whistlewritesforfun

[whistlewritesforfun]

AYYYY!!! LETS GO!!!!

[whistlewritesforfun]

i don’t think people who don’t read comics/mostly read wfa understand how much of a dweeb tim drake actually is because he was supposed to be a Good Role Model For Tween Boys in the 90s. one time he found out his roommate at boarding school was an alcoholic so he poured all his alcohol down the drain instead of just ignoring it like a normal person. his girlfriend wanted to have sex with him and instead of just saying “i’m not ready” he launched into a monologue about how “making love is like opening a door” and he “isn’t ready to open that door yet” because they “might have adult feelings for each other, but [they’re] still just kids.” 90s tim was the type of kid to remind the teacher to assign homework. he somehow got mad bitches even though everyone highkey thought he was weird. in one panel of one issue he randomly said he had to be “vewwy quiet” and never spoke like that again. he canonically plays dungeons and dragons (or the fictional dc equivalent). the money his dad left him after he died wasn’t even a lot because his dad went bankrupt shortly before his death. like it was a substantial amount but not enough to make him rich. i cannot stress enough that tim was SUCH a Regular Guy TM and constantly worried about not standing out. he purposefully did bad at sports and pretended to be winded in gym class so people wouldn’t suspect anything. like he wouldn’t even try and be average, he would purposefully almost fail. he is not a cool rich skater kid guys he’s such a dork

[whistlewritesforfun]

"Dad, You Adopted Me Too Young for This Trauma" – The Batfamily in One Sentence 🦇💀

The Batfamily is many things: crime-fighting prodigies, Gotham’s unofficial emotional support system, and, above all, a collection of traumatized orphans who somehow ended up under the wing of the most emotionally unavailable man alive.

Bruce Wayne didn’t just adopt kids—he adopted problems. And while his heart was in the right place (was it?), the reality is that none of these kids had a normal childhood. They were drafted into a war before they even had a chance to process the trauma that got them there in the first place.

Each Robin (and every Batkid, really) has developed their own way of handling the madness that is Gotham, Bruce, and their own past:

✨ Dick Grayson: Therapy and a dazzling ability to pretend everything is fine even when it’s falling apart. Also, acrobatics. Lots of them.

🔥 Jason Todd: Unresolved rage, a flair for dramatics, and a “shoot first, ask questions never” approach to crime-fighting. It’s called coping, okay?

🕵️ Tim Drake: Sleep is a myth, coffee is a personality trait, and if he just solves one more case, maybe he won’t have to deal with his actual feelings.

🎭 Stephanie Brown: Manages to keep the least trauma for the longest time, but still somehow gets caught in Bruce’s black hole of parental failure. Also, humor as a defense mechanism.

🥋 Cassandra Cain: The only one who can truly beat Bruce in a fight, both physically and emotionally. Doesn’t talk much, but when she does? She sees through everyone's BS.

😼 Damian Wayne: Has the emotional intelligence of a 40-year-old war general and the coping mechanisms of a 10-year-old. Insists he’s fine. He is not fine.

💻 Barbara Gordon: The most functional person in the family, which is a low bar. She runs the Batcave, organizes the chaos, and somehow hasn’t given up on any of them.

And Bruce? Bruce sees them struggling and hands them a cape instead of therapy.

Would any of them trade this life for a normal one? Probably not. But you know there’s a group chat somewhere titled “Dad, You Adopted Me Too Young for This Trauma”, and the memes are ruthless.

[Flon, you have his page here.]

[whistlewritesforfun]

YAY!! IM GLAD YOU LIKE IT!!

Bruce Needs Prom Pictures!

Based on silliness that occurred with @hollybrooke where they came up with this idea.

Incident Number One

Bruce while awkwardly holding a camcorder: Turn- no no- turn to the LEFT, Dick. Ok, now put your arm on-

Dick: You know that's for videos right?

Bruce: Yes. I'm well aware. I'm going to have the batcomputer systematically find the best shots out of the footage and-

Dick, who really wants to hurry this up so he doesn't actually miss prom despite the fact originally he was having a great time posing: Ok forget I asked.

