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stina-is-a-punk-rocker · 3 years

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books i actually like

A solid 97% of my ‘book reviews’ (for lack of a better term) are bound to be just me bitching about said book for way too long with way too many expletives, because books I genuinely adore rarely invoke the visceral reaction within me that causes so many of my ‘reviews’ of books I don’t like to be so impassioned and long-winded. Here’s to kicking this dumpster fire off with a little positivity, because that will be little and far in between henceforth.

Harry Potter – J. K. Foul Thing I never understood how someone could appreciate the art and not the artist until Harry Potter. JKR’s dead to me, but the seven original (and only, because I refuse to accept the flaming pile of dog shit that was The Cursed Child as canon) books remain i c o n i c. And you’ll probably witness a LOT of Harry Potter-inspired shitposting on my part if you decide to stick around, because Harry Potter trivia makes up a solid chunk of my personality, and I like to shove my fandoms in other people’s faces. Again, I’m cute like that.

The Diary of a Young Girl – Anne Frank By some odd coincidence, my mum got me Anne Frank’s diary for my 13th birthday, and I always felt like a Super Special Snowflake because of that. Obviously, I can’t relate to being Jewish and in hiding during WWII, but there’s a lot of Anne’s views and thoughts that… resonated with me (ain’t that the most basic-ass description of a book, ever). There’s always the lingering sadness while reading because you know how her story comes to an end, but it’s a book that’s still stuck with me six years later, and for the rest of my mortal life.

The Book Thief – Markus Zusak Why Must I Adore Books That Give Me Naught but Pain: An Autobiography.

Freak the Mighty – Rodman Philbrick Ditto.

Bad Alice – Jean Ure When I first saw the cover, I expected a lighthearted, cheery book. I was very much mistaken. Duffy, a self-proclaimed ‘oddball’, and Alice, another self-proclaimed ‘oddball’, are easily two of my favorite fictional characters, ever. The subject matter is pretty damn dark and rereading the book as an adult is actually kind of scary, but it’s so well-written and engaging and this sounds like I’m an elementary school teacher writing a report card so I’m just gonna stop here.

Tiger Eyes – Judy Blume A true Relic of the angst-riddled phase of my adolescence (I say as if I am not still going through said angst-riddled phase). I’ve been a fan of Judy Blume’s work since one of the girls in my third-grade class bestowed upon me Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing; growing up, I’ve become more detached from Blume’s work but Tiger Eyes is a book that’s never gotten old for me. Davey, the angst-riddled adolescent protagonist, is also stubborn and headstrong and angry and scarily relatable to myself at her age, though under wildly different circumstances.

Changeling – Philippa Gregory I’ve read a couple of Goodreads reviews on the Order of Darkness series, and I’ve garnered that Philippa Gregory fans (Philippans? Philipinos?) are not fans of the series. I can’t vouch for that, given that I’ve only ever read the said series, and I’m admittedly not a fan of books two through four (which is basically every book of the series published to date, exempting the first), but Changeling is a book I liked enough to attempt to handwrite it in a notebook back when I was 12 (I gave up after, like, two sentences because my hand started cramping), and also to try and write a ripoff, featuring an angsty young preteen girl with (short) wavy black hair and eyes like limpid tears (gee, I wonder who that could be) (my eyes are brown, though; I dunno why I wrote the self-insert to be blue-eyed).

The Secret History – Donna Tartt My first foray into dark academia; sadly, reading The Secret History before any other books in the (sub?)genre made every other book pale in comparison. What’s so special about The Secret History for me is that I hate every main character, with passion. Each and every one of them; not just Bunny, but Richard and Henry and Charles and Camilla and Francis and Julian can all go fuck themselves for all I care- but I find them so fascinating. The story and the way it’s written is pretty over-the-top dramatic and my struggling bilingual arse had to look up every tenth word or so, but I adore it with every fibre of my being. Well, the leftover fibres of my being that aren’t simping over Kim Seungmin.

A Series of Unfortunate Events – Lemony Snicket Does this count as the first step of my emo phase? Shoutout to the girl in seventh grade I sat next to for, like, two weeks, who lent me The Wide Window and got me hooked on the series.

Alice in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll This entire book feels so trippy.

The Secret Garden – Frances Hodgson Burnett It’s corny and Everything Works Out Swell for the Goody Guys in the End! in period-typical book fashion, but it got me through many a boring class in the spring of my ninth year of personhood, so I’ll always have a soft spot for Mary and Dickon and Colin and the rest of the gang. It also inspired me to Cultivate, and there are two pretty bougainvillea plants in my garden thanks to one Mary Lennox.

The Miseducation of Cameron Post – Emily M. Danforth Cameron Post: the lesbian baddie we all aspire to be.

Vicky Angel – Jacqueline Wilson Yet another shoutout to my seventh-grade seatmate for lending me her copy of Vicky Angel, which I read under my covers like it was a bloody nudie mag.

A Song of Ice and Fire – George R. R. Martin Where’s Winds of Winter, George?

Turtles All the Way Down – John Green Paper Towns used to be my favorite John Green book until I read Turtles All the Way Down last year. I adore John Green’s writing style (maybe not the #deep #woke #sadboi #middleclass #white #male #cisgender #heterosexual #personalityofabreadroll leads in a solid chunk of his books, though) and okay, so maybe Davis fits all of the above, but my true faves are Aza and Daisy and their dynamic.

To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee I keep calling this ‘HOW to Kill a Mockingbird’ in conversations and it gets really fucking inconvenient.

Coraline – Neil Gaiman I just wish I’d read this sooner than I did.

#book review #harry potter #coraline #john green #changeling #turtles all the way down #to kill a mockingbird #game of thrones #cameron post #vicky angel #the secret history #a series of unfortunate events #the book thief #anne frank #lgbt #historical fiction #fantasy #books

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alabasterstoned · 3 years

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Tagged by: @aestheticslyrics 🌟

nicknames: Char, Charlemagne

zodiac: gemini (with a scorpio moon 🌙)

height: 5'8" (Victoria dni)

time: 02:30am

favorite band/artist: Nick Cave, AJJ, Kate Bush, Bjork, Nicole Dollanganger, Bloodhound Gang

song stuck in my head: None rn, I'm podcasting, but here's my current hyperfixactions:

In The Land - Nicole Dollanganger (Give it up for the milk carton angel. Soaked in vomit, tied up at the kitchen table.)

Snuff Out The Light - Ertha Kitt (Revealed to me in secret signs. The mark of the magician.)

Brutus - The Buttress (What motivates me? Hatred? Is it love? What's more wrong, that I too wish to be great or my mother wished she'd had a son? // Of humble origins and born of the cursed sex. My name is Brutus, but the people will call me Rex.)

The Heroine - Unwoman (So you're a coward, who could never love me. Or you have fallen to the enemy.)

last thing I googled: I dont wanna drop names but i was looking for a specific podcaster ao3 fic 🙃

last movie I saw: waaahhhh, this is hard. I actually hate watching movies and tv shows. Oh! It was The Monkey King 3!! This is my favourite of the franchise and y'all can suck my cunt if you think otherwise 😔

other blogs: @the-napoleon-of-crime (main), @hyerballad (pink) those are the only ones I use actively but here's my hoarded urls too, strap in: @divine---trash @graysons-graymom @blood-drive-time @worlds-greatest-date-tective @im-a-fountain-of-blood @dontbeatmeupbrett @thelambtonwrym @givegriffinanenema (this is related to an earlier question, scavenger hunt) @beckygrabthestrap @doflamingopisskink @bitchofdelphi - im stopping here this is a lot and theres like a quarter more 🤐

do I get asks: not really, i think my mutuals feel free to come into my dm's

following: 3907, im sorry if you interact with my blog a lot and I don't on yours. I genuinely never see anyone I know on my dash... 😢😢

average amount of sleep: 7-8 hours

what I'm wearing: army green joggers and smoothie pink strap top (my pyjamas are always like, some kind of joggers/leggings and a strap top)

dream job: the psychologist asked me this and I accidently said I could never imagine happiness deriving from capitalism. She was like ? And i was like... Botanist. 👄 This sounds like one of those and everybody clapped stories but I was just regurgitating all the shit i read on this site day in

dream trip: machu picchu is honestly the one for me, everywhere else is twos and threes 😔🏞️

favorite food: whatever the fuck the fluffy cream on chocolate gateau is, hot sticky toffee pudding (no raisins fuck you), white chocolate, lemon curd

play any instruments: euphonium, but only to pull bitches 😘

eye color: blue

hair color: bleach blonde (Hitler after reading 😔😳)

