#because apparently i spell a lot of words in the non-american way despite being from the us and i have no idea where i picked it up from

[televisionjester]

love when i get flagged for spelling a word technically correct but still wrong. "the archaic spelling of this word" sorry i'm writing like i'm from the 19th century

#honorable mention is the amount of times google docs asks me if i want to switch to the british keyboard #because apparently i spell a lot of words in the non-american way despite being from the us and i have no idea where i picked it up from #writeblr #writing community #writer problems

[heavy-lobster]

POST THE FUCKING ESSAY KOAL/DUSTY I SWEAR TO GOD

WAIT I THOUGHT YOU READ IT ALREADY??? DID I SERIOUSLY NOT SEND IT TO YOU WHEN I INITIALLY FINISHED IT??? GOD WHAT THE FUCK

Well I can’t NOT post it now.

So for some background, the assignment was to write a short essay arguing as to why a children’s series of our choosing could be classified as horror, based on some article we had to read. I chose Wow Wow Wubbzy because I thought it would be funny and. man. So anyways this is VERY poorly written because I did most of it between like,,, midnight and 3 am. It’s very ranty and way longer than it needed to be. For ease of reading I went back and fixed up the shitty formatting and fixed a few spelling errors, as well as linking my sources.

So uhhh this is about horror so,, warning for horror ig?? It’s not scary like, at all, but better safe than sorry.

Wow! Wow! Wubbzy!: The Horror Within

Introduction

“Wow! Wow! Wubbzy!” is an American TV show originally aired on Nick Jr. From the mind of Bob Boyle, this educational kid’s show was very memorable for a lot of kids growing up at that time. The show features Wubbzy, a yellow, square, animalistic character, with a curly, “springy” tail; as well as Wubbzy’s various friends. Most episodes feature Wubbzy and his pals, Widget and Walden (as well as Daizy in later episodes), dealing with an every day situation, or well, depends on your definition of “every day”. The situation spirals out of control because of the actions of various characters, and it is resolved by the problematic character of the episode learning a lesson and fixing their mistake. Seems like a typical kids show, right? Well, there may be more to it than that. What if I told you that Wow! Wow! Wubbzy! could be interrupted as a horror show about horrifically mutated beasts struggling to survive the post apocalyptic world they are forced to inhabit? Wow! Wow! Wubbzy! fits many categories described in Sharon A. Russell’s literary criticism in “What is the Horror Genre?”. In this essay we will discuss how Wow! Wow! Wubbzy! could possibly be classified as a horror series.  

Asking the real questions; what is everyone?

First of all, a very important question. What exactly are the characters? There are claims that Wubbzy himself is some kind of gerbil, but frankly I don’t see it. Also, what’s the deal with the inhabitants of Wuzzleburg in general? Wubbzy and his friends are supposed to be anthropomorphic animals, but they seem more like horrific monsters, mutated from normal animals. Monsters are a very common and important element in horror. Not all monsters are vicious killers, and not all of them are obvious in appearance. Some monsters are small and cute, but it’s almost always a facade. 

There are also some “regular” animals running around, but yet they aren’t “normal” by any stretch of the imagination. Some are very obviously not normal, others seem mostly normal. “Flutterflies” are a common, non-anthro animal seen in Wubbzy, with their most prominent appearance being in the episode “The Flight of the Flutterfly”. Flutterflies seem like normal butterflies, but why are they called “Flutterflies” instead? Are they in any way different to the butterflies of our world, or is that just what the inhabitants of Wuzzleburg call butterflies? What about the more blatantly odd non-anthro animals? In “Attack of the 50 Foot Fleegle” Wubbzy acquires a pet “Fleegle”. It appears to be a small, purple, almost hamster like creature. It remains small and happy if you feed it the right kind of food, but Wubbzy foolishly feeds it candy and sweets. When fed candy, the Fleegle increases in size in increasingly large increments. After a time, it becomes so big that it rampages all over Wuzzleburg. The only thing that could shrink it back to normal size was carrot juice. When fed bologna, they multiply, and the solution to this is unknown, as the episode ends there and this is never brought up again. 

There are plenty of strange animals, both anthropomorphic and not; yet no humans. Not a single human character in sight. This begs the question, what happened? Why are all these animals how they are? What happened to the humans? Obviously, these questions were never answered, as this is a kids show. Here is a thought to consider: what if all the humans are dead, and all the characters are mutant abominations, or, monsters as they’d more fittingly be called. Humans have been wiped out, and the animals who survived mutated in many different ways. Some animals became intelligent, and capable of building their own society similar to what once was our own. That society is what we know as Wuzzleburg. In conclusion, all the creatures seen in the show are the result of something terrible; mutated abominations passing as animals. This fits the “monster” category of horror as described in Russell’s article.

What’s the deal with Wuzzleburg?

Wow! Wow! Wubbzy! takes place in the fictional town of Wuzzleburg. Wuzzleburg and its surrounding locations look very odd. Everything is unnaturally geometric. Everything- from houses to trees- is very odd in appearance. Tree branches are often bendy, always at a right angle, with the edges being smooth and rounded. In Wuzzleburg, many houses look like completely normal houses, yet Wubbzy lives in a tree house. Another common thing is that houses and buildings of importance are usually designed based on a specific object. Daizy’s house, for example, is shaped like a flower. 

Outside of Wuzzleburg, the locations only get weirder. There is an island, shown to be somewhere off the coast of Wuzzleburg, called “Dino Island”. As the name suggests, this island is inhabited by dinosaurs. So apparently, dinosaurs are not extinct in this universe; at least on this island. As far as other towns go, there is Wuzzlewood, clearly based on Hollywood, where all the biggest celebrities in the Wubbzy cinematic universe (WCU) live. Everything in Wuzzlewood is covered in stars, a clever spin of the celebrity theme. Another interesting location is Plaidville. In Plaidville, everything is plaid; the trees, the ground, and even the inhabitants. I don’t have to explain what is unnatural about that. 

Now, back on the topic of Wuzzleburg, since it is the main location seen in the show, and is where Wubbzy and his friends live. It has been stated that Wuzzleburg was founded in 1853 by “Heinrich van Wuzzle”. The specific year being given is an odd detail, that you wouldn’t normally expect in a show of this nature. Wuzzleburg is clearly a town in every sense of the word. It has plenty of stores and restaurants, an airport, houses, residents, a mayor, a rich history, annual festivities, reliable transportation, schools, and even a stable economy. All of this being made by what we have already established as horrific monsters. That’s impressive. There is common debate in the Wubbzy fandom on whether these locations are in a parallel universe, or perhaps if they exist on our Earth. In the episode “Fly Us To The Moon”, the place where they land back on “Earth” appears to suggest that Wuzzleburg is located somewhere in or near Washington state, in America, or possibly somewhere in British Columbia. 

My theory is that the events of Wow! Wow! Wubbzy! takes place on Earth, but certainly not our Earth. An alternate Earth, where humans may have lived before. Some horrible nuclear accident wiped out all human life, and caused all the animals to mutate into the many strange creatures of the WCU. This also explains the unnatural features of the setting. Post-apocalyptic Earth? Sounds like a perfect horror setting to me. This fits perfectly with the criteria described in Sharon’s article.

The beast within; Wubbzy’s true villain

Finally, the matter of the deep internal conflict hidden deep within the show. In the show, you can expect every episode to have a lesson or moral, as many kids shows do. Most episodes feature one of the main characters (almost always Wubbzy) making a mistake, followed by them learning the lesson of the episode and using their newfound knowledge to make things right. What if I told you that this is sign of a much deeper internal conflict going on far beneath the character’s cute exterior? Would it be so far fetched to believe that every episode is focused on the anthropomorphic abominations struggling to fight against their beastly instincts? Their own organized and civilized society goes against their very nature, and they constantly fight to uphold the standards they set; both for themselves, and each other. It's a constantly uphill climb. Wubbzy is undeniably a flawed character. He messes up constantly, often learning the same lessons over and over again, as if it’s more of a reminder than a lesson. It’s Wubbzy against himself. This fits Sharon’s criteria of internal horror, but that’s not all. 

Wow! Wow! Wubbzy! is also the story of a quest for self improvement, as well as a good vs evil scenario, which are two of Russell’s other criteria. I mean, think about it. Every character is open to self improvement once they realize the harm they’ve caused. Every character is on their own quest, seeking to better themselves. Every character is going through their own internal battle. They fight their own flaws. Their own evils. The true villain of Wow! Wow! Wubbzy! is the evil within all of them, the beastly instincts lurking within all of Wuzzleberg’s monster inhabitants. And they may not always be perfect, maybe they don’t know how to be “good”, maybe being good just isn’t in their nature; but they try their best despite all the challenges, to be better, and improve themselves. 

In that way I think we can all relate to them. We aren’t always “good”, we aren’t perfect, sometimes we don’t know how to do the “right” thing, but our flaws are what make us human. It may not be in our nature to be flawless, but it is in our nature to seek self improvement, and that’s what Wubbzy is really about. The struggles we all go through to be better people, because inside? We’re all just monsters trying our best to be civil, and conform to our moral code. And really? That’s enough. 

Conclusion 

Wow! Wow! Wubbzy! is undeniably a kid’s show at heart, but if you really stop to analyze it, you find a much darker horror series. It would be fittingly classified as a psychological horror. It fits almost all of Sharon A. Russell’s criteria as described in the article “What is the Horror Genre?”. What is Wubbzy? In fact, what are all of the show’s characters? Their vaguely animal appearance appeal to young children, but I believe that they may actually be normal animals mutated into horrible monsters. Freaks of nature created by a nuclear incident. There is not a single human seen in the show, but plenty of abnormal creatures. This suggests that we are long gone. The monsters we left behind built their own society.

 Not only were the animals affected, but also the earth itself. The odd nature of the setting supports my nuclear devastation theory. Finally, is the true conflict of Wubbzy. The show itself is about nuclear monsters trying their best to adapt to the society they built for themselves, even if it goes against their own nature. It’s beasts on a quest where the only objective is the betterment of the self. An internal conflict. There is no physical villain in the show. The only antagonist out to get Wubbzy, is Wubbzy himself. In that way, I think we can all relate. In conclusion, Wow! Wow! Wubbzy! is actually about horribly mutated animals fighting their inner demons, on a metaphorical journey to be better than they are. For that very reason, I believe it could be interrupted as a horror series. 

Sources: 

Wubbzy Wikipedia page

Wubbzy Fandom Wiki, which I did NOT know existed before this project and honestly the comments on the page were the funniest fucking thing, I highly recommend it

And uhhh various episodes of Wubbzy I had to watch

I apologize for my crimes

[theowlandthekey]

We Don’t Need Covens: In This Essay I Will...

