#(c;kane sharpe)

[flubnuggetpurple]

Dove Cameron’s Alchemical album is so fucking bat coded I feel like a conspiracy theorist.

(This went off the rails at one point, so WARNING: vague mentions of sexual assault and being drugged without consent)

First song: Lethal Woman.

Cass, all over, right? The bridge is “she walks like a saint, floats like an angel, sharp like a knife under the table”

c o m e o n

Second song: Still.

“Man on the screen, they only see whatever you want them to see” and “Supernova self-erasing, hourglass is always draining”

Could be either Tim or Bruce, but I lean toward Tim because of “how dare you, dare me to love you, if you jump I will too” because whenever Tim decides he loves someone, he’s the ride or die, ends of the earth type, even if they don’t even know who he is. A) how and why he became Robin in the first place, B) The Cloning Thing, C) an argument could be made for the Captain Boomerang thing (but now that I think of it, I think I’m mostly basing this off fanon oh well ontotgenextone).

Song Three: Breakfast.

I will admit out the gate that this one’s a reach, so I’m just going to leave Selina here.

Song Four: Sand.

For this I’m thinking Tim or Jason, for different reasons.

For Tim;

“I saw the end when we began, you couldn’t love the way I can, I tried to bargain with the stars, for more than half your heart but you have more pieces of me than the dessert has sand, and I have less pieces of you than I could hold in my hand” and “our love’s misaligned, ‘cause you’re on my mind every night, I stretch out the time, and now I know why.”

I’m just making it obvious I read the Red Robin run, aren’t I?

For Jason:

“What's worse, being wanted but not loved, or loved but not wanted? What's worse, hearing what you wanna hear, or hearing what's honest?” And “What hurts, is the one thing that you wanna do, is the one thing that you shouldn’t do”

Pre-death Jason, but like, right after the Garzonas thing.

Song five: White Glove.

Okay hear me out.

This is part one of the Dick Grayson saga; the persona he shows to the public. This is Richie Wayne. This is every honeypot mission he went on too young, every woman he’s had to seduce for information (it’s one hundred percent happened before don’t fight me) every source of sexual trauma (that one I’m ninety percent sure is canon) that keeps him up at night.

And this guy’s been a vigilante for over twenty years, he can absolutely recognize drugs by sight, smell, and how they feel when he’s too late to notice something slipped in his drink. He’s felt nearly every strain of fear toxin and every one of Ivy’s pollens. If anyone knows their drugs it’s pretty boy Richie Wayne and Robin.

Song six: God’s Game

This one I’m definitely taking some lines out of context, but for Jason, “Just a boy with a man's face, playin' God's game” is when he’s taking over Crime Alley, pit-mad and trigger happy. “I prepare with so much care, I was runnin', it was stunnin', I am desperate from delusions, not much of a solution, never knowin' what the truth is, oh, God” is when hid plans start to fall apart, when Bruce slits his throat with a batarang, when eventually the pit-madness eventually starts to wear off and he realizes what all he did to Tim, who was a child at the time, not to mention Robin.

He nearly became what the Joker was to him to the next Robin, and I feel like at some point that would occur to him.

Song seven: Boyfriend.

(…Admittedly, I don’t think this one has any grounding in canon and if it does, feel free to educate me.)

So, obviously I could mention Kate Kane at this point, but I know basically nothing about her, so instead I’m going to talk about Steph.

So Steph has definitely had some shitty experiences with guys, right? Like, her dad to begin with, but also the guy who got her pregnant (at like fourteen? Maybe I’m just sheltered, but I don’t think anything about that relationship was heathy—again, I haven’t read many of the comics, so correct me if I’m wrong), then Tim, which, I love him as a character, but didn’t he date her in the mask for like, months, and I have some vague recollections of some dickish things he said (i know i know i need to read more comics)—whatever. Men are shitty.

I have a scene in my head. Like, Steph’s in college, at a bar with friends or something, maybe it’s an under cover op, idk, and there’s this girl she’s been lowkey watching all night. She doesn’t quite know why, but she just keeps catching her eye, and okay, it’s not like she’s never questioned her sexuality, she knows Cass. There have been Extensive conversations with Babs on the subject.

Anyway, so at some point, there’s obviously some sort of argument between the girl and the guy she came with and the girl’s crying, and Steph just Can’t Handle That.