why did I choose this username: it was a fun play/inside joke with my ex-freind arkenstoned, from the prince of egypt line "walls of alabaster stone" I love it so I'm not changing it just because we're no longer friends ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

languages you speak: English, but I like to collect both how to say "I love you" and favourite term of endearment, from my friends who have different native languages. Szeretlek 😘

most iconic song: https://youtu.be/lTaXtWWR16A

random fact: The epaulette shark is the only shark that can walk on land but did you know she is also my favourite shark 😭😭😭 did you know she's the cutest shark 😭😭😭 the best shark 😭😭😭 oh no 😭🦈😭

describe yourself as aesthetic things: deer bleeding to death on the snow of a vast forest, underneath the ice, kneeling at an altar - looking away from the mirror but your reflection keeps looking at you, that long hard stare Judas gives Jesus in the 2000 version of Superstar - Jesus bloodied/pleading and reaching out for him - until Judas turns away uninterested, Tamsen Donner alone at camp with Keseberg standing in the howling snow - just outside her tent, 11yr old Janet Hodgson - possessed - using false vocal cords - describing dying of a hemorrhage in the chair downstairs, orange lava lamp

i tag: @imageofvoid @bagofghosts @anthropo-cene @here-queer-and-dastardly @unholyywine @the-vampire-squid-from-hell @urbansockmonkey @hlh-yo @justchernobylthings @sugar-coma @damn-antihero @theshortgirlintheredcoat and anyone who wants to say I tagged them/anyone i forgot!! 🎉🎊🎉

#tag yourself #long post

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hanakogames · 3 years

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books, 2020

I don't entirely understand people who can list their books read for a year *including rereads* because, like, I'm rereading a book at every meal, how could I possibly keep track?

I don't actually track what I've read, so this isn't an accurate list, but this is a vague attempt at working out at least some of what I read for the first time in 2020. I'm probably missing things!

The Lady's Guide to Celestial Mechanics (Olivia Waite) The Red Tree (Caitlyn R. Kiernan) Among Others (Jo Walton) The Raven and the Reindeer (T. Kingfisher) All or Nothing (Rose Lerner) Beggars in Spain (Nancy Kress) Starless (Jacqueline Carey) The Handmaid's Tale (Yes seriously I hadn't gotten around to reading it before) In an Absent Dream Come Tumbling Down (Seanan McGuire) Bittersweet (Nevada Barr) The Girl who Chased the Moon (Sarah Addison Allen) Novice Dragoneer (E.E.Knight) Dragon Whisper (Niamh Murphy) Princess of Dorsa (Eliza Andrews) Silk And Steel (anthology) Starfarers Transition Metaphase Nautilus (it's a series of 4, Vonda McIntyre) The Final Empire The Well of Acension The Hero of Ages (Mistborn series, Brandon Sanderson) Through Wolf's Eyes Wolf's Head, Wolf's Heart (Firekeeper saga, Jane Lindskold) Women of Futures Past (anthology) Sword & Sorceress 11 (anthology) Sword & Sorceress 16 (anthology) The Phoenix Code (Catherine Asaro) Darkness of the Light (Peter David) A Lady of Quality (Frances Hodgson Burnett) Gods of Green Mountain (VC Andrews) Six of Crows (Leigh Bardugo) The Winner's Curse (Marie Rutkoski) Amaskan's Blood (Raven Oak) Looking for Alaska (John Green) Wolf Star (Tanith Lee) The Glass Gargoyle (Marie Andreas) Four and Twenty Blackbirds (Cherie Priest) The Makioka Sisters (Junichiro Tanizaki) The Tea Dragon Society (okay it's more of a picture book but it's cute, Katie O'Neill)

Leaving out a couple that I started and disliked enough to drop, which is rare but sometimes happens. Usually even if the book is bleh I’ll power through to the end and then dismiss the book to the ‘never again’ pile, unlike most of my books which get read over and over again. For that reason there are a couple of books on that list I really wouldn’t recommend and at least one that I hated but it was very short so I wanted to finish in order to be absolutely certain that it was trash before leaving bad reviews. (I normally don’t, if something’s just not for me I leave it alone, but this was THAT BAD.)

My biggest surprise interest was probably the Mistborn series as I’d never read anything by the guy before (and you may notice I have a bias towards female authors) and it’s the kind of fantasy I like, where someone’s put some serious thought into how the magic system and the world actually works - I’ll probably read more later but that wrapped the first trilogy.

My reading list is not terribly "worthy". BUT I READ A LOT.

Also a ton of this was read in ebook format because I have a damaged hand.

Also this doesn’t count VNs!

#books #book

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glass-es-say · 5 years

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The Fitzjames Sweater: a Terror conspiracy theory

Do you like your meta long and stupid? And full of not-really-mystery about a single item of clothing? Then boy do I have a meta for you; the center of which is James Fitzjames’ sweater—and the identity of its final owner.

(Half meta-analysis, half conspiracy theory, half absolute blithering nonsense under the cut, lads.)

Now, this is a pretty distinctive sweater, especially in an expedition full of grey and navy arans. There are a couple of specific design elements (best outlined in knit-the-terror’s posts) that make it easy to identify The Sweater once it ends up on Le Vesconte: the side cables, the gansey-esque top and bottom, the ribbing patterns on the sleeves. The short neckband also visually distinguishes The Sweater from the cowl-necked white sweater Mr. Collins is wearing (also I think that one gets pretty soundly torn apart when Tuunbaq eviscerates him).

All of this is great and wonderful. However. What I’m most interested in is the cuffs.

These are double-length cuffs in a 1x1 rib with (perhaps anachronistically) a thumbhole knit in. Fitzjames wears the cuffs folded up most of the time, though if you turn up your brightness and squint you can spot that they’re all the way down at the time of poor Morfin’s death.

The garment construction appears to be such that sleeve was worked flat and them seamed into a tube—the thumbhole then just being part of the seam that wasn’t sewn up. (Why you would make a sleeve like this is beyond me—seaming sucks and it would literally be just as easy to add the thumbhole in when knitting in the round, but I suspect it has something to do with how they produced the no-doubt 10+ versions of this sweater they needed for filming.)

So, we’ve established some key characteristics of The Sweater that help us identify it. We’ve determined that it ends up on Le Vesconte after Fitzjames’ death. (Actually, Le Vesconte’s wearing The Sweater + waistcoat when Fitzjames collapses, so presumably James gives it away before then.) But can we show that anyone else has worn it? (Spoilers: sort of, but also yes.)

The morning after Silna leaves the Inuit village, when Francis is running around trying to figure out which way she went, he’s wearing the above outfit. His left hand is gone at this point, so his sleeve is tied up at the wrist, but there, covering his right hand… is an extra-long white sweater cuff with a thumbhole.

The image quality isn’t great here (the cameraperson decided to focus on the acting instead of a sleeve cuff for some reason) but when you look at all the angles next to each other, the resemblance is pretty obvious. Either there was always another long-cuffed white sweater on the Franklin Expedition that we are never shown, or Francis has at some point picked up The Sweater and is wearing it under his slops.

You can see a sliver of neckband underneath all his other layers in the picture above, just like with James.

Now, my main hurdle in 100% proof that this is The Sweater is, actually, also my most definitive proof: the thumbhole. (My gift and my curse…my blessing and my burden...)

Assuming James hasn’t folded his cuffs to intentionally obfuscate, it’s pretty clear that each sleeve has one—and only one—thumbhole along the inside seam of the sleeve. It’s a logical assumption—I have no clue why you’d put a thumbhole on the outside of the sleeve because, like… that’s not where thumbs are.

By the time Francis is wearing the sweater it’s pretty beat up, so there are a number of noticeable holes in the cuff rather than just the one. (As we see from Le Vesconte’s shot at the beginning of this post, the rest of The Sweater is faring a pretty similar fate. My poor knitter’s heart is weeping.) While some of the holes have a fuzziness around the edges that indicates fraying, there’s still one hole with a cleaner, more finished edge that would indicate its identity as the real, intended thumbhole.

The problem is, it’s on the outside of the sleeve. Crozier appears to be sticking his thumb through another, accidental hole on the opposite side of the cuff. Even if The Sweater was worn inside-out and/or backwards, he shouldn’t be able to wear the thumbhole on the outside—at least, that’s what I thought. Then I tried putting on a sweater with only one hand. (It’s called field research, please don’t judge me.)

Basically, it’s really easy to get a sleeve twisted when you pull on a sweater, especially if it’s made to fit someone with a different physique. Without the opposite hand (or using your teeth, I guess), it’s basically impossible to untwist it, a difficulty that I imagine is compounded if you’ve already hooked your thumb through the cuff in the wrong place. I personally hate the feeling of a twisted sleeve, but Francis has just woken up in an unfamiliar place and honestly at this point in his life he might’ve just shoved the sweater on and called it a day.