Bruce, tearing up a bit: I remember when you were still climbing up the stair banisters and back flipping off of them.

Dick: B, please, Roy just texted me they're playing gangnam style right now and I've been posing for 30 minutes! Even I have my limits.

Incident Number Two

Jason: Did Dick actually wear THAT to prom?

Bruce, who was taking pictures at first, but got sucked into talking about Dick: Yes, and he looked adorable. I regret giving him that freedom though... you saw what he went around in for a while. I think I might have emboldened that decision inadvertently.

Jason, an hour late, but NEEDS to see these pictures: How long did it take you to get all of these? There's so many...

Bruce: 45 minutes or so, it couldn't of- *checks his watch.*

Bruce:...

Jason: How long am I gonna be here taking pictures for?

Bruce: Is a 15 minute long prom something you'd be interested in?

Incident Number Three

Alfred, before the photoshoot: Master Bruce, you must let him depart for the prom at a reasonable time. We cannot make a family tradition of being tardy for this event. As well as the fact that Master Drake has a date to go with, a variable neither Master Todd nor Master Grayson had to worry about.

Bruce: Don't worry Alfred, I've already planned everything out. I already know exactly what poses I want him to strike.

An hour and a half later

Tim: We have to go! In case you forgot, I'm kind of their ride??

Bruce: You aren't doing it right! I said give me Vogue, and you are giving me Vanity Fair.

Tim: BRUCE PLEASE!

Bruce: Just ONE MORE TRY-

Tim: I will call Alfred.

Bruce: Fine. Lets go.

Incident Number Four

Damian: Father, I do not see how me participating in this... ridiculous photo shoot is so necessary.

Bruce: Its family tradition that you get your Prom photos. Now, smile.

Damian: Father-

Bruce: Smile, the sooner you do it, the sooner this is over with. I know you're meeting Jon there.

Damian: *putting on a smile that is borderline unsettling in its forced nature*

Bruce: On second thought? I'll just... edit a smile on you... it might freak me out less.

Damian: Is your hunger for nostalgia satiated?

Bruce: I think its gonna have to be, Alfred might kill me if I make you late like with every previous incident.

Damian: Excellent.

[whistlewritesforfun]

Bruce Needs Prom Pictures!

Based on silliness that occurred with @hollybrooke where they came up with this idea.

Incident Number One

Bruce while awkwardly holding a camcorder: Turn- no no- turn to the LEFT, Dick. Ok, now put your arm on-

Dick: You know that's for videos right?

Bruce: Yes. I'm well aware. I'm going to have the batcomputer systematically find the best shots out of the footage and-

Dick, who really wants to hurry this up so he doesn't actually miss prom despite the fact originally he was having a great time posing: Ok forget I asked.

Bruce, tearing up a bit: I remember when you were still climbing up the stair banisters and back flipping off of them.

Dick: B, please, Roy just texted me they're playing gangnam style right now and I've been posing for 30 minutes! Even I have my limits.

Incident Number Two

Jason: Did Dick actually wear THAT to prom?

Bruce, who was taking pictures at first, but got sucked into talking about Dick: Yes, and he looked adorable. I regret giving him that freedom though... you saw what he went around in for a while. I think I might have emboldened that decision inadvertently.

Jason, an hour late, but NEEDS to see these pictures: How long did it take you to get all of these? There's so many...

Bruce: 45 minutes or so, it couldn't of- *checks his watch.*

Bruce:...

Jason: How long am I gonna be here taking pictures for?

Bruce: Is a 15 minute long prom something you'd be interested in?

Incident Number Three

Alfred, before the photoshoot: Master Bruce, you must let him depart for the prom at a reasonable time. We cannot make a family tradition of being tardy for this event. As well as the fact that Master Drake has a date to go with, a variable neither Master Todd nor Master Grayson had to worry about.

Bruce: Don't worry Alfred, I've already planned everything out. I already know exactly what poses I want him to strike.

An hour and a half later

Tim: We have to go! In case you forgot, I'm kind of their ride??