She goes up to her, comforts her, makes a new friend, listens to the whole story.

And at some point, she has the thought.

“I could be a better boyfriend than him.”

She doesn’t necessarily do anything about it that night, but now that she’s had the thought, it won’t leave her alone.

Yeah. So. Maybe I’ll write that story later.

Song eight (last song): FRAGILE THINGS.

Dick Grayson part two; So your mentor (dad) just died, leaving you an angry murder child, another one hanging on by a thread after losing eighty percent of his support system, a grieving butler (grandfather), and a mantle the size of the Most Dangerous City in America. Any direction you move is going to hurt someone, and one kid is more likely to snap and murder people than the other, and hey, if you have to be Batman anyway, might as well let your brilliant kid brother be Nightwing, right? Except, whoops, you forgot to mention that last part and now Timmy thinks you just replaced him without telling him and fuck you knew you were forgetting something and now there’s a goddamned imposter Bruce and—

“Love is like a house of fragile things, where hearts can be broken as easy as antiques, and now there’s glass all shattered at my feet, what we built together, you left in smithereens.”

Anyway. This got kind of incoherent (or maybe it was from the start?)

I accidentally added a poll at the bottom and can’t figure out how to remove it, so.

[see-arcane]

Barking Harker TEASER 2

The following is a rough draft of a chapter for the in-progress horror novel, and alternate ending Dracula sequel, Barking Harker.

It will contain unsettling imagery.

It will contain unsettling possibilities.

It will contain things that bite, bleed, scream, and laugh.

If all this is acceptable, then welcome. Enter freely and of your own will. 

And leave all of the happiness and humanity you bring. 

For a version that isn’t in Tumblr format eye strain mode, check out the Google Doc version HERE.

Link to Barking Harker TEASER 1 is HERE.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apparently the full length of the document is too big for Tumblr's app to handle without crashing, so you'll have to consider the section below a teaser to the teaser. For the full whopper, you'll have to refer to the Google Doc link.

Barking Harker

TEASER 2

C.R. Kane

Preludes and Interludes II:

Dead, Dogs, and Detours

DEAD

          She didn’t take note of the hansom for at least three turns. Having noticed it, she tried to convince herself against the obvious. Paranoia, it might be called. Nervousness. In the company of anyone with eyes, they would have cooed and tutted, yet quite understood. Well, look at you, dear! It’s a wonder your young man lets you be driven out and about on your own. You do have a young man, do you not? No? As it happens, I know a young man or ten in the family who are in want of a good wife…

          But her mind drifted. Just as it had drifted when the little man with the jeweler’s loop had come out of the shop with her delivery in hand. He had gone to the trouble of doing away with the dull parcel’s wrapping and redone it in patterned paper and ribbon.

          “Direct from Mellerio, mademoiselle,” he said, only butchering the latter words a touch. “It is a magnificent piece.”

          “Mellerio dits Meller never disappoints. Perhaps the finest gifts to the world old Marie ever had her hand in. Well, her and the dear Concinis.” She had smiled for him and the little fellow turned pink as a carnation. “Merci,” she hummed, letting more of her lilt into it as she cradled the parcel. The pink flushed to red. Then the victoria was pulling away and the pedestrian bustle was retreating around her. From the corner of her eye she spied a mourning couple milling away toward a park. The pretty girl in the veil—a beauty that her peripheral senses had alerted her to, being that the girl had thought herself unnoticed in her own dreamy staring—

          (Oh oh she is lovely she is gorgeous I could see her as a painting she is too fine too fair oh oh oh I wonder what Lucy would think of her I think she might go red just at the sight of her dress Jonathan? Jonathan! Jonathan oh no Jonathan what is it what’s wrong Jonathan Jonathan)

—was half-supporting her gentleman as he staggered in tow, seeming as if he had been struck. She caught a glimpse of a face that was quite handsome even with the fearful rictus carved into it.

          A needle of terror flew from his mind. It pricked at her own, as sharp and vivid thoughts often did. She shelled herself against it by reflex. Yet it stung and stuck, if only for the twinge of familiarity she sensed in it. Something unpleasant reached her thinly through a mental haze she could not define.

