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*offers you a cigarette except out of a crayon box and it's a crayon*

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Theyre going to bury him 3 feet deep because he's only ever been half a man

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The Last Gift

Tuesday , 8:30 a.m.

Amsterdam

The door shut behind Nova as she stepped into the library, patting dry the book she used as an umbrella. There had been no news of rain in the forecast last night, but she was in Amsterdam; unexpected weather was to be expected. She took in the sight in front of her : hundreds of bookshelves stretched to the left as far as eyes could see, housing thousands of books ranging from academics to fiction to mythologies and many more . She started to the right towards her desk , its simple wood and furnishing looking out of place against the intricate designs of the oak bookshelves. As Nova sat down behind her desk getting ready for the day, the bell above the door chimed, signaling the arrival of a customer, followed by a chilling gust of wind. He was elderly, judging by his cane and graying hair that poked out from beneath his hat. “Hello ,” the stranger said with a weathered voice, putting down his umbrella. “Good morning ,” replied Nova with a smile on her face. “How can I help you ?” After taking an uncertain glance around, the man inquired, “I'm looking for something to read today. I was debating between fiction and history. Which would you recommend ?” Nova glanced at the storm raging outside and then at the books, thinking. “ Mystery,” she suggested, nodding. “ nothing compares to reading a good mystery book on a rainy day.” The man smiled, the uncertainty gone from his face. No sooner had he gone searching in the mystery section than Nova's phone pinged with a notification. It was an email from Amelia, her childhood friend. She skimmed over the text. Amelia's birthday party was to be held at her hometown the following weekend, and Nova was invited. She remembered the conversation she had with Amelia on the phone last week; Amelia had mentioned her upcoming birthday, and Nova had also promised that she would go. It had been years since she last visited Westport following her father's death, Nova thought. A little getaway would be nice. Besides, a promise was a promise, and it seemed that Nova had no option but to go.

Friday , 06:00 p.m.

Amelia's Birthday party , Westport

The sun had just set when Nova reached Amelia's cottage. It was beautiful, with its bricked walls overgrown with vines and the moonlight reflecting off the creek which lay still just beside the cottage. Faint noises of conversation and laughter could be heard from inside. The others must've already arrived, thought Nova. A few moments after she knocked, the door opened and she was greeted by Amelia with a hug. “ Happy birthday ! ,” wished Nova, presenting her gift. Amelia thanked her and joyfully exclaimed how glad she was to meet Nova after so long and introduced her to the others. Nova knew some of them from when they were kids, and others were new faces. Over the course of the evening, pleasantries were exchanged, reunions took place amidst stories and laughs, and the cake was cut. Towards the end of the night Nova found herself sitting at the dinner table, catching her breath and listening to the quiet chatter of conversations still going on, when someone else sat across from her. She looked up, startled to find the same elderly man who entered her library last Tuesday. If he had been present during the party, she hadn't noticed at all. Under the dim light, she could more clearly see the wrinkles that formed his eyes when he offered a warm smile. “You must be Nova Haven,” he said. Before she could reply, he slid something towards her. It was a key, along with a note. The key looked old, but well-maintained. “Who are you?,” Nova inquired. “James Hart,” he replied. “A friend of your father. As for the key, I think you can find out what it's for.” And with that, he was gone. More confused than ever, Nova picked up the note. The handwriting was strikingly similar to that of her father's, Nova realized with a start. It read,

TECHS

Nova tried to make sense of the word, but nothing came to mind. Just as she was about to give up, a memory struck her. It was of a young Nova at her home in Westport, and her father, who was explaining the rules of a new game he came up with. It consisted of words and anagrams that led one clue to the other and finally, towards the ‘treasure,’ as he called it, which usually consisted of random objects. Until her father passed away, they played this game almost every weekend when Nova was young, except the weekend prior to his death, when Nova spent the whole day playing with her friends instead. The thought brought tears to her eyes; she would give anything to play with her father one last time. After what seemed like forever, Nova wiped at her tears. If that James Hart really was her father's friend and that puzzle was actually written by her father, then she was determined to solve it.

Saturday, 10:00 a.m.

Nova's house, Westport

Even though Nova had called ahead of time to make sure the house was clean, there was only so well one could clean a house that had been empty for years on end. Still, it was clean enough to stay, and that was the best Nova could hope for. After coming home late last night, she hadn't made any progress on the puzzle. If this follows the same rules as it did with father's other riddles, then TECHS must be an anagram, she thought. She racked her brain for words, looking around the house, then it hit her. CHEST! , Nova exclaimed aloud. Chests weren't common in her house growing up, as her father preferred to store things in the cupboard instead. But there was one, a small wooden chest with rose carvings on the top. If my memory serves me right, Nova thought, all of father's possessions were stored in his study. And so she started towards the study, with the key in hand. As expected, every furniture was covered by pieces of fabric, with dust coating every space like thick fog in a winter morning. Nova cautiously made her way behind the study desk and inspected each drawer, a new layer of dust coating her fingers each time she opened them. As she opened the final drawer, she saw the chest, the rose carvings exactly as she remembered it.

Nova wiped her fingers on her dress and carefully lifted the chest onto the desk. It was way heavier than it seemed. There, on the front, barely noticeable due to the rust that covered it, was the keyhole. Taking a deep breath she took the key that James Hart had given her the previous night and inserted it into the hole. The chest opened with a satisfying click. Inside there was a ring, a binocular, a broken wristwatch, and some peppermints, which had long since rotted. Nova remembered them all; the red ring she wore all the time as a child, the binocular she used to watch birds with her father, the wristwatch she got as a gift for her 8th birthday, and her favorite peppermints. Nova stared at those for what felt like forever. It exactly resembled the previous games her father used to prepare, from the words and anagrams to the reward, everything. But when did he prepare this?, thought Nova. Only one way to find out, she muttered, as she ran out the house.