Bruce: You aren't doing it right! I said give me Vogue, and you are giving me Vanity Fair.

Tim: BRUCE PLEASE!

Bruce: Just ONE MORE TRY-

Tim: I will call Alfred.

Bruce: Fine. Lets go.

Incident Number Four

Damian: Father, I do not see how me participating in this... ridiculous photo shoot is so necessary.

Bruce: Its family tradition that you get your Prom photos. Now, smile.

Damian: Father-

Bruce: Smile, the sooner you do it, the sooner this is over with. I know you're meeting Jon there.

Damian: *putting on a smile that is borderline unsettling in its forced nature*

Bruce: On second thought? I'll just... edit a smile on you... it might freak me out less.

Damian: Is your hunger for nostalgia satiated?

Bruce: I think its gonna have to be, Alfred might kill me if I make you late like with every previous incident.

Damian: Excellent.

[whistlewritesforfun]

Talia: *attempting to calm a newly conscious Jason Todd* I am sure this must come as a shock to you, child, but it’s been three years since- Jason: *jolting up in bed, scaring the shit out of five watching assassins* FUCK, MY FICS HAVE GONE UN-UPDATED FOR THREE YEARS? Talia: Jason: I PROMISED MY SUBSCRIBERS— Ra’s: *leaning over to Talia* what is a . . “Fic”? Talia: *shrugs*

[whistlewritesforfun]

DCU Fics

Batfam:

Bruce needs prom pictures!

Damian Wayne:

Damian Wayne does NOT watch cartoons (in front of anyone)

[whistlewritesforfun]

Damian Wayne does NOT watch cartoons (In front of anyone.)

A little headcanon I have for Damian after he gets dropped into the Manor and finally adjusts enough to be comfortable. Not sure how canon compliant, I have in fact pulled this out of my ass. A bit of writing below the cut 👌

(Divider on Pinterest, by shra)

Damian would not be caught dead doing most things kids his age did. You would not see him playing with action figures, you would not see him reading a comic book, and you definitely wouldn't see him "wasting his time" watching children's TV.

That didn't mean he wasn't doing it though. He was simply an expert at hiding it.

Living with Talia and the league didn't leave much time for him to do anything that would be considered recreational. Everything was carefully controlled to ensure an heir of the highest quality. Hell, the kid was engineered for it from conception. Even his free time had a sort of artificially constructed quality to it.

The books on the shelves were carefully curated, all classic novels. He was learning how to read from philosophers and poets dead for hundreds of years. Damian had to read only what the league chose, mostly so he wouldn't start forming ideas that conflicted with his future purpose.

TV wasn't allowed for Damian, dismissed as empty drivel that would only serve to curate an imagination that was useless for assassin work.

Toys were a weakness, Damian only very briefly had a stuffed bear when he was very young. It was taken too quickly for him to even remember it. Dependency on objects, emotional attachment to inanimate chunks of plastic and fabric, were exemplified as the opposite of what he should be.

Though, those restrictions evaporated when Talia left him with Bruce. It took a lot of warming up for him to even consider turning a TV on. When he did, he was watching documentaries on nature. He had taken a liking to the ones with that level of instinctual brutality only the animal kingdom could provide.

In secret however, Damian found a channel of cartoons. It became his guilty pleasure to come back from patrol and sneak off to watch some before getting tired and trudging up to bed silently. His favorite ended up being Ninja Turtles. It took him a long time to figure out why he liked it so much.

It wasn't until a somewhat awkward family gathering around the holiday season came about. Even Jason had turned up. (Though he didn't look super jazzed about it, he secretly missed his brothers.) It wasn't super clear how the moment of realization came about, but when Dick showed up in a blue shirt, Damian practically felt the click reverberate through his tiny being.

He glanced over at Jason, sulking in a corner. A flicker of a red mask crossing his mind.

Over to Barbara and Tim. Purple. That was 3 out of 4 turtles. His family was a parallel of his secret cartoon viewings. If he really had to stretch it, Bruce served as a Master Splinter.