I'm a big fan of Sarah Anne Lawless. I never got the opportunity to speak with her personally, but for those of you who've been around long enough, you likely know about her blog discussing traditional witchcraft and her shop. I often found her posts to be inspirational, providing a unique clarity on subjects that most books skip over. To this day her belladonna ointment is one of the few things that can make my wife's back spasms stop.

Unfortunately both her blog and her shop have closed up. All I can find are interviews with her. In a very broad sense, Lawless came out about abuse and manipulation within the pagan community. She named names and instead of addressing the problems and having an open discussion about it, she was harassed until she backed off.

It upset me at the time in a very distant sense. As I said I never knew her, but I admired her passion and the certainty with which she practiced her craft. Though it's now long after the fact, I finally think I have the ability to put my thoughts into words.

We don't need covens. We never did.

I've been practicing off and on for about fifteen years or so. I've played around with different methods of witchcraft, wicca, and pagan worship. I've been the member of a druid grove, a loose coven association, and even a few on-line groups that claim to do all their spell casting via chat. In the end, I've found them all to be much the same. They promise a great deal and frankly fall short of everything from education to community.

I'm likely going to upset quite a few people with this statement. That's fine. You shouldn't trust anybody who thinks they can tell you your business. But for what it's worth, take a moment to read this over. If something here strikes you as familiar, it might be time to consider another path.

IQuick Note: I know there is a lot of grey area as to what could be considered a witch. You have pagans, heathens, wiccans and the like. Some are comfortable being called witches while others are not. But the connotation changes depending upon each individuals definition. So let's look at witches as people who, for whatever reason, have decided to intentionally avoid Christianity in favor of practicing a personal path of self-realization and independence involving magic, spells, enchantments and the like.

Cult Mentality

First thing you ought to consider is the potential for manipulation and control that exists in any group. This is especially true whenever matters of religion and faith are concerned. It's a touchy subject, no doubt. People are particular about religious practices. For my part, I maintain that witchcraft isn't a religion or a faith. It's a craft. But that doesn't change the fact that people will use religion as a method for controlling others. Especially others who are hungry to fit in with a group that they feel represents them. For this very reason, I firmly believe that witches should avoid becoming a congregation of any kind. Too many of us think of witchcraft as a religion, and while you can play pretend all you like most of us were raised Christian and still have difficulty shaking off the mimicry of organized religion. Our power is in our independence and our ability to think for ourselves, and it becomes much more difficult to do this when you form yourselves into a coven.

Respect My Authority

On that note, you can't form a group without some kind of a hierarchy making itself apparent. I have a strong distaste for covens who create arbitrary titles. They're largely meaningless. You don't really need a high priestess or an archdruid to go around wearing robes with more trim than everybody else. It's just an excuse for someone to hold themselves higher and make decisions without consulting anyone. You'll often find that people who hold these kinds of titles become very upset when someone disagrees with them and find ways to flex their authority in a 'funny' or 'joking' way. Basically telling others that if you disagree with them then you don't need to be there. This comes off especially hard on people who may be new to the craft and are still seeking approval.

Calling Ourselves Out

As sexual abuse allegations are on the rise, we have a duty to be aware of people within our community who put others in danger. We have heard it said that 'while not all priests are abusers, abusers tend to gravitate towards positions of authority'. This is no less true just because those leaders are witches and not priests. You don't get a Free Pass. Covens and groves all seem to want that central authority figure to which they can turn to. We tend to protect them because these people act as a spokesperson for us as a whole. But this does not mean they should be protected if they behave reprehensibly! They are not above the law and if we really want to present ourselves as being different from Christians, we should take a stance of pushing out people who are abusers and manipulators.

But here's the thing. We seem to have this self-righteous indignation that comes with being witches and pagans. Any questioning or perceived threats, especially ones that come from outside the community, are deemed as being biased because of Christian society. While this isn't entirely untrue, it also has a problematic effect on us wearing a permanent set of rose-tinted glasses whenever we look at the pagan community and it's 'stars'. Instead of seeing them as human beings with flaws, we view them as celebrities. We avoid using critical thinking skills when someone in the community comes up against criticism and it can end up damaging our reputation as a whole.

Witch n’ Bitch

While this is one of the most obvious issues with modern witchcraft groups, it is far from the bottom of the cauldron. While many groups come together promising to provide resources for education, help learning rituals and practices, and open discussions, I find that very few of them ever deliver on these promises. I've joined more than a few witchcraft 'study groups' only to have them disband after a few sessions for one reason or another. Others have sessions which quickly get derailed from methods and history into a bitching session about over covens, daily drama, or the like. Instead of helping interested parties by providing resources and discussion, it basically becomes a witches tea party. Brooms are snatched.

Exclusion By Design

Something else I want to bring up is the exclusion by design if not by intention concept that plagues covens. I have seen this manifest in more ways then I can count. Most typically it crops up in the form of “you're not experienced enough in our particular tradition”. However, I've noticed a lot of problems with most pagan groups being painfully white. The excuse is that this makes sense because most witchcraft traditions are European. However, that doesn't seem to stop most witches from liberally grabbing whatever non-European cultural paraphernalia they feel fits their witchy aesthetic. The most notable victims being the American Indians, the Voodoo/Santeria practitioners, and Mexican folk beliefs. I've been told by several people that this isn't on purpose. It's just how it ended up. But when you have to triple check everybody on a Norse Heathen group chat to be sure none of them have any racist ideology there is an inherent problem with the community which is long overdue for exposure.

Queer Craft

I’d like to bring up the patriarchal and hetero-normative slant that is heavily enforced in modern witchcraft and neopaganism. I want to preface this by saying that when I think of a witch, I think of a woman who lives apart from societal norms. She is autonomous. She is self-aware. She is unruffled by others perceptions of her. This is what makes her a force to be reckoned with. Yet much of wicca and neopaganism strives to enforce a very heteronormative perception of a woman's role in society by establishing the narrative of the Maiden/Mother/Crone archetype. While there is beauty in each of these phases of life and there is nothing wrong with a woman finding power in them for herself, enforcing them as a role model for what a woman should be has dangerous implications. A woman must be a virgin, reproductive, or too old to bother with. And it should come as no surprise that concepts have no real male counterpart.

This becomes an even bigger problem as we look forward to a more inclusive world where we are learning to recognize a larger spectrum of gender and sexuality. Where does the Queer witch fit in with these very narrow perceptions of the divine within the self? The pagan community loves to talk about itself as an accepting and open community that embraces all sexualities openly. But that isn't very well reflected in its liturgy and conception. I don't think this gets discussed much because people have heralded the God/Goddess, Horned God/Earth Goddess format for so long that we take it for granted despite these perceptions being relatively modern ones. While there are some traditions which put emphasis on the Queer spectrum and embracing it as a source of power and self-realization, they are few and far between.

Psudo Ethics

The final thing I want to bring up is the irritating moral high-ground that people in the pagan community are so willing to put forth any time we are questioned about our beliefs. It is just as irritating if not more so than listening to Christians proselytize. The Wiccan Rede has held a position for a long time as a general set of standards for what witches and wiccans should consider before acting or casting spells. However, I'm pleasantly surprised to see more of a discussion happening on morality in witchcraft. We don't exist to turn the other cheek. While I'm not a believer in the 'strike first' policy, I am a believer in defending myself when attacked.

I see a lot of judgment happening in the wiccan community, especially now that witchery is in the forefront of social media. People poking their noses into how others practice and deciding to take it upon themselves to 'correct' how another practitioner does their work. I understand why some people want to pursue a more positive and affirming lifestyle through wiccan practices. There is nothing wrong with that. But I confess myself irritated when I'm chided by other witches for casting a curse or have a discussion with a demon. My prerogatives are not your moral imperative, nor are any other witches. So long as my actions are not directed against you, it isn't any of your business what I get up to.

In Conclusion

Ironically, one of the biggest issue with discussing if not resolving many of these issues is that we, as witches/pagans and the like, are NOT a unified group. We are a loose collective. We don't have one central figure who decides doctrine. We don't have any of those things that make for dogma. The fact that we can choose to act independently of one another is a big part of our power. It emboldens us to think for ourselves, question tradition, and seek out new methods and practices which are better suited to our needs. Witchcraft does not begin and end with the anathema and the chalice. We can choose to both acknowledge the gods without permitting them too much influence over our lives. We can dance naked under the full moon while enticing a demon or just make a hot cup of tea while we listen to the rain and meditate. All of this is within our grasp.

But before we can practice together, we have to learn how to function together. And right now I don't' see a great deal of that happening. I believe that by learning how to be ourselves first, by practicing as solitary and independent witches before seeing out a group, we can be more confident overall. After fifteen years of practicing, I can tell you truthfully that I haven't learned anything in a group that I couldn't have learned by studying and practicing on my own. Mostly because 90% of the groups out there read the same damned books I do and are more into repetitive ritual than anything else. I would have loved to work with someone like Sarah Anne Lawless, even just to attend a few workshops led by her. Until we can learn to be better individuals as witches first, I don't know if our community can be better together.

#witchcraft #wicca #pagan #witch #wiccan #paganism #anit-coven #covens #critique #rant #problems within the community #pagan community #wiccan community #editorial #solitary witch

[thelioncourts]

what are some of the most beautiful fics of wincest or j2? in your opinion? what the some of the funniest fics? which fics made you cry the most?

this is such a loaded question. our fandom is full of so many amazing stories and so many talented authors, and it’s almost impossible for me to make a list of anything without it being three miles long. that being said, I’ll try. mind you, I am far less read in Wincest. despite my love of it, J2 fics have always called to me more, and always, so forgive me if most of what I give are J2 stories. the beautiful and the ones that make me cry often criss-cross, so I’ll do my best to organize them as much as I can.

Beautiful Fics

Forever is a Lonely Number by lightinthehall

[ Written for the prompt ] “Jensen never ages, Jared does, but they stay together forever.”

Comment: an absolutely breathtaking story. so much is said in so few words and I both ache and dream and sigh happily at this story every time.

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 3286; Warnings: character death

In Becoming Who We Are by errant-jane

Fresh out of school with a degree from the University of Washington, Jensen meets and falls for Jeff Morgan. He may not know what he wants to do with his life, but for the first time since leaving Texas, he feels like things are coming together. Jeff seems like the perfect guy, right up until it all falls apart, and Jensen is left wondering where he went wrong. A couple failed relationships and a few years later, Jensen’s decided that one-night stands are preferable to dates. He’s got his friends and his roommate, Sophia, for everything non-sex related, after all. Until Sophia decides to move in with her boyfriend and Jensen’s stuck trying to find a new roommate. At Sophia’s insistence, Jensen meets Jared Padalecki and the two become fast friends. Only, the more they get to know each other, the more obvious it is that there’s something there. But Jensen is unwilling to risk losing Jared’s friendship for the possibility of more. Unfortunately, if he doesn’t get things figured out, he might lose Jared anyway.