          (Him him him it is it cannot be but it is unless it is not but that face that face young or old or wan or hale I know I know that face the eyes the razors of the grin him it is him he is here unless he is not unless you are mad unless you are not or perhaps both but he is here he is there he is in England and you never woke from the nightmare and Mina Mina Mina we must be gone Mina he knows my blood he will find me find you find us no no no Mina)

          But she was going and the couple was staying. She tamped the bristling thoughts down to smoothness and resettled in her airy bliss.

          Had that been when the hansom began its pursuit? When had she begun to register the clatter of its chase? She could not say. Not when her focus was steeped three quarters of the way into the future. A future filled with music, with dates, with revelry, with the flutter of games, with the freedom hidden under silk masks, with the parade of her latest wide-eyed throng come to gape and cavort, with the increasingly ardent play of darling Andy, née, Lord Andrew Blythe, her newest high-born shadow who had resorted to all but bribery to move her from her estate and into a wing of his own manse. All quarters furnished, he said, precisely to her liking.

          “And how is it you are so confident of that, Andy?”

          “Because it will be furnished until you like it.”

          She had so far been able to dodge his invitations with jokes first of Bluebeard, then of La Dame aux Camélias. Soon she would run out of segues. Or worse, out of desire to dodge. He was a fun fellow, which was a rarity among Englishmen of all walks. Even that foppish sweetheart, Arthur Something—Holming? Goldwood?—had been so gallant as to cloy. She had scarcely mourned his loss to that dainty peach of a girl some seasons ago. Andy, at least, had the decency to enjoy a bit of indecency.

Her nails drummed against the wrapped box, daydreaming of the surprise intended as a nightcap to the latest party that would embrace the far end of autumn in ghastly glee.

          Even the tautest souls permitted themselves to unravel when there was a masquerade to hide behind. It was rare that she ever loaded her rooms with guests choking on silver spoons as a rule. In truth, she often preferred the company of her staff, their friends and kin over a deluge of the prim and powdered. When she first laid hands upon Perrault’s works, she had at once seen herself in the Fairy Godmother more than the cinder-dusted heroine. If not merely for the saccharine pleasure of providing enchanted nights to those who make the most of them, then for the fact that she had not encountered a single aristocratic affair that did not put her to sleep with its fine filigreed manners within an hour. Give her noise, give her life, give her a Bacchanalia, not church service with duller music.

          Lacking superior options, it often became the case that she must play hostess to events that satisfied her own wishes, just as she was conspiring to throw her latest one in the coming weeks. One tailored to celebrate as the nights overtipped the days and the presence of strange entities crept at the edges of the mind. A perfect atmosphere for a bit of charade devilry if she did say so.

Costumes, canapés, cards, claret poured by the bucketful, perhaps even some spiritualist playing with a crystal ball. And yes, Andy, he can bring a few of his gilded friends. But do try to keep things discreet, hm? She dare not offend any of his polished circles’ poor ears with talk of her festivities and the uncouth entertainments therein. It would hardly interest such refined persons, after all…

          A caveat that she knew would lead to a loose whisper too many and several a ruffled eavesdropper. If history served, it would result in quite a few covert extra additions trying to wheedle their way onto the guest list. Assuming they did not dare the unthinkable outright and try to duck through her doors under cover of a costume or a pretense that one of the invitees had brought them along. It was what Andy himself had resorted to, making use of the one loophole she provided—that the uninvited be allowed entry provided one of the invited brought them along as a friend.

          It had been his farrier, Henry Caldwell, who had to sneak him into that first gathering half a year ago. And oh, how many exciting hues he’d turned in the face when the young lord discovered the man who tended his horses had received an invitation to her ball rather than him! He’d turned colors again at learning the only other attendees of noble blood had needed similar patrons and matrons from their underlings and staff. Imagine, a lavish romp thrown for the Cinderellas while the ‘stepsisters’ were left hoping for the charity of their invitation.

          Practically an age ago, that was. Andy had grown on her since. He had glowed when she told him he almost passed for a proper rogue in stolen clothes. Now here came the surprise in her box. The treat awaiting him at the end of the costumes. She sang from Baudelaire’s poem:

          “La très chère était nue, et, connaissant mon coeur,

          Elle n’avait gardé que ses bijoux sonores…”

          My dearest was naked and, knowing well my prayer,

          She wore only her sonorous jewelry…

          Her laugh almost broke on the air, but the driver pulled up short and clipped the sound. The driver and the poor mare both huffed over a passing cat in the road. In the same instant, she heard the whinny and hoof-clatter of horses behind her. It occurred that she had been hearing those same hoofbeats for some while. Three turned corners. All quite far apart.

