#this is for that one stunningly beautiful women who read a book in the rain next to a bookshop while she waited for her friends

[mildlyinsanewitchyboi]

You know when you see someone out and about in public minding their own business and just vibing?

They are probably just doing their normal day shit but it just seems so amazing to you that you instantly want to know more about them?

Yeah...

#this is for that one stunningly beautiful women who read a book in the rain next to a bookshop while she waited for her friends #I’m sorry I squeaked a compliment at you I really tried #I did #brain said no #too pretty #too kind #I took one look at someone reading in the rain and wanted to be their new roommate #damn people are beautiful #I need to get more books now shit

[jasperwhitcock]

02. DISTRACTIONS

i’ve decided to continue with the au of bella as a vampire & edward as a human inspired by a post from @bellasredchevy, so here’s another installment (you can read the first chapter here). if anyone has thoughts on if it’d be more preferable for me to post this fanfic on wattpad/fanfiction.net/another website rather than posting it on tumblr, let me know :-) if not, i’ll continue to post here & figure out some tag to make it easier to find!

The boys had left for a hunting trip, so I found myself falling victim to what Alice liked to call a “sleepover”. It was a ridiculous name for this kind of occasion. An unfortunate part of what we were consequently lost us the ability to sleep and thus, dream. I had found this to be something I considered an advantage when I was first changed. I had so much extra time I could devote to reading! Unfortunately, the excitement didn’t last very long. I still enjoyed the benefits of all the ample time, but I did miss the creativity of my subconscious that allowed me to live in other worlds unrestricted by the more sentient, aware parts of my mind. I missed escapism.

I even missed the nightmares at times. I had been such a vivid dreamer.

Additionally, it was even further ridiculous to refer to this as a sleepover when we spent every night together. Without the sleep and the ‘over’ aspect of spending the night away from home, this was definitely the worst sleepover I’d been to in the course of my existence.

Although, as a bonding time amongst the women of the Olympic Coven, with the exception of some of Alice’s ideas for activities, I enjoyed this kind of night very much. I’d have gone with the boys to hunt if I had any intention of returning to school tomorrow. I’d owe them an explanation when they returned as for the tension that filled the car as we drove home from school. I hated to be the center of attention, so I was appreciative when Alice and Rosalie agreed to keep the horrific encounter a secret for now. I didn’t want the scrutiny of their concern nor the dramatics of the situation.

I was lucky that they had plans with Carlisle. Rosalie was able to convince Emmett and Jasper to begin their night early by allowing us to drop them off at the hospital – much to the dismay of my bulkier brother who had spent his day eagerly anticipating our rematch. My other sister easily dismissed their suspicion of our motives. Nobody questioned Alice twice. I was glad to have more time to mull over what to say to Carlisle. As much as I wanted his guidance, if I could put off growing the audience to my moment of weakness for another couple of hours, I’d gladly take the distraction of Alice braiding my hair into a long plait down my back while she blasted music in the garage where Rosalie worked.

Typically when we had nights like these, we each selected an activity to do together. Alice made the choice  – unfortunately for me – to sort through all of our closets and rid them of items she no longer deemed wearable. With the exception of a few favorites, we rarely wore the same things twice, so it seemed like a waste of time. That is until I realized that this was all just a ruse to chastise me for the items of clothing she stocked in my closet that I didn’t wear. My small, voyeuristic sister was pleased with Rosalie and Esme, creating a nice, substantial pile of clothing to donate, whereas my closet ended up acquiring even more clothing than before. I was far too moody to care to protest.

Esme arranged for the four of us to paint together while some french movie played in the background. As an added challenge, she had Alice describe a vision to us, and we all attempted to capture the image on our canvases. Rosalie simply wanted our company as she continued her ongoing project of restoring yet another classic car that she’d eventually gift as an item for a charity auction. My activity of choice usually was the same: I’d select a book for us to read, and we’d have a book club to conclude the night once we’d all finished.

Tonight, however, I wasn’t feeling entirely up for it. Although I definitely wouldn’t mind the fictional escape away from Forks, I didn’t have it in me to sincerely participate in the conversation that would follow.

I wanted to move beyond the events of this afternoon already. As much as it disconcerted me, I didn’t want to be so severely consumed. I was growing irritated with the feelings of disappointment that preoccupied me. I had taken my ease in this life for granted.

Although I knew it wasn’t his fault, I found myself becoming frustrated with the Masen kid. When I began to see eyes materializing in the green brush strokes of the trees of my painting, I unintentionally destroyed my canvas. Something about the perplexity in his shockingly perceptive irises and the intelligence that marked his thick eyebrows when they pulled together was inexplicably haunting me. The irony of feeling haunted when I was the undead creature was not lost on me.

“I’ll grab you another one, dear,” Esme soothed, exchanging worried glances with Rosalie and Alice before disappearing to bring me another large square of coarse, woven white fabric to vandalize.

When the lyrics of the song Alice sang along to as Esme handed Rosalie the tools she needed began to creep into my head and develop new meanings I didn’t want to hear, I abruptly sprang from the driver's seat of Rose’s convertible and ran from the garage. I wanted to unravel in peace.

I stopped when I reached the large, grey stones of the riverbank.

The forest was peaceful. It was nearly dawn; a pale, purple-grey tinted light cloaked the scenery before me, the orange and pink hues of the morning sun that should fade into the navy-black of the night sky were hidden behind a thick layer of rain clouds. The water of the river flowed sinuously by as some birds sang far in the distance. The greenery was enveloped in the fallen rain of the night, droplets of water clinging stunningly to every blade of grass, every needle of pine of the lush vegetation like crystals and diamonds. A cold mist intimately caressed the river, enveloping the landscape in a fresh haze. I could now see the vision Alice described a few hours prior come to life. Here I stood now, quietly, amongst the skyline of trees in daybreak.

I closed my eyes to the muted beauty of this morning, indifferent to the ephemerality of the moment. How many mornings had I seen like this? They were all already cemented in my infallible mind. I breathed in, the cold air whistling deliciously down my throat. On my tongue I could taste the minty, rain-kissed evergreens, the warm streams of blood pumping the tiny, fluttering heartbeats of the smallest animals, the earthy, sweet brooks leading back to the river. The wind softly stroked the sparkling spring water, and as I focused on the faint whisper of an insect’s fluttering wings, I heard the lithe, recognizable stride of my adopted mother approaching. With her came new scents and sounds – white gardenia, freshly baked bread, honey, peach blossoms, a whisper of lush silk, a hiss of air, a gentle nuzzling of fast footsteps on glossy moss.

She arrived by my side but said nothing, joining me in my silent reverie.

“You have nothing to say?” I asked after we stood there for some time, Esme watching what I assumed was the faint hint of the sun rising beyond the clouds, lifting the overcast view into lighter shades of blue-grey. I could feel the slight difference in temperature against my skin.

“Is there something you wish for me to say, sweetheart?” Esme asked gently.

I finally opened my eyes, turning to meet her topaz eyes full of love and patience.

“Not really,” I half-smiled, feeling guilty.

Her beautiful mouth widened into a smile, lighting up her heart-shaped face. She seemed to find some humor in my honesty, letting out a peal of laughter that frightened some distant creatures into silence at the unexpected sound of bells. Her caramel-colored waves of hair shook lightly with the motion.

“Oh, my Bella.” Instantaneously, I was enveloped in her warm, velvet arms. “It is absolutely valid to feel such despondency, but we must celebrate that we are not mourning the loss of another life! For that, I am very proud of you. And I’ve been so relieved that in this life you’ve never had to grieve the mistakes that even I have made...but we would never feel differently towards you if you had. Nor do we feel differently that you’re experiencing a struggle much more strenuous than before.”

She paused before continuing more fervently, “it makes you no less strong, and you will have the strength to resist...I believe that with all my heart. Please don’t feel so disappointed with yourself. You must give yourself some credit and patience and forgiveness. It pains me to see you so cheerless!”

“I’m sorry I seem so...down,” I sighed, resting my head dejectedly on her shoulder. “I guess, to be frank, it just...sucks to feel like I don’t have the super sense of self control that I thought I did. I’m beginning to feel bad for Jasper now,” I snorted bitterly.

She laughed again at my colloquial choice of words.

“Perhaps you owe him an apology. You and your brother have given him an awful lot of trouble for how he struggles,” my mother accused me teasingly, stroking my hair just as my sisters had. The comfort was nice, but I also felt irrationally remorseful to have any need for it.

“Yeah, maybe I do,” I frowned, thinking of having to put aside my pride.

She pulled away to hold me at arm’s length, cautiously studying my face.