Comment: this story is causes so much emotional confusion for me because it’s so perfect with just Jensen and Jeff and I couldn’t see how it would end up with Jared in the picture at all and then it just. happens. and it’s amazing to watch Jensen grow and to watch Jared worm his way, unknowingly really, into Jensen’s heart.

Rating: NC-17; Word Count: 82700; Warnings: none

A Song in the Stars by strive2bhappy

Jared Padalecki has dreamed of taking to the skies since he was five-years-old. When he becomes an adult and builds a spaceship of his own, he gets to do just that, looking for adventure – little did he know the adventure waiting for him. Jensen Ackles is born part human, part Terryn and his life as an outcast is difficult – music is his only real escape. When he’s captured by the Dominion, an organization hell-bent on taking over every galaxy in every way they can, he’s used as a lab experiment to see how his special, combined heritage can be advantageous for them. Fleeing Dominion control, he vows to himself, they will never find him again. A chance meeting between Jared and Jensen helps both of them get what they’re looking for – and the way things end up, it may have been more than just chance. From various planets throughout different galaxies, to nights under the stars in space, Jared and Jensen find in each other something worth fighting – and possibly dying – for.

Comment: I think about this story so often. sometimes I look at the stars and think of these boys.

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 39813; Warnings: none

Meet You at the Dock by grace_fully

jensen’s a third-year ivy league student home in small town Vermont for the summer. the lake, his family, his friends – all the way he left them last year. except jared. jared’s new.

Comment: grace_fully is one of the most talented writers this fandom has had and I miss her so much. this story is so simple and gorgeous and you can feel the pining just as much as you can feel drip of sweat on your skin in a muggy summer.

Rating: PG-13; Word Count: 5800; Warnings: None

Miles to Go by @dollyluxe

As Jensen’s assistant, Jared takes care of him at work. As a man in love, he can’t help that he wants to wrap him up in a warm blanket and take care of him in every other aspect of his life, too.

Comment: I read this fic at least once a month, if not more. it’s a Christmas fic that is so much more than a Christmas fic. it makes your heart stop in your chest and it makes you want. 

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 8176; Warnings: none

Funniest Fics

So Hurry Up and Bring Your Jukebox Money by curds_and_wheyface

It’s Mardi Gras at the beach and Chad wants to film Jared getting laid for his website. It says a lot about their friendship that this isn’t even the weirdest thing Chad’s ever asked of him.

Comment: it’s steaming hot and hysterical and Chad is a main character, which guarantees laughter. 

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 7527; Warnings: voyeurism, alcohol 

(A Shortage of) Sense and Sensibility by lightinthehall

[ Mockumentary!AU fic ] Except Jared just can’t understand why Jensen isn’t off-the-charts, truly, madly, deeply in love with him. He’s pretty used to merely looking at people and having them swoon all over the place. Not Jensen. Not only is Jensen apparently immune to the sex-power-stare of Jared Padalecki, he’s never around to witness it. Every time the director yells That’s a wrap! Jared turns to say, ask Jensen out for something casual like coffee at his place – or sex on the coffee table at his place -  poof! Jensen’s gone before he can even get a word out.

Comment: I love the mockumentary. I love that weirdo universe’s not-Jared and not-Jensen. this fic captures that so much and I just giggle constantly.

Rating: Teen; Word Count: 3533; Warnings: none

A Man’s Fortune by morrezela 

Jared is a dragon. Jensen is a pretty if foolhardy young man trespassing on Jared’s mountain. Nobody ever warned Jensen about the possessive nature of dragons.

Comment: this is so much more than just a funny fic, but it is funny and made me laugh out loud at times. Jared is just. so sad (hysterically sad) that Jensen doesn’t want to be captured by him, and I just. the poor thing. 

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 25791; Warnings: dubious consent 

To Hell and Back by ashtraythief

It is said that if a demon steals an angel from heaven he’ll gain immense power. Jared is a demon who doesn’t fit in and when he finds a spell to open a passage to heaven, he thinks he’s found a solution to all his problems: angel power. But Jensen, the angel he takes, is not at all what he expected a celestial being to be like and things don’t go as planned. At all. In the ensuing chaos, Jared and Jensen have to form a strained alliance to survive and embark on a dangerous journey through the deepest pits of hell to flee from Jared’s rivals and all the other demons jonesing for angel blood.

Comment: I read this last year and it was one of my favorites of the Big Bang that year. Jared is the most hysterical and adorablely wonderful demon and Jensen is the most un-angel-y guy and their adventure is amazing, whilst having a fantastic plot.

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 28378; Warnings: violence

Decaffeinated by Molly

In which Jensen develops a drinking problem, and Jared solves it for him.

Comment: we all know that Jensen + coffee is the true OTP and, as a fellow coffee addict, I just couldn’t not love this fic

Rating: General; Word Count: 5071; Warnings: none 

#FlyTheUnfriendlySkies by dugindeep

Jensen is a customer service agent in American Airlines’ Admirals Club and Jared is the crabby celebrity who is always in his face.

Comment: literally just. this fic. lmao. 

Rating: NC-17; Word Count: 7600; Warnings: none

Fics that Made Me Cry

The Courtship of Jensen’s Co-Star by @qblackheart

Somewhere in the time between a handshake and a hug, Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki went from being reel-life brothers to real-life best friends, and complete strangers to cosmic soul mates, no rhyme or reason to it that either of them could ever see. Jared was everything Jensen was not: friendly, funny, and full of life; one in six-point-whatever billion the Earth’s population currently stood at. Life was awesome. Work was amazing. Everything was fine until Jared kissed Jensen. Everything was peachy until Jensen fell in love. With desperate times unexpectedly calling for desperate measures, Jensen called Chad Michael Murray for relationship advice – because being in love led to temporary insanity obviously – so it really didn’t surprise him that he couldn’t seem to win when it came to wooing Jared. Still, Pisces must’ve been in a really good place in the night sky or something because suddenly, right smack dab in the middle of the miserable courtship of his co-star, Jensen discovered that maybe loving Jared was all he needed to do to win his heart. And luckily for Jensen, loving Jared was also the one thing he did best.

Comment: I talk about this fic all the time, but, god, I can’t help it. it’s them. and I cry and my hands shake and I’m completely overwhelmed by them. always.

Rating: NC-17; Word Count: 112,000+; Warnings: none

Forget-Me-Not by @babybrotherdean  

In 1547, they meet as children. Sometimes, even when two people are truly meant to be together, it takes a few lifetimes across a few centuries for everything to sort itself out.

Comment: reincarnation. meant-to-be. losing each other. ache ache ache. 

Rating: Mature; Word Count: 9400; Warnings: character death

I Saw You Shine by @dollyluxe

Jared gets a glimpse into Jensen’s new life.

Comment: this was written for me so I’m probably a bit biased (I cried when I saw the notification, let alone the tears that came when I read it), but I absolutely sob reading this story. I understand them both more than I care to ever explain, and it’s the most gorgeous kind of pain that ends as happy as it can because it’s our boys and it has to. 

Rating: Teen; Word Count: 3203; Warnings: depression, suicidal thoughts

Criminal Intentions by fftf

One murdered girl and no solid suspects’ leads local sheriff Jeffrey Dean Morgan to Jared - son of respected ex-sheriff, Gerald Padalecki, and soon-to-be newlywed. With nothing but shared history and circumstantial evidence to link him to the case, Jared’s name is cleared, but there is more than one life destroyed that night and harsh truths are brought to light which threaten everything Jared thought he could count on. Four years later Jared Padalecki returns to his hometown, and his old life – including his best friend and ex-fiancé Jensen – as a successful Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Jared has received information which endangers Jensen and everything Jared still holds dear, but his investigation provides him with more than he bargained for, including worrying insights into the crime that destroyed his life. Is Genevieve Cortese’s killer back and gunning for Jensen? Or is there more to the case than meets the eye?

Comment: this isn’t so much a crying-fic as it is just pure emotion. it’s so charged and intense and I could feel my breathing drop at times and. ugh. yes.

Rating: NC-17; Word Count: 69350; Warnings: character death

And a fic that fits all of these categories:

sadly is not online anymore. but.

The Doors of Time by felisblanco

god. this story. my forever-favorite fic ever. absolutely ever. I sob and dream and can see everything. absolutely everything that happens in this story. I wish I was more eloquent with my words so I could tell you what this story means to me, and one day I will. one day I’ll get all my thoughts about this story down. one day I’ll be able to comprehend the pain and joy this story brings me.  

#Anonymous #j2 #j2 fic recs #fic recs #there are so many good fics #so many #and i'm missing a hundred #i'll add more #try to find other ones I haven't recced yet i promise #long post for ts

[claroquequiza]

Oops someone else asked about Hanzo's anxiety attack commentary! How about when he tells McCree underneath the trees what he believes his fate is?

Oh My

The click of the deadbolt was audible even over the four or five meters between Hanzo and the door, a detail he automatically filed away as a potential warning or prompt for anyone monitoring the main entrance as he stiffened just as automatically. The door opened slowly, and it did indeed reveal the cowboy, dressed in dark blue jeans and a red and white plaid flannel shirt with long sleeves rolled up to the elbow and partially untucked to ineffectually hide the belt buckle gleaming on his waist. His hair, uncorralled for once by the hat held limply at the cowboy’s side, framed his face, surprisingly long and lanky and dark in the shade.

Jack roughed up Jesse a little while tearing him a new one. Not really, but you wouldn’t know it by your appearance, Jesse.

Hanzo had, once again, expected anger to be contorting the cowboy’s face, and once again he was surprised. There was a strange mix of determination and nervousness badly hidden just under the surface of his eyes when they found his own. They stared at each other for a few moments before the cowboy stepped out of the safehouse, letting the door swing closed on its own with a loud thud. Hanzo could not help a slight twitch of an eyebrow as the noise bounced off the surrounding walls a couple of times, but the cowboy paid little heed as he ambled slowly forward, coming to a stop a couple of meters away, just shy of where Hanzo would have been forced to start looking up at him.

The cowboy studied his face for a few moments. Hanzo kept it as blank as possible.

The cowboy took in a deep breath, let it out in a whoosh, and turned away slightly, pressing his hat to his hip with a metal hand while running the other whole hand through his hair. He shook his head slightly and bit his bottom lip. Hanzo watched it all with slightly narrowing eyes. Finally, he turned back and, gesturing at the ground with his free hand, said, “Mind if I sit for a spell?”

LOL, I love how McCree is supposed to apologize here, and he knows he’s gotta, but damn it, people have done all sorts of things waaaay nicer than carrying him to a medic after they assaulted him, and a lot of them ended up having awful motivations. How can he possibly expect better from Shimada?!