His inner machinations went unnoticed, he always had that same resting pensive look on his face. What did draw attention, however, was the tiny uptick at the corner of his mouth as he waltzed off. It was then with a dawning horror that, as he scampered off, he realized he was Mikey.

Albeit… much less laid back and much more murdery. This, suffice to say, peeved him. He did not want to be the “stoner” turtle.

This prompted an in-depth investigation. (Personality quizzes) only to repeatedly end up with the same result. At one point he even went so far as to use the Batcomputer’s database to make a definitive judgement. Orange. Orange. Orange. He gave up eventually, finding solace only in the fact that Mikey was the best combatant of the group.

Imagine Bruce’s confusion when he sat down at the computer to update a case file, only to find the IMMENSE personality profile on Michelangelo. He decided not to bring it up with Damian. It wasn’t often his son behaved more like a normal 12 year old, and he wasn’t going to discourage it now.

[whistlewritesforfun]

“Mom get off me!” I rumbled, pushing her off me. Her wet kiss still on my cheek as I tried to wipe off her lipstick.

“I was wondering when you’d visit again! Your brother was here just last week-“

“Mom I’m here to kill you.” I stated firmly, drawing my sword. She sighed deeply with a groan.

“Before dinner? Really? Your father was at the smoker all day making brisket.” I ignored the faint rumble in my stomach.

“It’s for the prophecy!” I protested, waving my sword around.

“That’s what your brother was yammering about when he was here too.” I answered dismissively. “Honestly, what are they teaching you in college? When I was in school we used prophecies for important things. Like foreseeing if your boyfriend was gonna cheat on you, or if you were gonna get arrested for stealing a golf cart.”

“Mom they said the worlds gonna end if I don’t do it!” I once more protested as she started rummaging through a drawer in a side table. “Mom? Mom are you even listening!?”

“Yes- yes I am-“ she answered, putting a set of readers on. She yanked out a wrinkly old newspaper, squinting at it. “See! Your father was wrong.”

“What?”

“He said that 3 years ago the chicken meal at Sir Lances was 4 gold pieces-“ she said as she whacked the page with the back of her hand. “This says it was 6!”

“Mom can you at least pretend to take me seriously?” I questioned, entirely fed up.

“Alright alright,” she sighed, taking the readers off and tucking them into the bodice of her extravagant dress. She raised her arms up and her hands glowed with a deep purple energy. I readied my sword and charged at her, before she all too easily disarmed me.

“Mom!!” I groaned, stomping my foot. “Why’d you have to knock it so far away??”

“Ah I’m sorry dear, I’ll go get it.”

“No no- it’s fine.” I huffed, pinching my nose bridge. “I shouldn’t of reacted so angrily. It’s a completely normal distance.” I walked over, my armored boots clinking as I crouched and picked the sword up.

“Are you sure you wanna do this before dinner? I mean fighting on an empty stomach isn’t very fun.”

“Fine.” I agreed, sheathing my sword. “But tell dad not to give me a piece with too much fat!”

“Of course.” She agreed, before raising her voice loudly, “HAROLD! THOMAS IS STAYING FOR DINNER!”

“WHAT?!” Was the faint shout from the vague direction of the kitchen.

“THOMAS IS HERE FOR DINNER!”

“OH! OK! ARE WE USING THE CHINA OR THE PAPER PLATES?” My father responded again, sounding a bit closer before his head poked out from the doorway adjacent to his throne. I seriously don’t get why they didn’t hire more servants.

“It’s just Thomas,” she responded incredulously. “I don’t feel like dishes, we’ll just use the paper plates.”

“Alright Betty dear.” I grinned, his crown slightly lopsided as he slunk back to the kitchen.

“Y’know I think he’s going deaf.” My mother said plainly.

“I think you need to stop yelling from the other room.” I mumbled, before perking up. “Wait is that cake??” I asked, smelling the familiar scent.

“Yes, but it’s for the Dimmesdale’s.”

“Oh come on!” I groaned, walking with her to the dining room.

