

Is erected to his Memory

BY HIS SISTER.

SACRED

TO THE MEMORY

OF

ROBERT LONG, WILLIS ELLERY, NATHAN COLEMAN, WALTER CANNY, SETH MACY, AND SAMUEL GLEIG,

Forming one of the boats’ crews OF

THE SHIP ELIZA

Who were towed out of sight by a Whale, On the Off-shore Ground in the

PACIFIC,

December 31st, 1839.

THIS MARBLE

Is here placed by their surviving SHIPMATES.

SACRED

TO THE MEMORY

OF

The late

CAPTAIN EZEKIEL HARDY,

Who in the bows of his boat was killed by a Sperm Whale on the coast of Japan, August 3d, 1833.

THIS TABLET

Is erected to his Memory

BY

HIS WIDOW.

Shaking off the sleet from my ice-glazed hat and jacket, I seated myself near the door, and turning sideways was surprised to see Queequeg near me. Affected by the solemnity of the scene, there was a wondering gaze of incredulous curiosity in his countenance. This savage was the only person present who seemed to notice my entrance; because he was the only one who could not read, and, therefore, was not reading those frigid inscriptions on the wall. Whether any of the relatives of the seamen whose names appeared there were now among the congregation, I knew not; but so many are the unrecorded accidents in the fishery, and so plainly did several women present wear the countenance if not the trappings of some unceasing grief, that I feel sure that here before me were assembled those, in whose unhealing hearts the sight of those bleak tablets sympathetically caused the old wounds to bleed afresh.

Oh! ye whose dead lie buried beneath the green grass; who standing among flowers can say–here, here lies my beloved; ye know not the desolation that broods in bosoms like these. What bitter blanks in those black-bordered marbles which cover no ashes! What despair in those immovable inscriptions! What deadly voids and unbidden infidelities in the lines that seem to gnaw upon all Faith, and refuse resurrections to the beings who have placelessly perished without a grave. As well might those tablets stand in the cave of Elephanta as here.

In what census of living creatures, the dead of mankind are included; why it is that a universal proverb says of them, that they tell no tales, though containing more secrets than the Goodwin Sands! how it is that to his name who yesterday departed for the other world, we prefix so significant and infidel a word, and yet do not thus entitle him, if he but embarks for the remotest Indies of this living earth; why the Life Insurance Companies pay death-forfeitures upon immortals; in what eternal, unstirring paralysis, and deadly, hopeless trance, yet lies antique Adam who died sixty round centuries ago; how it is that we still refuse to be comforted for those who we nevertheless maintain are dwelling in unspeakable bliss; why all the living so strive to hush all the dead; wherefore but the rumor of a knocking in a tomb will terrify a whole city. All these things are not without their meanings.

But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope.

It needs scarcely to be told, with what feelings, on the eve of a Nantucket voyage, I regarded those marble tablets, and by the murky light of that darkened, doleful day read the fate of the whalemen who had gone before me. Yes, Ishmael, the same fate may be thine. But somehow I grew merry again. Delightful inducements to embark, fine chance for promotion, it seems–aye, a stove boat will make me an immortal by brevet. Yes, there is death in this business of whaling–a speechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity. But what then? Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death. Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance. Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too much like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking that thick water the thinnest of air. Methinks my body is but the lees of my better being. In fact take my body who will, take it I say, it is not me. And therefore three cheers for Nantucket; and come a stove boat and stove body when they will, for stave my soul, Jove himself cannot.