After a moment, she pulled me against her again in another embrace.

“I will leave you alone now. It seems you would benefit from some more time by yourself to think without your sisters’ futile attempts to distract you.”

I could tell she was smiling from the way the words left her mouth. “But I won’t allow you to wallow in pity forever.”

Esme released me from the hug and reappeared four yards away from me, the expression on her perfect face stern. “So take the time you need to process how you’re feeling. But only be alone if you need to be. Don’t let yourself be lonely. That’s very important...You know where we will be.”

With that, she was gone.

I couldn’t understand why I was so inconsolable. Of course, I valued her words and the sentiment. My family’s understanding and support were wonderful to have, but I couldn’t shake the upheaval the boy’s blood had wreaked on my thoughts. It seemed to me a cruel joke, that after all these years of so naturally adjusting to this life, I now experienced the true, macabre consequences of this form. Would I have traded the ease that had accompanied me until now if it meant I’d never have experienced a magnetism as strong as the sweet scent that lingered just beneath the Masen boy’s frail skin? Would I have chosen to struggle more the entirety of my existence if it meant I’d have avoided the ferocity of that moment in my suddenly not so banal biology class? Maybe I would have.

This must be some kind of punishment from some god somewhere. Why else would I experience such effortlessness only to be met with an unendurable, unassailable call to reject everything good about my existence? I never gave much thought to religion in either of my lives. I suppose that after I’d been changed, it’d seem like a far more interesting subject because what could be the implications of an existence such as mine? Did my being a monster provide more validity to the existence of a god? If mythological evil creatures plagued the earth, then couldn’t a supernatural deity who created the universe exist as well? Or did my being a monster provide evidence that there was no god – because who could create such a despicable creature?

It had been far more evocative a topic to Carlisle who had spent much of his life after his transformation pondering these questions, but in all truthfulness, it never bothered me much. I adjusted well to this life. I understood why I was changed and didn’t long for my humanity the way some of my other family members did. Of course, I hated the risk I posed to human life, but my conscience felt clear as my record remained clean. I never endured any self loathing for what I was.

Only now did I question myself. Only now did I wrestle with the ramifications of my immortality. Only now did I feel in its entirety – I had experienced strong desires for human blood before but never like this – the true shame of lusting for the end to someone’s precious life. Only now did I truly feel like the monster I was.

I was finally recognizing the wrongness within me.

I was mistaken to feel resentful and angry with the human boy. He did not make me this way. I had always been this way. I had just been blind to the fact for all these years. I had been naive.

He was entirely innocent and deserving of the life he would live. One where his future would not be stolen in a high school biology classroom as his body emptied. One where he would graduate and go on to better schools. One where he would have a successful job in something he was interested in that provided him with purpose. One where he would meet someone smart and kind. One where he would marry, have a family, and grow old surrounded by his progeny.

I suddenly experienced a strange sensation. A feeling I hadn’t felt in years – jealousy. Though I’d never envied a human before, I envied the possibilities this boy had. I never mourned the choices that were no longer available to me. I graduated countless times. I held countless jobs. I felt fulfilled in providing to the world with our philanthropy and loving my family. In that, I found purpose. I didn’t care to have children.

But did I care to experience romantic love?

I loved romance, but I never minded that it was unattainable to me beyond the pages of a novel. I’d met other vampires, but were the odds in my favor to find a soulmate amongst such a rare kind? I didn’t think so, and I was fine with that. I was happy in my solitude. At times, I was the odd one out in my coupled-off family, but I had often felt like the odd one out in my previous life. It wasn’t a new experience, so I never cared. But in thinking of this human boy’s life, free of monsters, free of me, I came to the realization that unlike myself, he could have anyone he wanted. He was not bound by anything other than maybe his own inhibitions. He had the luxury of choice in every aspect of his life but also in love. He had simply the luxury of love itself.

Why were these thoughts coming to me now? I had so much time to ponder my existence, and suddenly this encounter had me incomprehensibly considering inessential things.

I take back my previous feelings about the boy’s innocence. He is stupid and culpable. He’s inspiring stupidity in me.

He’s very fortunate that I have a conscience. I could just as easily murder him in irritation of the havoc his existence is inflicting on my life.

I refocused my thoughts on the scenery before me, longing for the previous morning where I watched the verdant motion of the trees outside the car window after Emmett’s silly destruction of the novel I still had yet to fix. Somehow, it seemed like a long time ago.

In that memory, I eventually found a small moment of peace again.

No painted eyes could haunt me here.

And yet, I was left with a sense of uneasiness, feeling as if my life thus far had been a long exposition, and I had just encountered the inciting incident. I was feeling – though I’d been irrevocably altered once before – as if something would soon change me forever.

we all know stubborn bella wouldn’t yeet herself to alaska like edward’s dramatic ass. hope y’all enjoy hehe <3

#twilight fanfiction #twilight renaissance #twilight au #twilight saga #the twilight saga #bella swan #edward cullen #jasperwhitcock #esme cullen #alice cullen #rosalie hale #vampire #equinoxjw

[cards-and-stars]

✧ How to Deal: Tarot for Everyday Life - Deck and book kit

Author/Artist: Sami Main ✧ Marisa de la Pena

Editor: Harper Collins

ISBN: 9780062662170

Link: https://www.urbanoutfitters.com/shop/how-to-deal-tarot-for-everyday-life-by-sami-main-book-tarot-card-set ✧ https://www.harpercollins.co.uk/9780062662170/how-to-deal-tarot-for-everyday-life/ ✧  https://circotarot.com

What drew me to this deck was the illustrations you can se on the box. There is something feral in that art style that resonated with me, especially because I was going through my second read of “Women Who Run With The Wolves”. It looks like the full kit (Tarot deck + guidebook) is exclusive to Urban Outfitters, while you can find the guidebook by itself on the publisher’s website. The deck also has its very own website. Now let’s have a look at this beauty!

✧ The Box

The kit comes in an A5 black and sturdy box with a holographic title on its front and left side, a bunch of different Tarot Card samples (3 on the front and 15 on the back) and a cute little heart shaped lock with a key on the right side. There is a magnet under that side of the box which allows to close it easily. There is also a message there “You’re about to become an expert at channeling the entire Cosmos”

The aesthetic of the guidebook is also present on the box through the little pastel icons you find all over (ice cream, laptop, envelope, flash light, travel mug, etc).

The back features the following intro:

“Can’t figure out what you should do about that messy friend situation? Wanna know how your crush feels about you? Need some guidance on dealing with your family? The cards are here to give you the answers you’ve been looking for. This box set brings together Sami Main’s fun, comprehensive Tarot guidebook and Marisa de la Pena’s gorgeously illustrated deck in one deluxe edition that will give you everything you need to make Tarot work for YOU.”

The inside of the box is black as well and features more of the pastel elements from the guidebook and reiterates “The cares are here to give you the answers you have been looking for!”

There’s also a little fabric band to allow you to take the deck out easily. Once you take it out, you find out the deck is also in a box. Again, it is sturdy and black the front features 3 eyes and the back the symbols of the 4 Minor Arcana suites, all in those cute pastel tones. Inside this box, two more messages await you: “Fate is fluid. It’s up to you to take matters into your own hands.” and “Embrace your intuition”. Another fabric band allows you to take the cards out with ease.

✧ The Cards

The deck this little kit comes with is the Circo Tarot by Marisa de la Pena, a gorgeous and colourful Kickstarter deck. Each card has been painted by the artist, I believe with mixed media (I can for sure see watercolour paint but I think I can also recognise gouache). Some cards do indeed refer to the theme of the circus, while others have a more latino influence (no offence meant here, I am simply not versed enough in those particular cultures to be able to precisely identify them). Most of them are easy to read and absolutely all of them are stunningly beautiful.

The cards are of a regular size but slightly thiner than your usual RWS cards. The back is a gradient of pastel tones and features 3 black eyes.

Little disclaimer, the artist is no longer making or selling divination tools. Her website is therefore a bit bare at the moment and the Instagram link is dead. If you wish to follow her work you can find her new Instagram account here.

✧ The Little White Book

This guidebook is far from being “little” :D It’s 232 pages of information about each card (with illustrations for all the Arcana), of Tarot exercises for practice and it features a total of 8 different spreads! 

It’s perfect for beginners as it not only provides you with the information but also engages you with exercises! Those exercises are also beneficial to more seasoned readers as they may shed some light on underlying aspects of the cards that may still be left undiscovered.

