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I love buying used books.

I buy from Thriftbooks which gives you options about what condition you prefer the book to be in and I always pick the worst one. I'm pretty sure all the books they sell are at least in readable condition and sometimes I get little notes like the one I found today

(TEXT-graduation day 1991

For Kathy-

Combining your interests in feminism and crafts! Wishing you the best of everything - all the happiness you deserve-

Affectionately, Rita)

I bought a copy of the play Lion in Winter from there and it still has annotations from an actress who played Eleanor who owns the copy once.

Same with my anthology of Romantic poetry, which has hearts next to all of Keats's poems.

Or my copy of Angels in America where someone underlined their favorite lines so I added a few of my own as well

I like to think that the love I have for these stories will last longer than I will and it touches me to see remnants of love left behind

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Eyes wide, you could only watch on in horror as the massive plume of volcanic ash rippled up into the sky, quickly beginning to blot out the sun as it grew larger and larger. Though your heart was pounding with fear, your legs refused to move, that same fear rendering them useless as you stood frozen to the spot.

Though even if you could… you weren’t sure running would do you any good.

Suddenly, you found yourself swept off of your feet, a startled yelp leaving you as you clung to the person who had abruptly picked you up. Wide eyed, you found yourself staring at your neighbour, their expression fierce and focused as they bolted through the streets, clutching you tightly in their arms.

Their presence and the fierce look in their unusual eyes, managed to finally shake you free of your fear fuelled stupor, your arms tightening around them as you desperately held on for dear life, confused as to where they had come from, as you were certain they were meant to be away on business for at least a couple more days.

It was at this point that you finally noticed just how fast they were moving, their unnatural speed making the world blur around you, even as the smoke and ash continued to grow larger and larger in the sky. 

Several things clicked into place in your mind, as you remembered a number of the strange little quirks you’d noticed in your friend over the years, this new knowledge only serving to bring to life even more questions in your mind. For now however, you remained silent, desperately hoping that the two of you would survive long enough for this new knowledge to actually matter, your fear now focused not only on your own safety, but that of your dear friends as well.

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Few could say they’d ever caught a glimpse of the terrifying phantom that haunted the opera house, and even fewer had actually lived to tell the tale. The fact that you’d done both of those things, was a miracle in and of itself, especially considering the fact that you’d done far more than simply catch a glimpse of them.

You still remembered the look on their face when you had stumbled upon them, laying there in their own blood with their mask sitting just out of reach of their downed form. They’d seemed both terrified and resigned as you’d taken in the sight of their bared face and weakened body, no doubt expecting you to scream and have them captured when you realised who they were.

Their look of raw shock and confusion as you’d gently pressed their mask back onto their face instead, was forever burned into your mind.

Rather than condemning them, you’d helped them, carefully sneaking them down to your room and keeping them hidden as you nursed them slowly back to health. Your heart had ached at how they would flinch at your every touch, only to lean into them almost greedily moments later, their confusion at your continued kindness and gentleness, pulling at all of your heart strings.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected once they had finally healed, but you weren’t terribly surprised by how much it had hurt to come back and see them gone one day. After that, you’d figured they would simply stay away from you, perhaps ashamed that you’d seen them so weak and vulnerable, or maybe even angry that you knew so many of their secrets, even if you could never speak them like others could.

You definitely hadn’t expected to gain a protector from your actions, nor had you expected to start receiving gifts a week after they’d left your care.

Either way, coming back to these little signs of their continued presence, somehow became incredibly comforting to your lonely soul. The sight never failed to bring a smile to your lips, no matter how bad your day had been, or how much the people around you had shown their frustration at your continued silence.

Even if you couldn’t speak your thanks like others could, you had a feeling that they understood how grateful you were, thanks to the soft happy humming you would make as you went about the rest of the day, a new bounce in your step.

If their distant melodies later on that night, just so happened to include the happily hummed sounds you’d made much earlier that day… well…. that was nobodies business but your own.

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Person A: “Why did you choose that one? Most of the others are in so much better shape.”

Person B: “I don’t know, it seemed kinda sad and lonely.”

Person A: “It’s a sword, not a puppy.”

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Person A: “We’re not going to make it out of this alive, are we?”

Person B: “Maybe not both of us…. but you are.”

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You’ve always had difficulty falling asleep, though you’re sure anyone would if they saw a hunched figure watching them from the corner of their room every time they tried to sleep. Nothing ever happens to you when you do fall asleep, but by then you get very little sleep, and wake up anxious. 

One night you decide to pretend to fall asleep. After ten minutes of laying there, you wonder if anythings actually going to happen, when suddenly you feel deathly cold, clawed fingers, gently brush over your warm skin. Your blankets are tucked tighter around you, and a rasping voice speaks quietly in the room. “Sleep well little one.”

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Thicc naga = best naga

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i can't believe this happened to me today, im going to be bragging about this for the rest of my life.

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he cannot read :(

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Can you believe it? This thing 👇 just told a lie.

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It’s good to know that we weren’t the only ones driven crazy by people who “axe” questions.