CHAPTER 8

The Pulpit

I had not been seated very long ere a man of a certain venerable robustness entered; immediately as the storm-pelted door flew back upon admitting him, a quick regardful eyeing of him by all the congregation, sufficiently attested that this fine old man was the chaplain. Yes, it was the famous Father Mapple, so called by the whalemen, among whom he was a very great favorite. He had been a sailor and a harpooneer in his youth, but for many years past had dedicated his life to the ministry. At the time I now write of, Father Mapple was in the hardy winter of a healthy old age; that sort of old age which seems merging into a second flowering youth, for among all the fissures of his wrinkles, there shone certain mild gleams of a newly developing bloom– the spring verdure peeping forth even beneath February’s snow. No one having previously heard his history, could for the first time behold Father Mapple without the utmost interest, because there were certain engrafted clerical peculiarities about him, imputable to that adventurous maritime life he had led. When he entered I observed that he carried no umbrella, and certainly had not come in his carriage, for his tarpaulin hat ran down with melting sleet, and his great pilot cloth jacket seemed almost to drag him to the floor with the weight of the water it had absorbed. However, hat and coat and overshoes were one by one removed, and hung up in a little space in an adjacent corner; when, arrayed in a decent suit, he quietly approached the pulpit.

Like most old fashioned pulpits, it was a very lofty one, and since a regular stairs to such a height would, by its long angle with the floor, seriously contract the already small area of the chapel, the architect, it seemed, had acted upon the hint of Father Mapple, and finished the pulpit without a stairs, substituting a perpendicular side ladder, like those used in mounting a ship from a boat at sea. The wife of a whaling captain had provided the chapel with a handsome pair of red worsted man-ropes for this ladder, which, being itself nicely headed, and stained with a mahogany color, the whole contrivance, considering what manner of chapel it was, seemed by no means in bad taste. Halting for an instant at the foot of the ladder, and with both hands grasping the ornamental knobs of the man-ropes, Father Mapple cast a look upwards, and then with a truly sailor-like but still reverential dexterity, hand over hand, mounted the steps as if ascending the main-top of his vessel.

The perpendicular parts of this side ladder, as is usually the case with swinging ones, were of cloth-covered rope, only the rounds were of wood, so that at every step there was a joint. At my first glimpse of the pulpit, it had not escaped me that however convenient for a ship, these joints in the present instance seemed unnecessary. For I was not prepared to see Father Mapple after gaining the height, slowly turn round, and stooping over the pulpit, deliberately drag up the ladder step by step, till the whole was deposited within, leaving him impregnable in his little Quebec.

I pondered some time without fully comprehending the reason for this. Father Mapple enjoyed such a wide reputation for sincerity and sanctity, that I could not suspect him of courting notoriety by any mere tricks of the stage. No, thought I, there must be some sober reason for this thing; furthermore, it must symbolize something unseen. Can it be, then, that by that act of physical isolation, he signifies his spiritual withdrawal for the time, from all outward worldly ties and connexions? Yes, for replenished with the meat and wine of the word, to the faithful man of God, this pulpit, I see, is a self-containing stronghold–a lofty Ehrenbreitstein, with a perennial well of water within the walls.

But the side ladder was not the only strange feature of the place, borrowed from the chaplain’s former sea-farings. Between the marble cenotaphs on either hand of the pulpit, the wall which formed its back was adorned with a large painting representing a gallant ship beating against a terrible storm off a lee coast of black rocks and snowy breakers. But high above the flying scud and dark-rolling clouds, there floated a little isle of sunlight, from which beamed forth an angel’s face; and this bright face shed a distant spot of radiance upon the ship’s tossed deck, something like that silver plate now inserted into the Victory’s plank where Nelson fell. “Ah, noble ship,” the angel seemed to say, “beat on, beat on, thou noble ship, and bear a hardy helm; for lo! the sun is breaking through; the clouds are rolling off– serenest azure is at hand.”

Nor was the pulpit itself without a trace of the same sea-taste that had achieved the ladder and the picture. Its panelled front was in the likeness of a ship’s bluff bows, and the Holy Bible rested on a projecting piece of scroll work, fashioned after a ship’s fiddle-headed beak.

What could be more full of meaning?–for the pulpit is ever this earth’s foremost part; all the rest comes in its rear; the pulpit leads the world. From thence it is the storm of God’s quick wrath is first descried, and the bow must bear the earliest brunt. From thence it is the God of breezes fair or foul is first invoked for favorable winds. Yes, the world’s a ship on its passage out, and not a voyage complete; and the pulpit is its prow.

CHAPTER 9

The Sermon

Father Mapple rose, and in a mild voice of unassuming authority ordered the scattered people to condense. “Star board gangway, there! side away to larboard–larboard gangway to starboard! Midships! midships!”