✧ The Tryptic

Strength has defeated the lion. In this illustration, there is no place for the kindness the character usually shows the beast, there is no mercy. I personally don’t really like when this card is illustrated to represent a total victory over our wilder instincts instead of incorporating them through understanding and respect. The character looks peaceful, as if this battle cost her no sweat. In fact, she has a Venusian allure to her (what with the lipstick, charming look, ear ring, foliage around her neck) that is a bit odd for this card. As if superficiality conquered our wild self. Or maybe has it been superficially defeated? Or is it that this Venusian illustration is meant to represent the social norms and therefore that the civilised has overcome the wild? Either way, this card has lost its balance which I find really makes or breaks Strength.

The Tower is pretty classic in the sense that we see a house, struck by lightning, catching on fire and being surrounded by smoke. The moon shines weakly in the background and looks like the water is threatening to flood the house but also to perhaps fertilise the dry lands the house was built on, suggesting that after the rain comes the rainbow. This card has significantly darker tones than most of the brighter coloured cards in the deck, but it still fits within it perfectly. The artist clearly masters her colour palette.

The Star is illustrated as a woman in a flow dress with a wavy pattern (most likely figuring the water The Star usually pours out of 2 vases) and a hat, adorned with 3 stars. Her hair is also wavy. There is a starry background behind her and 5 stars shine much brighter than others. The character looks peaceful and focused, as if in prayer, meditation or contemplation. It is a stark contrast with The Tower and that of course works quite well. The whole card is dominated by the colour blue, cooling the fire and distress we just encountered in The Tower.

✧ Conclusion

Pro

Beautiful deck with gorgeous illustrations.

Very complete guidebook, fully illustrated.

Fantastic set for beginners

Con

The guidebook and deck have very different aesthetics. They don’t really match. They are both great separately but together they clash a bit.

The card stock is quite thin.

Some cards are prettier than they are symbolical.

✧ Rating

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✧✧✧

Thank you for reading and see you later, little MonStars!

#tarot #tarot review #tarot deck #tarot deck review #review #urban outfitters #sami main #how to deal tarot for everyday life #Marisa de la pena #circo tarot #cartomancy #divination #witchy #witch #witchcraft #brujeria

[aeniith]

WIP: Crypt of the Mind

This is a short story about a Tosi guy named Kel whose older sister Koma decides to leave and join the war with the Ríli. Because Tosi society is a matriarchy, it’s not common for young men to be living on their own (especially in middle class homes like this one), and he feels abandoned by his sister and worried for her safety. Soon, he finds that the strain of being left alone is aggravating some mental problems he’d had in the past. Problems increase for Kel when he starts to discover some unsettling facts about his family’s past, and discovers that his ancestral home may be haunted by secrets unknown, both figuratively, and maybe literally. 

Genre will be fantasy/scifi/paranormal with tinges of romance and adventure. Rating is at M for now just to be safe. Nothing to warrant the rating so far though. CWs for mental illness, mild violence, mentions of death, and paranormal scariness. 

Feedback is welcome if you feel like reading! 

If you asked his sister, there was always something to be angry about. Frankly, it scared him sometimes. Sometimes shescared him. Just like Māha had. But Koma was not their mother. She was just as fierce but her fierceness was driven by a stark ambition, an ever-present desire to climb higher andhigher. Māha had been content with her life, a bookkeeper for an agricultural family. Koma was not content. Koma was never content with what she had, always she had to have more and more.

If there was one thing he knew in his life, it was that Koma would be like this until the day she died. No amount of success or power was sufficient for her. It was tiring to him. Why couldn’t she just be happy with what she had achieved? Why did it always have to be more? Why couldn’t she have been endowed with their mother’s wisdom as well as her temper?

“Kel!” her voice rang out in the large, mostly empty foyer. “I thought you were buying more wine? Where is it?”

Kel peered around the wall from the darkness of the sitting room. “I was about to go into town.”

“Well hurry up. I have been working all day and I need my goddess-damned wine!”

“I know, I’m going now,” he replied, and went to the cloakroom to get his shoes and scarf. Not cold enough for a coat, not warm enough for no outer layers. Autumn was starting to turn towards winter, and living in the northern-most of the larger Tosi cities meant winter actually didsomething except make it rain a whole lot, such as it did in the Capital City.

She reallyshould stop drinking so much, this much he certainly knew. But it was so tiring to try to stop her—to try to stop her from doing anything. His sister seemed to have endless fight in her, and she didn’t choose her battles—everything was a battle with her. He had partially given up trying to fight her—on most things anyway. He couldn’t give up on other fronts. He still loved her too much. It was impossible for him not too—his only sister, who had practically raised him and his brothers since Māha’s untimely death. He owed her much, and his life revolved around her. He could no more help loving her than he could breathing. She was his older sister, his nas, and they were tied inextricably together. It was their nature.

Kel lifted the gezil weaving as he exited the front door. It was getting frayed and faded—possibly time for a new one. He shouldn’t feel excited about having to replace an old gezil—they were rather costly after all. But he couldn’t shake the feeling when he thought of who he wanted to commission a new one from. Hopefully, she would be at the market that day.

~

The sun was low in the sky in the late afternoon, filtering through the colored tarps and tents of the marketplace. Kel held his hand up to shade his eyes from the orange fire in the sky as he scanned the main square for a familiar face. Her stall was not always in the same spot since she didn’t always come to market.  At last he spied the telltale golden braids wrapped around her head. She wore a long deep purple robe and blue sash around her waist. Mīve, the best gezil mol, or weaver of geziltapestries, that the city could offer. She was not well known outside the south quarter at this point in her career, probably owing to her relative youth, but Kel knew her, and he knew her talent.

He approached the stall and bowed politely, his hand over his heart and his eyes briefly closed, as was the custom for men to show deference to women among the Tosi. She smiled sweetly and waved her hand back and forth in front of her face, signaling “no need” for such formalities, though this itself was a formality. Kel raised his gaze and smiled back. She was stunningly beautiful in the lowering sunlight, the warm hues lighting up her golden hair like fire, gleaming like mica in a river rock. He felt a surge of warmth through his cheeks and realized he didn’t know what he was going to say. I need a new gezil? How are you? I’m glad to see you again? No, he thought, these were all supremely stupid options, and he started to panic.

Fortunately, Mīze’s innate politeness kicked in and saved him the terror of having to choose the right greeting.

“Kel! I haven’t seen you here in months. Does your sister not let you out of the house much?”

She winked to indicate her joking manner, but Kel did not want to tell her how this was almost close to the truth. Besides when she had him running errands for her, Koma frowned on her brother wandering around the city unaccompanied. Sometimes she sent a servant or roped one of her friends into going with him, but this “monitoring” removed so much of the joy he had in simply walking and exploring by himself. He often took to the next best thing—taking advantage of the extensive and largely unused collections of books in his sister’s house.

“It’s, well,” he faltered. “I’ve been…busy.” This wasn’t remotely true—he’d been more bored than ever, but he felt he was slowly turning into a shut-in.

“I’m glad you finally made it out then. Are you in the market for a gezil?” she asked.

“Yes, actually. I noticed ours is fraying terribly—it is pretty old. Koma will be irritated if she spots it before I replace it.”

“Well I am glad to serve you!” she gave him an exaggerated bow with a flourish of her silver-ringed fingers. Kel nervously glanced up upon noticing how the movement exposed the tops of her pale breasts—white as eggs, he thought, hoping his blush was not evident.

“What design does she want? I have ez, kista, nazelu, ek kos…maybe even some with gold thread in here.” She started to pull out troves of carefully folded gezil, in a myriad of dizzying designs and colors, some embellished with glass beads, precious gems, pearls, silver amulets, and other finely made trinkets. Mīze was a truly gifted artisan. Kel wished he could buy them all.

“My sister’s tastes are more subdued than mine, I’m afraid,” he said.

“Now that surprises me,” Mīze replied, her eyes twinkling. “She doesn’t have taste in craftwork that matches her personality?”

“She likes muted colors: olive, mauve, brown, maroon.”

She narrowed her eyes. “A bit ironic. Surely she wouldn’t punish you for getting something a littlemore interesting?”

“To be honest, she probably won’t notice the design much. But she hates things getting old or messy, so I have to buy one.”

“Hmm, in that case, I’d say you could probably get away with something more festive than mauve, for Tek’s sake!” She shuffled the tapestries around and pulled out a few in deep crimson and vermillion hues, bejeweled with gold bells and glossy dark blue glass beads that glimmered like drops of oil in the sunlight.

“That one,” said Kel decisively, pointing toward the brightest of the bunch. Mīze smiled brightly and pulled it out for him to inspect more closely.