Hanzo blinked slowly. The cowboy made no move, even as the silence dragged on for a few beats. An actual request, then. Unusual. He shook his head slightly, and the cowboy nodded back as he dropped down to the ground. At first he let his legs carelessly sprawl out in front of him, but after a moment he seemed to reconsider and folded them into a loose cross-legged position, his hat in his lap and his hands on his knees, despite how uncomfortable the position must have been as his jeans rode up slightly to reveal the cowboy boots.

Hanzo wrinkled his nose slightly at the garish, unpolished spurs, a needless and noisy feature--but no, he realized, the cowboy had made no noise save for crushing the detritus underfoot. Were these spurs purely for show?

I adhere to the spurs as a cat bell headcanon. And, like a cat, Jesse knows how to get around them just fine.

He shook himself out of his pointless musings, refocusing on the cowboy. He was picking at a small pile of needles by his right knee, rubbing individual needles between thumb and forefinger before letting them fall back to the ground, head bowed as if the task merited all his concentration. The scent of cedar rose from the crushed needles, a welcome change from the wet rot, even if Hanzo could scarcely appreciate it while he waited for the cowboy to reveal his intentions.

I don’t actually know what cedar smells like. I hear it’s nice.

It took a good long while, a few endless minutes, before the cowboy finally cleared his throat. “I guess you got some readin’ done after the debriefin’,” he said, without looking up.

Hanzo could not help knitting his eyebrows together. “Reading?” he asked, taking care to keep his voice level, almost monotone.

The cowboy snorted loudly, still picking at the ground. “Or ‘reviewed team data’ or ‘briefed yourself’ or whatever you wanna call readin’ my file.”

“I did not.”

Hanzo smoothed his face back into a blank mask as the cowboy’s head snapped up, his dark eyes widened. “What?”

“I did not review the file.”

There were a couple of beats of silence, the cowboy merely staring, in shock perhaps.

“Why?” he asked at last. “I woulda expected you t’want all the dirt you could find on me.”

Hanzo doesn’t do things because he’s told, he tries to do what he thinks is best. When it comes to Genji, the difference is minimal, but in general Hanzo stopped doing what he was told ten years ago. Soldier: 76 may have told him to read the files, but Hanzo found it best not to. This is where Jesse starts to realize that.

Hanzo permitted himself to raise an eyebrow slightly. So there was “dirt” in the file. He had been right not to read it, then. It would only have added to the cowboy’s grievances against him. Of course, if he could have read it anonymously, he certainly would have, but it had been sent and received by Overwatch devices--the AI would know if it was accessed. The cowboy would surely check with her; he would not take Hanzo at his word.

THE ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE IS ALWAYS WATCHING. This is why it pays to be nice to Athena, as Hanzo’s going to find out in a future chapter.

But what to say for now? He looked around slightly, wondering what was appropriate to say while sitting in the relative open like this. Trusting in the constant drone of the cicadas to mask their voices, he settled on, “You say he joined a month ago, correct?” At the cowboy’s slight nod, “He did not consult anyone. I am unsure if he is authorized to do such a thing, after so little time.”

The cowboy’s lips curled into a strange smile. “Well, shit. I dunno, either, t’be honest,” he muttered, tone thoughtful with a strange edge of mirth. “I guess he must be, since he sent it in the first place.” Hanzo barely had time to consider the implications of that before the cowboy’s face dropped into a serious expression, his eyes piercing. “But you don’ really need any more dirt, do ya?”

WHAT could he POSSIBLY mean?

Well, I’ll tell you, [TEXT REDACTED]

Hanzo kept his face immobile, but he could feel his mind kick into high gear with an almost audible click behind his eyes. Dirt? On the cowboy? Hanzo had no idea what he was talking about.

Was he referring to the price on his head? It would be an odd non-sequitur, but Hanzo was at a loss to think of anything else. He had assumed it to be an open secret of little worth. He had discovered the bounty almost immediately when he had performed a quick search for information on Overwatch and its personnel during his stopover in Daisen. Jesse McCree was one of the most expensive criminals in the world, which would have interested Hanzo greatly if the cowboy were not an associate-by-duress, and if the United States’ haphazard bounty system could be trusted to properly distinguish between the criminal and the accused. Overwatch apparently did not trust it, and Hanzo certainly did not, either. The Shimada-gumi had “requested” the placement of several bounties for many of its enemies in America through its government contacts, and it had mattered little if there was an official criminal history or not. Hanzo would probably have an American bounty himself if his betrayal were not such an embarrassment for the clan.

LOL, you gotta have a good reason for Hanzo not to go for that bounty. Even if Genji invited him to Overwatch, there’s gotta be a good reason for Hanzo not to immediately shoot Jesse in the head. 

Also an excellent opportunity to jab at the American criminal “justice” system. I Have Opinions, y’all, and I love dropping them into the text every once in a while.

So, if not the bounty, what?

Hanzo mentally shrugged. If the cowboy believed he had something, perhaps he did, but he sincerely doubted it amounted to anything. Sixty million dollars was nothing compared to being Genji’s comrade. What could possibly tempt him to ignore the debt he owed there? But he might as well try to find out what the cowboy was talking about, if he could.

“I do not know what you are referring to,” he said, making sure to lose some of the monotone in favor of a slightly confused edge.

The cowboy set his jaw for a moment. “Don’ go bullshittin’ me, Shimada,” he said in a low growl. “You told 76 everythin’ else--why wouldn’ you go the full mile, especially about that?”

[TEXT REDACTED]

Hanzo could feel his eyebrows creep together again. So it had something to do with the debriefing? Under the hot glare of the cowboy, he quickly ran over his entire conversation with the Soldier, trying to find what he had apparently left unsaid. The Soldier had been thorough about everything from the time Hanzo had arrived, to his surveillance pattern to the attack itself to all the cowboy’s negligence--

--but no, not all the cowboy’s negligence.

It was actually hard to think of a mistake for Jesse to commit--I don’t want Jesse to be an idiot or a fool in any way, shape, or form, so it was difficult to come up with something that was believable yet would make sense to someone as clever and intelligent as Jesse McCree. The key was his faith in teammates and his having spent years with no one at his side but the criminals he just bagged--lots of things make sense when you’re alone versus when you’re working in a team, and he’s rusty.

His expression cleared. Of course. Hanzo had omitted the detail where he had attempted to warn the cowboy about the likely schedule of the Yoneyama, a key piece of information that could have cut their numbers in half at the beginning of the battle, as well as greatly delayed the arrival of reinforcements. It was the cowboy’s fault that Overwatch had dropped in just in time to find themselves sandwiched between defenders and attackers, an unenviable position. It occurred to Hanzo that had they arrived a few minutes later still, both shifts of Yoneyama guards would have been clustered around the warehouse, possibly able to retreat into and double the fortifications of the warehouse, and who knew how that would have affected the final result.

Hanzo had not failed to mention this to the Soldier by choice--it had simply not occurred to Hanzo to say anything about it, possibly due to his disturbed state of mind, and the Soldier’s questions had not moved in that direction. Perhaps he, too, had been distracted, by Hanzo knowing next to nothing about the team.

If this was the “dirt”, then it truly amounted to nothing--it was merely a small addendum on the rest of the cowboy’s actions. Hanzo was surprised the cowboy thought it of any note, to be honest. Perhaps the Soldier had been pushed to the very edge by Hanzo’s report--he had certainly seemed to be building towards some near-apocalyptic rage when Hanzo had fled outside--and the cowboy had only barely avoided some enormous consequence by the skin of his teeth.

More likely, Hanzo decided, the cowboy suspected that he had been searching for something to discredit him, something he could blackmail him with. The thought almost made him snort. What use would that be? Overwatch was already overlooking a sixty million dollar bounty--in the face of that, what could Hanzo, half-agent and murderer, possibly say or do that could shake that apparently unflappable trust the organization had in the cowboy? However--

You’d be surprised, Hanzo.

Hanzo felt his back loosen marginally, noting that he had unconsciously began to curl forward slightly as he had been thinking. But now he could relax, just a little, because now he had a fix on the cowboy’s odd behavior from the moment Hanzo had dumped him next to his comrades at the warehouse.

After the near-disastrous battle, he knew that Hanzo’s report would inevitably result in short-term censure, but his position in Overwatch was secure overall, so he had feigned nervousness in an attempt to see what Hanzo would do if he was under the impression that he had some leverage against him. If Hanzo were more easily duped, he might have pounced on that leverage and tried to use it to some end or other, but the cowboy could then reveal the attempt in order to cast doubt on Hanzo himself, if more doubt was possible.

Clever. Very clever. Hanzo could barely refrain from shaking his head wryly as he evenly returned the cowboy’s glare. When he had first met him, it had been hard to believe that he had been part of a black ops organization for any amount of time, but Hanzo had been wise not to let his wild, ruffled, unkempt appearance deceive him. He was turning out to be something of an opponent.

I love having Hanzo respect Jesse for all the wrong reasons. I LOVE IT.

Hanzo felt his lips curve ever so slightly at the thought. An opponent, but in a game of what, exactly? Hanzo had nothing to lose except his life, after all, and even that already belonged to another, if only he would exercise that right.

Whatever the game was, though, Hanzo had little interest in playing.

Here comes the nuclear bomb.

He made a slight show of relaxing, arranging his knees into a slightly more comfortable position before speaking. “Agent McCree, it would change nothing if I went to the Soldier to amend my report,” he said, letting his face drop into an almost bored expression.

The cowboy, on the other hand, looked surprised. “What d’you mean by that, exactly?” he asked after a moment.

Hanzo gave a tiny sigh. The cowboy was his handler, so if he wanted to continue the game, Hanzo would be forced to participate, even minimally--but surely both men had better things to do with their time. Hanzo considered for a moment, before looking around them. The air was beginning to chill and leach the warmth from his skin as their surroundings darkened. If the branches above did not block the view, the first stars might have been visible in the blueblack sky. “How openly may I speak here? Are we secure?”

The cowboy frowned, looking a bit thrown by the question. “We’re--secure,” he said. “Mercy and Athena’re keepin’ an eye on the drones.” A look of understanding dawned then, and he lowered his voice almost to a growl again. “So say what you gotta say. Nothin’ and no one will overhear.”

Hanzo rather doubted that, but the alternative was going back into the safehouse, where the Soldier or the doctor were much more likely to overhear what, in the end, only the cowboy needed to know.

“You do not trust me,” he said without preamble. “You believe Overwatch should not trust me, that much is obvious. Did the Soldier tell you that I agree with you?” The cowboy sucked in a breath through his nose, which was all Hanzo allowed before he continued. Best to speak quickly, now.