You, the chosen one, walk into the evil queen's throne room. The queen was sitting gloomily on her throne. She sees you and lightens up. She rises from her throne and kisses you. "Sweetheart, I am so glad you are back."

[whistlewritesforfun]

I paced the cold floor of the stone-room. The little squares of colorful rock as familiar to me as the faces of the immortals. There was a strange scent in the air that I didn’t like. The immortal hobbled in, catching my attention. I ceased my pacing, turning and raising my head to greet her.

I sniffed in. The scent was coming from her in waves. Her small patch of fur was thinner than I remembered. This immortal in particular had taken me and my mother with her after departing from what I assumed to be the immortals parents. I still remember the long journey from inside the roaring red beast.

My mother had passed as well a long time ago. It was me and the immortal now, as well as the yammering bird she kept in her room.

I pushed my nose into the back of her leg, then sat and looked up at her, my tail wagging slightly. She made those little cooing noises she always did and tossed me a little piece of food. For once, I ignored it. Favoring instead to push my nose into her leg again. She looked down at me with concern.

She bent, her face coming close to mine as she took her large paws and gently gripped my head. There was a question in her yipping. Unfortunately one I couldn’t fully understand.

“Tally? Wizz le rothin tong?” Is what it sounded like. I knew very few other dogs who could understand their immortals. I knew only that to her my name was Tally.

For weeks I followed her dutifully. Some days she would leave me alone for a very long time before she returned. Not at her usual schedule dictated. The scent would be especially strong when she came back.

One day she returned. Dropped some white square leaves. Then plummeted into the soft rock. I leapt up beside her. The stench today was more subdued. My immortal sobbed suddenly, and pulled me into her chest. The grave feeling of wrongness was not lost on me.

She laid like that for hours… until eventually falling into sleep. Restless sleep. She was supposed to endure. Mother always told me that the immortals were impervious to age… much unlike us dogs. We were meant to guard them from any exterior harm that could in fact hurt them.

But this… this wasn’t age. This wasn’t anything I could protect her from. I didn’t understand what it was exactly. The smell of it told me that it was tearing her apart however. It was the smell of death on her breath. The increased lack of fur on her head. At times she’d spend forever looking into the time-frozen water in her den, fussing over her fur.

Whatever was killing her, I could not stop. My role of guardian was rendered useless. I cannot save her. My purpose now is to protect her from sorrow. A task I know in the end, I shall likely fail. I will endeavor to try nonetheless.

For a few months, the immortal did not leave the house for those visits as usual. At times, other immortals would enter the den under my watchful eye. Many would assist with the usual chores that she could no longer complete. Some of them would even gently pat me on the head.

There was a somber feeling in the darkness of the den. One of the immortals more familiar to me by this point came one day and never left. He was gentle and kind to my immortal, and very nice to me as well. I liked him quite a lot. My immortal called him Wilson, and he called her Sarah. I believe that’s her name… I cannot remember if I’d ever heard it uttered before.

Wilson stayed in the den with me and Sarah. He was part of the pack now. He brought her fake fur to wear on her head. He would feed me at dinner time. He would clean the shiny rocks the immortals ate off of. He seemed to care a great deal.

Sarah never left her soft bed anymore. I would often curl up next to her at night. One morning the sun rose, I went to nose her face as I normally did. She did not rouse. I sniffed her skin, licking the cold surface.

Death had fallen sweetly upon her in the night. I could not ward it off. I had only the hope that she was sleeping when the last whisper of breath left her lungs.

Wilson burst into the room upon my howl of anguish. He was just as sorrowful as I was. He stayed with her a long while, at some point he used the little rectangle I’d seen every immortal use at some point.

For only a little while we stayed in somber silence with Sarah, until more immortals came and took her. I tried to fight them away and recover her, but Wilson held me back and pushed me into my tiny cave and shut the barred door of it.

I never fought so hard to escape from it as I did then. I wanted to reach Sarah. I stayed there for a long time before Wilson tearfully retrieved me.

I trusted him. He had been Sarah’s guardian when I could not suffice. I swore that in return, I’d try to protect him as I had failed to protect Sarah.