“A very good choice,” she said with practiced ease. She was so charming, Kel was sure her sales had to be through the roof. From the looks of her fine clothing, she was in no way hurting for money. Still, he loved seeing her so much, he felt sincerely happy to give her business.

“I’ll give you a discount too,” she added. “If you promise to come out more often! Surely your sister doesn’t mind? You should come with me to the new bar on Gasti Street, it just opened! I know you like opol ale.”

Kel felt his lips twitch with a smile. “How did you know that?” He had never told her any such thing.

“You’d be surprised the things I come to know around the marketplace. Everyone knows something interesting.” Still her ever-present, gleaming smile. Her teeth were far too white. Her eyes shone and a tiny dimple indented her right cheek. Kel felt he couldn’t stand to look into her eyes for too long at once.

“Well, if you insist, I’m sure I can find a way to get out. What time did you have in mind?”

“Right after the market closes, if you can!” She started to fold the gezilup and wrap it in burlap, placing it in a sack for him.

Kel felt a wave of apprehension. It would be difficult to get away. He’d have to make up some excuse. But he was nothing if not clever, and he knew it—he would figure out a way to leave and meet her. He couldn’t miss this chance.

He turned and paid her the amount she indicated—a good twenty percent less than her ticketed price, he noticed. He thanked her, took the gezil, and started off toward home. He was so distracted by his wandering (and admittedly somewhat frenetic) thoughts that he almost forgot his sister’s wine.

#wip #writing #writeblr #amwriting #paranormal #fantasy #fiction #scifi #tosi #aeniith #constructed world #world building #ocs #oc #my writing #writing for fun #stories #story #stories from aeniith #matriarchal society

[scrawnydutchman]

‘The Breadwinner’ Movie Review (Spoiler Free)

It has been too damn long since I’ve put together a film review for this blog, due mostly to the fact that it’s been too long since I’ve seen a film. I’ve been a busy bee as of late and my year is only expected to get busier. As a result I missed out on a TON of great animation from 2017. I still haven’t seen Loving Vincent, I still haven’t seen Don Hertzfeldt’s new film, you get the idea. But I HAVE found the time to see the latest film in the repertoire of Cartoon Saloon, the Irish studio behind such phenomenal work as The Secret of Kells and my favorite film The Song of the Sea. That said . . . The Breadwinner may very well take The Song of the Sea’s place. What can I say except Cartoon Saloon does it again! Based on the book of the same name (otherwise known as Parvana), This film does everything Cartoon Saloon always does masterfully with a take on a culture they haven’t adapted yet. Wonderful composition, elegant hand drawn frame by frame animation, effective colour, wonderful voice acting, heart wrenching drama and clever experimentation await you in this masterpiece of 2017.

PLOT SYNOPSIS & CRITIQUE:

Parvana is an eleven year old little girl living in early 2000s Afghanistan under the complete control of the Taliban. She lives with her ill mother, her argumentative older sister, her adorable little brother and her kindhearted father in poor conditions, but together they are complete. Things change though when her father is placed under arrest and taken away by the Taliban. With no man old enough to earn the family food and water, Parvana has the idea of disguising as a boy to get what she needs for her families survival and goes on a venture to find and save her father. Will she be able to reunite her family in spite of all odds?

This film really puts you in the shoes of this little girl and her family in such a desperate situation and it is both parts disturbing and enchanting. A good chunk of this film is just her life trying to gather food and water without getting into trouble and along the way you see imagery of desperate mothers trying to defend themselves and their children and abusive older men cheating and overpowering children. Even though the camera pans away from a great deal of the violence and the effect is shown through reaction shots it’s pretty disturbing. I’d maybe shy away from showing this film to very young kids; maybe only show them at the age of 10 years old or something. The climax of this film is ESPECIALLY powerful and heart wrenching; I don’t dare spoil it but I can easily say it absolutely floored me. On the flipside, Cartoon Saloon manages to use their signature storytelling methods to give an otherwise gloomy story a necessary dosage of enchantment. A great aspect of this film is an ongoing story being told by Parvana to different people along her adventure, told sort of like a myth or a folktale that really integrates some culture. Much like the mythological edge of Song of the Sea the story mirrors the events of the main plot in an indirect way. It’s brilliantly subtle and creative and The Breadwinner executes it with nuances in character action and stunningly executed imagery. Speaking of the visuals . . .

ANIMATION & DESIGN CRITIQUE:

When talking about a Cartoon Saloon production, can you expect anything short of breathtaking? Frame by frame traditional animation has become something of a taboo subject in recent years in that many will claim it’s the “black and white” of animation. 3D animation seems to be more desirable by the general public and whenever 2D happens you’re more likely to expect rigged cutout animation on TV as it’s more efficient and cost effective. That being said, The Breadwinner proves that in spite of all these claims the beauty and shear majesty of a good hand drawn animated film will never fade. This film will last because it’s subtle movements and charming design are a sight for anyone to behold. Perhaps the most impressive thing to me about this film is just how on model every character is all the time. I watched through this film deliberately looking for inconsistencies after a certain point and don’t think I found any. I’m a hand drawn animator myself so I know what to look for. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD IT IS TO KEEP HAND DRAWN ANIMATION ON MODEL, ESPECIALLY WITH MOVEMENT AS SLOW AND AS SUBTLE AS THIS??? I think part of what makes this more practical to achieve is  Cartoon Saloons simple but beautiful approach to character design. Heads are large spherical shapes so their expressions are visible even from a distance. Their noses are only a few lines at the time and make for perfect symmetry in their faces. Many of the men and women in this film are modeled similarly so alternating from model to model is a simple transition. Turthfully for how crisp and manageable Cartoon Saloons designs are I think they’re definitely worth studying when it comes to developing your own look for a show. Their backgrounds and frame composition are excellent too. They always have such a high amount of depth and pop in colour; I could snapshot every frame of this movie and hang it in my house as art. Not to mention a lot of these choices serve as a symbolic callback to returning themes of the film. The choices made for the movies visuals are simply wonderful; I could go on forever.

Now, remember when I said this film had an aspect of mirroring the main plot with a sort of mythological children’s tale? Well, that part of the film has a completely different animation style to it than the main plot. Rather than traditional animation it takes on a paper puppet cutout aesthetic; similar to the works of Lotte Reineger (in fact I think one part of this film straight up homages it but I could be wrong). This aesthetic is charming and as well executed as the rest of the film and REALLY implores some clever methods of showcasing things like rain and clouds. This film is eye candy from beginning to end.

Voice Acting & Character Critique

Those of you reading who are advocates of an ethnically accurate cast for a film centered around one culture will be pleased to know that everyone in this film is authentically Afghan and that every character does a fantastic job in executing their character. Saara Chaudry plays a compassionate but brave Parvana and does an excellent job carrying this movie. Ali Badshah plays a gentle and eloquent father and instantly wins the viewers affection despite his limited screentime. Soma Chhaya plays a streetwise Shauzia who makes a great foil and partner for Parvana. Kawa Ada plays Razaq, a Taliban soldier who has a good heart despite his alignment and quickly became among my favorite characters after his little arc. I could go on and on, but truthfully my comments are the same everytime; this entire cast is amazing. But one particular character and performance stands out in my mind among all others. Laara Sadiq as the mother, Fattema. Throughout the film she’s a sickly and weak mother, but within the climax .  . . .. HOOOOOOLY SHIT does she get one of the most suspenseful and exciting scenes. I don’t dare spoil it but man, it’s the highlight of the movie for me. Those who have seen it probably know what I’m talking about. 

Music & Sound Critique

To be honest, I’m always not very sure what to say about this section. Even the worst movies I review in my blog tend to be serviceable at the very least in this category. The Breadwinner, however, once again succeeds. The movie has a culture even deeper enriched by it’s soundtrack of middle eastern instrumentals and it effectively immerses the viewer in the environment. Whenever a scary moment happens in this film the sound effects and music are perfectly mixed in such a way that almost assaults the senses (in a good way). The sound always beautifully coincides the visuals and further amplifies the beauty of each reoccurring symbol.

Conclusion

The Breadwinner  is a visual marvel you absolutely cannot afford to miss out on. Everything about it from the beautiful designs to the clever use of symbolism to the engaging story (ESPECIALLY the climax) is something that must be seen to be believed. This film frankly should have won best animated feature for it’s year. I know that Pixar always wins it because the Academy is uneducated as shit, but . . . MAN does this film need to be talked about more. All well. Cartoon Saloon always recieves a nomination for their films and that’s a strong presence for a team keeping 2D animation alive. For that I am thankful. Go check this out; you won’t be disappointed.

Plot: 1/1

Visuals: 1/1

Characters & Performance: 1/1

Music & Sound Design: 1/1

Overall: 4 out of 4. A Masterpiece.