Plus, we see the left cuff on Le Vesconte earlier and the thumbhole appears to be on the outside. The sleeves on this sweater are consistently Way Too Long, so it’s possible things just got twisted around whenever an actor would put it on and they left it that way for realism’s sake.

We don’t see Francis in it after the scene in the Inuit village, but like, even if The Sweater was still wearable after another two years, Francis is pretty well covered by his fur parka. (Also… just saying… the emotional implications of a moment where the last remnants of James Fitzjames unravel under his fingertips are uh… pretty juicy.

James has holes in him and so does his sweater.)

So! I think it’s fair to say that, at the very least, the sweater Francis is wearing is supposed to be the Fitzjames Sweater, as shown to the best of my ability (and screencap resolution). I won’t call it “beyond a doubt” but I think it’s a pretty strong foundation—which is good, because here is where my knit-wear based fever dream starts to, uh, unravel.

My initial assumption after realizing Crozier had the white sweater at the Inuit village was that he pulled it off Le Vesconte after Little’s death. (And idea which cannot help but conjure the morbid image of Crozier undressing a body beset by rigor mortis with one hand…. Or asking Silna for help.)

The tangle in this theory is that I went back and looked at the first few “travelling with Silna” scenes, initially for proof that Francis doesn’t pick up The Sweater until the Little Camp—and found the opposite.

There’s no sign of The Sweater on Francis before the Tuunbaq showdown, but he has somehow acquired The Sweater before finding the body of Le Vesconte. The same identifying features I’m using for the end scene are all there, so. Can’t really deny that. (The best view we get is from the sad dead Jopson hair stroke, which also dates the timeframe a lot better then an ambiguous “Crozier walking around” screenshot.)

(For what it’s worth, the thumbhole arrangement appears to be done properly this time. Or at least, the hole on the outside of the arm is the frayed “accidental” thumbhole.)

To clarify the timeline:

Fitzjames has The Sweater.

At some point before James collapses, Le Vesconte acquires The Sweater.

Francis is kidnapped by Hickey’s camp. He does not have The Sweater, or at least not visibly.

Le Vesconte (and sweater) leave the sick (including Jopson) behind and head off toward the eventual Little camp.

Tuunbaq showdown. Francis spends some time in recovery.

We can assume that at some point during this bullet point or the next Le Vesconte and buddies die.

Francis and Silna leave the Hickey camp, find the abandoned men and sad dead Jopson. Somehow Francis has acquired The Sweater.

After this, Francis and Silna find the Little camp, presumably including a dead Le Vesconte and The Sweater.

(You could argue that Le Vesconte actually ended up staying with the sick but Francis’ is wearing the sweater when he first sees Jopson so he would have had to have it before finding them.)

(Also, I have suspicions that this figure leaving the sick camp is Le Vesconte.)

So! There is an indication that, at the same point in time, both Crozier and Le Vesconte(‘s body) were wearing a version of The Sweater. If from this point forward we consider the sweater Fitzjames is seen wearing to be the “true sweater” and the extra to be the “double sweater”, then I see four possibilities:

Option One: Francis already had the sweater double.

Points in favor:

This gives the fun image of Crozier and Fitzjames showing up to the expedition on day one and staring horrorstruck at each other like “we wore the same dress!??!!”

You change. No you change! No you change!!!

Points against:

We see Francis in all kinds of informal dress and never see him wearing it. I’m not actually sure we ever see him wearing a sweater, period. Man hates being cozy, I guess.

There is literally no way costume design would have done this. Like, it beggars belief.

Option Two: Someone else (at the Hickey camp) had an eerily similar sweater that Crozier felt justified in taking.

Points in favor:

It doesn’t show up until he and Silna go back to the Hickey camp, so it’s unlikely that he would have gotten it earlier and just been carrying it around without wearing it.

They did seem to just leave all their stuff lying around, so Francis wouldn’t have to pull it off a dead body, which is a lot more palatable.

If the sweater was a standard “baby’s first officer sweater” present, Hodgson could be a candidate for the true owner.

Points against:

“Baby’s first officer sweater” is just like… not a thing the Victorian Royal Navy did. Also, we never see any of them wearing it, so.

Why wouldn’t the owner have worn it to the Tuunbaq showdown? I get that they’re all wandering around in their shirtsleeves but if someone had a sweater that was remotely still wearable, I feel pretty confident in thinking they aren’t just going to leave it lying around.

Option Three: Actually, Le Vesconte’s sweater is the double.

Points in favor:

Obviously Henry and James got them as best friends forever tokens and whenever they notice they’re wearing them at the same time they spend like, two minutes just hugging each other and saying “bro. bro. bro!”

It absolutely infuriates Francis.

This implies that Francis (or possibly a Hickey camp member but uh… unlikely) got ahold of the Fitzjames version after his death. James isn’t wearing it when he collapses (god… think of the blood stains…), so it would have been as easy as packing it up once he’s dead.

Francis is either in slops or in shirtsleeves after this point so if he keeps the cuffs folded up and his slops collar buttoned (which he does) then we might just not have seen it?

Even if we assume Le Vesconte’s sweater is a different one, there’s still pretty strong evidence James wasn’t buried in his sweater—see the above point, and also the fact that it doesn’t later show up on Hickey’s person. That’s a nice sweater, man, even if it’s fraying, and if I were already stealing a dead man’s boots I would’ve taken the sweater too.

Points against:

Le Vesconte is wearing The Sweater when James collapses—Fitzjames, notably, isn’t. (James mentions the heat as a reason why he can’t keep walking, so he might just not have been wearing it?)

God, guys, I don’t know that much about the Victorian knitting industry but the idea of two bros going out and getting matching sweaters seems… implausible at best.

Option Four: Making a TV show is hard and keeping track of all the details is harder and someone just accidentally put Jared in the sweater five minutes of screen time too early and we were past the time for reshoots and just assumed that no one would be neurotic enough to notice this.

Points in favor:

Script supervisor is like, a really hard job and if this is your biggest slip up then honestly? Who even cares.

Points against:

I care. I care very much.

But which option could be the truth? What conclusions have we formed from this tedious trek across the frozen wasteland of HD screencaps? What horrors have we (me, literally just me) wrought in the name of split-second costume design based character choices? Could Crozier have somehow gotten The Sweater from Le Vesconte after Tuunbaq dies but before reaching Little’s camp? Is there another, actually viable explanation for the mystery of the twin sweaters? How many good fics/headcanons could come from any of these options? I don’t know! Please discuss!

(For however much it matters: my personal favorite is Option Four. None of the others seem a terribly plausible story justification, and also I like the emotional weight of Francis picking up the sweater as a memento of JFJ—or the intention of it, even if continuity gets a little screwy.

Also, if no one writes fic about this then I will be forced to and who really wants that?? Write this fic for me and save us all the turmoil.)

(A thousand props to @knit-the-terror for sussing out enough details that I could even make an argument focused around the cuff of a sweater. Please forgive my corrupting your research for a frantic fever dream rant about something that mostly doesn’t matter.)

#this is my magnum opus and my greatest shame #the terror #meta analysis #james fitzjames #henry le vesconte #francis crozier #that sweater lasts longer than most of the cast #and I love it just as much

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tomjopson · 5 years

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Joplittle AU where Jopson dies exactly like in canon but Little survives and he has to live with the fact he has left the man he loves to die alone (he doesn't live with it very long).

(thank you. i love pain.)

Whereas Captain Crozier maintains his sobriety once the fragmented pair return to England, the former Lieutenant Little develops the habit. He drinks upon waking, with every meal, and in the hours in between. It is the only way that he can keep his limbs warm and his mind blissfully unaware. (His sister watches with quiet concern, but so long as Edward keeps his habits to his rooms and away from his nephews, she tolerates and worries from afar.)

Liquor and its forgiving sting is the only way Edward can sleep, what few and scattered hours he can find during the night. It is the only way he knows to keep the nightmares at bay, to wash away the memory of raw human flesh from his tongue, to fend off the phantom pain in the foot amputated from gangrene, to silence the groaning of ice and the howling of wind that nags the inner canals of his ear like an insatiable itch.

Edward only looks at himself in the mornings when he shaves, but it is with distant eyes and a dazed hand so that his reflection is like a painting he coolly regards, as though looking for cracks in the varnish and determining the skill of each brushstroke, assessing the composition of a tired sailor and his dull, ocean-deep eyes.

His skin is as pallid as when he limped off the boat that carried him home. The scars on his cheek mar his face like the blemishes of a youth, but the deep mauve circles are cruelly offset by the haggard lines which Edward developed along his mouth and between his brow. A year shy of his fortieth birthday, Edward knows that he looks a decade older.