You are tenth generation honor guard for the Immortals. As far back as pack memory goes, the Immortals have provided food, shelter, and scritches. You fully expected them to outlive you as they did your grandmother and her grandmother before her. But something's wrong. The alpha… is dying.

[whistlewritesforfun]

Writing prompt responses!

Rat God

Good Dog

Evil Queen, Devoted Mother

[whistlewritesforfun]

I had been (sorta) (kinda) (maybeeeeee) running a cult out of my ranch for years now. It was going pretty well I’d say! It was small but that made it inconspicuous. It was generating plenty of money for me and nobody cared enough about the run down ranch a few miles outside of town that the stranger individuals would visit frequently.

We had just finished up the usual “sacrifice” of a rat, a stringy thing I decided to put out of its misery after seeing it in a pathetic little tank in the store, when a blinding light emerged from its carcass. It was this odd grayish green color. Reminiscent of a rather painful turd or some especially stinky vomit.

Of course every religion needs a figurehead. I’d found some random God in an old history textbook from my mythology class. I’d just so happened to choose one that had a rodent schtick.

You could imagine my surprise when the little rat I’d just speared through exploded with that ugly green light, then warped and twisted. Convulsing about as it changed shape into what could best be described as a star made out of flesh, bone, and rat fur. It was hands down, the GROSSEST thing I’d ever seen.

And THEN the thing had the audacity to start speaking. Every utterance from its tongue caused another convulsion in the warped rat, a faint glow of that green emitting from the eyes. Which were much too far apart by this point. It really was horrible to look it, there were little bones sticking out and puncturing the flesh everywhere. Eugh. I should’ve picked a less gross god, maybe then I would’ve be in this horrendous predicament.

The warped rat body spoke to the congregation for about 30 minutes. For 25 of that I wasn’t paying attention because I didn’t want to barf all over my supposed deity. (There were little droplets of that disgusting rat blood on my ceremonial carpet. That particularly irked me.) For the last 5, I do not think I shall soon forget it.

“This my dear congregation!” (The rat… thingy… hovered a little bit closer to me.) “is a true servant! A true leader! And a true follower. He has blessed you with the gift of my existence. He has shepherded you along the way and through adversity to create my return! This man! He is now my high priest, henceforth until his death!”

“I’m what?” I couldn’t stop the blunt words from falling out of my mouth.

“You’re my high priest!”

“… riiiiiiiiiiiiight.”

“Do you… have doubts?” The rat-jumble asked, its scratchy voice reminded me of someone who was talking right after waking up, but very deep and highly unsettling.

“Am I really quite… priestly enough?” I asked, cringing slightly. It was evident I had made a very very grave mistake by this point.

“You’ve been preaching g for months. You brought me back from my slumber. I was sure I’d never be worshipped again. You are most certainly my high priest.” He… it… the rat thingy assured. I just nodded. I had entirely screwed myself. I was gonna be stuck with this cult the rest of my life…

“To go with your title high-priest, I will bestow on you a gift of my choosing.” Oh goody. Please don’t be dead rats. Please don’t be dead rats.

The rat sphere drifted nearer, the dripping of blood still grating on my nerves. Keeping the abject terror off my face was difficult beyond imagination. The orb then rotated so wherever the tail went in the warped carcass could tap me gently. As it did, I felt the most exhilarating burst of what I can only describe as rat magic.

“You shall be able to heal even the most sick and miserable. With your words, your touch, your compassion. The spread of sound and healthfulness shant be stopped but by your own limitation.”

I wasn’t sure what was appropriate at that moment so I kneeled. A particularly bad idea, as it now bug me in the rat-blood splash zone. I mean SERIOUSLY! This is the grossest vessel that he could’ve possibly picked! My carpet is entirely ruined!

With that final statement however, the pen fell to the ground with the most hideous mush noise, a few crackles, and what can best be written as a “Skrrrrrrsht.”

Now what on earth was I to do with this information… or ability. I certainly couldn’t heal my mind from what I’d just witnessed transpire. Believe me, I was trying. The divine are disgusting. So I wordlessly lead my congregation out of the doors of my makeshift chapel, and to the Waffle House half a mile away.