          The moment she recognized as much, she became aware of a hostile edge to the air. It came to her the way a rush of sensory reminder will hit one after fixating too deeply on a task or thought until all other stimuli loses volume. Such was how poor musicians, bad smells, and dreary lectures were weathered. In the case, a nigh tangible essence of threat had been ignored as she lost herself in plush premonitions.

          The denied sensation carried its own portent—all but a promise.

          A certainty that was not helped by the fact that the hansom’s driver saw her looking and shamefacedly ducked under his hat brim. The picture of a child caught committing a crude prank at the behest of an older boy.

          He was not paid to be taken to a destination. He is being paid to stop where you stop. Perhaps he was told that it was you who insisted on being followed, that the gentleman in the hansom can find you again later. We are old friends and he is stopping in town. Go on, good man. She will lead us on.

          Perhaps that was it. Perhaps not. But the man behind the horses gave her a pained look when the victoria resumed its trundling way. It grew grimmer still when he bade his stallions to plod after her and he kept his eyes trained strictly on her wheels. And though no other eyes were visible, there was no ignoring the fact that she felt observed. Ogled in the way fat rabbits feel themselves seen by a predator who is no more than a wheeling dot in the sky, waiting for the moment to descend and sink in the talons.

          Come now. Do not insult birds of prey so callously. All an animal wants is to eat. Not that one. Not him.

          For it was a him. A very singular him. The kind that would make the Ripper seem positively chummy.

          Oh, stop. What are the odds? Truly?

          This scene was not what she thought it was. It couldn’t be. Wouldn’t be. In a few more stops, the hansom would turn away and be gone.

          And what you think is in the cab will not be there.

          Five stops and two turns later, the hansom cab was still with her. As was the pressure of a very particular presence. One whose secrets were locked against the cursory probing of her mind, but could not smother the miasma of himself for anything. Not that he would want to. The grim clockwork of his thoughts was a guarded thing, yes, but he wanted her to know it was him.

          After all this time, it was him.

          “Damn it.”

          “Did you say something, Miss?”

          “I should like to stop at a café. That little place with the garland on the sign.” She smiled by reflex despite Joseph’s turned back. “Is there anything you might like to take along? I will not be needing you for the drive back after all. I can hail another rather than keep you lingering on my account.”

          “Are you certain?”

          She was.

          They stopped. She ordered. Sent him off with a steaming bundle to eat along with an apple bartered from the kitchen for his patient steed. Then she took herself to the furthest table outside the restaurant and pretended interest in her tea as she stared down the hansom. The driver pulled up his horses for a moment, teetering between his options. Flicking a sweat-shined look at her table, then quickly away, he urged his horses on. He meant to give renewed chase to the victoria—

          (Just following your orders sir follow the victoria you said—)

          —but came just as abruptly to a halt.

          His face crumpled in comfortless lines as the cab door opened. All at once, whatever thin patter there was among the sparsely peopled tables shrank several octaves. The September air puffed with a breath of malign cold. Somewhere close, a dog barked and bayed. Truthfully, she was surprised the windows did not crack because the man stood too near to them. Assuming one could regard him as a man.

          He was dressed as a moneyed one. The midnight of his hair was tied back, moustache and sharp beard impeccable. Yet his eyes. His eyes were chips of red glass lit by hellfire. Or so he would have prided himself to hear. Liken him to Judas and he would preen like a peacock. She’d encountered more than one such fellow in her time, but even in this, he was singular.

          She watched him toss the money to his driver. He watched her watch him.

          Go on, said the red stare. Go on. Say something. Do something. I am only a man stopping for a meal. What fine coincidence it should bring us together like this, dear.

          She suppressed a sigh and turned her box round and round on the table. For effect, she produced her little gold watch to mind the time. Tick-tock. Though no shadow fell across her table, she was not surprised by the skid of the chair across from her pulling out. Nor by the gloved hands folding where she could see them.

          Resigning herself to a lost afternoon, if not worse, she peered up at him through the thick fringe of her lashes. A look that had set more hearts racing than could be counted and had, on some rare occasions, stopped them altogether. The gentleman feigning humanity merely smiled at her.