For a time, he writes to Crozier, but when Edward is declared physically and mentally unfit to stand alongside his Captain during their court martial, the correspondence slows to a trickle, brief and empty paragraphs to single-lined telegrams to nothing, and nothing, and more nothing. Truth be told, the two men have nothing in common save their shared years of suffering, and following the deaths of their comrades, Edward cannot tolerate the older man’s attention. It would be easier if Crozier resented him, blamed him for leaving him to the mutineers and for abandoning the sick crew.

In place of anger, the Captain’s sympathy and unspoken forgiveness drives itself into Edward’s head like a rusted nail, and he hates Crozier for not hating him in turn. Is that not the way of the world, Edward demands of himself, of Crozier, of God; hate begetting hate?

It had always been Edward’s intention to go back for the ill, to orchestrate a heroic rescue for their Captain. Instead, it was Crozier who found him, half frozen, his face pierced with the chain from his watch, during a mad frenzy that has slipped from Edward’s memory and perished on the shale with whatever shred of humanity was left in him.

They are the only two survivors, and the immensity of that lies on Edward like an unforeseen Atlas shouldering the weight of the world. Early in their return voyage, when Edward was of a more sound mind, he asked Crozier about any other survivors.

He asked about one man in particular, the name choked from his mouth like a poison.

Crozier’s answers were the same, monosyllabic, repeated with a gentleness bordering on cruel: “Gone. All gone.”

Edward remembers crying. Once. Crozier—damn him, damn him—had the decency to turn away as Edward sobbed and sniveled like a boy. It was the last they spoke of the others; their very names tainted (Blanky, Jopson, Fitzjames, Goodsir, Franklin, Jopson, Irving, Hodgson, Le Vesconte, Gore, Fairholme, Jopson, Hornby, Collins, MacDonald, Peddie, Bridgens, Jopson) as though speaking them would invite misery and invoke a curse.

And so, with silence as his only company and memories so repressed they no longer feel like his, Edward drinks. He sits in his room in darkness, too tired to light a lamp, too unconcerned to call a servant to rouse the fire in its hearth. His chair is by the window, where he sees the stars dotting the indigo sky, the new moon a winking shade above the horizon.

“Edward?”

He starts, his mind buzzing and the edges of his vision blurry. Turning to look over his shoulder, his bed is gone, replaced by a hazy alcove, an officer’s berth, dimly lit by a single candle, where two men are nestled around each other, only their heads and bare shoulders peeking from underneath the woolen covers. Rapt with attention, Edward watches as his twin and the shade of another painfully familiar face play out this troubled tableau.

“Yes?”

“May I ask you something?”

A quiet snort. “You already have.”

A laugh that makes Edward’s heart seize. “I’m serious.”

“As am I.”

“What…will happen when we go home?”

“Home?”

“England.”

“A court martial, to be sure. Fanfare, and the newsmen going wild. Promotions, perhaps. The inevitable soirees and dinners.”

“And you?”

“Home…is wherever I make it. Mostly on ship.”

Quieter. “And us?”

They shift, nose to nose, the one lying underneath cups his lover’s face.

“Thomas?”

“Are we….’mostly on ship’?”

Edward watches as his twin kisses the man for his answer, the crease of his lips carrying the declarations and promises that were too difficult or improper to say aloud. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them a second later, he is alone in his room once more, the stars above his head watching.

He reaches a finger to his lips, trying to remember what it felt like. They are dry and chapped, and he finds himself forgetting. The glass in his hand sloshes as he brings it to his lips, and he drinks.

#the terror amc #edward little #joplittle #lopson #thomas jopson #my writing #the terror fanfic

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andhumanslovedstories · 5 years

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1k vampire au ficlet (with some fitzier) that’s partially me absolutely wild about this idea, partially me cyberbullying @plaidmax into writing her version that she’s been talking about and inspired this one

Summer came and went and still the men stayed away from Crozier, from what his presence offered. The men still hoped. They still saw themselves--in one year, perhaps, in two, in ten, but eventually, surely, eventually--walking the sunlit streets of England. They saw themselves taking communion, fathering children, living a good life, a moral life, the life of a man with nothing to fear from God or the Devil. And if they thought about dying--and they did, more and more as the cold refused to leave--they thought about the promise of heaven. Their captain could survive the freeze only to burn. A shame, thought some men. No less than he deserves, thought some others.

Still. The men talked about Crozier. They talked about how they couldn't bear to be like him, which meant they thought about what it would be like to be like him, and that was always the first step. The possibility became a little more real. Farr sliced his thumb, his hand too numb with cold to mark where it was in relation to his shaving blade, and he watched how the blood ran down, almost painfully hot against his chilled flesh. Hodgson read his Bible and lingered on the last supper. This is my body, this is my blood. Eat, drink, and never die.

At supper, the men who used to avert their eyes now watched as Jopson retreated with his extra rations. As many rations as two men got these days, which meant almost enough for one.

"It's a wicked thing," one muttered to another. "Wicked and evil to use your fellow man as food."

"Indeed," replied the other man who was thinking about his empty belly, about the rations that would do no more than blunt the stab of hunger which would still sink into them as fatal as any other blade. He thought about Crozier, who never looked hungry at all. "Still, there's nothing else for him," he said in the tone of a man testing the ice. "Can't be that wicked if there's no other choice. Even monsters must survive."

"Must they?" the first man muttered darkly, and Cornelius Hickey changed the topic, for now. Let the knife sink a little deeper into Gibson first, before they discussed what any thinking man must know was coming. Hickey had tasted his own blood. It didn't taste bad, he thought. It certainly tasted better than nothing at all.

Other men crossed themselves before they ate and wondered how one man could slake their captain's monstrous thirst. Irving prayed every night that Jopson would not be the next pale corpse stacked like firewood in the bowels of the ship. Every morning, Irving was surprised to find his prayer answered.

It was a monstrous burden to serve under a monster. The men believed this, and thought, yet I will not become a monster myself. Sometimes, all the men even believed it.

What they do not see, and will not see, and will never know: Francis dreams of blood splashed across the snow, red and vibrant in a way that nothing in this place is. He wakes with his own fangs piercing his lip. Jopson finds him cursing, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth. By the time Jopson has rolled up his sleeve, Francis' puncture wounds have already closed. Still hurts like hell, which Francis bitterly expresses before turning to his steward who waits expectantly.

"No, thank you, Jopson," Francis says with a flush of familiar shame. "I am full, truly. It is a craving, not true hunger."

Jopson does not take his arm away. "Drink, sir," his steward commands, the words a velvet glove that seek to bow his captain's head to the mottled and scabbed forearm that still yet pulses with life. "I know how long you have gone without. You have not fed upon me since last Monday.”

The memory of James' blood spills across Francis' tongue, the lush rich ruby taste of it that could not be tainted even by the acrid aftertaste of James' privation. Francis has imbibed enough to flush at the thought, and he sees that Jopson has seen, sees that Jopson has understood. That is a new shame, Francis is perversely pleased to notice. A new shame is still shame but with less of a stale stink.

Still, Jopson will not take back his arm. The puncture wounds from last week have still not closed. "You'll put me out of a job, sir," Jopson says.

"Save your strength, Jopson," Francis says.

"Your strength is my strength, sir." When Francis looks up in surprise, Jopson smiles wanly. "Please, sir. I could not bear the extra rations otherwise."

"So you'd have me take them," Francis says wryly. His mouth is watering and he hates himself for it.

"I would have you drink." Jopson holds his arm so close to Francis' face that he can feel the warmth of the skin. Jopson, of course, would feel no warmth at all. "Sir."

So Francis drinks. He does not drink as he had from James the night before--Jopson would not taste his own blood from Francis' mouth, for one, a wickedness that makes Francis gasp just from the memory of it. But they've long since abandoned the blade and cup that propriety and the British navy once insisted upon. Ever since Jopson had nursed him through Francis' pathetic weaning from the only other thing his kind may drink, they had lost their formality at meals. Francis cradles Jopson's arm as if it were a babe. The familiar sweetness warms Francis from head to toe. He curls his fingers into the crook of Jopson's elbow and the bend of his wrist, feels for the comforting rhythm of life as he drains it from his steward. It should be easier to stop having drunk the night before, but Francis' lips linger even after his fangs shrink back. Satiation. It has been so long since he has drunk his fill. He is close, so close. Just a little more. Surely Jopson could spare a little more.

Francis returns Jopson his arm. "Thank you," he says, his voice rougher than he means it to be.