“I defended your actions to him. You wished to protect your teammates from me, a proven danger. You are right to do this. I would do the same in your place. I would, perhaps, do more.” The cowboy’s eye twitched, and Hanzo smiled wanly. “In the end, however, it is unnecessary. There is absolutely nothing for me to gain by betraying Overwatch. There might be some riches, of course, but what use are riches without honor? And there is only one source of honor since I raised my--raised arms against Genji. And he will provide it, once he comes to his senses.”

“What?” the cowboy muttered, face closed, eyes narrowed.

Hanzo did not bother to hide his sigh. “The doctor tells me,” he said quietly, “that for whatever reason, he has only recently been blinded by this idea that forgiveness will suffice. It will not. You must only wait for his vision to clear, as I am.

“You worry for his safety when it does, of course, but he has defeated me each time we have met since he revealed himself. I have no doubt he will again, when he is ready.” The words were only a little forced, despite Hanzo’s pride. Even now, it sought to rise up and rage against the notion of his brother besting him, a bitter reminder that the past was not truly past. “We only need to tolerate each other for a little while, cowboy. I truly do not expect it to be long. There is nothing to do except indulge him until then. If he wishes for me to serve Overwatch while I wait for him to remember his right, so be it.”

This whole scene came from “We only need to tolerate each other for a little while, cowboy. I truly do not expect it to be long.” I originally put it near the beginning of their conversation, and the rest of the scene grew around it. I had to work to make it believable for Hanzo to be so frank with Jesse.

He paused, considering. “Also,” he mused slowly, “It was Overwatch that saved his life. I assume so, from what the doc--from what Mercy has said?” The cowboy nodded slowly. “Then I owe Overwatch, regardless of Genji’s wishes. Because of them, Genji lives, and so does this chance at redemption.”

At the word redemption , the cowboy stiffened, and his flesh hand went to cover the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. Hanzo gave no sign that he noticed, keeping his eyes fixed on the cowboy’s face. “Why tell me this?” he breathed out, as if he could not help himself.

I’m looking forward to revealing what’s in his pocketses. I knew it was going to be Something, but I didn’t decide exactly what it was until I watching @nimpnawakproduction‘s art stream as she very generously drew out this scene. She asked what was in there, and right then and there it just came to me what it going to be.

Hanzo huffed. “You fear my intentions, for Genji and Overwatch. This has been clear from the beginning. So there they are, laid bare.”

“And you think I’ll just step--” the cowboy seemed almost to choke on his words, but Hanzo would continue if he would not.

“Step aside?” The cowboy flinched , and Hanzo, in spite of himself, rolled his eyes. “ Yes , cowboy. I believe even you can appreciate the convenience, even the elegance, of allowing a problem to resolve itself.”

I’m really proud of this line. Hanzo is revealing a little bit of his newfound respect for Jesse in the most passive aggressive possible--but he doesn’t know he might as well have just gutshot Jesse.

Silence. The cowboy kept his hand over his pocket, staring, almost squinting at Hanzo through the deepening gloom.

What are you thinking about, Jesse?

What indeed.

Thank you so much for the prompt!! I hope you enjoyed it!!

#asks #behind the scenes #my fics #Anonymous

[mischievousmoonhunter-blog]

Shadow of the Stars

A Captain America and Winter soldier story

Jaylin Rogers has always struggled with being the daughter of Steve Rogers, aka Captain America, mostly because of her lack of freedom. After a failed attempt to do something about this, her life is changes forever when a shadow from her father’s past returns to haunt her.  

--------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER ONE

It isn’t easy, being the daughter of super-soldier Steve Rogers – better known as the legend Captain America. Not at all. First of all, it is never fun to always be “daughter of” and nothing more. You quickly learn to live inside a shadow. Your last name will always be far more important than your first, even though that’s the one identifying you. Second of all, it is weird. I mean, he’s older than many (if not most) grandfathers, yet on bad days he might look barely older than 30.  And… let’s just say that as I got older, and the girls around me got older as well, those girls started to notice how “young” he was. Third, I wasn’t super. At least, not nearly as super. Having only half of his genes meant I was maybe a bit faster and stronger than most people without having to work out 24/7, but being healthy, never getting a cold or beating all high school boys in sprint doesn’t make you “cool” or even likable.

They did say I look like him, with my blue eyes and blond hair. Mine are both darker, less… pure. As if my appearance was a confirmation I wasn’t as good as him - proof of being in a constant state of disappointment. As a little girl, you quickly learn the other kids only want to play with you because they want to see your house and the stuff in it. Everyone always seems to look right through you. I can tell from personal experience it is pretty traumatic when other pre-schoolers get mad at you because no one is allowed to come home with you… Let me say: you learn to SHIELD yourself from other people… Sorry, that was bad. But yeah… Admittedly, there are some advantages to being spawn of the Steve Rogers; you never get bad grades on history tests and essays. Oh, you also have lots of non-related, vengeful aunts and uncles. With vengeful I actually mean the Avengers. They are cool, though dad tries to keep me away from that world.

Aunt Nat is amazing, and she’s actually my best friend. She taught me everything I need to know about being a girl, and I think dad still owes her for not having to deal with any of my “woman inconveniences”. Then there’s Sam. He’s one of the nicest guys I know and probably the most normal one, too - even though he regularly soars through the sky with metal wings strapped to his back. He’s a good support in a world that is totally abnormal, despite your father’s attempts to make sure you don’t get caught in his own, strange reality. Sam understands how it feels to live in between those two worlds – the one where they worry about their grades, crushes, jobs and promotions, and the one where you’re in a constant state of vigilance, knowing no one is who they say they are. He’s the most stable part of my life; a sturdy pillar to hold me up. One might think this connection and support would mean I’d be happy to see him when he picked me up after school. In reality it didn’t, because it meant dad was on another mission and hadn’t had time to say as much as “goodbye”.

'If it isn't the messenger,' I grunted, pulling the car door open with a mean swing. Had I had my father’s strength, it would’ve been dangling in my hand, torn loose from its hinges. 'Hello to you too,' Sam greeted me, leaning undisturbed upon the sleek car. It was a dark blue model, matching the navy blue jacket the driver was wearing today. It fluttered a little in the heavy wind, which also rustled through my ponytail. I slumped down in the passenger seat and shut the door - not too carefully - all the while I kept staring straight ahead. ‘How's the captain?' I sneered. Sighing, Sam got in, closing the door behind him. ‘He didn't know he'd have to go, you know.' That I knew, very well. Still, I looked out the window with a constant frown on my face. The keys jingled when Sam turned them to start the engine. The car hummed a pleasant, low rumble, and barely made a sound as Sam steered it towards the tranquillity of our home. It would take us while until we would reach the niceness of familiarity. For now, I just watched blankly as teenagers laughed and complained while stepping into their cars, all happy to go back to their ordinary home and ordinary parents. All of them were quickly out of view, replaced by the many other aspects of mundane life. ‘You are such a little beam of sunlight, aren't you?' I was aware of Sam’s eyes glancing back and forth between the road and me, those brown eyes always full of worry. If I were to look at him, my angry mask would break, so I kept staring ahead. 'Humph...' 'That's all I get? I come here, especially for you, and you don't even smile. And I do like your smile so much, Jay...' I could no longer resist; I gave him a sly look and met his kind and teasing expression. I smirked, laced with a genuine – though slightly unwilling – smile. 'That's my girl,' Sam smiled back. 'How was school?' Ugh, school; I rolled my eyes. 'The usual. You know, I don't see the point in testing how many presidents we can memorise, there aren't that many.' I breathed on the window and drew little stars, which vanished within seconds. 'Not everyone has super memory,' Sam remarked. I grimaced at him. 'I'm nothing compared to dad. Besides, what is the use of knowing all American presidents?' 'Says the daughter of America's greatest patriot...' Sam smiled at the road ahead. 'Exactly.’ I sunk a little deeper down into the seat, so I could only barely catch glimpses of the colours rushing past the car’s windows. ‘I can know.' I watched as we drove into a quieter lane guarded by high trees, until we arrived at an electronic fence, which opened automatically when the cameras recognised our faces. We lived far away from the city, somewhere surrounded and guarded by tall trees. Here, you never heard the constant noise of traffic, or the never-ending murmur of voices. Only here, I knew true silence, were it not for the evermoving branches with their rustling leaves. 'How was your day?' I informed, hauling my backpack over one shoulder and closing the car door behind me, still a bit of annoyance packed in the gesture. Together, we made our way to the big, white house, oozing America. Made of wood, with a big porch, two stories and even an attic, perfectly maintained; exactly as you’d expect from Captain America’s home. Soft leaves crackled underneath our feet, giving a lovely, autumny atmosphere to this already idyllic picture. 'Also the usual,' Sam held the door for me. 'Want waffles?' I threw my bag on the kitchen table. 'Is that even a question?' 'What's the magic word?' 'Please,' I grinned. ‘Or else...'

I watched Sam take everything he needed, prepare the batter and begin making the waffles. He did it with the ease of a man who’d done it a hundred times before – which was about right, to be honest. I loved Sam’s cooking. 'Nat’s with him?' I asked, walking towards the fridge where I took a bottle of glacier water (it had become my favourite after a joke of Natasha and Tony had stuck around). 'Yeah, though they didn't need me, for some reason.' Yet again I was amazed at how little Sam seemed to care about that. 'They need you to babysit,' I chuckled, nudging him as I walked by. 'Even though I don't need it, I appreciate it.' Sam glanced back at me. 'I'm happy to hear that.'

'Mmm,' I hummed a while later as I poured maple syrup all over my waffles, 'you're such a good mommy bird.' 'I will take that as a compliment,' Sam said the moment my phone buzzed.

Dear Jaylin,

I'm sorry I had to leave again, so soon after my last mission. Sam promised me he'd take care of you. I trust you will behave.

Love, Dad

When I read "I trust you will behave," I grimaced at the screen. How old did he think I was? It was frustrating; while other people often thought I was quite a bit older than I actually was, my dad still seemed to deem me no more than a foolish little girl. It was especially frustrating because I had always felt different, maybe even older, than most children surrounding me. It had often crossed my mind this might be another result of my father’s genes – how they even interfered with how I grew up, refusing to grant me as much as a normal childhood. 'Sometimes I feel like I should date someone dad really dislikes,' I mused abruptly. I imagined myself coming home with the biggest jerk I could find and shivered. Sam’s cheeks rose as he took a sip from his large mug filled with strongly smelling coffee. 'I would be worried, if I didn't know you have more pride than your dad.' 'Sadly, yes.'

Hey, Natasha... Forgot something...?

I waited. Dad usually send his messages late, but Natasha didn't; she knew exactly how I felt about their sudden disappearances and the radio silences that usually followed. It’s how I got to hate surprises, as surprise never held a pleasant meaning for me, only that my father had to save the world again.

