#writing a reference letter

[mediumgayitalian]

Right before he left for an errand of his father's, Nico di Angelo almost kissed him.

Will is sure of it.

He'd been so close. Will had felt his breathing, spine tingling, on the curve of his dry lip: he had stood on on the bottom stair of the porch of Cabin Seven, a little shorter than Will even than usual, hands hovering over Will's wrists. Will had fought with the temptation to slide his wrists just so upward, just enough to slot against his open palms; he had resisted, in the end, but it was a close thing, a desperate need to feel the chill of Nico's chapped hands through his bandages, past his tangled string bracelets. Nico had parted his lips, meaning to say something, and Will had exhaled, quick and short, flicking down to meet his eyes, already staring. Nico's pupils were dilated, even obvious with the dark dark dark of his eyes, and his eyelids were low-slung, long eyelashes fanning. He had managed one word.

"I --"

And then Will's stupid watch chimed, and Nico glanced down, and he cursed, wrenching his hands away, and that time Will did grab them, just for a milisecond, just on reflex. And Nico had frozen and stared down at their joined hands, eyes wide, but Will was already halfway through a reflective "Sorry! Oh my gods! Sorry! Don't be late!" and Nico straightened, eyes narrowing in determination, and rushed out his okayseeyoulaterbye and sprinted across the common, disappearing into the shadow of his cabin. And Will stared after him for several minutes, until his vision was obstructed by a camper.

A camper who turned to him, eyes wide and sheepish and hopeful, wrist bent oddly, and said: "Hey, Will --"

And Will screamed his frustration so loud the camper jumped out of his skin, squeaking out an excuse, and walked quickly off, which was just as well because Will doubted he could be very much help when he was so busy stomping back to his cabin, burying his face in his pillow, and screeching until his voice went hoarse.

"Fucking boys!" he shouted.

Lou Ellen, in his cabin for some reason, flipped a page of her magazine, snorting.

"Hear, hear."

And that was that.

-- -- --

Except that wasn't that.

Because Nico sends him letters.

"I don't get any of those," Percy observes , peeking over his shoulder. Will slams the paper to his chest. shoves his face away, and storms off, face burning.

"Maybe because you are a tool," he mutters darkly, and flushes worse when he does not mutter at all, and Annabeth laughs so hard she chokes. He ducks into the stables and presses his steaming forehead to the wood, eyes squeezed shut, letter clutched to his chest as he waits out Annabeth's wheezing, Percy's hurt mumbling.

"I'm not a tool, am I?"

"Oh my gods I am going to pass out."

Once she reassures him, giggling, and drags him off Somewhere Else, Will peeks out. There is Clovis, curled up on the ground, but he is out cold. There is Miranda, a little ways away, tending to an olive tree, but she minds her own business. There is Connor, rigging...something, but that's okay. Will knows his pressure points.

He exhales, willing the heat away from his face. It doesn't work. He sits down in Guido the Pegasus's stall, anyway, shooting him a small smile in greeting, and smooths out the letter on his thigh. It reads:

Dear My Friend Belov

Will,

Hi.

Okay, hi again. I let this letter sit for two weeks because I was embarrassed. I don't know what to say. Because I'm

Hi. Again.

I have locked myself in my room with a pen and no food source (you would not approve). I gave one of my father's minions a key. They are not to release me until I have filled at least one page. So.

Uh, -- wow, is it stupid, writing 'uh', I used to write letters for competitions at school -- I miss you. I guess. I got a papercut yesterday and my stepmother gave me a bandaid. It was so strange and then I blinked because -- it shouldn't be strange, right? That's what you do for papercuts. But then I realized that I never get bandaids for papercuts. You just healed them.

And then I realized I have become a booger.

Will stops, and laughs. Guido huffs and raises his horsey eyebrow at him, and Will knows its in judgment because horses are the judgiest creatures on Earth, except for church ladies, and his ears burn. But he cannot force away the giant smile on his face no matter how hard he tries. He shifts, laying back onto the haypile -- and ignoring Guido's whiney huff, see, being mean has consequences -- and holding the letter above his face. From this angle, he can see the scratch marks bleeding in from the back, from all the words Nico has crossed out. Will considers using his X-ray machine to determine what it says and then realizes that is insanity. His pulse fires in his ear, loud and red-hot.

What does booger even mean.

I used to -- fight manticores! Empousai! I fistfought The Original Werewolf and won!

You make me weak.

He hears it, loud and echoing: the stutter of his heart, the actual moment where it pauses for a second, as if it doesn't have a job. Will inhales sharply and freezes with his fingers pinching the edges of the pages, breathing out, and out, and out; he exhales the sum total of oxygen left in his lungs and does not move, still, shifts only his eyes as they swing rapidly from line to line and word to word and trace every shift and bend of the careful cursive letters.

I don't -- that's maybe not the best way to write that but I tried three different sentences and they don't work right. What I'm trying to say, is: I used to be really cool and badass and everything, but you keep bossing me around and I keep letting you, and now I use conditioner in my hair.