"You look well, sir," Jopson replies. Some future day, Jopson will drag himself dying out of his tent to chase those who abandoned him, and the rocks that dig into his frail flesh will feel like a thousand fangs raking him, wringing out everything that is left, and Jopson will die with the image of Francis smiling as he wipes the blood from his lips and turns back to his dinner party. But that is some future day, and today Francis almost feels like a man, and Jopson bandages his arm, and at any moment the scouting party could return with good news, or the ice could crack, or God could smile. There is still hope that might be rewarded, and that warms as well as blood before it chills, before its fatal chill.

#the terror amc #fitzier #francis crozier #thomas jopson #francis does get promoted bc he's irish and he's a vampire and the british navy is like 'frankly just one of those is bad enough'#my fic

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independence1776 · 6 years

Text

Books

Tagged by @vanimore and @naryaflame - thank you!

A book you’ve read more than once:

Most of the ones I own; I’m an inveterate rereader.

A book you couldn’t finish (or finished despite hating):

Norwegian by Night by Derek B Miller is the most recent one I couldn’t finish. It was only a handful of years ago that I realized I didn’t have to keep pushing through books I hated. So I gave myself the 50-page rule: if I don’t like it within the first fifty pages, I don’t need to keep reading it. This one was unfortunately for my synagogue book club, which meant I didn’t attend that meeting.

Finished despite hating? The vast majority of the fiction books I had to read for school. This is why it took me so long to realize I didn’t have to finish books I hated because in school I did.

A book you love despite significant flaws:

A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett.

A book you didn’t love though it was objectively good:

So… acclaimed by critics, in other words? See: pretty much anything I had to read for school. Also a couple of currently popular and awarded scifi and fantasy writers.

A book in a genre you don’t normally read:

Well, I’m fairly stuck in my scifi/fantasy comfort zone, though I keep meaning to try mysteries. My sister recommended me a title, but I can’t think of it right now.

A book from your childhood:

The Shy Ones by Lynn Hall. It’s about a girl who finds an abandoned dog and how they help each other.

A book that you have complicated feelings about:

Does the Tanakh count?

A quote from the last book you read:

The last book I read in its entirety (I’m in the middle of a couple right now) was Stuart Gershon’s Kol Nidrei: Its Origin, Development, and Significance. The quote:

“In this context [that oaths and vows had magical components involving a curse] the biblical and rabbinic statements against vows and oaths take on a new significance. Deuteronomy 23:23 and Ecclesiates 5:4 urged people not to make vows. Similarly, we have a rabbinic proverb: ‘Right or wrong, do not involve yourself in an oath.’ The seriousness with which vows and oaths were held was due not only to their abstract legal and ethical stature, but also to the concrete fact that the abuse of a vow or oath activated the curse the swearer had imposed upon himself or herself, or a loved one.”

A quote about your favourite literary character:

”The face of Elrond was ageless, neither old nor young, though in it was written the memory of many things both glad and sorrowful. His hair was dark as the shadows of twilight, and upon it was set a circlet of silver; his eyes were grey as a clear evening, and in them was a light like the light of stars. Venerable he seemed as a king crowned with many winters, and yet hale as a tried warrior in the fulness of his strength. He was the Lord of Rivendell and mighty among both Elves and Men.”

An author you’d like to meet:

Diane Duane. If I miraculously make enough money to attend the next CrossingsCon next year, this becomes probable.

A pet peeve regarding your favourite genre:

That Tolkien-esque books missed everything that Tolkien cared about and that so many books seem same-old, same-old.

A thing you love about your favourite genre:

The sheer variety of subgenres.

A genre you’d like to get into but haven’t:

Mysteries? I read the Nancy Drew books as a kid and never found more mysteries since then.

A book you’d like to read:

I have a list of books I own that I haven’t read. (I don’t have a dedicated shelf for them.) Top three on the list are about the American Revolution.

A book you want to recommend:

Huh. I’m assuming that people are sick of my recommending So You Want to be a Wizard so…

To Life by Harold Kushner if you want a good basic book about Judaism.

The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater if you’re looking for a YA book. (Yes, it’s a few years old. But it’s a book I went out and bought within days of finishing the library’s copy.)

The Calculating Stars by Mary Robinette Kowal. This is on the strength of the first chapter excerpt available on Tor’s website. The book itself is waiting to be read. (Early next week, hopefully, during Rosh Hashanah when I won’t be online.)

#books

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syrupwit · 4 years

Text

Letter for Trick or Treat Exchange 2020

Hello there, and welcome to my letter for Trick or Treat Exchange 2020! I appreciate that you’ve taken the time to read this letter. I hope that it will provide you with clarification, inspiration, or at the very least a bit of entertainment.

Although I’ve written more for some sections and less for others, rest assured that I would be super excited to receive a gift for any of my requested fandoms, characters, or fanwork types.

Please see the table of contents below:

Likes

Do Not Want (DNW)

Fandom: The Bureau d'Echange de Maux - Lord Dunsany

Fandom: Carnacki the Ghost-Finder - William Hope Hodgson

Fandom: Invader Zim

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Fandom: Stellar Firma

LIKES

For Treats, some general things I like are:

Silly, clever, or situation-based humor

Surreality and weirdness

Lore and worldbuilding

Stories-within-a-story

Slice of life, especially light moments for darker canons

Unusual team-ups

Dramatic rescues

First times

Seasonal and holiday-related tropes -- autumn weather, changing leaves, spooky foods, candy, friendly ghosts, haunted houses, horror movies, costume parties

For Tricks, some general things I like are:

Dark comedy, gallows humor, horror comedy

Psychological, paranormal, and cosmic horror

Creepy lore and worldbuilding

Unreliable narrators

A lingering sense of unease

Examining darker aspects of canon

Obsessive, love-hate relationships between adversaries or people who are in conflict over something

Corruption

Dubcon where a third party or outside force is responsible for the situation, or where the dubconned party enjoys it

I have a very long list of fic likes here.

Please see my Multifandom Horror Exchange letter for more about my horror likes.

DO NOT WANT (DNW)

Characters under age 16 involved in sexual situations

Sex without mutual attraction

Hate speech

Harm to animals (the existence of ghost animals is OK, but I don’t want to hear about injury, abuse, or death of animals)

Fandom-Specific DNW Exception for TMA: Mention of canonical, character-motivation-significant cat death is fine.

Bestiality

Scat

Necrophilia (sexual activity involving ghosts is OK, just not corpses or remains)

Sexual activity involving worms / spiders / insects

THE BUREAU D’ECHANGE DE MAUX - LORD DUNSANY

Fanwork Types Requested: Treat - Fic, Trick - Fic

Characters Requested: Shop Owner

This short story can be read online for free here. CW for brief antisemitism (it’s one line/mention, but it caught me off guard, so).

I actually hadn’t read this story before seeing it in the tagset, but what an intriguing premise! I’d love to hear more about the shop owner’s business and the bargains his customers make. The trades in the story seem intuitively equal -- life for death, troubling intelligence for happy ignorance, a phobia for a phobia -- but what more unusual types of trades might occur? Has anyone ever tried to rob the shop owner? What strange or ordinary-seeming locales has his shop traveled to, and how does he feel about them? I’m interested in Trick and Treat takes on all of these questions.

I really like Lord Dunsany’s style and would enjoy anything in that tone. If you wanted to bring in some of his other short story characters, like Nuth or the bad old woman in black, that would be great. I’m also open to crossovers for this fandom with all fandoms I’ve requested in this exchange or any previous one.

CARNACKI THE GHOST-FINDER - WILLIAM HOPE HODGSON

Fanwork Types Requested: Treat - Fic, Trick - Fic

Characters Requested: Thomas Carnacki

The original nine short stories about Carnacki can be read online for free here. Project Gutenberg also has the first six stories.

Among fictional occult detectives of the early twentieth century, Carnacki has a special place in my heart. He gets scared, he makes mistakes, he does weird things with colored lights and electricity, and sometimes he figures out that the haunting was a hoax. While the supernatural cases that Carnacki investigates are (in my opinion) genuinely scary, those occurrences that turn out to have a mundane explanation are just as suspenseful.

Hodgson’s cosmic horror worldbuilding, as well, is inventive and unusual. My favorite Carnacki story, “The Hog,” concerns a malevolent extra-dimensional pig that attempts to manifest in the world by tormenting a frightened dreamer. Other adversaries include a ghost horse, a cursed ancient dagger, and a giant pair of whistling lips.

For Treats, I’d like to see Carnacki tackle a lighter-hearted problem or deal with an antagonist that’s more silly than sinister. The stories’ conceit is that Carnacki calls his four closest friends to dinner every so often and makes them wait until the meal is finished to recount his latest case. I’d also enjoy something about his relationships with them, maybe a situation where his personal and professional lives clash or he acquires a new quirk after an odd case.