#animation #classical animation #2d animation #cartoon saloon #secret of kells #song of the sea #the breadwinner #cartoons #film #film review #movie review #2017

[meganrosereads-blog]

2018 New Releases

I love finding new releases. There’s something just so satisfying (and smug) about being one of the first to read an amazing book before everyone else. I often like to trawl the web and find out about the new books and debuts that pique my interest and note them down, because who doesn’t love a good list right???

So here are the first 10 books to be released in 2018 that I have my eye on.

Glass Town by Steven Savile - UK release 13 January 2018 (Fantasy) - St Martin’s Press

“ In 1926, two brothers both loved Eleanor Raines, a promising young actress from the East End of London. But, along with Seth Lockwood, she disappeared, never to be seen again. Isaiah, Seth’s younger brother, refused to accept that she was just gone. It has been seventy years since and the brothers are long dead. But now their dark, twisted secret, threatens to tear the city apart. Seth made a bargain with Damiola, an illusionist, to make a life size version of his most famous trick, and hide away part of London to act as a prison out of sync with our time, where one year passes as one hundred. That illusion is Glass Town. And now its walls are failing. Reminiscent of Clive Barker’s Weaveworld and Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, Savile brings out the magic in the everyday. Glass Town is full of gritty urban landscapes, realistic characters, conflict, secrets, betrayals, magic, and mystery.”

Swan Song by Kerry Andrew - UK release 25 January 2018 (Literary Fiction) - Jonathan Cape

“ In this stunningly assured, immersive and vividly atmospheric first novel, a young woman comes face-to-face with the volatile, haunted wilderness of the Scottish Highlands. Polly Vaughan is trying to escape the ravaging guilt of a disturbing incident in London by heading north to the Scottish Highlands. As soon as she arrives, this spirited, funny, alert young woman goes looking for drink, drugs and sex – finding them all quickly, and unsatisfactorily, with the barman in the only pub. She also finds a fresh kind of fear, alone in this eerie, myth-drenched landscape. Increasingly prone to visions or visitations – floating white shapes in the waters of the loch or in the woods – she is terrified and fascinated by a man she came across in the forest on her first evening, apparently tearing apart a bird. Who is this strange loner? And what is his sinister secret? Kerry Andrew is a fresh new voice in British fiction; one that comes from a deep understanding of the folk songs, mythologies and oral traditions of these islands. Her powerful metaphoric language gives Swansong a charged, hallucinatory quality that is unique, uncanny and deeply disquieting,”

The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock by Imogen Hermes Gowar - UK release 25 January 2018 (Historical Fiction/Magical Realism) - Harvill Secker

“One September evening in 1785, the merchant Jonah Hancock hears urgent knocking on his front door. One of his captains is waiting eagerly on the step. He has sold Jonah’s ship for what appears to be a mermaid. As gossip spreads through the docks, coffee shops, parlours and brothels, everyone wants to see Mr Hancock’s marvel. Its arrival spins him out of his ordinary existence and through the doors of high society. At an opulent party, he makes the acquaintance of Angelica Neal, the most desirable woman he has ever laid eyes on… and a courtesan of great accomplishment. This meeting will steer both their lives onto a dangerous new course, on which they will learn that priceless things come at the greatest cost. Where will their ambitions lead? And will they be able to escape the destructive power mermaids are said to possess? In this spell-binding story of curiosity and obsession, Imogen Hermes Gowar has created an unforgettable jewel of a novel, filled to the brim with intelligence, heart and wit.”

The Wicked Cometh by Laura Carlin - UK release 1 February 2018 (Historical Fiction) - Hodder & Stoughton

“ The year is 1831 Down the murky alleyways of London, acts of unspeakable wickedness are taking place and no one is willing to speak out on behalf of the city’s vulnerable poor as they disappear from the streets. Out of these shadows comes Hester White, a bright young woman who is desperate to escape the slums by any means possible. When Hester is thrust into the world of the aristocratic Brock family, she leaps at the chance to improve her station in life under the tutelage of the fiercely intelligent and mysterious Rebekah Brock. But whispers from her past slowly begin to poison her new life and both she and Rebekah are lured into the most sinister of investigations. Hester and Rebekah find themselves crossing every boundary they’ve ever known in pursuit of truth, redemption and passion. But their trust in each other will be tested as a web of deceit begins to unspool, dragging them into the blackest heart of a city where something more depraved than either of them could ever imagine is lurking … “

The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle by Stuart Turton - UK release 8 February 2018 (Mystery) - Raven Books

“A brilliantly original high concept murder mystery from a fantastic new talent: Gosford Park meets Inception, by way of Agatha Christie ‘Somebody’s going to be murdered at the ball tonight. It won’t appear to be a murder and so the murderer won’t be caught. Rectify that injustice and I’ll show you the way out.’ It is meant to be a celebration but it ends in tragedy. As fireworks explode overhead, Evelyn Hardcastle, the young and beautiful daughter of the house, is killed. But Evelyn will not die just once. Until Aiden – one of the guests summoned to Blackheath for the party – can solve her murder, the day will repeat itself, over and over again. Every time ending with the fateful pistol shot. The only way to break this cycle is to identify the killer. But each time the day begins again, Aiden wakes in the body of a different guest. And someone is determined to prevent him ever escaping Blackheath…”

The Coffin Path by Katherine Clements - UK release 8 February 2018 (Gothic/Horror) - Headline Review 

“ The Coffin Path by Katherine Clements is an eerie and compelling seventeenth-century ghost story set on the dark wilds of the Yorkshire moors. For fans of Michelle Paver and Sarah Waters, this gothic tale will weave its way into your imagination and chill you to the bone. ‘The vibrant new voice of historical fiction’ - Suzannah Dunn. Mercy Booth has lived at Scarcross, the old hall just off the coffin path, for all her life. The moors and the house are in her blood - and her soul. Ellis Ferreby is a mysterious, unpredictable outsider who arrives there unexpectedly and finds himself increasingly drawn into her world. But the house holds a tainted history. And the moor top hides something far darker…”

The Sealwoman’s Gift by Sally Magnusson - UK release 8 February 2018 (Historical Fiction) - Two Roads

“ In 1627 Barbary pirates raided the coast of Iceland and abducted some 400 of its people, including 250 from a tiny island off the mainland. Among the captives sold into slavery in Algiers were the island pastor, his wife and their three children. Although the raid itself is well documented, little is known about what happened to the women and children afterwards. It was a time when women everywhere were largely silent. In this brilliant reimagining, Sally Magnusson gives a voice to Ásta, the pastor’s wife. Enslaved in an alien Arab culture Ásta meets the loss of both her freedom and her children with the one thing she has brought from home: the stories in her head. Steeped in the sagas and folk tales of her northern homeland, she finds herself experiencing not just the separations and agonies of captivity, but the reassessments that come in any age when intelligent eyes are opened to other lives, other cultures and other kinds of loving. The Sealwoman’s Gift is about the eternal power of storytelling to help us survive. The novel is full of stories - Icelandic ones told to fend off a slave-owner’s advances, Arabian ones to help an old man die. And there are others, too: the stories we tell ourselves to protect our minds from what cannot otherwise be borne, the stories we need to make us happy.”

Folk by Zoe Gilbert - UK release 8 February 2018 (Fantasy/Literary Fiction) - Bloomsbury

“ Every year they gather, while the girls shoot their arrows and the boys hunt them out. The air is riddled with spiteful shadows - the wounds and fears and furies of a village year. On a remote and unforgiving island lies a village unlike any other: Neverness. A girl is snatched by a water bull and dragged to its lair, a babe is born with a wing for an arm and children ask their fortunes of an oracle ox. While the villagers live out their own tales, enchantment always lurks, blighting and blessing in equal measure. Folk is a dark and sinuous debut circling the lives of one generation. In this world far from our time and place, the stories of the islanders interweave and overlap, their own folklore twisting fates and changing lives. A captivating, magical and haunting debut novel of breathtaking imagination, from the winner of the 2014 Costa Short Story Award.”