There was a low rumbling of heavy sea-boots among the benches, and a still slighter shuffling of women’s shoes, and all was quiet again, and every eye on the preacher.

He paused a little; then kneeling in the pulpit’s bows, folded his large brown hands across his chest, uplifted his closed eyes, and offered a prayer so deeply devout that he seemed kneeling and praying at the bottom of the sea.

This ended, in prolonged solemn tones, like the continual tolling of a bell in a ship that is foundering at sea in a fog– in such tones he commenced reading the following hymn; but changing his manner towards the concluding stanzas, burst forth with a pealing exultation and joy–

The ribs and terrors in the whale, Arched over me a dismal gloom,

While all God’s sun-lit waves rolled by, And lift me deepening down to doom.

I saw the opening maw of hell,

With endless pains and sorrows there; Which none but they that feel can tell– Oh, I was plunging to despair.

In black distress, I called my God, When I could scarce believe him mine, He bowed his ear to my complaints– No more the whale did me confine.

With speed he flew to my relief, As on a radiant dolphin borne;

Awful, yet bright, as lightning shone The face of my Deliverer God.

My song for ever shall record

That terrible, that joyful hour; I give the glory to my God,

His all the mercy and the power.

Nearly all joined in singing this hymn, which swelled high above the howling of the storm. A brief pause ensued; the preacher slowly turned over the leaves of the Bible, and at last, folding his hand down upon the proper page, said: “Beloved shipmates, clinch the last verse of the first chapter of Jonah–‘And God had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah.'”

“Shipmates, this book, containing only four chapters– four yarns–is one of the smallest strands in the mighty cable of the Scriptures. Yet what depths of the soul does Jonah’s deep sealine sound! what a pregnant lesson to us is this prophet! What a noble thing is that canticle in the fish’s belly! How billow-like and boisterously grand! We feel the floods surging over us, we sound with him to the kelpy bottom of the waters; sea-weed and all the slime of the sea is about us! But what is this lesson that the book of Jonah teaches? Shipmates, it is a two-stranded lesson; a lesson to us all as sinful men, and a lesson to me as a pilot of the living God. As sinful men, it is a lesson to us all, because it is a story of the sin, hard-heartedness, suddenly awakened fears, the swift punishment, repentance, prayers, and finally the deliverance and joy of Jonah. As with all sinners among men, the sin of this son of Amittai was in his wilful disobedience of the command of God– never mind now what that command was, or how conveyed– which he found a hard command. But all the things that God would have us do are hard for us to do–remember that– and hence, he oftener commands us than endeavors to persuade. And if we obey God, we must disobey ourselves; and it is in this disobeying ourselves, wherein the hardness of obeying God consists.