For Tricks, I want ghost pigs and ghost pigs only. Just kidding! I’d really like to hear more about the creatures and lore of this universe, as well as the beings, texts, and rituals that Carnacki references or uses in his work. More mistakes, near misses, and terrifying encounters are always welcome.

INVADER ZIM

Fanwork Types Requested: Treat - Fic, Trick - Fic

Characters Requested: Dib, Zim

Apparently one of my forever fandoms. To re-use my own words: There’s something irresistible to me about the blend of snappy comedy, unapologetic pessimism, and hints of a more complicated universe that we just get to see. I’m not up to date on the comics yet, but please feel free to include canon from comics, show, or movie.

Dib

I love Dib’s obsessiveness, his alienation, and his frantic pursuit of approval from a community and society that couldn’t care less about him. He wants to be the hero, but his actions are selfishly motivated and often result in catastrophe. I’m really endeared by his devotion to the paranormal and the ridiculous situations he’s drawn into.

Dib/Zim is my OTP, but I also enjoy them interacting as enemies or frenemies. (I would prefer any sexual content be set when Dib is 16 or older.) For gen, I’m interested in Dib’s family relationship with Gaz, potential friendship with Tak, and encounters with aliens, cryptids, monsters, ghosts, and other paranormal investigator types.

Zim

Zim is a total disaster, and that’s what I love about him. Like Dib, he’s stuck in a futile quest for validation from leaders and peers who would prefer he not exist. I like that he’s gullible and easily scared -- cf. “Germs,” his meltdown over the VHS copyright notice in “FBI Warning of Doom” -- yet unusually chaotic and dangerous even among his species. He also has a subconscious layer of... neediness, I think? that could be really interesting to explore.

Again, Dib/Zim is my OTP. For gen interactions, I like Zim’s relationships with GIR, Ms. Bitters, the Tallest, and any other invaders, as well as random hapless humans and experiments and so on.

THE MAGNUS ARCHIVES

Fanwork Types Requested: Treat - Fic, Trick - Fic

Characters Requested: The Buried, The Vast, Adelard Dekker, Jurgen Leitner, Peter Lukas, Gertrude Robinson

My favorite horror podcast! I may be obsessed at the moment. I love the tone and worldbuilding of TMA -- the entropy and hopelessness, the way the monsters don’t play fair, the semi-religious devotion of avatars to their patrons. I also love characters figuring out the magnitude of the awfulness they’re dealing with, and fighting against overwhelming odds.

The Buried

A fascinating fear! I’m really attracted to the Buried’s mix of attributes -- not just dirt, asphyxiation, and the subterranean, but also pressure, metaphysical weight, oppressive circumstances and hopeless struggle.

This entity’s particular aspects of denial, and of accepting increasingly adverse or strange conditions -- the pit, the statement giver from “Dig,” Karolina Górka considering a nap on the Underground -- both unsettle and delight me.

I feel that both the Buried and the Corruption have this compelling theme of like... suffocating, boundary-crushing love, that takes a person’s identity, will, and outside connections but leaves them a sense of belonging or importance. Then, on the other hand, the Buried can also belittle as it isolates. I thought Hezekiah Wakely’s identification of the Buried with rest and peace, and the Sunken Sky’s evocation as a mercy, were very interesting as well.

For prompts: I really love archaeology and ancient history, so I’d love anything about the Buried in connection to that. An anon on FFA brought up the Kola Superdeep Borehole as a potential hook for the Buried, and that idea is quite interesting to me. I’d also love to hear about any of the statement givers from canon, the coffin’s other victims, or any main or original characters encountering this entity.

The Vast

Heights are one of my most visceral fears in real life, despite not being something I’m conceptually afraid of. I am requesting the Vast because I would like to be conceptually afraid of it!

Elements of this entity that intrigue me: the image of the Falling Titan, nihilism (and finding freedom in it), insignificance, call of the void, oceans / storms / cliffs, space, scales of size so large they’re not humanly comprehensible, Simon Fairchild’s love for the sky, delineation from the Lonely, opposition to the Buried, unusual manifestations.

As with the Buried, I really love the justifications that avatars give for their devotion to a power -- something exploring that, the choice to serve and the benefits that someone either gains or rationalizes after the fact, would be amazing. As stated above, unusual manifestations of fears are my jam, especially things that start out looking like one power but turn out to have a different affiliation.

I’d be interested in hearing about any canonical statement givers, avatars, main characters, or original characters encountering the Vast, or perhaps just a record of a past manifestation. I love stuff that’s grounded in a place, time, or feeling, so something super-specific or historical would be awesome. But, again, I really just want to be scared.

Adelard Dekker

Such an interesting character, and with depths yet to be explored! I enjoy his pragmatism, sense of humor, and relationship with his faith. I’m intrigued by the question of his allegiance and motivations, as well.

I’d love to hear more about Dekker’s pursuit of the Extinction -- perhaps the incident or incidents that first made him suspect its existence? accidental Extinction!Dekker? -- and his apparently far-flung contact network. I ship him both romantically and platonically with Gertrude, and I’d be interested to hear about their first meeting or other cases they collaborated on. Additionally, Dekker/Tim is a rarepair that intrigues me -- perhaps they meet in an AU where Tim becomes Dekker’s apprentice, and they take down Nikola together? I’d be open to seeing him interact with any character you think might be interesting, whether in a gen or shippy way.

Jurgen Leitner

I just want to know about the cataloging system he uses. Alternately, MORE LEITNERS. Alternately, ohh, the hubris! Leitner’s motivations for starting his library, vs. what he actually ends up effecting... aiii. I’m interested in what role the Eye played there, or how others may have manipulated him.

I don’t have any ships for Leitner, but for gen I would be interested to see him interact with Gertrude, his assistant, or Gerard Keay. Elias or Peter Lukas could also be interesting -- potentially funny, potentially sad or ominous.

Peter Lukas

On the one hand, a sinister sea captain and the heir of a frightening legacy; on the other, an annoying boss who refuses to learn basic computer skills and says things like “You and me, the dynamic duo!” I enjoy how petty and human Peter seems, at the same time that he’s this remote and gleeful monster.

I ship Peter/Martin super hard, but I also enjoy gen Peter & Martin and both gen and shippy interactions involving Elias. Additionally, I’m really interested in what happened for Peter to transport Gertrude to Sannikov Land, given their animosity. (Peter and Gertrude interacting seems like it could be hilarious.) For a fish-out-of-water scenario, I’d also like to see something where Peter feels out of control or threatened -- like, perhaps he’s caught in another avatar’s trap, or forced to be around other people for a bet or some strange purpose.

Re: Peter/Martin: I would prefer for Martin to gain the upper hand, even if it’s just in principle. I really like the idea of Peter going along thinking he’s in control, he’s seduced Martin to the Lonely, his plan is moving along -- and then he’s suddenly hit with all these feelings that he doesn’t know what to do with, because he’s never been in this situation before. On Martin’s part, I like it when he’s sort of reluctantly allured, but also contemptuous and focused on his own plan. And I would absolutely love some weird monster courting rituals -- Peter trying to impress Martin, but not quite pulling off “human” or “not disturbing.” I’m not married to these sorts of dynamics, though -- if there’s one you like better, please write it.

Gertrude Robinson

My favorite character! I love her practicality, dry wit, and self-control, but I also love stuff exploring her weaknesses, blind spots, regrets. I like that she can be smug and sometimes cruel, but not to the point where she violates her own principles (or, at least, not in her own opinion). I like that her backstory is so simple. I just really like Gertrude, in general.

For solo Gertrude, I’d like to learn more about her early days at the Institute -- maybe some of those heroic ideas she mentions she had, or their gradual dispelling. I’m also interested in seeing her solve problems, travel to unusual (or totally mundane) places, and face all kinds of supernatural nonsense. How did she get so unflappable? Is it mostly temperament, or was it a process?

For Gertrude ships, I could be convinced to ship her with pretty much anyone, but especially Agnes, Adelard Dekker, Emma Harvey, and Mary or Gerry Keay. For gen, I like her with everyone. I just want to see Gertrude interact with people!

STELLAR FIRMA

Fanwork Types Requested: Treat - Fic, Trick - Fic

Characters Requested: Hartro Piltz, Trexel Geistman, David 7, IMOGEN

I love this podcast so much it’s ridiculous. If I recall correctly, it’s been described as a cross between Brazil and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy; this strikes me as accurate. I love how the tone is at once silly and exuberant, but also dark and messed-up, in an absurd way that doesn’t try to hammer listeners over the head with its irony. (Please feel free to explore that darkness in a Trick.) Also, it’s funny.