The Toymakers by Robert Dinsdale - UK release 8 February 2018 (Fantasy/Historical Fiction) - Del Rey

“Do you remember when you believed in magic? The Emporium opens with the first frost of winter. It is the same every year. Across the city, when children wake to see ferns of white stretched across their windows, or walk to school to hear ice crackling underfoot, the whispers begin: the Emporium is open! It is 1917, and London has spent years in the shadow of the First World War. In the heart of Mayfair, though, there is a place of hope. A place where children’s dreams can come true, where the impossible becomes possible – that place is Papa Jack’s Toy Emporium. For years Papa Jack has created and sold his famous magical toys: hobby horses, patchwork dogs and bears that seem alive, toy boxes bigger on the inside than out, ‘instant trees’ that sprout from boxes, tin soldiers that can fight battles on their own. Now his sons, Kaspar and Emil, are just old enough to join the family trade. Into this family comes a young Cathy Wray – homeless and vulnerable. The Emporium takes her in, makes her one of its own. But Cathy is about to discover that while all toy shops are places of wonder, only one is truly magical… “

The Philosopher’s Flight by Tom Miller - UK release 13 February 2018 (Fantasy) - Simon & Schuster

“ A thrilling debut from ER doctor turned novelist Tom Miller, The Philosopher’s Flight is an epic historical fantasy set in a World-War-I-era America where magic and science have blended into a single extraordinary art. “Like his characters, Tom Miller casts a spell.” (Matthew Pearl, author of The Dante Club and The Last Bookaneer) Eighteen-year-old Robert Weekes is a practitioner of empirical philosophy—an arcane, female-dominated branch of science used to summon the wind, shape clouds of smoke, heal the injured, and even fly. Though he dreams of fighting in the Great War as the first male in the elite US Sigilry Corps Rescue and Evacuation Service—a team of flying medics—Robert is resigned to mixing batches of philosophical chemicals and keeping the books for the family business in rural Montana, where his mother, a former soldier and vigilante, aids the locals. When a deadly accident puts his philosophical abilities to the test, Robert rises to the occasion and wins a scholarship to study at Radcliffe College, an all-women’s school. At Radcliffe, Robert hones his skills and strives to win the respect of his classmates, a host of formidable, unruly women. Robert falls hard for Danielle Hardin, a disillusioned young war hero turned political radical. However, Danielle’s activism and Robert’s recklessness attract the attention of the same fanatical anti-philosophical group that Robert’s mother fought years before. With their lives in mounting danger, Robert and Danielle band together with a team of unlikely heroes to fight for Robert’s place among the next generation of empirical philosophers—and for philosophy’s very survival against the men who would destroy it. In the tradition of Lev Grossman and Deborah Harkness, Tom Miller writes with unrivaled imagination, ambition, and humor. The Philosopher’s Flight is both a fantastical reimagining of American history and a beautifully composed coming-of-age tale for anyone who has ever felt like an outsider.”

#book blog #books #bookworm #booklr #booklover #book #currently reading #reading #reader #read #new books #new release #new releases #magical realism #gothic #historical fiction #literature #literary fiction #fantasy #2018 #fiction

[salrai]

Through Glass (WIP)

Haven’t posted any creative pieces here in awhile. I know it’s a WIP, but it’s original fiction that I actually feel a bit proud of. Feedback is appreciated, as always.

Word Count: 3,536

           The music was muzzled by the sound of the car’s fan trying desperately to cool the interior. Much like the fan itself, the sound of Rise Against could not even pierce the stagnant, heavy air that had taken over these late summer months. My old hand-me-down Civic was a trusted friend, but an old friend in car years. Her air conditioner had bitten the dust a couple years ago, but it’s not exactly like I had the money to fix it. I had named her Sangria—despite my relative unfamiliarity with the drink itself. I just liked the way it rolled off of the tongue—the long “a” sound into a “gree” finished off with the innate beauty that words that end with “a” tend to have. Strawberries and wine painted an image of romance in my mind, and a sense of intimacy that I could only wish to have. It wasn’t like Sangria hadn’t seen some risqué nighttime outings in empty Wal-Mart parking lots and the gravel lots of nature preserves, but they were all with boys.

           Boys don’t have the same internalized heart full of love that women do, they lack the empathy and deepness. Wouldn’t know how “men” are, and I don’t care to find out. Every relationship I’ve had with a boy I only considered to be a fling. Sure, I have a lot of guy friends, but none of them which I would ever consider dating. I considered them to be close but I never hung out with them in person, only in the environment of group chats over the internet or together at school and school events. Sometimes we all got dinner. The thought of being anything other than straight had never crossed my mind until just last year. After a fourth shallow encounter with a boy in that last year of high school, I almost felt like I wasn’t intimate at all—almost like I didn’t even have a personality. I hold my head up high, but that’s only because a floor of clouds blocks my vision of anything inside of myself. I’ve learned to never consider my feelings or even what I wanted. My emotional state can be summarized into one image—the image of a woman lying flat on her back while a man fucks her in missionary position for the twentieth goddamn time, her eyes half-closed, glazed over, and fixed on a digital clock on a dresser to the side while waiting impatiently for him to finish.

           My sweating palms gripped the hard, plastic steering wheel while my heart pounded in my throat. Callie held her hand against her black eye as she stared out the window, her mascara leaving black streaks down her flushed cheeks and marks on her frail fingers that were against her eyelashes. I didn’t know where I was driving. We were about half-an-hour down the interstate by now, and the street lights that line the highway in popular suburban cities had disappeared behind us. If Chicago was the concrete jungle, I guess that the suburbs would be a wild forest. You can drive 50 miles in any direction, besides due east, and still be in “Chicago” according to the residents. I lived in San Antonio for ten years of my life before moving to the doughnut of Chicago. We had suburbs, but our suburbia was far smaller and tucked in between our own Six Flags and SeaWorld.

           I was grateful now, in this political climate, for the move, but when I was younger I couldn’t help but hold it against my parents. Making friends was as challenging as it’s presented in many of those books for teenagers that blend together into one big forgettable plot. Callie was always there. I never talked to her out of what I once thought was intimidation—I figured that she was way too cool for me. I knew her before she changed her name to Calypso, but I never bothered to try to befriend her. She always appeared as if sent by the powers that be to spite me. In each class we had together I was reminded of my failure to so much as make small talk with her or figure out anything about her.

           Calypso. Another beautiful word like Sangria. I didn’t know enough about mythology to know who it was, but I did know the name was inspired by someone in one of the stories. One of Homer’s I think? She made me wish that I had paid attention in high school literature classes during our mythology units. Callie dyed her hair silver-gray and kept it in a medium-length bob, usually pinning one side back with a barrette. The barrette itself looked like an antique. It had different shades of blue gems, some of which were long since missing. It looked like it was made out of brass, and swirled backwards in a pattern where each gem fit into each tendril of the barrette. I can’t remember what her natural hair color is, but it never has mattered to me. She was stunningly beautiful, but an outcast. Each time she spoke in class made my heart leap with absolute adoration. The way she spoke was kind of like the way the clouds roll on a drizzling day. Each word melted smoothly like a raindrop falling from a cloud; her voice wisped like light wind—and I was inside a cozy reading nook in a café, watching the rain through a window.

           If only the circumstance of our meeting this evening were as pleasant as I had fantasized our first meeting being. I’d left my house to go out on a drive to calm down after a familial disagreement. My parents were unhappy with my choices at college, finding out about my tendency to drink with friends via a Facebook post from one of my friends on my wall. They’d calm down about it in a couple hours—they always do—but the negative environment always pissed me off more than I could handle. My way of dealing with it was to drive to someplace that was open 24 hours, like a McDonalds or Taco Bell drive-thru and to go shopping at Wal-Mart. If I was lucky I’d run into a chatty worker who hated having to be at their job during the graveyard shift. Unfortunately, even though they were often my age, neither fast food nor Wal-Mart workers were exceptionally talkative.

           While I sipped on my large Coke in the lingerie section of Wal-Mart, I saw the back of the familiar silver bob of Callie, and she looking at what looked like women’s shirts. I pushed the ridiculously lacy underwear that I picked out of clearance to the back of the shelf I was looking at and walked up to her, startling her at first. She just about jumped out of her skin when she saw me, and her hand immediately shot up to her eye. It was unusual for her to be in such a big hoodie, but I had just assumed that she had perhaps come here in her PJs or something. Of course, then I noticed her smeared make-up and offered to help her out if she needed it. Callie tried to deflect all of the attention, but I wasn’t about to let her go back to whatever she had left from. The desire to leave was clear in her puffy hazel eye. Seeing how resilient I was, she agreed to take a drive with me on the pretense that I bought her something to drink first. I laughed and bought her a Sprite from the cooler at the register. She bought a simple five-dollar shirt by scraping up all of the spare cash and change she could find in the depth of her purse. I lent her a dollar and thirty cents.

           After getting on the road, we hadn’t said a word to each other. I only asked if she cared where we went, to which she quietly responded, “anywhere but this fucking town.”