As is usual for Saturdays, we all ate at the Waffle House in our congregation robes. Today though. The viscous syrup warming my throat brought to mind the mental imagery of the rat blood. I shoved it aside and decided maybe to forgo the waffles… just for today.

You started a scam religion for a quick buck. You begin to panic when your fake god was actually a real forgotten one awakened from new worshippers, declared you it's high priest, and granted you the power of healing.

[whistlewritesforfun]

It’s posted on this account!

I’m about to write sad poetry 👌

I’m eating spicy ramen (LET ME READ IT)

[whistlewritesforfun]

Poetry Masterlist

[whistlewritesforfun]

Would she see me?

Tw: Allusions to sh and depression

I’ve seen the question posed frequently on the internet.

What do you think your younger self would do if they met you today?

I don’t know.

I haven’t known that girl in a very long time.

You have to at least know someone a little to guess at their reaction to even the most mundane things.

I look at her photograph and I don’t recognize the same person whose holding the old piece of paper.

A memento from a trip, printed out and never framed.

She is still the same blue-eyed child. The same mother I’ll always love peers at me from the background with a smile.

My sister grins. A much more youthful and round face than what I see today.

Though I still don’t see me. I see what would become me.

She is very different. She wouldn’t have taken up a pair of scissors and laid emptily on the floor.

Cursing herself for what foolish thing she had to punish herself for.

She wouldn’t have failed a test and given in with such little resistance.

She wouldn’t have stopped reading books until midnight.

I cannot even remember anything about her that wasn’t an action.

How did she think? What did her voice sound like? Did she have nightmares every night?

I simply can’t remember. The inner monologue that once belonged to me is entirely changed.

Morphed beyond recognition to create someone new.

I don’t know her. I cannot think of her fondly. Whatever pieces of her left in me are likely melancholic fractures now.

Fueled by nostalgia and burning in the back of my aching mind.

Though I have to wonder. If she looked at me today, would her eyes meet mine? Would she lock gazes and see the spark of her own soul in me?

It’s been a very long time. Would she see a “me” or an us?

[whistlewritesforfun]

Historical Fiction Masterlist

Signed Songbird 🕊️

Chapter 1

[whistlewritesforfun]

Signed Songbird

Chapter 1

The greatest mysteries a man can be saddled with are oft related to the world of romance. The man's inner workings that power his mind work best when faced with problems with only one answer. When faced with the possibility of many interpretations, it's enough to overwhelm them, yet despite it all, they try anyway. None of this was false for one Benjamin Thomas. A plain man of high station, always seen in a wrinkled little suit that seemed just a bit too large on him. Almost as if he was still a teenage boy dressing up as his father. He lacked any hardness or sharp edges in his appearance and was thin and tall. With contradictory deep black hair that spiked up messily, and a pair of brown eyes to match.

While he was still baby-faced and only twenty-three, he had all the responsibilities of a fully-fledged businessman who had been in the trade for 30 years. Benjamin had once resolutely stated that if the overwhelming stress of his new workplace was all he would know for the rest of his career, that he should have gray hairs by 25. His once ever-present aspiration to have a wife and children was forcibly placed in the back seat of his mind. The once empty and unkempt space is now filled with schedules, contracts, and paperwork of varying degrees of importance, all kept tightly organized. The wild dreams of a young man now fully suppressed for the organization of adulthood. Of responsibility.

Despite all of this, Benjamin remained hopeful in the one wild garden left in his mind that eventually, he’d be able to clear a bit more space for love. He kept a singular flower of the once boundless garden well watered and cared for, in hopes the vines could spread over the meetings and paperwork in a harmonious mess. That was not to say his life lacked color, however, sometimes he would find the time to visit the speakeasy down the street in secret with his compatriots. Though no matter how hard they tried to get him to go to other places for entertainment and jovial revelry, Benjamin always refused.