“With this sin of disobedience in him, Jonah still further flouts at God, by seeking to flee from Him. He thinks that a ship made by men, will carry him into countries where God does not reign but only the Captains of this earth. He skulks about the wharves of Joppa, and seeks a ship that’s bound for Tarshish. There lurks, perhaps, a hitherto unheeded meaning here. By all accounts Tarshish could have been no other city than the modern Cadiz. That’s the opinion of learned men. And where is Cadiz, shipmates? Cadiz is in Spain; as far by water, from Joppa, as Jonah could possibly have sailed in those ancient days, when the Atlantic was an almost unknown sea. Because Joppa, the modern Jaffa, shipmates, is on the most easterly coast of the Mediterranean, the Syrian; and Tarshish or Cadiz more than two thousand miles to the westward from that, just outside the Straits of Gibraltar. See ye not then, shipmates, that Jonah sought to flee worldwide from God? Miserable man! Oh! most contemptible and worthy of all scorn; with slouched hat and guilty eye, skulking from his God; prowling among the shipping like a vile burglar hastening to cross the seas. So disordered, self-condemning is his look, that had there been policemen in those days, Jonah, on the mere suspicion of something wrong, had been arrested ere he touched a deck. How plainly he’s a fugitive! no baggage, not a hat-box, valise, or carpet-bag,–no friends accompany him to the wharf with their adieux. At last, after much dodging search, he finds the Tarshish ship receiving the last items of her cargo; and as he steps on board to see its Captain in the cabin, all the sailors for the moment desist from hoisting in the goods, to mark the stranger’s evil eye. Jonah sees this; but in vain he tries to look all ease and confidence; in vain essays his wretched smile. Strong intuitions of the man assure the mariners he can be no innocent. In their gamesome but still serious way, one whispers to the other–“Jack, he’s robbed a widow;” or, “Joe, do you mark him; he’s a bigamist;” or, “Harry lad, I guess he’s the adulterer that broke jail in old Gomorrah, or belike, one of the missing murderers from Sodom.” Another runs to read the bill that’s stuck against the spile upon the wharf to which the ship is moored, offering five hundred gold coins for the apprehension of a parricide, and containing a description of his person. He reads, and looks from Jonah to the bill; while all his sympathetic shipmates now crowd round Jonah, prepared to lay their hands upon him. Frighted Jonah trembles. and summoning all his boldness to his face, only looks so much the more a coward. He will not confess himself suspected; but that itself is strong suspicion. So he makes the best of it; and when the sailors find him not to be the man that is advertised, they let him pass, and he descends into the cabin.

“‘Who’s there?’ cries the Captain at his busy desk, hurriedly making out his papers for the Customs–‘Who’s there?’ Oh! how that harmless question mangles Jonah! For the instant he almost turns to flee again. But he rallies. ‘I seek a passage in this ship to Tarshish; how soon sail ye, sir?’ Thus far the busy Captain had not looked up to Jonah, though the man now stands before him; but no sooner does he hear that hollow voice, than he darts a scrutinizing glance. ‘We sail with the next coming tide,’ at last he slowly answered, still intently eyeing him. ‘No sooner, sir?’–‘Soon enough for any honest man that goes a passenger.’ Ha! Jonah, that’s another stab. But he swiftly calls away the Captain from that scent. ‘I’ll sail with ye,’–he says,–‘the passage money how much is that?– I’ll pay now.’ For it is particularly written, shipmates, as if it were a thing not to be overlooked in this history, ‘that he paid the fare thereof’ ere the craft did sail. And taken with the context, this is full of meaning.

“Now Jonah’s Captain, shipmates, was one whose discernment detects crime in any, but whose cupidity exposes it only in the penniless. In this world, shipmates, sin that pays its way can travel freely and without a passport; whereas Virtue, if a pauper, is stopped at all frontiers. So Jonah’s Captain prepares to test the length of Jonah’s purse, ere he judge him openly. He charges him thrice the usual sum; and it’s assented to. Then the Captain knows that Jonah is a fugitive; but at the same time resolves to help a flight that paves its rear with gold. Yet when Jonah fairly takes out his purse, prudent suspicions still molest the Captain. He rings every coin to find a counterfeit. Not a forger, any way, he mutters; and Jonah is put down for his passage. ‘Point out my state-room, Sir,’ says Jonah now, ‘I’m travel-weary; I need sleep.” “Thou look’st like it,’ says the Captain, ‘there’s thy room.’ Jonah enters, and would lock the door, but the lock contains no key. Hearing him foolishly fumbling there, the Captain laughs lowly to himself, and mutters something about the doors of convicts’ cells being never allowed to be locked within. All dressed and dusty as he is, Jonah throws himself into his berth, and finds the little state-room ceiling almost resting on his forehead. The air is close, and Jonah gasps. Then, in that contracted hole, sunk, too, beneath the ship’s water-line, Jonah feels the heralding presentiment of that stifling hour, when the whale shall hold him in the smallest of his bowels’ wards.