He snorts a laugh, finally, swimming vision rebalancing as his lungs inflate again. His hands shake, ever so slightly, so he rests the letter gently on his lap, and tucks his hands under his thighs. Guido noses gently at the mess of his hair, and Will leans into the clever horse, smiling.

Which you don't even use! Because you're awful like I used to be and use -- that stupid 3-in-1 stuff! Because you never have time for anything! Because you don't tell people with papercuts to stuff it and get their own bandaids! Because you're ridiculous!

I guess I am really just thinking: sleep. You, I mean. I sleep until my servants wake me, which, I mean, there's no sun down here, but is probably noon or something. You should sleep, because now that I'm not there I'm sure no one else is bothering you to do it, and you're an idiot.

So.

I reached the end of the page so I don't have to write anymore. I hope you get this letter soon and you haven't dropped dead from exhaustion, even thought I know you haven't because I would feel it and I would kick your ass right back to the land of the living.

I love you

Don't kill yourself. Be meaner.

Love, Bye,

Nico. (di Angelo)

"Of course you have servants," Will mumbles, and buries his face in his hands.

Guido neighs at him, loud and exaggerated directly in his ear. Will shoves him off, scowling, and somersaults to his feet, standing with his hands on his hips. Guido blinks his big eyes at him. They are dark, like Nico's. Will considers screaming. He doesn't want to receive a hoof to the kneecap, so he doesn't, and instead redirects his energy into finger-combing Guido's mane and making general groaning noises of discontent. Guido rolls his eyes at him, which is rude. Which is -- judgey, and Guido is a dumb horse and he should not be embarrassed in front of a dumb horse but he is and it is the worst and all Nico's fault, he knows it.

"You're a horse," Will says, huffy. "You do not understand my gripes. How would you feel if you fell in love --" Will falters -- "if you -- well -- well!" He stops, squeezing his eyes shut. Don't kill yourself. Be meaner.

What is wrong with him.

What is wrong with him.

"Did you know he smells like a garden," Will says, eventually. He loosens his hold on Guido's mane when he whinnies in discomfort, pressing a smooch of apology between his giant eyes and using his hand to shake his fist at the heavens instead. "Just -- all the time. He smells like when you dig up the dirt, right before you put the flowers in the ground. That -- heady smell. You know?"

Guido blinks at him.

"Of course you do not know. You are a winged horse, and I need a straightjacket." He smooths down his patchy coat, sighing. "Guido, which pegasus do you have a crush on."

Guido, being a horse, does not answer.

"Is it Princess Peach Sour Rings?" He glances over at the dusky orange mare, lips pursed in consideration. Guido, too, looks in interest: they make eye contact, look to Will, and then back at each other. Will swears he sees them raise their eyebrows. "It's Princess Peach Sour Rings, isn't it."

The look in Guido's eyes says: you are unwell. Will doesn't need to be distantly related to Pegasus Himself to glean that much. Unfortunately, he's directly related to the God of Being Delusional, so this flies over his head.

"Okay, Guido, we are going to do what's called a Guided Thought Exercise. Are you ready? You don't look like you're ready. You need to take a Deep Calming Breath. Good. Okay."

Will closes his eyes for the Effect. He takes the thoughts his brain just constantly has of Nico -- smiling; Nico with his tongue poking out of his mouth, concentrating; Nico with sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, eyes glinting, sword a moving shadow; Nico hopping out of the window of Cabin Eleven, cackling as he is chased across camp by several furious, shouting, now-moneyless children of Hermes -- and envisions balling them up and tossing them out his ears. This, predictably, does nothing. Will ignores this failure and moves on.

"Guido, imagine for a second you are a regular, boring horse. You do not have cool wings like the rest of your friends. But it's cool 'cause you can gallop really fast. Maybe. And then one day, this other horse -- Princess Peach Sour Rings, are you imagining her -- comes in and this horse is just the most beautiful horse you've ever seen. Big, beautiful brown eyes, almost black, really, except when he stands by the campfire they glow like amber." Will clears his throat. "Uh, she, I mean. Princess Peach Sour Rings. And -- and, when this beautiful horse comes into the stable, you notice she has the most graceful wings you've ever seen and also coincidentally the most powerful kick in the land. And all she is valued for is her kick. And it makes you sad. Because the wings!"

Will pauses. He shifts so he has either hand on Guido's face, staring directly in his eyes. Guido allows it. Will cannot resist another smooch, tinier this time, right on his big snout. Then he pulls back and resumes eye contact.

"Guido," he says, seriously, "I have lost my metaphor. My brain is noodles."

Guido bumps his head softly against Will's. Will groans, leaning into the touch. Nico had accused Will of making him weak. Well, Nico makes him stupid. Constantly. Will is generally a really intelligent and articulate person. Nico makes him feel like his Wernicke's area has been pulled out with a fork. Which is an issue, because Will relies on his Wernicke area among others to do things such as brush his teeth and oh yeah, also surgery, because as Nico has so deftly pointed out this camp is broken. And also illegal. But Will has a job so he can't really be worried about that right now.

He screams.

Guido, gently, headbutts him. Will picks the letter up from the floor and shakes it violently.