I'm really sorry I was really busy I'll make it up when we’re back...?

Even these texted words were hasty. Still, they seemed genuine enough.

Sure Keep him safe, will you?

I was aware It wasn't much of a message, but it was all she would need; Nat knew me too well to think I'd stay mad at her.

'So,' Sam said, when I had finished eating, and I had put down my phone, ‘are you going?' 'Going where?' Sam raised his eyebrows. 'The gala. I saw the flyers.' Flyers? Some brightly coloured papers seemed to hang before me. Curly font spelled out the date of a gala (or a masked ball) for all students. Apparently, it was going to be quite fancy. Now I thought about it, I recalled many people at school excitedly discussing the event. 'Oh, that... No, I don't think so.' 'Well, it's more than a month away,' Sam said confidently, like he was certain I would change my mind. This self-assuredness annoyed me. 'I’m really not going,' I stressed. 'Definitely not.' My guardian shrugged. ‘It might be good for you to go out. Be around people your own age.’ It was time to deploy my most efficient method to avoid topics I dislike: walking away. ‘Then let me go out,’ I smirked. ‘And as I am the same age as myself, I’ll be around people my own age, too.’ Before Sam could react, I sprinted to my room.

After changing into my workout clothes – shorts and a tank top –, I put in earbuds and let music fill my ears. Running never failed to calm me down. I didn't get tired easily, so sometimes I ran for hours on end without realising it. I was happy for the immense woods in which I could jog, without people staring at me or annoying me. So, today, like I had done many times before, I let myself absorb the sound of the music while my mind went blank. My heart beat steadily. My blood flowed rapidly. My feet stomped regularly against the soft dirt. Just running, only running.  

Chapter Two

#bucky imagine #avengers imagine #bucky x reader #reader x bucky #Bucky Barnes #the winter soldier #Steve Rogers #captain america #sam wilson #falcon #natasha romanoff #Black Widow #tony stark #Iron Man #Sebastian Stan #Shadow of the Stars #captain america x daughter

[refractionslondon]

The dark, intrinsic humour of W.G.Sebald

Sizewell beach, with mysterious fridge that appeared one day - photo by author

When I first read W.G.Sebald, around 10 or 12 years ago, as a result of reading some review in either the London Review of Books, or was it the New York Review of Books, I forget which and certainly cannot recall which book was under discussion,  I was like many before and since mesmerised by the dreamlike narrative flow, its meandering sentences that wind their way through sub-clauses and conjoin to form paragraphs that offer no natural pause for breath for many pages, its seamless shifts of direction, subject and focus, the aura of melancholy, the obsession with decay and destruction as the only historical constant, the omnipresent references to learning and facts that were often so obscure that verification would have been impossible or at least hard to achieve, even if there had been any point in seeking to ascertain to what extent the author – or was it the narrator, at whatever level, and in that near indistinguishable tone that left one uncertain unless the author constantly reminds us as often is the case who is indeed the narrator at a given point - was indeed imparting knowledge or learning grounded in what might be historically or factually verifiable material, and not least by the somewhat flat monotone of the English language of the translated text that was both natural yet incongruous, given the sad or so to speak dismal quality of so much of the content, and yet which seemed to match the gentle undulations of the ever-eroding Suffolk coastline that is the scene of his pilgrimage in the Rings of Saturn.  Which is still my favourite.

What I had not registered, when I had read his main four works first time round, was any sense of the comic as part of, indeed intrinsic to, Sebald’s armoury.  The books indeed gave the opposite impression – a hypnotic but constantly depressing perspective on the human condition and human history.  But I now smile a lot as I read, in between the melancholy.

In recent months, and in part inspired by my desire to become more fluent (as reader, alas not yet as speaker) in the German language, and in part with an amateur’s interest in the techniques of translation, I have re-read both the Rings of Saturn and Austerlitz, this time in German as well as English, with the two language versions side by side. Or more precisely, around one page at a time in German followed by the same page in English, to see how far I had correctly divined the meaning.  It was a very slow but often inspiring process.  I saw - and also heard, as I read many passages half aloud to myself - how the German language version (which is the original) has a very different rhythm and tone from the English; it is far more expressive, alliterative and even onomatopoeic in the original, which is no criticism of his very fine English translators.  

But above all, I had to read each word and clause closely, often several times, in order to understand the text, and thus gain a far stronger sense of what effect the author was aiming to achieve.  And I have concluded – for all the terrible matters that Sebald recalls and recounts – that interwoven in the whole serious Sebaldian enterprise there is also a mischievous and dark sense of humour, almost always swimming beneath the surface and which from time to time emerges from the depths as evidently comic writing.  

Sebald’s picture of Dunwich empty beach in Rings of Saturn

Or indeed, comic photography.  For can we really believe, to take a random example, that Sebald’s photo (p.155 in the English version) of the North Sea at Dunwich, showing a dull unpeopled shingle beach devoid of interest or aesthetic quality, was chosen for any non-comic purpose?  Dunwich, of course, was a godsend to Sebald’s general narrative of decay and transience; an example of a once-thriving port that has been destroyed and washed away by the forces of time, tide, storm and erosion.  But the photo selected and inserted deliberately exaggerates and ironises the (in reality non-existent) contemporary boring-ness of the remaining hamlet.

Author’s photo of empty Sizewell beach, from which one wife has been ‘disappeared’ 

Now no one can accuse Sebald of not being mischievous (and misleading).  On the very next page we find a picture of the “Eccles Church Tower” standing in the sand, just yards from the sea, which, he tells us, “still stood on Dunwich beach” until about 1890; moreover, “after Eccles Tower had also collapsed, the only Dunwich church that remained was the ruin of All Saints”.  

I had never heard of Eccles Tower at Dunwich, but had assumed Sebald would not have made this up… but Sebald never claimed that he was writing pure documentary or accurate material. And he certainly wasn’t in accurate mode on this occasion.  The Eccles Tower was so named because… it was never in Dunwich but in Eccles-by-the-Sea, 50 miles away on the north-east coast of Sebald’s own home county of Norfolk! The village and church of Eccles did however suffer a similar fate to Dunwich in that, over centuries, it was washed  into the sea. (I learnt all this from a blog by Homo Ludens dated October 2007, though it is written about in more ‘literary’ reviews).

It is inconceivable that Sebald was confused or negligent about the Eccles Tower; since the facts are easily ascertainable by anyone truly interested, he can surely not have been hoping to deceive yet avoid discovery, nor does the insertion add any obvious narrative or other advantage (save maybe to underlines the unreliability of both the narrator and of memory in general).  It seems to me that this is one of many examples of Sebald simply teasing his readers with games, amid his many horrific themes, setting them puzzles if they wish to delve further.

I am sadder (but wiser) to learn that there is no evidence that the train on the branch line from Halesworth to Walberswick was ever in the service of the Chinese Emperor in Beijing, as is proposed by Sebald.  

Photo https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_rail_transport_in_China#/media/File:OpeningDay.jpg 

It is a ‘truth’ that all readers surely yearn to believe, and the link is a literary necessity for Sebald to slide into the tale of imperialist interventions in China in the mid 19th century. Yet the fact that this tale of the Chinese train is pure invention is plain to see, once we realise that Sebald mixes playful post-truth with his more serious intent to recall past sufferings that humans have imposed on each other. He lures us into his false linkage as follows:

“According to local historians, the train that ran on [the branch line] had originally been built for the Emperor of China.  Precisely which emperor had given this commission I have not succeeded in finding out, despite lengthy research; nor have I been able to discover why the order was never delivered or why this diminutive imperial train, which may have been intended to connect the Palace in Peking, then still surrounded by pinewoods, to one of the summer residences, ended up in service on a branch line of the Great Eastern Railway.  The only thing the uncertain sources agree on is that the outlines of the imperial heraldic dragon, complete with a tail and somewhat clouded over by its own breath, could clearly be made out beneath the black paintwork of the carriages, which were used mainly by seaside holidaymakers and travelled at a maximum speed of sixteen miles per hour.”

http://thelostbyway.com/2013/09/w-g-sebalds-southwold.html

In retrospect, I cannot but admire and smile at the references to unnamed “local historians”, to the author’s “lengthy research” - which, alas!, does not help him succeed in finding out more - and to the unspecified “uncertain sources”.

Over the years, I have read many articles and exchanges about Sebald’s writing, but very few comment on the comedic dimension of his work, and those who do sometimes seem uncertain whether the effect is comic despite the author’s intention, or because he was, in the end, an implicitly witty writer, alongside his other qualities.

In her Introduction to “The Emergence of Memory: Conversations with W.G Sebald”, the American writer Lynne Sharon Schwartz emphasizes

“His dreamlike narratives, meandering yet meticulous, echo the lingering state of shock that is our legacy – not only from the wars of recent memory but from the centuries of colonialism that preceded them, indeed, history’s ‘long account of calamities’”.

But she adds,

“In the Rings of Saturn, to my mind Sebald’s best work, his imagination is given free rein and his digressive bent carried to its most extreme – almost comic – reaches.  The swirling paths of thought cast a spell: if the reader is willing to submit, the author’s sensibility will carry him toward ever more tangled and distressing tales of decay, entropy, and destruction.” (My emphasis).

In a brief survey of the various authors’ contributions to her book, Schwartz notes that

“[Tim] Parks, incidentally, is the only writer to mention Sebald’s humor, which glimmers slyly through his pessimism and is often overlooked.”

And Parks himself refers to  Sebald’s “accustomed blend of slyness and grim comedy” and describes how

“All too soon, however, and this is one of the most effective elements of comedy in Sebald’s work, the concrete will become elusive; the narrative momentum is dispersed in a delta as impenetrable as it is fertile.”

For me, and seemingly also for Parks, it is certain that Sebald knowingly wove comedy into his darker narrative meanders; and I am equally confident that many (though not necessarily all) of his factual errors (like the Eccles Tower) were likewise deliberately placed, either as a means of sliding the narrative apparently seamlessly in the direction he wanted next to explore, or simply as a game played with the reader.

Others are less sure whether the use of comedy and the falsified “facts” were deliberate.  Michael Hutchins, in his contribution on Sebald in another collection of essays, “Authentisches Erzählen: Produktion, Narration, Rezeption”, claims that

“It often remains unclear whether Sebald’s faulty statements represent “learned jokes” or the work of a dyslexic scholar.”  

And even the late Jenny Diski seemed uncertain about his comedic intent (or lack thereof).  In an article in 2000 for the London Review of Books, she says:

“After a while this super-sensitised melancholy becomes comic. One’s patience is tried as it is with those tormented heroes of Dostoevsky, if you read them after adolescence. For God’s sake, Raskolnikov, get a hold on yourself, pull yourself together. Sebald’s narrator is for all the world a middle-aged existential wanderer, out of place, out of time, and wallowing in every miserable moment, sizing himself up against other grim, unhappy wanderers: Casanova in prison, Stendhal hopelessly besotted, Kafka tormented about his longings and terror of love in a clinic in Riva. There is comedy in the grim solemnity and it may well not be accidental, because, after all, if life is not appalling, it is absurd.” (My emphasis).