          “Is there something I might help you with, sir? I am waiting on a friend and he shall need the chair shortly.”

          “It would not surprise me,” he said. “You could point at any man on the street, declare him your companion, and have him propose before sundown.”

          “A flattering estimate. Yet I would blame it more on the country’s quality than my own. This is a land of such tedious constriction.” She glanced at the amber swirl of her cold tea. “If I showed one inch more of decolletage, I would have a husband by dusk, a mistress by midnight, and three consorts by morning.” Her gaze rose back to him. “I would not even have invited them, but there they would be.”

          Behind him, a server approached to ask after an order, met the gentleman’s gaze, and hastily swerved away to attend another table. Satisfied, the gentleman shrugged.

          “That is the price paid for being what you are.”

          “Is that so?”

          “You cannot be so desirable a thing and not expect pursuit.”

          “Perhaps. But with some, the effects of distance have proven a decent enough deterrent.” Lashes batted. “That and death.”

          “There are always exceptions.” Saying so, he bared the top row of his teeth. It was the edge of a white saw.

          “I suppose there must be. Pardon, I am at a loss for your name..?” He paused to consider this. Then, to her misery:

          “Count DeVille.”

          “No.”

          “No?”

          “No. You can do better. Please, please, say you can do better.”

          “Alucard.”

          Her eyes fluttered shut in pain as she frowned over her cup.

          “I should have asked for cognac.”

          “I would expect something redder in your case.” She looked up at the sound of tearing paper. He’d tugged her parcel across the table and slit the wrapping. This he did with his thumbnail. He had peeled his glove to show a hand almost as wan as the silk. “Ah. Almost as red as this.”

His spade of a nail hooked the necklace and let the briolette cuts catch the light until every ruby burned. It could not be brought out of the box in full, or else the gems would drag upon the table. She planned to wear it with her artfully gruesome gown on the night of the masquerade. All glittering gore sewn into supple white while the necklace spilled over her chest like an exquisite slit throat. Then, in private, she would wear that pantomime blood for Andy’s eyes alone. In the present, the necklace received an admiring hum.

“An interesting design.” He lowered it back into the box. “Yours?”

          “Commissioned for a special occasion.”

          “What occasion is that?” He slid the box back. “A party, perhaps? One of costume and pageantry and that unholy relief worthy of the old Carnival days?” His grin showed even the bloodless edge of his gums. “You always did make such a lovely Columbine.”

          “You must be mistaken, sir, and tragically senile as well. Venice killed its dear Carnival in 1797.”

          “So I heard.” His tongue clicked in disgust. “That wretched Francis. Was it the first or second?”

          “The second. Twice as miserable as his father.” She struck a praying pose. “May they rest in Hell. Do give them a hello from me when you pass through.”

          “Surely we can greet them together.” He leaned forward until he had nearly come over the table. His eyes were lanterns. “Or must we find another abbot to spill his holy water on you first?”

          “Again, sir, I fear I do not follow, and that you have taken me for another.”

          “I have taken you, yes. But I make no mistake. Even a blind man could not forget you.”

          “You are adamant in this performance, my friend, and most original.” She scooped her parcel up and made a show of righting her already-righted hat. “But I have other strangers to be accosted by. Hopefully less mad ones.” She moved to stand. “Good day—,”

          He recited two addresses.

          One hers.

          One the Blythe estate.

          “I had planned to pay my visits later, as I am so terribly busy with business and pleasure alike. England makes for a most engaging territory. It really was pure accident spotting you ahead of schedule.” It was his turn to bat his lashes. “Shall it be a happy one? Or do I pay my fellow gentleman a visit tonight? He seems a healthy young man, despite his merry vices. The kind that so often catch up to a body in the most unfortunate ways.”

          She looked at him. A emerald stare grating against ruby.

          “Which will it be, Clarimonde? Stay or go?” And, because he threw himself at her mind, she heard the unspoken—

          (Again.)

          —barb. Under better circumstances, be they petty or romantic, she might have flattered herself at the genuine displeasure laced in the thought. Something that could almost pass itself as the heartbreak of an abandoned lover rather than whatever distorted translation of emotion had resulted from their parting. Partings, plural, if they were to play pedantic. But she was in no mind for flattery or for purpling the mental prose.

          Clarimonde was of a mind for irritation.