"I am going to -- burn this," Will says, lying. He notices his fingers have creased the thick paper and rushes to smooth it out. "In a fire. Yes. Right now." He nods to himself. "Bye, Guido."

Guido does not respond. All well, though, because even if he could Will is too busy muttering to himself, tripping every forth step, scanning the looped cursive for hidden messages that are clearly not there. He kind of hopes if he holds the page up to the light then the words hey I should have kissed you before I disappeared for a hundred years that's my bad will appear, but this is all for naught. No such words appear. Only y's looped in a really gay way and that's stereotyping, it is, but they really do kind of follow the pattern.

"If you had kissed me I would have let you," Will says to the letter, because the only way he is saying that to Nico himself is if someone successfully clones his body and forces a microchip in his brain. "Like, just saying."

The letter, predictably, does not respond. This is perhaps for the best as if it did Will would have grander problems, which is saying something, because his mother fondly calls him Math Textbook, which is funny if hurtful. Anyways.

He makes it back to the middle of Camp, and stands for several minutes in front of a blazing brazier. There is if he is not mistaken a can of paint at the bottom of this one. That would explain the fumes. It would also explain the Chiron shouting at the grotesquely accurate spray-painted depiction of a penis on the side of the Big House and the various gathered Hermes children standing in smug Miranda-rights silence.

"It would be a great shame to burn you alongside evidence of a crime," Will says to the letter, solemnly. "Nico worked very hard to get you to me." He turns red as the sun as he says it and ignores it because he is well-rounded and developed and mature and emotionally available and adult and not emotionally repressed in any which way shut up Austin. "Maybe I will burn you individually, instead. Yes. More personal, that way."

He folds the letter carefully along the seams so as to conceal its contents from wandering eyes and marches with grand purpose, double time, to the Arts n Crafts shack. He notices the pottery wheel is out and twitches towards it, remembering the increasingly ugly vases he is creating and gifting to Chiron to see how long he will politely accept them before finally cracking, but remembers at the last moment that he is on a Quest and cannot afford any further distractions. He does take a quick second to flick a spot of paint on the back of Drew's neck but that is unrelated and cannot be traced back to him.

"Hi," he says, to the crowd at large. Lacy waves enthusiastically. Will waves back and makes a heart with his hands also because she is the best and Will loves her. "Does anyone have a lighter or a match or flint or something of the likes?"

Mitchell pauses. Will leans over to observe the jewelry box he is painting and nods in serious appreciation. He is very fond of the individual muscle veins being painted on Naruto's likeness.

"I am trying very hard to think of a non-terrifying reason you are so intent on a source of fire," Mitchell says gently, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "See, the way you have requested it reads arson to me, if you can imagine."

"What if I wanted to start smoking cigarettes."

"Hm."

"He could be learning lighter tricks," Valentina offers. "You know, put a bunch of hand sanitizer on and then set your hands on fire. The such."

Will nods enthusiastically. Mitchell somehow does not look assuaged.

"Aren't you a." He pauses, pressing his hands together. "Hm. Is lighting your hands aflame sanctioned by a medical professional such as yourself?"

"I think freedom of expression is important, yeah."

"...I see."

Will pats his shoulder. He continues to look alarmed, but returns reluctantly to his mostly naked Naruto painting. Will, as always, appreciates his endless support. Nobel Peace Prize for Mitchell Lastname 2013.

"So," Will continues, when no lighter is brought forth, "no flames?"

"No," says Valentina, sadly.

"No," says Mitchell, less sadly.

"If you're going to self-annimilate, do it elsewhere," Drew says, not sadly at all. She adds a careful dot of red paint to the grotesquely accurate depiction of Connor Stoll's decapitation. "I don't want the heat to dry out my hair."

"Self-immolate," Will corrects, and wanders off.

His search for a lighter produces no results. You'd think, in a Camp as oft-flammable as this one, the task would be an easy one, but Will wants it too badly, see, so the universe has punished him for the crime of hope. 'Tis likely why Nico did not kiss him, actually. Will pauses as he considers that Nico might not return if Will wants that too badly, too, just like his brothers, and gently and lovingly places that thought in the box in his brain labelled 'YIKES'. He pushes forward, humming.

"Nyssa," he says jovially, running into her. She pauses, eyeing him warily.

"You're not getting an alibi from me again, Solace. I don't want a repeat of..." She shudders. "Last time."

Will schools his face into a mask of sincerity. "Of course not, Nyssa, I would never, Nyssa, what do you take me for, Nyssa, I am only a boy, Nyssa." He is careful to cross his fingers behind his back lest he set off his allergy. Nyssa does not notice but seems to suspect.

"One day you're gonna suffocate," she says cryptically. Will inclines his head knowing she is correct. "It will be your own fault."

"I need a lighter," Will says, batting his eyelashes to change the subject. He makes his face as innocent and hopeful as he can manage. "Not for arson, I promise. Well, only kind of. The definition of arson is broad."

Nyssa sighs and walks away.