“Screwed at its axis against the side, a swinging lamp slightly oscillates in Jonah’s room; and the ship, heeling over towards the wharf with the weight of the last bales received, the lamp, flame and all, though in slight motion, still maintains a permanent obliquity with reference to the room; though, in truth, infallibly straight itself, it but made obvious the false, lying levels among which it hung. The lamp alarms and frightens Jonah; as lying in his berth his tormented eyes roll round the place, and this thus far successful fugitive finds no refuge for his restless glance. But that contradiction in the lamp more and more appals him. The floor, the ceiling, and the side, are all awry. ‘Oh! so my conscience hangs in me!’ he groans, “straight upward, so it burns; but the chambers of my soul are all in crookedness!’

“Like one who after a night of drunken revelry hies to his bed, still reeling, but with conscience yet pricking him, as the plungings of the Roman race-horse but so much the more strike his steel tags into him; as one who in that miserable plight still turns and turns in giddy anguish, praying God for annihilation until the fit be passed; and at last amid the whirl of woe he feels, a deep stupor steals over him, as over the man who bleeds to death, for conscience is the wound, and there’s naught to staunch it; so, after sore wrestling in his berth, Jonah’s prodigy of ponderous misery drags him drowning down to sleep.

“And now the time of tide has come; the ship casts off her cables; and from the deserted wharf the uncheered ship for Tarshish, all careening, glides to sea. That ship, my friends, was the first of recorded smugglers! the contraband was Jonah. But the sea rebels; he will not bear the wicked burden. A dreadful storm comes on, the ship is like to break. But now when the boatswain calls all hands to lighten her; when boxes, bales, and jars are clattering overboard; when the wind is shrieking, and the men are yelling, and every plank thunders with trampling feet right over Jonah’s head; in all this raging tumult, Jonah sleeps his hideous sleep. He sees no black sky and raging sea, feels not the reeling timbers, and little hears he or heeds he the far rush of the mighty whale, which even now with open mouth is cleaving the seas after him. Aye, shipmates, Jonah was gone down into the sides of the ship– a berth in the cabin as I have taken it, and was fast asleep. But the frightened master comes to him, and shrieks in his dead ear, ‘What meanest thou, O, sleeper! arise!’ Startled from his lethargy by that direful cry, Jonah staggers to his feet, and stumbling to the deck, grasps a shroud, to look out upon the sea. But at that moment he is sprung upon by a panther billow leaping over the bulwarks. Wave after wave thus leaps into the ship, and finding no speedy vent runs roaring fore and aft, till the mariners come nigh to drowning while yet afloat. And ever, as the white moon shows her affrighted face from the steep gullies in the blackness overhead, aghast Jonah sees the rearing bowsprit pointing high upward, but soon beat downward again towards the tormented deep.

“Terrors upon terrors run shouting through his soul. In all his cringing attitudes, the God-fugitive is now too plainly known. The sailors mark him; more and more certain grow their suspicions of him, and at last, fully to test the truth, by referring the whole matter to high Heaven, they all-outward to casting lots, to see for whose cause this great tempest was upon them. The lot is Jonah’s; that discovered, then how furiously they mob him with their questions. ‘What is thine occupation? Whence comest thou? Thy country? What people? But mark now, my shipmates, the behavior of poor Jonah. The eager mariners but ask him who he is, and where from; whereas, they not only receive an answer to those questions, but likewise another answer to a question not put by them, but the unsolicited answer is forced from Jonah by the hard hand of God that is upon him.

“‘I am a Hebrew,’ he cries–and then–‘I fear the Lord the God of Heaven who hath made the sea and the dry land!’ Fear him, O Jonah? Aye, well mightest thou fear the Lord God then! Straightway, he now goes on to make a full confession; whereupon the mariners became more and more appalled, but still are pitiful. For when Jonah, not yet supplicating God for mercy, since he but too well knew the darkness of his deserts,– when wretched Jonah cries out to them to take him and cast him forth into the sea, for he knew that for his sake this great tempest was upon them; they mercifully turn from him, and seek by other means to save the ship. But all in vain; the indignant gale howls louder; then, with one hand raised invokingly to God, with the other they not unreluctantly lay hold of Jonah.