Hartro Piltz

I fell head over heels for Hartro’s character somewhere between her first appearance and the Executive Quarterly mini-episode where she reveals that her alarm clock launches her headfirst at the floor every morning (“I like to really smack awake”). She’s such a fun villain, and her attempts at team bonding with David and Trexel are oddly endearing. I like that it’s made clear that she’s as much at the mercy of Stellar Firma as everyone else, just with more perks.

For ships, I’m really into Hartro/Trexel, and I could get behind some Hartro/Trexel/David 7 as well. (If foot stuff is opt-in, consider me opted in.) For gen interactions, I like Hartro with anyone -- not just the other main three, but Standards, Sigmund Shankeray, and other members of her team or clients.

Trexel Geistman

Trexel is the worst, and I adore that about him. I love how thoroughly the show demonstrates his jackassery, and how it’s still possible to sympathize with him and see how he got where he is at the same time that you (I) just want to shake him. His responsibility-abnegating, depression, and alcoholism seem weirdly realistic, or at least reality-informed, and they weight his character in a way that I find compelling. I love his songs and weird shticks (Detectives and Detonations <3), and lapses into grandiosity and fantasy.

For ships, I like Trexel with Hartro or David 7 or both. Bathin/Trexel and Percy/Trexel, as well. Broom/Trexel, ehh. For gen interactions, I’m interested in seeing him interact with just about anyone -- but I’m especially curious what he did to Space Gertrude’s space tug (from Episode 25, one of the character witnesses from the trial). For seasonal-themed prompts, I am amused by the idea of Trexel as a horror host -- thanks, FFA -- or something else along the lines of the TMA crossover mini-episode.

David 7

Poor, sweet, innocent, possibly-doomed David 7. I love his rage, his affinity for crafts, and the bits where he gets swept up in the excitement of planet-designing (or planet-selling, or problem-solving) and can’t contain his enthusiasm. And I love his progression, over the first two seasons, from timid and cautious to just plain fed up.

For ships, I like David/Trexel, David/Bathin, David/Bathin/Trexel, and David/Trexel/Hartro. David and IMOGEN are interesting to me both platonically and romantically. For gen, I am again interested in seeing him interact with just about anyone.

IMOGEN

How much power does IMOGEN have, exactly? At some point, I hope we find out. I love her chipper sarcasm and barely-hidden dark side, and I hope that she eventually gets a vacation.

I don’t really ship IMOGEN with anyone, though the idea of David/IMOGEN is interesting. Her dynamic with David seems to have an unusual tension built into it, where they get along well and he trusts her but she can’t stop herself from threatening him with gun walls and there’s some murkiness about everyone’s motivations. Oh! IMOGEN and the Board, IMOGEN and the senior executives -- what’s going on there? IMOGEN and the station, IMOGEN and near-omnipotence -- there are a lot of fascinating things to explore about her as an AI.

#optional detailed letters for exchanges tag #this signup is no longer in progress!

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short-stories-by-alli · 4 years

Text

Witches of Burlow

This is an original story by me. Please do not reblog without giving credit. If you have questions or suggestions, please let me know!

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of death and violence

Sunlight filtered easily through the large window panes of The Secret Garden. The shop, named after Frances Hodgson Burnett’s classic novel, was a thing of beauty in the horrendous eyesore that was called the town of Burlow. It sat on the corner of North Main Street and Southern Boulevard, just across the small library. The front doors were painted a pretty teal, and the light-colored stone wall between the windows was worn and loved beneath the vines that climbed it. A hand-painted sign sat outside, with The Secret Garden written in delicate, gold letters. Flowers were painted as well, in hues of blue and pink and yellow. Several rusted watering cans held blooming tulips and daisies, and an old wheelbarrow that had no wheel overflowed with daffodils, lavender and forget-me-nots. Beneath a simple stone birdbath sat an old pair of slouching boots that unintentionally became home to a family of voles.

A young woman, no older than twenty-five, with auburn hair pulled into a messy bun on her head tended plants outside of the shop. She wore fashionable overalls with a pretty yellow shirt underneath, sandals, and a flower in her hair. She hummed to herself as she watered the flowers and bushes, taking extreme care as she tenderly stroked the leaves. The plants stood straighter and almost glowed as she did so. A small family, a mother, father and two little girls, wandered up the path towards the shop. Jezebel Townsend was sure she’d seen them around town before. She smiled politely and waved. “Hello! Welcome to The Secret Garden. If you need anything, my name is Jezebel, and my brother is inside.”

Inside the cozy garden shop, a tall man watered the plants and spoke softly to them. Though he looked a bit older, he was clearly around the same age as his sister outside. He wore an old, brown apron and matching brown gloves. His long, dull blonde hair was pulled into a loose ponytail. A few escapee strands fell into his tired, pale blue eyes. Two silver rings adorned his right eyebrow, and many more held onto his ears. A strange symbol was on his neck, partially hidden by a short blonde beard, and more tattooed his arms and chest, peeking out from under the grey tank-top he wore. Pinned to the apron was a name tag that read Henri. Behind Henri Townsend, sitting on the granite counter, was a large raccoon that was playing with its teal collar and eating a cracker. The raccoon’s name tag read Grubby.

“Good day,” he said in a quiet voice. He had a London accent. The raccoon chittered happily, leaping off his shoulder. “Don’t mind the raccoon; he doesn’t bite. But guard your pockets and any food you have.” As the raccoon approached, the people backed up. Jezebel walked in just as the mother was about to say something.

“Grubby!” She clicked to the raccoon, who happily ran over, climbed up her leg and balanced himself on her shoulder. The little girls laughed and the mother relaxed as the raccoon messed with Jezebel’s hair. Jezebel smiled, enjoying the attention that Grubby drew. The raccoon plucked the flower from Jezebel’s hair and skittered down her back to give it to the two little girls. The girls squealed with delight and one took the flower, their mother gently pulling them back from the raccoon. Grubby then skittered up to Henri’s shoulder once more, watching the family curiously.

Henri turned to shelve a new shipment of gardening books as the father came up to him. The man spied his name tag. “Henry, is it?”

“No,” Henri shook his head. “It’s pronounced On-ree. I know, it’s confusing.”

“Oh,” said the man, “That is an interesting name. Is it French?”

Henri shrugged, causing the raccoon on his shoulder to chitter angrily. “I suppose. May I help you find anything?” He glanced to the man, who looked just like every other middle-aged father in Burlow.

“No, no,” the man replied amiably, “Just browsing. This is such a quaint little shop. Did your sister open it?”

“No, it’s mine. Jezebel works here, though.”

“Oh, I see.” The man rocked on his feet for a moment as he spied Henri’s tattoos. “Say, those are interesting. What’s the meaning behind them?”

“This and that. Different meanings.” Henri could feel himself becoming agitated with the man. He couldn’t stand Burlow or its residents. Thankfully, Jezebel appeared.

“Looking for anything in particular, sir?” She smiled her radiant, charming smile, and the man’s attention was immediately off Henri.

“Oh, the wife wants some seeds for a silly little garden project,” replied the man, smiling in return. Jezebel, who was much better with people, led the man away and started going over seeds and tools that would be needed.

Henri sighed. He hated this fucking town.

It was dark outside as Henri rifled through the filing cabinet in his living room. “Jez?”

“Hmmm?”

“Have you moved the sales records from last month?”

Jezebel looked up from a book she was reading. “No, they should be in your filing cabinet. Same as always, Onnie.” Her brother was pacing around his apartment above the shop, moving everything out of place. The siblings were in Henri’s cozy living room that had large windows covered by curtains, bright furniture, potted plants, and probably a thousand books. Bookshelves lined almost every wall, even the half-wall that separated the kitchen and the living room. A small television sat on one of the shorter bookcases, but it looked as though it was merely an afterthought.

“Right, right…”

Henri rifled through the filing cabinet, his mind elsewhere. He chewed his lip as he opened a file, shifting through the papers. Jezebel looked up from her book once more.

“Onnie, how’d you forget that? You’re the most organized and OCD person, like, ever. You’d kill me if I moved something out of place.”

Her brother shrugged. “Distracted. Didn’t get much sleep, I suppose.” His pale eyes rapidly scanned the paper until he found what he wanted. “Ah, there it is. I was wondering why our hydrangea seeds were running low. Someone bought almost all of them last Tuesday… starting a specialty garden, do you think?”

“Maybe. Why didn’t you sleep much?”

“Odd dreams. You know, the usual; didn’t make much sense.” Henri snapped his fingers and a book flew across the room and into his hand. Grubby, who was sitting on top of a chair, leapt into the air to try and catch the book. He failed, landing with a thump!