"No one in this Camp loves me," Will laments. He folds the letter back along its careful creases and tucks it, in its worn envelope, into the many beautiful and non-excessive pockets of his shorts, patting in gently. "I guess you get to survive, letter. You will remain the last manifestation of any affection Nico has for me as it surely fades for a cuter boy with nicer jeans down in the Underworld. How ye Gods are moved by my plight, and yet, none can break the ancient Sisters' iron decrees; doomed, by all Fate's accounts, for mine own torch to burn; down to embers, down to coal, down to ash; forgotten in the wind and reduced to the wind of memory; a weak, pitying blast in the stillness of the future."

The sun shines brightly in approval of his misery. Will shoots a thumbs up at it, sighs wistfully for at least seven seconds, to really seal it in, and follows the rest of the camp to the dinner bell. Percy only pouts sadly at him three times and then is easily distracted by dessert. None bring up the arson, although Mitchell watches with careful eyes.

Will sighs and sulks through dinner, pushing the food around his plate until he remembers he's ravenous and shovels it down. He rebuffs his siblings attempts at conversation by virtue of being too heartbroken to speak, not unlike Penelope, awaiting her beloved Odysseus, but then Kayla claims that bluegrass is a mid shadow of jazz and Will is so indignant he needs both hands and a borrowed third hand from Austin to properly list all the ways she's wrong. By the fiftieth stanza of their argument, obviously in couplets because they are not animals, the letter stops burning a hole into the khaki. By the seventieth, Austin starts weeping in misery, and he has almost entirely forgotten it. By the ninetieth, he resigns it to a hidden page in his journal, stashed under his mattress.

He is sure, anyway, that it is a fluke.

After all -- Nico could have kissed him, before he left.

But he didn't.

-- -- --

next

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Anatomy of Letterforms

Aperture—the opening of a not entirely closed, somewhat rounded space within a character (such as in ‘c’).

Apex—the topmost intersection where two strokes terminate.

Arc—a curved portion of a stroke.

Arm—a horizontal or upward stroke that does not connect with a stem on at least one end.

Ascender—portion of the lowercase that rises above the x-height.

Axis—the imaginary line bisecting the upper- and lowermost points where a stroke becomes thinnest.

Baseline—the line on which the letters of a font seem to rest.

Beak—a serif-like terminal in some serif type designs.

Bowl—the curved part of a letter surrounding a counter.

Bracket—a curved or wedge-like connection between a serif and the main stroke.

Cap height—the distance from the baseline to the top of the uppercase letters.

Character—a symbol with a unique linguistic meaning, such as a letter, number, punctuation mark, etc.

Counter—the typically rounded negative space partially or fully enclosed by part of a letter.

Crossbar—a horizontal stroke bridging two other strokes.

Cross stroke—a typically horizontal stroke crossing the stem of the lowercase ‘t’ or ‘f’.

Crotch—the inner angle where two strokes connect.

Descender—portion of the lowercase which extends below the baseline.

Finial—the tapered terminal of a curved stroke.

Foot—the end of a stem or stroke resting on the baseline.

Gadzook—a decorative detail connecting the letters in a ligature but is not a stroke essential to either letter.

Glyph—a unique drawing of a character or characters as a single unit. (For instance, a single character may have more than one glyph, like the y’s below. Or there may be multiple characters in a single glyph, as in a ligature.)

Ink trap—additional space added where two strokes form an acute angle, done to avoid ink build-up in that spot when the character is printed. It’s a space designed to literally trap excess ink.

Joint—the place where a stroke joins a stem.

Leg—the short, often diagonal, downstroke of letters like ‘R’, ‘K’ and ‘k’, typically resting on the baseline.

Lobe—a curved or rounded projection from the stem or main portion of the letter.

Loop—the bowl below the baseline on a double story lowercase ‘g’.

Neck—also known as a collar or link, the stroke that connects the top and bottom portions of a lowercase ‘g’.

Overshoot—portion of a letter pushing just beyond a line of measurement to achieve the appearance of being the same height as comparable letters.

Sans serif—without serifs.

Serif—a small stroke added to the end of a main stroke.

Shoulder—the curve at the beginning of a downward stroke, such as in ‘m’, ‘n’, or ‘h’.

Spine—the primary curved stroke of the letter ‘S’ or ‘s’.

Spur—a small protrusion off a main stroke.

Stem—the main, typically vertical, stroke of a glyph.

Stroke—a line forming part of a written or printed character.

Swash—an addition at the end of a stroke intended to beautify or add other visual interest to a glyph beyond what is necessary to define a character.

Tail—the descending, often decorative, stroke of the ‘Q’, and sometimes ‘R’ or ‘K’.

Tittle—the dot on the ‘i’ or ‘j’.

Vertex—the bottommost intersection where two strokes terminate.

X-height—the height of the lowercase without ascenders or descenders, usually typified by the height of the letter ‘x’.

Terminal—the end of a stroke:

Abrupt—the stroke ends without taper or embellishment.

Ball—the stroke finishes with a circular shape.

Calligraphic—the stroke finish gives a strong indication of the shape of the writing instrument used to form the letter.

Foxtail—the end of the stoke widens before curving around and ending in a point, similar to the shape of a fox’s tail.

Lachrymal or Teardrop—the stroke finishes in a teardrop shape.