In his book “Understanding W.G.Sebald”, Mark Richard McCulloh sees the frequently satirical elements in Sebald’s writing, and clearly views this as intended by the author: 

“The overriding mood many perceive in Sebald’s work is still the melancholy, the mournful, the autumnal.  If one examines Sebald’s corpus as a whole, however, it becomes apparent that similar appellatives such as “melancholy” and “somber”…are simply too sweeping.  There are satirical elements that emerge in his prose, products of his humor and astute powers of observation..”

Sebald has many critics who perceive only the dark side, and none of the humour which I consider to be the natural counterweight to his pessimism.  Alas, Alan Bennett is one who only sees Sebald hoving to the darkly depressive side:

“Sebald seems to stage manage both the landscape and the weather to suit his (seldom cheerful) mood… ‘Never yet on my many visits […] have I found anyone about.’ The fact is, in Sebald nobody is ever about.  This may be poetic but it seems to me a short-cut to significance.”

Whereas for me, the fact that for the narrator “nobody is ever about” is itself a reflection of the twinkle in Sebald’s authorial eye.

Michael Hofmann likewise fails to see much (well, in fact anything) positive in Sebald.  In an article in Prospect magazine in September 2001, entitled “Sebald’s fog”, he not only dismissed his writing as a whole, but pointedly refers to his lack of humo(u)r:

“But what was even stranger was that Sebald operated without any of the rigmarole or pleasantness of the novel.  The complete absence of humor, charm, grace, touch is startling – as startling as the fact that books written without them could enjoy any sort of success in England…”

And horror of horrors, in her 2003 New York Times review of “On the Natural History of Destruction”, the literary critic Daphne Merkin (1) sees any humour displayed by Sebald as simply being in poor cultural taste:

Needless to say, the colorless, nomadic universe he inhabits, where the pizzerias are dreary and the hotels unwelcoming, offers few flashes of humor except of the most heavy-handed, ironic variety (the eponymous Jacques Austerlitz recalls ordering an ice cream that turned out to be ''a plasterlike substance tasting of potato starch and notable chiefly for the fact that even after more than an hour it did not melt'').

I think this wilfully misses the broader point that in Sebald, the humour is in fact intrinsic to the very relentlessness of his dystopian narrative. Those constantly dreary pizzerias or hotels never fail to make me smile, knowing their type all too well…

It is true that on occasions – though they are not frequent – Sebald unleashes an overt, darkly ironic polemic, directed against some unsuspecting icon of modern life, great or small.  In the Rings of Saturn, his description of the once (but no longer) prosperous and fashionable coastal resort of Lowestoft attracts his most biting prose.  

Victoria Hotel Lowestoft with 1954 price list - including for servants. Photo http://www.oldlowestoft.co.uk/?post_WW2...:Hotel_Victoria_1954

The particular victim is the Victoria Hotel (in the English version, it is called The Albion; could it be the publishers feared a libel suit?) which seems in reality to have been a rather genteel establishment, but this is Sebald’s take on it in the mid 1990s:

I stood for a good time in the empty lobby and wandered through the public rooms, which were completely deserted even now at the height of the season – if one can speak of a season in Lowestoft – before I happened upon a startled young woman who, after hunting pointlessly through the register on the reception desk, handed me a huge room key attached to a wooden pear…. That evening I was the sole guest in the huge dining room, and it was the same startled person who took my order and shortly afterwards brought me a fish that had doubtless lain entombed in the deep-freeze for years.  The breadcrumb armour-plating of the fish had been partly singed by the grill, and the prongs of my fork bent on it.  Indeed it was so difficult to penetrate what eventually proved to be nothing but an empty shell that my plate was a hideous mess once the operation was over.  The tartare sauce that I had had to squeeze out of a plastic sachet was turned grey by the sooty breadcrumbs, and the fish itself, or what feigned to be fish, lay a sorry wreck among the grass-green peas and the remains of soggy chips that gleamed with fat.

(The German language original is even better in its display of contempt for the offering – no attempt here at subtlety!). (see footnote 2)

Or take Sebald’s diatribe against the (then) new Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris… For me, this is again comedic, though not in any way that risks causing laughter.  It is its sheer relentless grumpiness that – as it progresses - induces a smile in the reader, at least in me. The attributed narrator of this passage, Austerlitz, as cited by the principal narrator (who gives us no name but while doubtless resembling is not necessarily identical to Sebald) searching for traces of his father lost (and almost certainly murdered in a death camp) in the war, takes time out in the book to express at some length his utter loathing of the new library.  One feels that Sebald is here hardly bothering to maintain the thin dividing line between himself and the narrator(s) – that he is simply using the opportunity to express his own contempt for the Mitterandian pharaonic building and its Kafkaesque minders; we sense that Sebald himself must have been displaced from the much-loved old Bibliothèque nationale in the rue de Richelieu (which by coincidence is the very same street in which the Paris office of the Conseil des Communes et des Régions de l’Europe (CCRE) was situated when I was its Secretary General…)

“I do not think, said Austerlitz, that many of the old readers go to the new library on the Quai François Mauriac.  In order to reach the Grande Bibliothèque you have to travel through a desolate no-man’s-land in one of those robot-driven Métro trains steered by a ghostly voice, or alternatively you have to catch a bus in the Place Valhubert and then walk along the windswept river bank towards the hideous, outsize building, the monumental dimensions of which were evidently inspired by the late President’s wish to perpetuate his memory whilst, perhaps because it had served this purpose, it was so conceived that it is, as I realized on my first visit, said Austerlitz, both in its outer appearance and inner constitution unwelcoming if not inimical to human beings, and runs counter, on principle, one might say, to the requirements of any true reader.”

Photo via https://ilovearchitecture.wordpress.com/page/2/

And so on and on, not releasing its prey for pages, nor pausing for paragraph breaks:

“When I first stood on the promenade deck of the new Bibliothèque Nationale, said Austerlitz, it took me a little while to find the place where the visitor is carried down on a conveyor belt to what appears to be a basement storey but, in reality, is the ground floor.  This downwards journey, when you have just laboriously ascended to the plateau, struck me as an absolute absurdity, something that must have been devised – I can think of no other explanation, said Austerlitz – on purpose to instil a sense of insecurity and humiliation in the poor readers, especially as it ends in front of a sliding door of makeshift appearance which had a chain across it on the day of my first visit, and where you have to let yourself be searched by semi-uniformed security men.  The floor of the large hall which you then enter is laid with rust-red carpet, on which a few low seats are placed far apart… And of course, Austerlitz continued, you cannot leave the red Sinai hall for the inner citadel of the library without more ado; first you have to put your request at an information point staffed by half a dozen ladies, whereupon, if this request to any degree exceeds the very simplest contingency, you take a number, like a visitor to  a tax office; you then have to wait, often for half an hour or more, until another member of staff calls you into a separate cubicle, as if you were on business of an extremely dubious nature, or at least had to be dealt with away from the public gaze, and here you must say again what it is you have come for and receive the relevant instructions.”

Even quoting these passages at some length fails to give their real feel, since it is precisely their being embedded in the constant unending flow of thoughts and prose that gives (for me) the clear feeling that Sebald is having a kind of malicious fun, a verbal revenge on those who created and now control the new fortress-library and jealously guarded and restricted access to its store of knowledge.  And yet the humour is always embedded in the most serious; the overt purpose of Austerlitz’s research is his quest for a father lost to him, but who was no doubt destined – with assistance from the French authorities - for the Nazi death camp. Thus the comedy, which undoubtedly infuses his prose, is dark indeed.

For my final example of Sebald’s humour, I turn to Vertigo.  Now, Vertigo – like the Rings of Saturn and Austerlitz - can hardly be deemed light relief; to cite Jenny Diski’s LRB review again 

“Sebald’s vertigo is caused by the centrifugal force of uncertainty that pervades everything, including our consolations.”

Nothing evidently humorous there; yet as she later says, “After a while this super-sensitised melancholy becomes comic.”  Her problem, as I have cited above, is that she is not clear whether the intent was humorous, or merely the effect.  But, to take an example from Vertigo (p.103) cited by Tim Parks, can one really doubt that Sebald was quietly joking when he describes the narrator’s reaction to the sight of a beautiful nun and girl in a railway compartment?

“Opposite me sat a Franciscan nun of about thirty or thirty-five and a young girl with a colourful patchwork jacket over her shoulders….The nun was reading her breviary and the girl, no less immersed, was reading a photo story.  Both were consummately beautiful, both very much present yet altogether elsewhere…  I admired the profound seriousness with which each of them turned the pages.  Now the Franciscan nun would turn a page over, now the girl in the colourful jacket, then the girl again and then the Franciscan nun once more. Thus the time passed without my ever being able to exchange a glance with either the one or the other.  I therefore tried to practice a like modesty, and took out Der Beredte Italiener, [“the eloquent Italian”] a handbook published in 1878 in Berne, for all who wish to make speedy and assured progress in colloquial Latin.”

The Eloquent Italian! Yet Parks can only - rather comment,

“Only Sebald, one suspects, would study an out-of-date phrase book while missing the chance to speak to two attractive ladies.”

A page of the alleged phrase-book’s translation is offered us in a picture adjoining this text, with a few words or phrases underlined by someone… in English, these would be ‘all saints’, ‘Carnival’, ‘angel’, ‘sin’, ‘fear’, ‘truth’, ‘lie’ and ‘pain’…

The two females, as the train approaches Milan Central Station, insert bookmark or green ribbon into their respective tomes, and when it arrives “disappear”, leaving the narrator standing on the platform claiming a sense of having been abandoned but still able to pose ludicrously grandiose and meaningless questions, and to  generalise from his own momentary attraction to the duo, to the generalised human yearning to copulate and populate:

“What connection could there be, I then wondered and now wonder again, between those two beautiful female readers and this immense railway terminus which, when it was built in 1932, outdid all other railway stations in Europe; and what relation was there between the so-called monuments of the past and the vague longing, propagated through our bodies, to people the dust-blown expanses and tidal plains of the future.”

Photo of Milano Central Station via https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Skateboarding_at_Central_Station,_Milan.jpg

Here, Sebald has descended into surely conscious self-parody – the questions are meaningless, as he knows, and no answer is given.  All the narrator does is stroll down the platform, and buy himself a map of the city.  A city map which contained on its front, we are told, an image of a labyrinth, and on its back a claim to be “Una guida sicura per l’organizzazione del vostro lavoro” -  “A secure guide for the organisation of your work”.