“And now behold Jonah taken up as an anchor and dropped into the sea; when instantly an oily calmness floats out from the east, and the sea is still, as Jonah carries down the gale with him, leaving smooth water behind. He goes down in the whirling heart of such a masterless commotion that he scarce heeds the moment when he drops seething into the yawning jaws awaiting him; and the whale shoots-to all his ivory teeth, like so many white bolts, upon his prison. Then Jonah prayed unto the Lord out of the fish’s belly. But observe his prayer, and so many white bolts, upon his prison. Then Jonah prayed unto learn a weighty lesson. For sinful as he is, Jonah does not weep and wail for direct deliverance. He feels that his dreadful punishment is just. He leaves all his deliverance to God, contenting himself with this, that spite of all his pains and pangs, he will still look towards His holy temple. And here, shipmates, is true and faithful repentance; not clamorous for pardon, but grateful for punishment. And how pleasing to God was this conduct in Jonah, is shown in the eventual deliverance of him from the sea and the whale. Shipmates, I do not place Jonah before you to be copied for his sin but I do place him before you as a model for repentance. Sin not; but if you do, take heed to repent of it like Jonah.”

While he was speaking these words, the howling of the shrieking, slanting storm without seemed to add new power to the preacher, who, when describing Jonah’s sea-storm, seemed tossed by a storm himself. His deep chest heaved as with a ground-swell; his tossed arms seemed the warring elements at work; and the thunders that rolled away from off his swarthy brow, and the light leaping from his eye, made all his simple hearers look on him with a quick fear that was strange to them.

There now came a lull in his look, as he silently turned over the leaves of the Book once more; and, at last, standing motionless, with closed eyes, for the moment, seemed communing with God and himself.

But again he leaned over towards the people, and bowing his head lowly, with an aspect of the deepest yet manliest humility, he spake these words:

“Shipmates, God has laid but one hand upon you; both his hands press upon me. I have read ye by what murky light may be mine the lesson that Jonah teaches to all sinners; and therefore to ye, and still more to me, for I am a greater sinner than ye. And now how gladly would I come down from this mast-head and sit on the hatches there where you sit, and listen as you listen, while some one of you reads me that other and more awful lesson which Jonah teaches to me, as a pilot of the living God. How being an anointed pilot-prophet, or speaker of true things and bidden by the Lord to sound those unwelcome truths in the ears of a wicked Nineveh, Jonah, appalled at the hostility he should raise, fled from his mission, and sought to escape his duty and his God by taking ship at Joppa. But God is everywhere; Tarshish he never reached. As we have seen, God came upon him in the whale, and swallowed him down to living gulfs of doom, and with swift slantings tore him along ‘into the midst of the seas,’ where the eddying depths sucked him ten thousand fathoms down, and ‘the weeds were wrapped about his head,’ and all the watery world of woe bowled over him. Yet even then beyond the reach of any plummet–‘out of the belly of hell’–when the whale grounded upon the ocean’s utmost bones, even then, God heard the engulphed, repenting prophet when he cried. Then God spake unto the fish; and from the shuddering cold and blackness of the sea, the whale came breeching up towards the warm and pleasant sun, and all the delights of air and earth; and ‘vomited out Jonah upon the dry land;’ when the word of the Lord came a second time; and Jonah, bruised and beaten–his ears, like two sea-shells, still multitudinously murmuring of the ocean– Jonah did the Almighty’s bidding. And what was that, shipmates? To preach the Truth to the face of Falsehood! That was it!

“This, shipmates, this is that other lesson; and woe to that pilot of the living God who slights it. Woe to him whom this world charms from Gospel duty! Woe to him who seeks to pour oil upon the waters when God has brewed them into a gale! Woe to him who seeks to please rather than to appal! Woe to him whose good name is more to him than goodness! Woe to him who, in this world, courts not dishonor! Woe to him who would not be true, even though to be false were salvation! Yea, woe to him who as the great Pilot Paul has it, while preaching to others is himself a castaway!