Wedge—the stroke has a serif-like wedge added to it.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[hyakunana]

Sponsor Switch!

[kattricia]

Beloved if you could tell me more about how Arcane is a tragic romance staged as a geopolitical collapse in six acts i would love you forever. I find your mind so sexy

okay. i’m going to try and say something semi coherent about this, because you, my beloved mutual asked and i? would die for you.

if we’re going to talk about tragedy, we might as well start with jayce and viktor.  in true tragic fashion, they follow the classical arc to the letter: hamartia (a fatal flaw – hubris, idealism, the belief that their creation could save rather than destroy), peripeteia (the reversal – hextech becoming a weapon rather than a miracle. viktor dying, jayce bringing him back),  and anagnorisis (the moment of recognition – when they realize the cost and the damage. viktor seeing what he’s become and jayce saying what he should have said years ago). and the devastating thing is: these don’t happen separately. they collapse inward, spiral together. the tragedy hits hardest because the fall is of their own making – and because it comes too late. 

if there’s anything i’ve learned from my (very humble and very deeply felt) studies in literature and literary history it’s this: romantic tragedy is not just about heartbreak. it’s about the world collapsing as a consequence of love gone wrong. loyalty, desire, misjudgement and betrayal rippling outward into total ruin. arcane doesnt just tell a tragic love story: it tells five. ten. maybe more. the show is a lattice of relationships – romantic, familial, platonic, political – and every one of them cracks in some way. and each crack runs straight through the city’s foundation somehow.

jayvik may be the most overtly mythic of them all. our science husbands, our gilgamesh and enkidu, our cautionary tale about what happens when affection tries to hold up empire  – but they’re not alone. their spiral isn’t the only one.

arcane, in its very structure, ties systemic collapse to personal grief. every conflict begins in a relationship that couldn’t hold. vi and jinx are antigone and ismene rewritten in gunpowder and neon: sisters locked on opposite sides, loyalty twisted by trauma. mel and ambessa are imperial legacy embodied: the exiled daughter who tried to love her new home, and her mother who thinks love is weakness. caitlyn standing between love, lineage and law. ekko mourning a girl who never got to grow up and jinx is the living fallout of everyone else’s failure to protect her.

even silco and vander – two men who once shared a vision of an independent zaun – become enemies, because one believes revolution requires uproar while the other hopes reasoning might still be enough. and in the end, every character is fighting someone they still remember loving once. no character fights in isolation. every blow lands on someone they once believed in. and that’s why the city burns.

because that’s the thing, right? the show treats interpersonal relationships like structural beams: when they crack, the city does, too. the emotional subplots aren’t really subplots at all: they are the plot. hextech was supposed to be a bridge: between science and magic, between piltover and zaun, between a boy who fell from grace and a man who never got the chance to rise. instead, it becomes the wedge. a miracle turned into a weapon, with the miracle workers on opposite sides of a war they helped create. when the marriage of minds ends in divorce, the whole city pays the price. 

and that’s why we don’t have any neat hero-villain binaries, right? what we do have is people trying to claw their way back to something they lost. a sister, a partner, a version of themselves that they could still forgive. but every attempt to go back costs them something new, again and again. that’s the real tragedy, i think: not just the people lost, but that they keep losing the things they’re trying to save.

if you’ll allow me some nerdy indulgence i’d like to go back to jayce and viktor being our gilgamesh and enkidu by way of hextech. radiant ambition meets terminal wildness. they build a future together and then have to destroy it with their own hands. and the thing is: they don’t fall apart because the love fades, (affection is the one thing holding them together, after all). they fall apart because it festers into betrayal and all the ways they fail to reach each other across the gap that’s widened between them. the tragedy isn’t the end (though i really, really wish they had more time) – it’s everything that leads to it. they hit every note of a classical downfall: a shared dream born of light, warped by power, splintered by grief. their fatal flaws (call it hubris, call it desperation, call it idealism) spiral into the kind of break no apology can fix. and yet, in the end, when everything else is gone, they still choose each other. if antigone dies to bury the one she loves, if gilgamesh carves his grief into stone, then jayce and viktor choose to hold each other in the infinite embrace of the arcane in order to stop what they created from consuming everyone else. not to undo the damage but to stand in its ashes and say: no more.

(aristotle once said that tragedy is supposed to evoke pity and fear, and then purge those emotions through catharsis. this post? may have done the opposite. i have never feared more. i have never pitied harder. and i have certainly not been purged)

[error404-s]

man something I really do envy from the trans community for their their cool terms, why do we have to keep up with "agab" labels? I want cool terms like transmasc/tgirl/enby/nb

So I'm proposing (for myself)

¡girl

//intersex "girl" with an opening exclamation point to emphasize I don't fit in in well neat systems, and also bc my gender identity expression should be celebrated!! (Also more love for the opening exclamation point that doesn't really exist in English but I desperately want it more frequently in my life)

And although I would still describe myself as a "cis" "non-binary" woman from time to time, I still want some cutesy/casual way of saying intersex without typing the whole thing out, all right?