Saturday, 11:00 a.m.

James Hart’s house, Westport

Turns out, James Hart was quite popular among the inhabitants of Westport; it had only taken a couple minutes of asking around to find out where he lived. The door was answered by James almost immediately after Nova knocked, from where he ushered her into his living room. It looked like he had been expecting her. On the other side of the village, his house seemed unnaturally quiet. He sat opposite Nova on the couch and looked at her expectantly. She returned the gaze and asked, “How did you know of the game? ” He looked from her to the window, his gaze distant as if he was reminiscing his past. “Before your father’s death,” James began, “He came to me, like he often did. He talked about the game he had prepared for his daughter and about how she went to play, completely forgetting about it. ” Nova’s stomach twisted with guilt. “What about the key?,” she asked. “Your father had also mentioned that. He showed it to me that night. Later, when I went to visit his house after his death, I found it. I would've given it to you, but it was too late. I heard you had gone to live with your aunt after that.” Nova nodded, unsure of what else to do. To know the whole story was overwhelming; she had the chance to play with her father for the last time, after all. Nova closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and promised to always remember her father’s last gift.

THE END.

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My favorite jokes are about mispronouncing philosophers' names but I'm afraid it's a nietzsche subgenre

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Reading a book about slavery in the middle-ages, and as the author sorts through different source materials from different eras, I am starting to understand why so many completely fantastical accounts of "faraway lands" went without as much as a shrug. The world is such a weird place that you can either refuse to believe any of it or just go "yeah that might as well happen" and carry on with your day.

There was this 10th century arab traveller who wrote into an account that the fine trade furs come from a land where the night only lasts one hour in the summer and the sun doesn't rise at all in the winter, people use dogs to travel, and where children have white hair. I don't think I'd believe something like that either if I didn't live here.

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when charles schulz said "all you need is love. but a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt" and anthony bourdain said "your body is not a temple, it's an amusement park. enjoy the ride" and mark twain said "part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like." when erma bombeck said "i am not a glutton- i'm an explorer of food," voltaire said "ice-cream is exquisite. what a pity it isn't illegal" and when kurt vonnegut said "you can't just eat good food. you've got to talk about it too. and you've got to talk about it to somebody who understands that kind of food."

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i dont give a FUCK any more man this has gone TOO far i'm deleting ALL the exclamation points from my work emails. that's right. i hope you have a good weekend. and no more than that

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it's actually sick you get tired of eating the same food over and over when some animals they just eat grass all day mind you. just another pointless challenge mechanic added in by big universe to get you to go to the grocery store

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the worst part of "you'll understand when you're older" is that you really do understand when you're older

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tweet

Something like this would be so colossally helpful. I'm sick and tired of trying to research specific clothing from any given culture and being met with either racist stereotypical costumes worn by yt people or ai generated garbage nonsense, and trying to be hyper specific with searches yields fuck all. Like I generally just cannot trust the legitimacy of most search results at this point. It's extremely frustrating. If there are good resources for this then they're buried deep under all the other bullshit, and idk where to start looking.

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"Don't use Libby because it costs libraries too much, pirate instead" is such a weird, anti-patron, anti-author take that somehow manages to also be anti-library, in my professional librarian-ass opinion.

It's well documented that pirating books negatively affects authors directly* in a way that pirating movies or TV shows doesn't affect actors or writers, so I will likely always be anti-book piracy unless there's absolutely, positively no other option (i.e. the book simply doesn't exist outside of online archives at all, or in a particular language).

Also, yeah, Libby and Hoopla licenses are really expensive, but libraries buy them SO THAT PATRONS CAN USE THEM. If you're gonna be pissed at anybody about this shitty state of affairs, be pissed at publishing companies and continue to use Libby or Hoopla at your library so we can continue to justify having it to our funding bodies.

One of the best ways to support your library having services you like is to USE THOSE SERVICES. Yes, even if they are expensive.

*Yes, this is a blog post, but it's a blog post filled with links to news articles. If you can click one link, you can click another.

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Not "humans are inherently good" or "humans are inherently evil" but a secret third thing (humans are inherently social animals which means that we're very good at cooperating and being compassionate towards those we perceive as being part of our community but we're also very good at being tribal and violent towards those we perceive as threats to our community and everyone defines their community differently)

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There is an odd thing I see in books sometimes where a character who is defined by their steadfast loyalty to a person or organization is presented with one (1) piece of evidence against them and immediately changes their mind.

I was just reading a book where a character is deeply loyal to the royal family despite being their literal whipping girl, but she immediately decides that the king must be a bad ruler the first time she sees poverty exists. And he is--but it's weird that the 15 years of being whipped didn't convince her but the existence of poor people did.

It often reads like a plot-convenient way of having a character change their mind without having to do any of the actual work or spend any actual time on what it means for them to change their mind. But it also often rings false--we know for a fact that people with deeply held beliefs are often not convinced no matter how much evidence they see to the contrary, much less because one piece of evidence was presented to them.

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me, vibrating out of my skin : hey can I talk to you about this piece of media real quick? I pinky promise I'll be So Normal about it, like there's no reason to be concerned that this will turn into a three hour long monologue. Like I Prommy that I'm not gonna be a freak about it.

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things me and bats have in common

-smol -try to be scary but get scared by everything -bad vision -runs into walls often -awake at night -likes fruit -confused

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If I have to complete my economics syllabus the night before exam ONE MORE TIME I'm dropping out

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hey i know i asked for constructive criticism but what i actually wanted was for you to tell me i'm extremely talented. and also pretty. sorry if that was unclear