           We passed through yet another toll and suddenly we were in the middle of nowhere. The corn was high on each side of the interstate and wind turbines lit the dark background with dimming and brightening red stars. I knew a good place out this way, about ten more minutes out. The radio started to fizzle out, mixing Savior with some talk show. It was close to being the aesthetic of some other Rise Against songs besides this one. Once the station was completely gone, I turned off the radio and turned down the fan since it was only blasting hot air anyway.             Peaking a glance at Callie, I saw that she had finally removed her hand from her left eye, instead clutching both of her thighs anxiously. Despite the heat, she kept the hoodie on. Her lips quivered with eagerness to talk, but she seemed petrified out of fear. She probably doesn’t know if she can trust me yet. Hell, she probably doesn’t even remember my name—wasn’t like I stood out in any fashion. Not to mention the fact that high school ended over a year ago. From my peripheral I caught her trying to read me with her one good eye and squinted left eye. I let her. At this point she was something like a scared animal; if I didn’t let her act how she wanted to she would revert back to where we were before.

           “Do you have tissues?”

           Callie’s voice temporarily gave me a shock, much like when we had been in class together. I felt the car waver as I recovered. I held my hand out and pulled open the dashbox, “Yeah, they’re in here. Use as many as you need to. If you uh… run out of tissues there’s some napkins in the center compartment.”

           “Thanks, Naomi.”

           I couldn’t help but blush when she said my name. She began to blow her nose and afterwards cleared her throat. It seemed as if she was finally recovering from crying her eyes out. I pulled over to a rest stop entrance and slowed before finally reaching the empty parking lot. Her right eye widened as she realized how long we’ve been driving.

           “Wait… how far out are we? How long have we been gone?” she began to hyperventilate, “Oh my God, he’s going to kill me.”

           After parking, I unbuckled and put a sturdy hand on her shoulder.  I looked into her eyes as I spoke, “Callie, you’re not going back to him. Let’s go wash up your eye, alright? I’ll get us candy bars from the vending machine.” Internally I was shaking with nervousness and rage at whatever boy could have done this to Callie. I also knew the risks that I was taking by keeping her from him. I could get seriously punished for this, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t let Callie deal with this alone.

           Callie flinched from my touch. My eyes widened as I realized why she needed a cheap shirt. I immediately removed my hand and turned off the car, opened the door, and walked around to the other side to help her out of it. I held my hand out to her. She sniffled as she clutched my outstretched hand as if I were the first human she had interacted with in years. I helped her to her feet and grabbed a first-aid kit that I kept in my dashbox with the tissues.

           “Does your car have a name?” she asked me earnestly with a quick glance at the car while I locked it, seemingly to get a better read on my personality.

           I chuckled morosely, trying not to make light of what had just happened, “Yeah. Her name is Sangria.” The headlights flashed twice to indicate it locking.

           “Ooh, that is a pretty name,” she looked back at me staring into my eyes as if she were looking into my soul itself. I didn’t mind.

           I held the door open for her as she shuffled into the rest area. It was far too bright inside. Vending machines and television screens showing the weather radar greeted us, along with information about Illinois prairies. I sat her down on a bench beneath information on local birds,            “You sit here, alright? I’m going to go get a wet paper towel.”

           Callie clutched my hand with her bony fingers. Her other hand was clasped onto the cheap maroon shirt. I only just realized how sickly she looked. It was like she hadn’t eaten real food in months. I furrowed my brow since she didn’t let go. Her voice cracked while she spoke,            “Actually, I uh… Well I have to clean up my chest and change into this shirt. My last shirt had blood on it. That’s why I went to the store.”

           “Alright,” I said, not knowing how else to respond to this kind of thing. I helped her into the women’s restroom and had her sit on one of the sinks, setting the first-aid kit on the sink next to the one she was on.

           “Do you want me to only clean up your face, or do you want me to clean up your torso too?”

           “I don’t want to even think about it. I trust you enough to clean it up, if you would.”

           I cocked an eyebrow, “You just met me.”

           Callie gave me that soul-seeking look again, letting out a short laugh, “I feel like I’ve known you longer than that, considering how many times we had classes together and bumped into each other.” This woman was far more confusing than I originally thought. The confusion intrigued me even more. Clearly she had also thought of me the same way during all of those times we saw each other. I really hoped we could become friends after this. Or was I dreaming all of this? Did I smoke before I left? I don’t think I have weed at my parents’ house…

           “This is going to sting a bit,” I told her as I tore open a sanitizing alcohol wipe. She squeezed her left eye shut as much as she could while it was swollen. Wherever there was broken skin I gently wiped. She didn’t so much as cringe. After that I wet a paper towel under the faucet with some cold water and applied it to her eye, moving her hand to hold it for awhile. She got the gist.

           I was almost terrified of what I would see underneath her hoodie. As I got closer I couldn’t help but catch the stench of tobacco. This was the guy’s hoodie. I started to unzip it, trying to make conversation to distract her from the pain, “So… who is this guy anyway?”

           “He’s my boyfriend. I stay at his apartment when my roommates and I don’t get along.”

           “If he does this to you, why do you stay with him?” I slid the hoodie down her bare shoulders. Callie wasn’t wearing anything underneath—he must have really fucked her clothes up. Not only was she covered in bruises, but blood was seeping from wounds around her breasts and on her shoulders where he had apparently dug his fingers into, explaining why she recoiled when I touched her shoulder. My pity turned to rage as I took the wipe to each puncture and scratch.

           “I deserve all of this.”

           Her words stunned me. The cold delivery made it even more authentic—even worse. I froze up for what felt like several minutes. I had no idea what to do in this situation.

           I stood up to my full height and embraced her tightly, “What could you possibly mean, Callie? No one like you deserves any of this.”

           Scoffing, she used the same words I had earlier, “You just met me.” Clever. I released the hug and applied bandages where I could before putting the new shirt on. I looked at the dripping paper towel and took it from her to throw it out.

           “I’m going to buy you an ice pack.”

           “I don’t think they sell ice packs at random, middle-of-nowhere rest stops, Naomi.”

           I responded only with a chuckle. I shoved the first-aid kit into one of the deep pockets of my jacket and slung the hoodie over my shoulder. Instead of helping her down from the sink, I picked her up bridal style. I had been working out to build up some muscle, but it didn’t require that much effort to pick up the bag of bones that was Callie. A beautiful bag of bones, but a bag of bones nonetheless. She squeaked in fear before relaxing as I put her on the bench outside.

           “Why did you do that?” she inquired, astonished.

           I shrugged, “Everyone deserves to be carried sometimes.”

           “Have you ever been carried?”

           God dammit. Callie was way too insightful. I turned my back and went to the vending machine.

           She continued, “You seem very concerned with others, but think nothing of yourself. That’s what I’ve observed about you throughout high school, anyway.”

           I slid a dollar seventy-five in quarters into the coin slot of the drink machine. A Sprite tumbled down into the compartment and I pushed the door in to grab it. I didn’t look behind me while talking, “Let’s not change the topic from you,” I stated. I wasn’t a fan of talking about myself so I continued to ask her questions, “What did you do that made you think you don’t deserve good company?”

           “Well, have you heard of Calypso?”

           I turned to face her again and gently tossed her the Sprite. She understood the purpose and put it to her eye. I took a seat next to her before speaking, “No. I knew your name was from mythology, but I didn’t know from what.”

           “Calypso was something like a minor goddess who was known for trapping Odysseus on her island for 9 years,” she sighed deeply and looked down before continuing, “I chose the name because I feel I trap people to be in relationships with me—romantic, friends, you name it—and then when they tire of me they leave. It’s not a direct connection, but it’s one that I think is negative and fits my own self-image.”

           Suddenly I remembered bits of the unit on the Odyssey, “Yeah but, didn’t she make a statement on the way women were treated?” I squinted, trying desperately to grasp at straws, “The teacher tried to provoke some kind of conversation about it but the class was corpse-like.”

           She looked up, thinking that fact over, “You’re right, but… what do you mean?”

           “Well, she wasn’t entirely a bad person right? If Homer wrote her that way then, like, maybe she’s meant to be pitied in a way.”

           Callie looked right into my eyes again, sort of with a glimmer this time, “Maybe…” her eyes darkened again, “I… really don’t want to go back to him. I’m so tired of being treated this way but my mind tells me I deserve it.”

           “Then run away with me,” I said, half-joking. She sat there silently, pondering. That was probably way too weird. Well fuck. I sighed, bought a candy bar and tossed it to her. Then I walked back out into the wall of humidity and heat that was the outside air.