Feel free to call yourself that way if you're intersex too :) or share your own variations/proposals, bringing some positivity into the intersex tag 💜💛

[thou-babbling-brook]

Who was gonna tell me Arno wrote letters to his late father. Who was gonna tell me that in these letters you see a little boy pray that his father is in Heaven to a young man asking why God hates him to hoping there is a God and Heaven so that his father and father figure can rest to a man so disillusioned and scarred that he cannot possibly believe there is a just deity judging us for our sins.

Who was gonna tell me you can see in his letters the steady decline of his faith in God and the world because how could a man so scarred and jaded ever believe in a god if God never seemed to believe in him. What. WHAT.

[fandom-rants-here]

I need Mike to confess first. And I need Will to not believe him.

something something...

"Will, I promise you I am not lying. This isn't- this isn't any prank or trick or mischief or whatever you think is going on here. I am telling you that I am in love with you. I always have been."

There are audible tremors in Mike's voice and he thinks he feels tears falling down his face.

"Whatever I had with El was not love. It was coincidence and my own cowardice that brought and held us together. It was dumb luck I met her. But you know who I was looking for that day? It was you, Will. It's always been you. I chose to walk up to you on that playground 10 years ago. I chose to ask you to be my friend. I chose you. "

Even if Mike had the confidence to look towards Will, his eyes were blurred with tears and he couldn't even see the ground they were falling on.

"I'm sorry for what I said at the pizza shop. It was- I was lying. I was just saying what I thought she needed to hear again and I really don't know why cause it never works and you were right there and it fucking hurt to lie so much and you didn't deserve that, you- Will, my life didn't start the day I met El in the woods, not in the way I implied, at least. You were missing, most thought you were dead or would be soon. We were all so hurt and lost without you. Joyce seemed half hysterical, Jonathan- I'd never seen him so sad, and we, The Party, we didn't know what to do without you. I felt like death, like I'd died without you to keep me alive. But then we found El and she- if she could be lost in the woods and found, so could you. And then- then she recognized your photo and she knew who you were and she flipped the board to show you were in the Upside Down and- and meeting El wasn't my life starting. It was hope restarting it, hope that she could get you back to us."

They stood and he wasn't sure if Will was nearly as frozen as he was, but it took him several moments to regain any thoughts and then continue speaking.

"Will, I've known I was in love with you for years, now. But the love has been there far longer. You- you're amazing, Will. You're so smart, even if you suck at math. You capture beauty in ever drawing and painting you make, creating it from sheer care and adoration alone, when you have to. You consider other's thoughts and feelings before you do or say anything, no matter how angry you are. You're such a quick thinker, it's scary sometimes. Not- not really, but you get the idea. You're the most level headed person inside of a group where everyone else is about 10 seconds away from murdering each other. You're patient, gentle, honest, hilarious, and you're also, like, super handsome. I couldn't live without you, without my cleric. I almost didn't. You've saved me more times than you know. Because, Will, you are so strong and so resilient. You've survived and endured more than anyone ever should be forced to yet you remain kind. You called me the heart, in the van. And don't even try to say that's all El, you and I both know that she doesn't think that and that you're a terrible liar. But, really, Will? Me, the heart? Will, that has always been you. You bring together and unite people. You bring out the best in people, even when they're cruel or being assholes or telling you things that aren't meant for you but for themselves. You have always been the heart of this party. You've always been my heart."

The weight of their matching watches is heavy on Mike's wrist, the syncronized ticks breaking the stark silence every second. And, as he finally lifted his head up, Mike once again saw that Will had already been staring.

For once, Mike doesn't look away. Rather, he takes a few hesitant steps closer.

"I love you, Will Byers. You are my best friend, my first friend, my childhood crush, my gay realization, my tether to reality, my cleric, and you have been the most important person in my life since you entered it. Maybe even before. Maybe I had carved out a space knowing one day you'd fill it."

[brown-little-robin]

(creature that has been begging for jobs to call them back voice) oh noooo a job. called me back. it is panic time

[hopecomesbacktolife]

while I expected lots of cute moments with bb-8 and pew-pew adventures in Poe Dameron: Flight Log (which, don’t get me wrong, I definitely did get and was very happy about!!) along with lots of cool ship specs and tech details—

what I wasn’t expecting (a surprise, to be sure, but a welcome one) was several instances of incredibly heartfelt, evocative, and sweet introspections from Poe on his family, upbringing, philosophy / ethics, the resistance, and love 🥺 so many sweet characterization tidbits in this book, I really enjoyed reading it ♡

if you’re interested in reading it as well, I borrowed it (for free!) on internet archive which I highly highly recommend, it was such a fun read and it’s very easy & user-friendly to borrow books from them!

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

Was listening to Tay's whole discography on shuffle and The Black Dog played after Tim McGraw and just spurred so many thoughts in my head. There's such a great unintentional connection in the choruses woth how she wishes a song/artist makes her muse think about her.

oooooooooh that is SUCH a good parallel!!!!

I think @taylortruther has written quite a bit about the theme of memory in Taylor's writing and how she longs to be remembered, know that she mattered. And this is such a great example of how that's evolved! From Tim McGraw which is still wistful and naive and innocent in many ways, where the memories are bittersweet (emphasis on the sweet), to The Black Dog which encompasses an entire life in the interim that goes up in flames where the emphasis goes into the bitter (among other things).