“Go on without me if you wish to, this is where I will remain. What little time I retain for myself will be spent here. Do not mistake this for a closed mind of course my friends,” He’d always give a friendly smile at this part, and wave his hand with closed eyes. “This is the mind of a man with a goal that can only be achieved here.” His work friends would concede and typically stick around with their boss. Even if he was stubborn and a creature of habit, the conversations had with him were enough to make up for the lack of scenery changes.

The speakeasy that Benjamin frequented was not one of large size, the bar in the back corner had just shy of 20 stools. About 10 wooden tables and chairs from various origins dotted the room. The lights were always a dim orange that evoked a cozy and personal atmosphere. There were a few couches pushed up against the wall and the place was always well filled. Though Benjamin's favorite place was the stage where music was played. There were a few tables right next to it where every Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday night, at 8 o’clock, the object of Benjamin's fixation would sing until midnight.

Benjamin's friends could never sway him from his work unless it was one of those nights. They were only beginning to understand why when it was too late, for Benjamin had discovered the target of his affections in a woman he had never even spoken to. A woman whose station was far too low for Benjamin, and whose very job was illegal. He had fallen completely in love with the songbird on the stage, whom he only knew by an alias, and now it was far too late for him to change that.

Perhaps the most scandalous piece of this was that Benjamin did not care, and had no desire to change her. He loved what he saw on that stage far too much to want her to change. A fool's infatuation rarely leads to a good ending, however. The songbird on the stage had her very own cage that kept her line. One invisible to Benjamin and his adoration.

While Benjamin knew his darling as merely “The Angelic Songbird of New York,” her real name was that of Viviana Allegro. Yet in his mind, Benjamin always referred to her as “songbird.” When Benjamin had a respite from work but his darling was not on the stage that night, he would find comfort in imagining their future together.

It almost always would be roughly the same picture in his head. Far away from the dreary New York City he was accustomed to since birth. A quaint cabin in the woods of some lovely place with lots of whitetail deer for him to hunt, and wildflowers everywhere. Bees constantly buzz around the small vegetable and fruit garden, and the scent of their honey is not too far away, floating delicately on the wind. The cabin would stand out in a small clearing, a stone chimney rising from one side that always had smoke pouring from it.

Benjamin craved nothing more than a quiet and peaceful home very far from the city he so despised. Except perhaps his songbird. In his daydreams, he would imagine that every day when he would return home from whatever he was doing that day, his gorgeous wife would be waiting for him. A smile on her face and a baby on her hip, a dog weaving its way toward him, yipping with adoration.

His mental picture was perfect in every aspect, it was the idyllic world he would fight tooth and nail to attain. He was willing to sacrifice all that his father had built and passed down to him if only she would be his.

If Benjamin's father could see what he was doing now he would die all over again. While the two had never been quite close, they still had the sort of father-son bond you can imagine. One of mutual understanding and sometimes even respect. Though Benjamin entirely lacked the familial love aspect of it all from his father, his mother was quick to give it out.

Madam Thomas, Benjamin's doting mother, had the awful habit of sneaking around her husband to aid her son when he was being insubordinate. When Benjamin was sent to bed without supper for fighting a boy in the schoolyard, Madam Thomas would bring him some bread. It was in this manner that Benjamin would learn that he should not fear his father's wrath.

In the end, this would prove to be good for Benjamin. His father was often too inflamed with anger to properly parent whenever it was needed. Having never been one to spare the rod, Mr. Thomas would deal out what he misguidedly believed was fair. Madam Thomas would pick up the pieces and sigh as she went along. Without having had to fear anything more than his father's fist at the end of the day, Benjamin would grow to be a relatively bold child. Much to the chagrin of his school teachers who only seemed to want docile children in their classes.

Though many years later, Benjamin would still foster his boldness, he had become much more restrained. His dreams were heavily trodden on; the more meetings he attended, the more paperwork he filed, the more employees he had to hire and fire, and the longer he had to wait until he would finally find love.

However, his rotten luck seemed to change the day he was left a note at the speakeasy. Sealed with just a kiss mark in red lipstick. The bartender handed the cream envelope to him without a word.

Benjamin eagerly opened it…