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wip moodboard: untitled reincarnation idea @blues-writing-repository

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I feel like there is a clear shift from Dracula taking little sips to when he is flat out trying to kill Lucy. And I can think of two possible reasons why:

1. He's had enough fun tormenting her, and now he just wants to drain her completely.

2. After the transfusion from Arthur, he knows someone is trying to save her. So he decides to drain her to the point of death to show that they can't.

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Someone shut me up if I get redundant, but I do want to talk about how Dracula is constantly subverting the expectation of a singular, hyper-masculine heroic character to save the day and win the girl. Obviously, I find it relevant to my ongoing “Dracula is a story about love/community” idea. 

First is Jonathan, who obviously doesn’t have a ton of machismo. He swoons, he’s preyed on, he’s locked away helpless in a tower. We all know this. He even finds himself connecting to the idea of women from the past writing letters at the desk he’s sitting at in the castle, saying, “here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love letter, and writing in my diary in short-hand all that has happened since I closed it last” [Chptr 3]. Perhaps worth mentioning is that this is written right before he’s attacked by the three women. If he’s a hero, then he’s not of the standard, invincible superman sort.

Then, when Jonathan is suspected to be dead, the narrative moves on to introduce Seward, who Lucy goes to some effort to talk-up to Mina, listing his positive qualities and reasons why he might be compatible with her. The implication is that Jonathan is dead! Someone needs to come in and save the girl in his place! But Seward is Seward. So this is obviously not going to work. Lucy immediately moves on to describe him as nervous enough to sit on his own hat and then start fidgeting with a lancet, which scares her [Chptr 5]. And then, if one isn’t yet convinced that he’s an unheroic mess of a man, his own diary starts and he’s brooding, obsessive, maudlin, and prone to cruel thoughts and sometimes cruel actions. He’s not our hero either! He’s too dark, quiet, arrogant, etc.. Fine, who else is there?

Quincey? Yes, one might think for a moment, but then recall how, after he’s so ridiculously charming in his proposal and really does seem like a knight in shining armor, he up and leaves the narrative for a while. Completely unmentioned for six chapters! When he comes back, it’s relieving and exciting and wonderful and-

He has the wrong blood type. There’s an implication he might have killed Lucy, who Seward says, due to the transfusion, “had got a terrible shock, and it told on her more than before, though plenty of blood went into her veins, her body did not respond to the treatment as well as on other occasions” [Chptr 12]. She dies later in this chapter. This isn’t Quincey’s fault and no one could have known about blood types at the time, but I think it’s possible that this transfusion killed her or, at least, contributed to her death.  

Okay, so who else? Van Helsing? Close… but he’s old and not likely to get into any dramatic knife fights and he considers himself still married, if his wife is out of the picture. So no saving the day in direct combat or winning any girls for him. Even when he kills the three women, it’s while they’re asleep and its only given a page or less of description. It’s not very dramatic or heroic. Arthur? He’s a bit nervous too, despite Seward calling him brave. He falls to his knees and needs to be held up by the other suitors [Chptr 16], he sits up and sits back down in nervous fits of energy [Chptr 15], and he seems generally somewhat faint of heart, being described as growing “very pale” as he sat down and “breathing heavily” in response to the news that they’re getting close to confronting Dracula [Chptr 25]. In that same moment, Quincey and Jonathan are grabbing their knives in preparation for battle! And Arthur doesn’t ever get near Dracula at the end. So not him either!

None of the men are perfect, infallible heroes on their own. They’re human beings who get scared and make mistakes. They all need help sometimes; they all fall short in one way or another, which can be compensated for by the other members of the CoL.

The ending is the most convincing aspect of all of this- the final battle is anticlimactic. Dracula’s asleep, he won’t wake up, and the only active threats are nameless henchmen. It’s not a tense, drawn-out battle; it lasts for perhaps a page or two and then it’s over. There isn’t a singular hero, there’s two. It’s not just Jonathan who single handedly saves the day and wins the girl, Quincey has to be there too. And neither of them would have gotten so far without the others, Mina especially. And then Quincey doesn’t live to get any reward for his triumph other than the knowledge that he saved his friends! 

So again, in final, there can be no singular hero. It’s a story about the strength of community, love, and cooperation. The fighting isn’t glorious and triumphant because that isn’t the point! The point is that people need love and friends/family to function, do good, support each other when in need, and save the day together.

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And now we get to why I feel Lucy chose the best suitor for herself, despite how much readers swoon over Quincey’s proposal. So much of Lucy’s personality is about hiding herself: practicing expressions in the mirror, being a “tough nut to crack,” hiding how ill she feels, refusing to talk about what upsets her, playing the role of the good sweet daughter and unruffled gracious young lady. That’s why I see Lucy’s letter to Mina as obfuscating the truth: she doesn’t want her to worry when she’s so happy otherwise.

And Arthur sees through that to how she’s really doing and what she needs. And he sees no shame in acknowledging his own limitations and asking for help: even help from a romantic rival for the same girl’s affections. All the pride and jealousy that would be expected of his role isn’t there, and instead we see trust and honesty and emotional intelligence. That’s exactly what Lucy needed in a partner.

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Between signing his earier telegram "Art" and calling Lucy and Jack "my dear girl" and "old fellow" respectively, I'm convinced that Arthur is a nickname/pet name guy.