Henri glanced at the raccoon, unimpressed, as he flipped through the pages. Jezebel furrowed her brows. “You don’t think it means anything, do you? You’re pretty prone to prophetic dreams.”

“It couldn’t have meant anything. Why would a dream about being in high school mean something?”

“You never went to high school. Maybe it means you’ll enroll.”

Henri snorted, placing the paper back into the file and sending the book flying back to its place on the shelf. “As if. Remember when you went to high school in 1943? You barely lasted those four years.”

“It was ‘46. I think.”

“Whatever. Point is, the dream means nothing.”

Jezebel shrugged and turned back to her book, sighing as she did so. Henri glanced at his sister, rubbing his chin as he asked, “Are you staying for dinner?”

“Probably not. I’ve got to get on home and do the dishes.”

“That’s a weak excuse.”

“Well, it’s true. My kitchen is starting to look like a hurricane went through it. I think one of my plates is starting to grow fur.”

“Jezebel, that’s disgusting,” Henri allowed a small smile despite himself, shaking his head.

“We can’t all be neat freaks like you, Onnie. Anyway,” she put the book on the coffee table, standing and stretching, “Don’t stay up too late, okay? The shadows around your eyes are so dark you’re beginning to look like Grubby.” Jezebel smiled, kissing her brother’s cheek.

“Thanks. Let me know when you’re home.”

“I always do.” With that, Jezebel left the apartment, leaving Henri and Grubby in silence.

The night air was brisk as Henri and Grubby walked down Southern Boulevard. Henri was now holding Grubby in his arms, as the raccoon was extremely distracted by the gold name tag on his collar. Henri turned onto Western Boulevard, walking past the abandoned restaurants and lifeless grocery stores until he got to Sunset Park. He knew that no one would be around at this time of night; Burlow was far too dangerous for that. Sighing, he set Grubby down. Immediately, the raccoon rushed to the playground equipment, chittering excitedly as he scaled the monkey bars and slides.

This was common practice. For one, night time trips to the park helped release some of Grubby’s energy, and two, it gave Henri time to think. He sat on a bench as the raccoon played, trying not to look at the clown faces on top of the swing-set poles. No matter how many centuries passed, Henri would never like clowns. For a moment, he thought it was the clowns that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. But then Grubby stopped his frolicking abruptly, staring at the dark tree line behind the picnic shelter.

Henri could almost make out the form of a tall person within the trees fifty feet away, but he couldn’t be sure. Standing and clicking to Grubby, he conjured a small ball of light in his palm, holding it in front of him. Grubby skittered towards Henri , seeming to hide behind him as they walked. As the shape of the person became clearer, Henri felt his heart speed up rapidly. Someone was there, watching him. Someone had found him in the town he hated, the town he moved to to escape all of the madness that never seemed to let up.

He was only twenty feet from the tree line now. Shakily, he raised the ball of light in his hand. Ten feet. He cast it upon the person -

But no one was there. He could see the tree limbs and bushes that he had mistaken for a person, but nothing else. However, he thought, there could’ve very well been someone there. His mind could be playing tricks on him, and someone had fled as he approached.

He shook the thoughts from his head. He was only being paranoid. No one had been in the tree line. Grubby had only seen a squirrel or something of the like.

But then of course, there were the dreams...

If it had been any other matter, Henri would’ve never lied to his twin sister. But the dreams were just too vague to worry her. Of course, Henri’s nightmares always consisted of the cold and small spaces. But the little girl was new.

Henri shook his head again, refusing to think about the matter anymore. He extinguished the ball of light and picked up Grubby. The raccoon growled in annoyance, but Henri only started walking. “We’re going home, Grubby,” he said, “We shouldn’t be out here at this time of night.”

Though the raccoon clearly didn’t agree, he settled down in Henri’s arms, allowing himself to be carried back to their home on the corner of Southern Boulevard and North Main Street.

The next morning was a blur, as Saturdays usually were. There was the morning rush of customers who absolutely had to have tulip buds immediately, husbands who desperately needed a bouquet as an apology or a last minute gift, teenagers who only wanted to look around as they had nothing better to do. Though Henri and Jezebel rarely had a moment to talk to one another, Henri could tell that his twin had a question on her mind.

Finally, at twelve, Henri locked the doors so he and Jezebel could take their lunch hour.

“I’m thinking about closing early today, Jez,” Henri said as he stirred his coffee, sitting on the counter next to the register.

“Is it because of how little you slept last night?”

“Something like that.”

“Onnie, you said you’d get some sleep.” Jezebel folded her arms, setting the cheeseburger from Dave’s Classic Diner down.

“Couldn’t sleep. Besides, I told Grubby I’d take him to the park.” Beside him, Grubby chittered in agreement, trying to be stealthy as he reached for Jezebel’s unattended burger.

“You could’ve slept afterwards. Fifty years ago, you were sleeping twelve hours a day.”

“That was fifty years ago, when you and I were still selling magic and hunting monsters. Selling flowers isn’t nearly as exhausting.”

“Mhm.” Jezebel’s electric blue eyes stayed fixed on her brother’s face.

Sighing, Henri sipped his coffee. “Well what do you want me to say, Jez? I don’t know. I’m just not tired.” He glanced up, finally meeting his sister’s eyes. “Sorry. I… you’re right. I should get some sleep.”

“Go on up and get some sleep. Grubby and I will finish out the rest of the day.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. A few haughty southern customers aren’t anything I can’t handle.”

Yawning and stretching, Henri ruffled his sister’s hair. “You’re a lifesaver, Jez.”

“I know.”

Henri smiled in return as he unlocked the door to the staircase that led up to his home. Once upstairs, he sighed and leaned against his kitchen table. Jezebel was right, he needed to sleep. But he hadn’t been lying. He wasn’t tired, and he couldn’t sleep, at least, not without an aid.

Opening a kitchen cabinet, Henri found a small jar that contained millions of tiny, blue poppy seeds. Sighing, he mixed a large spoonful into his coffee, not caring to measure it out. As he finished the coffee, Henri laid in his bed, thankful for the poppy seeds that finally allowed him to sleep.

Though Henri had been hoping for a dreamless sleep, he was quickly disappointed.

He was once again lost in a dark, sprawling expanse of land. He could feel the trees and underbrush on all sides of him, but they were sickly; damp and pulsing. His arms were ebony and small, void of tattoos and scars. His hands, pressed against a tree, were thin and delicate, like a child’s, the nails topped with chipped yellow polish. Black, curly hair was stuck to his face and neck, finding its way between his lips as he screamed in a high, terrified voice for someone to help. He knew that something big, evil and ancient was after him, and that he had to find the witch his mother had told him about. The witch named Henry or Ornery or something of the sort. But his mother was no longer with him; she had died at the hands of the man with the black mask. He screamed, and all of the trees and underbrush around him withered and died.

It was still dark outside when Henri awoke with a start, though the rain had finally stopped. Stumbling from his bed, he stared wide-eyed into the mirror that hung in his room. Sweat clung to his pale arms and bare chest, where his black sigils stood out vividly, and his blonde hair tangled around his throat like a noose. His hands were white, the veins blue beneath the skin. Standing alone in his room wearing sweatpants and fear, Henri looked half a ghost. He sighed, pushing the hair from his eyes and mouth, sitting back on his bed. Squeezing his eyes shut, he shook his head, trying to forget what he had seen.

He pulled on a t-shirt, glancing to Grubby, who was sound asleep on the dog bed in the corner of Henri’s room. Silently, he slipped out of his apartment and down to the shop below.

He didn’t turn on any lights. Sitting in front of the huge windows, he stared out into the street in front of the shop, a tray of succulents in his lap. He weaved magic into the plants; they were small and sickly and needed a bit of help. As soon as he began to feel more at peace, a face appeared in front of him.

“What the fuck?!” Henri leapt back, the succulents and the tray shattering on the ground. “Fuck!”

Henri studied the face as he grabbed a spade from a nearby display. She was a little girl, no older than twelve. Her skin was ebony and her bushy black hair was pulled into a poofy ponytail. She wore a baggy shirt, old jeans, and tattered shoes. She clutched a faded pink book-bag that sported unicorns galloping across it. With eyes darker than coal, she studied Henri with a guarded look.

She was human; Henri was fairly sure of that. And if she wasn’t, he knew he could take her. Cautiously, he opened the door.

“What do you want, kid? We’re closed.”

The girl’s voice was hard and determined. “My name is Aja Forest. I need your help.”

#short story #witches #witchcraft #ocs #original #HenriTownsend #JezebelTownsend #grubby #AjaForest

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