He drooped and fell away from himself for a moment; then lifting his face to them again, showed a deep joy in his eyes, as he cried out with a heavenly enthusiasm,–“But oh! shipmates! on the starboard hand of every woe, there is a sure delight; and higher the top of that delight, than the bottom of the woe is deep. Is not the main-truck higher than the kelson is low? Delight is to him–a far, far upward, and inward delight– who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self. Delight is to him whose strong arms yet support him, when the ship of this base treacherous world has gone down beneath him. Delight is to him, who gives no quarter in the truth, and kills, burns, and destroys all sin though he pluck it out from under the robes of Senators and Judges. Delight,–top-gallant delight is to him, who acknowledges no law or lord, but the Lord his God, and is only a patriot to heaven. Delight is to him, whom all the waves of the billows of the seas of the boisterous mob can never shake from this sure Keel of the Ages. And eternal delight and deliciousness will be his, who coming to lay him down, can say with his final breath–O Father!– chiefly known to me by Thy rod–mortal or immortal, here I die. I have striven to be Thine, more than to be this world’s, or mine own. Yet this is nothing: I leave eternity to Thee; for what is man that he should live out the lifetime of his God?”

He said no more, but slowly waving a benediction, covered his face with his hands, and so remained kneeling, till all the people had departed, and he was left alone in the place.

CHAPTER 10

A Bosom Friend

Returning to the Spouter-Inn from the Chapel, I found Queequeg there quite alone; he having left the Chapel before the benediction some time. He was sitting on a bench before the fire, with his feet on the stove hearth, and in one hand was holding close up to his face that little negro idol of his; peering hard into its face, and with a jack-knife gently whittling away at its nose, meanwhile humming to himself in his heathenish way.

But being now interrupted, he put up the image; and pretty soon, going to the table, took up a large book there, and placing it on his lap began counting the pages with deliberate regularity; at every fiftieth page– as I fancied–stopping for a moment, looking vacantly around him, and giving utterance to a long-drawn gurgling whistle of astonishment. He would then begin again at the next fifty; seeming to commence at number one each time, as though he could not count more than fifty, and it was only by such a large number of fifties being found together, that his astonishment at the multitude of pages was excited.

With much interest I sat watching him. Savage though he was, and hideously marred about the face–at least to my taste– his countenance yet had a something in it which was by no means disagreeable. You cannot hide the soul. Through all his unearthly tattooings, I thought I saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes, fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a thousand devils. And besides all this, there was a certain lofty bearing about the Pagan, which even his uncouthness could not altogether maim. He looked like a man who had never cringed and never had had a creditor. Whether it was, too, that his head being shaved, his forehead was drawn out in freer and brighter relief, and looked more expansive than it otherwise would, this I will not venture to decide; but certain it was his head was phrenologically an excellent one. It may seem ridiculous, but it reminded me of General Washington’s head, as seen in the popular busts of him. It had the same long regularly graded retreating slope from above the brows, which were likewise very projecting, like two long promontories thickly wooded on top. Queequeg was George Washington cannibalistically developed.

Whilst I was thus closely scanning him, half-pretending meanwhile to be looking out at the storm from the casement, he never heeded my presence, never troubled himself with so much as a single glance; but appeared wholly occupied with counting the pages of the marvellous book. Considering how sociably we had been sleeping together the night previous, and especially considering the affectionate arm I had found thrown over me upon waking in the morning, I thought this indifference of his very strange. But savages are strange beings; at times you do not know exactly how to take them. At first they are overawing; their calm self-collectedness of simplicity seems as Socratic wisdom. I had noticed also that Queequeg never consorted at all, or but very little, with the other seamen in the inn. He made no advances whatever; appeared to have no desire to enlarge the circle of his acquaintances. All this struck me as mighty singular; yet, upon second thoughts, there was something almost sublime in it. Here was a man some twenty thousand miles from home, by the way of Cape Horn, that is– which was the only way he could get there–thrown among people as strange to him as though he were in the planet Jupiter; and yet he seemed entirely at his ease; preserving the utmost serenity; content with his own companionship; always equal to himself. Surely this was a touch of fine philosophy; though no doubt he had never heard there was such a thing as that. But, perhaps, to be true philosophers, we mortals should not be conscious of so living or so striving. So soon as I hear that such or such a man gives himself out for a philosopher, I conclude that, like the dyspeptic old woman,

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