One thing that strikes me now about The Black Dog is in the first chorus she's imploring him to miss her in something mundane (going to a pub that holds memories for them -- the "magic" of their dreaming) and in the second there's definitely an implication of a darker memory (holding her shaking "rain-soaked" body in the shower -- imo implying he's consoling her but I know there are many other interpretations -- leading the the "tragic" of their dreaming).

In Tim McGraw, she wants him to remember her happily, sweetly, like she wants to be cherished. In The Black Dog, she wants him to remember EVERYTHING, from the youthful fun of dancing in a bar to the pain she felt as their life shattered. She doesn't want him to just think of her in The Black Dog when the song from their memory comes on (like in Tim McGraw), by the end she wants him to remember just how much he hurt her when that same song comes on-- she wants him to be in as much pain as she is.

And that's another way that the loss of innocence is depicted on TTPD! In all the ways we've already discussed, this is just another one where real life has come in to tinge the youthful dreams she once had, even in memories.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some Letterform Vocabulary

CATEGORIES

Typeface—an artistic rendering or design of a set of glyphs. Used to be only one style, now usually refers to a type family.

Font—The medium containing an iteration of a typeface. For metal type, this would be the set of glyphs for a single size typeface (as designs varied by size to create optical harmony from one size to another). Whereas for digital type it refers to the actual font file. So if the file contains a whole family, then “typeface” and “font” become interchangeable. But if there’s only one style per file, then each one is a font but the collection of font files comprises the typeface.

Family—a collection of related typefaces with the same core traits and name. (Usually consists of regular, bold, italic.)

Regular—also called roman in text types, the base style (most significantly in terms of weight and width) of a type family.

Bold—a heavier (thicker) weight than regular, used to emphasize text in contrast to regular type.

Light—a lighter (thinner) weight than regular.

Weight—a gauge of the thickness of the strokes in a typeface.

Italic—a style of type based on chancery hand calligraphy developed in Italy. Initially used on its own (beginning around 1500), it was not used for emphasis in contrast to roman type on the same page until much later.

Oblique—type slanted to the right (different and distinct from italic).

Backslant—type slanted to the left.

Condensed—type that takes up less horizontal space than its regular counterpart. Condensed type is designed to keep stroke widths in proportion, whereas artificially compressing the type causes the vertical strokes to become thinner, losing much of the character and grace of the original design.

Extended—type that takes up more horizontal space than its regular counterpart. Extended type is designed to keep stroke widths in proportion, whereas artificially stretching the type causes the vertical strokes to become thicker, losing much of the character and grace of the original design.

Display—type meant for large sizes, typically with finer details.

Caption—type designed for very small sizes, meant to harmonize visually with text type and address specific design problems arising at such sizes.

Superfamily—also called a Type System, a collection of type families, often across different type classifications (like gothic and script) or consisting of an extensive range of type styles along multiple design axes.

FIGURES (Numbers)

Lining Figures—numbers that sit on the baseline and are about cap-height, meant to be set on their own or with uppercase letters. Also called Titling Figures.

Text Figures—numbers with different heights meant to harmonize with lowercase letters. Also called Oldstyle Figures.

Proportional Figures—numbers spaced to fit according to their shapes, the way letters are spaced. Lining and Text Figures can both be proportionally spaced.

Tabular Figures—also called Monospaced or Fixed Width Figures, numbers spaced equally in order to work in tables. Lining and Text Figures can both be tabular.

CLASSIFICATIONS

Classical—also known as Oldstyle, these types are characterized by triangular serifs, low stroke contrast, and an oblique (non-vertical) axis.

Humanist—also called Venetian, these types include the earliest type designs, which emulate 15th century manuscripts written in a formal hand. Based largely on Carolingian minuscule, they have low stroke contrast, a slanted axis, short and thick bracketed serifs, triangular serifs on the ascenders, and typically a tilted crossbar on the lowercase e. The work of Nicolas Jenson in 15th century Venice (hence the name Venetian) is the prime example of this classification.

Garalde—a portmanteau of the names of Claud Garamond and Aldus Manutius (whose work epitomizes this classification), garaldes have a horizontal crossbar on the e, finer proportions and stronger contrast than humanist types.

Transitional—also called Realist, this classification expresses the spirit of the Enlightenment. Transitional types have higher contrast than humanist or garalde, and a near vertical axis. Baskerville typifies this classification.

Modern—types categorized by simple or functional structures.

Didone—a portmanteau of Didot and Bodoni (whose work exemplifies this classification), these types have a vertical axis, very high contrast, and unbracketed serifs.

Mechanistic—also called Slab Serif, the types in this classification embody the spirit of the Industrial Revolution, which is when they first occurred. They have very low contrast and thick, rectangular serifs. The serifs can be unbracketed, like Rockwell, or bracketed, like Clarendon.

Lineal—another term for sans serif type.