           It was about one in the morning now and I still didn’t know where to leave Calypso for the night. There was a small park area that overlooked the wind turbines that we had passed earlier. I caught a whiff of the tobacco again and realized that I still had the hoodie on my shoulder. I became hypnotized by the slowly blinking lights. By the time I snapped out of  my daze, Callie was right next to me on the bench. We sat there in silence for a long while.

           “Hey Naomi, were you serious about running away together?” she had broken the silence finally after a long while of thinking.

           “Huh? Where to?”

           Callie looked at me and smiled, “Anywhere you’ll have me.”

           “Why me?”

           “You sure do ask a lot of questions, huh. I’ve always had a good feeling about you, and after tonight I’m just glad I was right about one thing. Perhaps if I had acted differently as a younger teenager and befriended you, I wouldn’t have ever had to be in this situation that I’m in.”

           Calypso gently put her hand on mine. I just kept staring at her—absolutely perplexed. For the first time though, I felt something. I felt the fire of passion in my heart. I felt a desire to protect her no matter what. I felt determination to keep her. I nodded, my throat choked up like it was in the car earlier that night.

           We drove together all night. We looked at the stars, we watched the sun rise, we watched the birds fly. We kissed and held each other. We both felt safe. And her ex’s hoodie?

           We left it in the trashcan at the rest area, where it would be forgotten with the trash that would be taken out the following day.

#melee writes #wow melee #original fiction #original piece #fiction #work in progress #writing

[rpaluchm-blog]

The story so far

Because i know you all can’t wait to here about how i’m doing, i’m giving the people what they want, and writing a quick update of how my trip is going. That, and the guy who i’m staying with is very nicely letting me use his laptop while i’m staying with him here in Tours (also my first couch surfing experience). But this is all too soon to be getting into. I’m sure you want some context for how i ended up here. 

It all started two weeks ago with my initial relaxation at the prospect of cycling through Western Europe being immediately shattered by the first French person who spoke to me. As i stood at the front of the queue of all the ‘vehicles’ waiting to the leave the ferry, a man in an orange jumpsuit waited for the necessary checks to be completed, and turned to start talking me. He was obviously telling me it was ok to cycle out. His hand gesturing toward the big open door way made this particularly clear. Hearing French for the first time however, made the reality of what i was about to do very daunting. 

As i cycled off the ramp, out of the port toward a big round about, my thoughts immediately rushed to the fact that i had no idea what i was supposed to do now. Having total freedom over how exactly my day would take shape filled me with fear more than excitement. I had no specific destination. No accomodation for the night. A page of French phrases in my pocket was all i had in the way of language. And even if i could repeat these sentences back to someone like a parrot, i wouldn’t undertand any response. 

Things I knew for sure; i was heading East towards Paris, and I had enough clean socks with me to last 5 days. In moments such as these it is only the most important matters that come to the front of your mind. 

I did have a GPS with me, and i bought two maps before i left England that mapped me out as far as Paris. Before i let myself run away with thoughts of how unprepared i was for the next couple of months, i started by doing exactly what i came here to do... Pedal (this will be a regular theme in these posts). 

I went in the direction of what looked like the centre of town. Found a bench, got out my GPS, google maps (regular contract data and minutes still apply here as we are still in the EU) and the BLT and pork pie i had bought at the co-op in Portsmouth. After taking stock for a moment, I calmed myself. I’d had some food, found a campsite on google to go to about 50 miles away, and had a line on a GPS to follow to a tangible place. Now i needed to get water for the journey. 

Cycling slowly passed the shops i was looking for the friendliest face i could see. I stopped outside a fishmongers with two ladies setting up for the days trade. The fresh fish already laid out looked incredible, and the prospect of French food for the coming weeks put more wind in my sails. Getting out my sheet of phrases, to the amusement of the two women, i asked in my best French accent, “est ce que je peut remplir de l’eau?” (Please can i fill up my water) And held out my three litre camelpak. While one of them continued cleaning the crabs in the big sink behind the counter, the other with a big smile on her face, seeming to understand what i meant, took the bag and filled it up for me. I said “merci”, and in her best English she replied, “Goodbiiieee”. With this exchange, i attached the water to the cross bar, and started pedalling.

The first day it rained on and off for the whole day. It took a while to really get anywhere the first few hours because as neatly as you try and pack the four panniers you have on your bike, heaviest stuff at the bottom of each one as you read you should do on all the cycling blogs, it takes hours stopping and finding things. You quickly rearrange how you pack and set yourself up for the day, and two weeks in, i can stop, rummage through my bags, get the bits i need, and continue with relative ease. This was not an art i had perfected on my first day though. Despite this and the weather, the longer i cycled, the better my mood was. The views were stunning. I’ll upload photos so you can get some idea, but they pale in comparison to cycing along the Seine or the Loire for real

Of more value to this post is how i managed to find my first nights sleep thanks to some very helpful French people. By the time i was getting close to my destination i had started in Le Havre, gone through Lillebone, Maulevrier (looking for accomodation but it turned out to be about 5 houses on top of a hill rather than any kind of a substantial community that the bold letters on the map implied), and crossed the Pont de Brottone to Notre Dame de Bliquetuit toward the municipal campsite that i had originally put into my GPS.

At this point i was supposedly close to the destination. But being on a long straight road, with no discernable campsite ahead, and having already gone 20 minutess in the wrong direction as a result of following my GPS, my trust in the machine was fairly low. I stopped at a board on the side of the road which pictured the surrounding forest. As i’m staring at this board, with no campsites in sight, a lady strolling along the path is coming towards me. I say bonjour to her, and she responded in kind. As she’s looking at me, i’m not able to say anything else, but it’s evident I don’t want to just exchange niceties and need some help.  

Although her English is very bad, and my French worse, I manage to make it clear i’m looking for a campsite. Unaware of a campsite nearby, she tells me to come with her, and walks me to the reception of a nearby national trust building where she’s certain they’ll be able to help me. A receptionist, with even less English, is given a breif background to the situation. A conversation that i can only assume went something like, “this boy looks very lost, i’m not sure exactly what he’s looking for, but i don’t think he has anywhere to stay tonight. Can you give him some information as to where he can go.” Gael, as i found out after introducing myself on the walk up to the reception, feeling she had passed the lost boy she had come across into safe hands, took her leave. 

Me and the receptionist struggle to have any kind of exchange that makes sense to either one of us. The conversation is about to come to an end, when a younger colleague is walking through reception to have a cigarette. The receptionist, half joking half hoping, asks how her English is. The younger women suggests it isn’t good, but comes over to offer her support. Between the three of us, we are able to communicate which campsite i was looking for (it is closed for the season), the area i am looking for a campsite, and the two options i have available to me. Everyone so far seems a little confused at my undertaking this trip in October. Nonetheless, they give me the directions to a campsite, i put them into my GPS, and i’m on my way again.

I have to cross the Pont de Brottone again, and it’s steep from this side so i can’t enjoy the view as much. Nonetheless, i know i am in beautiful surroundings. I go through Le Trait, and reach Jumieges. The campsite is sign posted, and i eventually reach it with no problems. I buy some bread, cheese, and cake from the pattiserie and general store that are still open. Set up my tent, and sleep like a log.

Now i am aware that this entry was titled ‘the story so far’ and there are those of you who (having actually taken the time to read this far) feel hard done by for having gotten through all this only to find i have taken you up until the end of day one. In my defence, i have enjoed recollecting how my first day was, and in reality, i was never going to recap 2 weeks of cross country cycling in a couple hundred words. The fact that you or I believed this was just naive.

Since i’m not sure exactly when i’m going to write again, i can only say that the journey so far has been fascinating. I’ve cycled through some stunningly picturesque countryside. Seen beautiful historical buildings; castles, manors, cathedrals and churches. Eaten the most delicious food on a daily bases, the best of which has tended to be in the small villages that i stop in on my long journeys. Although the best croissant, pain au chocolat and pain au rasin i’ve had were in a pattiserie in Paris that had a queue out the door. I’ve stayed in houses with people i’ve never met in my life, been offered help from people who don’t speak a word of English, and generally appreciated and observed the French way of life and culture that exists around me. My days are simple. I cycle a bit, find a place to stay, find a place to get food, set up my tent, and rest for the night. I read (Kapuscinski’s ‘travels with Herodotus’, the Perfect book to be reading at this moment in time) and write as much as i can. If i like a place, i stay for a few nights, if not, i leave the next day. I don’t feel there is much complexity to what i’m doing on a daily bases, but i don’t ever go to sleep feeling i could have done more with my day. 

When i first started pedalling, i was shitting myself. Now i just enjoy the world around me, take things as they come, and see where i end up at the end of the day. All you can really do is just keep pedalling.