I cannot finish without citing one eminent source that supports my own view of Sebald:

“[His books] are notable for their curious and wide-ranging mixture of fact (or apparent fact), recollection and fiction, often punctuated by indistinct black-and-white photographs set in evocative counterpoint to the narrative rather than illustrating it directly. His novels are presented as observations and recollections made while travelling around Europe. They also have a dry and mischievous sense of humour.”

The eminent source is of course none other than Wikipedia – and against the last sentence we find the following addition: “citation needed”.  Well, here I am.

Postscript

In reading quite a lot of articles about Sebald and his use (or non-use, or abuse) of humour I was happy – since my blog is named “Refractions”, to find two comments that refer to the Sebald as having a “refracted” view of the world:

“Sebald’s refracted and sometimes alienated views of both his native Germany and his adopted English homeland have had astonishing resonance in the German- and English-speaking worlds.”

Note on Amazon.co.uk page  to W. G. Sebald - A Critical Companion (Literary Conjugations) Paperback – 1 Jul 2004

I was immediately hypnotised by the curious prose style, so flat and ostensibly inconsequential, which describes a kind of meditative interior monologue, not at all the world as it is seen and described by an ordinary person, but a view of the world seen through a glass darkly and refracted through the strange and sometimes uncomfortable imagination of a dyspeptic and exceptionally knowledgeable, middle-aged professor of German literature, whom one presumes has never been married and who decides to take a long and entirely purposeless walk round the shores of East Anglia meditating on aspects of its history and what he sees en route.

Charles Saumarez Smith Review of Austerlitz, The Observer 30 September 2001

Footnotes

(1) I know almost nothing about Ms Daphne Merkin but her review leaves me with a very, very dim view of her sense or sensibility - she says this in the same essay:

Who else but a gloomy, deskbound intellectual would warm to a narrator who chooses as his ''favorite haunt'' the Sailors' Reading Room in Southwold, which is ''almost always deserted but for one or two of the surviving fishermen and seafarers sitting in silence in the armchairs, whiling the hours away''?

Speaking for fellow deskbound gloomsters (not sure about the intellectual bit) I can assure Ms Merkin that the Southwold Sailors’ Reading Room is a wonderful, peaceful place overlooking the sea, in one of England’s favourite (for the middle classes, at least) coastal resorts. 

 Photo of the Sailors’ Reading Room via http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/2607778

(2) The German passage, concerning the delicious fish and chips:

Dieselbe verschreckte Person ist es auch gewesen, die später in dem großen Speisesaal, in dem ich an jenem Abend als einziger Gast saß, meine Bestellung entgegennham und die mir bald darauf einen gewiß seit Jahren schon in der Kühltruhe vergrabenen Fisch brachte, an dessen paniertem, vom Grill stellenweise versengten Panzer ich dann die Zinken meiner Gabel verborg.  Tatsächlich machte es mir solche Mühe, ins Innere des, wie es sich schließlich zeigte, aus nichts als seiner harten Umwandung bestehenden Gegenstands vorzudringen, daß mein Teller nach dieser Operation einen furchtbaren Anblick bot. Die Sauce Tartare, die ich aus einem Plastiktütchen hatte herausquetschen müssen, war von der rußigen Semmelbröseln gräulich verfärbt, und der Fisch selber, oder das, was ihn vorstellen sollte, lag zur Hälfte zerstört unter den grasgrünen englischen Erbsen und den Überresten der fettig glänzenden Chips.

#culture #language

[acewing13]

Fanning the Flames, Part 2, V1

Rubbing the kiss off my cheek, I walked into the house and took in a deep, cleansing breath of pepperoni pizza. Nothing better than that, I’ll tell you that much. But that joy was destroyed when I saw the brand-new copy of Galaxian. After I kicked off my shoes, I piled a plate with as much pizza as I could, grabbed the game, and walked upstairs.

At the top of the stairs, I stopped to look at the few framed pictures of my family that were on the wall, most of them being portraits of my younger self or the rare photo of both me and Mom. Hadn’t had too much money to have pictures taken after the divorce and all of the pictures that included my deadbeat dad were in a box that sat in the attic, collecting dust.

The only other items on display were Mom’s various degrees: her Bachelor of Science in Thaumaturgy from Georgetown University, 1938; her Mage Certification from the Magical Technical College, 1939; her Masters of Science Degree in Evocation Thaumaturgy from the University of Oxford, 1954; and her pride and joy, her Doctorate of Philosophy in Pyromantic Evocation Thaumaturgy from the Institut Curie, 1964. Next to her PhD, Mom had a picture of her posing next to Marie Curie, the Mother of Magic and head of the Institut’s Paris campus herself. Mom didn’t look a day over thirty in the picture, despite being almost fifty at the time.

Smiling at the twenty-year-old picture, I then turned walked towards my room. Turning the doorknob with my foot, I pushed the door in with my shoulder, just far enough for me to keep my pizza on my plate. My room was a mess, as usual. The floor was strewn with pens, loose paper, and books, lots and lots of books. Grimoires, magical textbooks, heck, even a knock off copy of the Ars Goetia. Not that any demons had shown up, even after I had sacrificed that chicken last week. I sniff and shake my head. The room still has the smell of burnt chicken feathers.

The rest of my room was relatively tidy, with the broken and dusty television and Atari 2600 that sat near my bed. They had been the first things to go three months ago, when the magical incidents took a more malicious turn. I had been racking up a high score on Missile Command, but just as I was getting close to beating my personal high score, the console made a sickening POP, the image on the television screen turned to static, and the room filled with the smell of burnt plastic. Thankfully, Mom hadn’t been home at the time, so I had been able to get rid of the smell and cover up the problem. I wonder if that was the best decision now, but it’s a little late for that.

After putting the pizza on my bed, I went to the window and closed the curtains, sending the room into darkness. Turning on a light, I sat down on my bed and after a few moments of twisting and pulling, the stupid adamantine ankle bracelet came off. Don’t look at me like that. Like I said, I never took it off…at work. Relishing in the adamantine’s absence, I pointed at one of the spell books on the floor and curled my index and middle fingers. The text fluttered off the ground and slowly flapped its way towards me, its pages rustling in the air.

Non-mages think this kind of thing is special, making objects float through the air, but no mage would ever be impressed by the simple cantrip. Especially if this small piece of magic encompassed everything that I knew how to do. You would think that as the only son of the famous Banshee that I could have gotten some sort of reprieve, a chance to try and learn the Magical Arts and see if I could awaken some dormant spark of magic that I might hold. But the Council that governed the Magical Training Center didn’t think so. And were so stuck in their ways that they just slapped on the bracelet when problems started happening.

Grumbling, I snatched the novice spell book out of the air and turned the dog-eared pages to where I had left off. If Mom or Officer Whoever saw me, I’d probably be stuck in an adamantine-lined cell for the rest of my life, but it seems like whatever is causing problems around me doesn’t care if I’m wearing the band or not. Besides, you try and wear a metal ankle bracelet for days on end. No thank you.

I stared at the book for a few minutes, taking a few bites of the pizza as I tried to read, but then put the book down and rubbed my eyes as I groaned. I had been looking at these books for weeks, trying to find a way to get more power, some way to get rid of this curse that was on me. Heck, I resorted to summoning demons! But apparently, Solomon hadn’t written down the right phone numbers when he wrote the Ars Goetia. I’d love to get my hands on real spell books, but those were tightly controlled by the MTC, which gives it a monopoly over the teaching of magic in the United States and the western hemisphere. Europe is a little better, with a choice between Oxford or the University of Paris, but they’re no freer with their books then their American counterpart. Course, both European universities allowed non-mages to enroll, but those were extremely difficult programs to get into and my grades suck.  You try doing integrals when your pencil tries to poke your eye out!

Wait…Paris. I jumped off the bed and raced out of the room, heading to Mom’s study. As far as I know, she hadn’t been in there for nearly four years now, too many bad memories, I guess. Fighting a Chaldean God, losing your magic, and having Dad leave kind of does that.

Opening the door, I coughed a few times as dust was kicked up. Yep, definitely not been opened in a while. While the various bookshelves were covered with dust, her desk was dust free, probably a spell to keep any magic circles from getting messed up. Thankfully, the object of my search sat in the place of honor in a glass case in the middle of the desk, Mom’s PhD thesis.

              The paper itself had the technical title of “the Summoning of Pyromatic Spirits through Evocation Thaumaturgy.” So, basically How to Call Fire Ghosts through a Summoning Circle 101, right? The real trouble would be figuring out how to get the case open. Carefully tiptoeing towards the desk, I examined the glass closely, looking for a way to open it.

I would have spent hours trying to look for something, but when I straightened to get a crick out of my neck, my head hit the edge of a low hanging metal cabinet. “Oww,” I said, bringing my hand up to my now bleeding head. As I brought my blood-stained hand near the glass, a line of red runes flared to life around the case for a few seconds, then disappeared just as suddenly as they appeared. “Son of a…huh,” I said, blinking at the case. Hesitantly, I grabbed the case and lifted the glass off of the table. Sweet, I thought, as I grabbed the paper and raced back to my room.

Bursting through my bedroom door, I tossed the novice spellbook off my bed and started leafing through Mom’s thesis. The piece was a technical doorstopper, like most PhD theses, but since evocation is so highly dependent on summoning circles, there were plenty of diagrams to help me to find the pertinent sections. “…to summon a particular pyromantic spirit, a precise layout of circles, focusing triangles, and thaumaturgic sigils are required, so as to not inadvertently summon an incorrect spirit. This is important, as opposing spirits often have summoning diagrams nearly identical to their counterparts, likely to snare unsuspecting mages.” In other words, make sure you call the right phone number, because extra-dimensional tele-marketers can literally steal your soul.

              And so I went to work, pushing all of the other books and papers to one side of my bedroom, creating a big enough space to draw the summoning circle. I flipped through the appendices of Mom’s thesis, to where it outlined a list of spirits and their characteristics. One jumped out at me, ‘Israfel, the Angel of Fire, the Burning One’. Seemed good enough, so I started drawing the chalk circle. Thankfully, drawing circles and coping arcane symbols was the other skill I had when it came to magic. Came with having a disciplinarian father who expected me to become a powerful mage like his parents before him. Just another reason why he left, I guess.

              An hour or so later, didn’t bother looking at a clock, the summoning circle was finished, the thaumaturgic sigils making a monochrome tapestry of swirls and squiggles in the space between the sides of the triangle and main circle. I double checked the design, tracing my fingers an inch above the chalk, looking for errors that would summon something unwanted. Looks good, I thought, brushing chalk dust on my pants, grabbing a zippo, a pocket knife, and a pack of band-aids off the floor and stepped into the circle. Let’s see what happens.