Lineal:

Grotesque—also called Gothic, originating in the 19th century, these types have some degree of stroke contrast and tend to be somewhat idiosyncratic; typically the curved strokes have horizontal terminals, and the G has a spur. (Franklin Gothic, Akzidenz-Grotesk)

Neo-Grotesque—derived from grotesque typefaces, these types have less stroke contrast, a more regular design, and a high degree of subtlety; the curved stroke terminals tend to be slanted, and the G might not have a spur. (Univers, Helvetica)

Geometric—sans serif types derived from geometric shapes such as circles and rectangles, the glyphs in these types have a high degree of repetition and regularity. (Futura)

Humanist—derived from hand painted monumental capitals and Carolignian miniscules, the proportions of these types come closer to being written rather than constructed. They are similar in derivation to, but not derived from, Humanist serif types. (Gill Sans, Optima)

Calligraphic—type meant to show clear evidence of being chiseled, written, drawn, or otherwise created directly by hand.

Glyphic—also referred to as Incise, the types reference forms cut or incised into a hard surface such as stone, wood or metal. (Trajan, Copperplate Gothic)

Script—types based on calligraphy, cursive, or other hand writing.

Graphic—also called Manual, these types are based on slowly hand drawn originals.

Blackletter—types modeled after late medieval broad nib formal hands.

Gaelic—types derived from the insular manuscript hand.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[livwritesstuff]

what’s the girls relationship like with uncle (grandpa?) wayne?

yesss we love Grandpa Wayne 🥹

Wayne was actually the first person to know about Moe (and the only person, for a little while, because privacy is a big deal w/foster kids and the Party is notably god-awful at keeping things on the DL so Steve and Eddie didn’t loop everyone in until the adoption was complete).

Wayne was the first one to meet Moe, the first to hold her. Wayne proudly wrote the reference letter they’d needed as part of their home study to adopt her.

Wayne came up to Massachusetts from Indiana to take care of Moe while Steve and Eddie were in the NICU with Robbie.

Wayne was Eddie’s first call when Hazel was born.

When the girls are very little (toddlers/early elementary school) he’s still living in Indiana (he's in a silent feud with Hopper over who can stand to stay in Hawkins the longest). The feud only comes to an end because, when Steve’s dad passes in 2009, Eddie gets freaked out and basically insists that Wayne move closer to them.

Wayne isn’t even all that bummed about losing to Hop because it means he gets to spend more time with the grandkids. He absolutely rubs this in at any opportunity, and Hopper and Joyce make the move up north only a year or two later (Hop claims it was unrelated).

The girls adore him. He’s steady and reliable and always down for a good card game (he teaches them how to play poker just a little bit too young) and he shows up to every play and recital and all the important sports games, and he can roast their dad like nobody's business.

He has a particularly special bond with Hazel, who, like him, loves nature and being outside. They go birdwatching and fishing together (catch and release, obviously, because Hazel wouldn’t stand for anything else) and take day trips to nearby national parks and botanical gardens.

Hazel goes to Florida for college, pursuing a degree in zoology at one of the best programs in the country, and they joke that Wayne should be awarded an honorary BS with how much of her coursework Hazel relays to him (she calls him after practically every lecture). Eddie has to fight tooth and nail to keep him from moving back down to Florida to join her there.

[sugaroto]

Ok so

I noticed a few things about the title

So obviously the two keys on the back making an x are the heroine and the villainess key

Extra details being the heart on Silver's end and a diamond? Something shape on the end of Violet

Cinderella Boy

Chase's name starts with C, as Cinderella

And Buddy's name starts with B, as Boy

(I mean it's not his real name and we don't know his name yet but so far we know him as Buddy)

So like their initials make the title? Kinda?

Also Cinderella is in purple colors, which resembles Buddy's colors and Boy is in gold which resembles Chase

This could all be a coincidence or not intended but eh I'm throwing it in here anyway

[thedogfromthatmitskisong]

Dear Prudence,

part of a bigger wip, but i had a sweet, quiet, and calm birthday and i couldn’t help but write this. first time i’ve intentionally written something so nice and warm (and emotional) so i’m excited to share!!!

p.s. happy pride!

p.p.s. what if i tagged it as fanfic for a reference 💀💀

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

genie in a lamp

write a poem. write another poem.

write a song. write another song.

write words that aren't songs but could be and write poems that don't make sense. write another poem.

turn it into a song. concentrate and ask again.

maybe it will make sense this time. maybe it isn't supposed to. someone will understand anyway.

write another song, or a poem, or both or neither. will it work this time? is there a way to survive?

reply hazy, try again.

write another poem. call yourself a poet, even though you don't think you are one.

write another song. don't let anyone see it. let someone see it.

write a book. write a poem. write a song. try again.

do we make it?

without a doubt

~xoxo, Love yoU

[saint-lajka]

gently trying to explain to my pt that the fact that i managed to walk an arguably Very short distance outside my house, on crutches, after 2 days of full bedbound rest, on 3 different methods of pain relief with 5 people around me ready to catch me if fall and one Permanently holding onto me , with Days of rest where even moving a plate from one room to another was too much for me afterwards, is not very representative of my Average Ability to Ambulate. Which is close to none and she knows this.