Which was good. To be irate, annoyed, even perturbed was better than pulling such chafing shields away and letting in the thing that lurked beyond their bounds. She told herself the monster there was not her own. Not wholly. It was part of his presence; that artificial injection of dread that he foisted on others like a pile of offal inflicted its stench. Such was the fear that lived on the other side of mere exasperation. Not hers, no. Just another unwanted gift from an old friend.

          Not mine. Not mine. Not yet. Keep it that way.

          All this churned through her head with the speed and sting of a wasp’s needling visit. There and gone but for the aching throb. It lent some credence to her striking a pose of one bashed by a sudden headache. She sighed.

          “Go,” she said. It was pleasing to see the momentary flicker of surprise and a chasing moue of disappointment in his face. Just as it was supremely annoying—ah, blessed annoyance—to see the triumph flash back in place as she added, “We both will. This place lacks for our preferred delicacies and it is rude to take up their table while we fuss over the menu. Besides, you are up and about at noon.”

“So I am. What of it?”

“Unless you have forsaken your old habit, that means you have stored up your waking hours and are no doubt eager to indulge in daylit distractions. I doubt you shall get your fill idling over teacups and pastries.”

A quarter of an hour saw them away from the café and drawing looks of either envy or pity from passersby.

The former were of that demographic who looked upon ‘Count DeVille’, grousing over how his wicked mien was outweighed by enough wealth to buy him the company of either the plum of all eligible daughters, a prize-winning mistress, or else the most expensive woman of negotiable affection in the country.

The latter were those who saw only Clarimonde, pondering whether her smile was true or a mask, and thinking in their hearts that they were witnessing some poor girl doubtlessly haggled away from her parents like a glorified sheep to slaughter. It surprised Clarimonde but little that there were so few of the second onlooker compared to the first.

Yet the Count himself remained a dark room in which no hint could be read. She had been trying to squint through that iron murk since their amble began. He seemed content, even pleased, to let her fail as he busied himself with catching the eye of the occasional gawker and spiking them with a fresh jab of inexplicable terror. One poor man saw a need to be grateful he wore dark trousers—the smell would have given him away even if his mind hadn’t. A laugh tried to escape, but the Count caged it behind a smaller chuckle. This caused a nearby infant to wail in her pram.

A lovely walk, this. One still lacking for revelations from the gruesome mire of a mind. It remained to be seen whether this was an unconscious feat or one which he was maintaining through cold focus. So.

“From the passable accent and the new ensemble, I take it you have been making yourself comfortable. Do you wear them for the sake of a holiday or for expansion?”

“Can it not be both?”

“It can. Which makes it doubly worrisome for the local fauna. All the carefree gluttony of a vacation, all the ongoing attention of an extended stay.” She sighed. “That was you who delivered the empty ship to Whitby, was it not?”

“No, not at all. I am certain it was another undetectable party onboard, indulging in the local…hm.” he paused in thought. “Would sailors be considered seafood?”

“Was that all they were? More pressingly, is that all they are?”

The Count peered down at her. He wore a passable expression of confusion, but for the eyes. They smiled too much.

“Whatever do you mean?”

Dropping her voice a pitch below a whisper, affecting the tone of one interrogating the cat as to whether they knew how the glass was knocked off the table, “Exactly how dead did you leave them before they went overboard?” In answer, the Count dropped his own pitch to a stage whisper.

“Not dead enough to escape an appetite. The first mate was alive when he threw himself off the ship in an attempt to escape their fate. As it turns out, all his crewmates were waiting below the surface to welcome him. All quite delighted to see him again. That one, at least, is dead in full. As for the rest?” The gaunt shoulders rolled in a shrug. “They go on as an intriguing experiment. I have wondered what would happen to a vampire turned amid the waters he cannot cross. Now we know. The only question now is what will happen to them in a century’s time. Will the water still corner them? Or will they be free to travel so long as they bring a box of sand to sleep in? I shall have to make a note in my calendar.”

A true headache lent its aid to her expression now, crimping her brow into a disappointed slant.

“You have not indulged so boldly in an age. There must be a special occasion in progress.”

“Perhaps it was merely my excitement at traveling to your new hideaway.”

“How flattering! Supposing I could believe it. But I do not doubt for a moment that you, so freshly groomed and with an oblivious bevy of English beauties, have not set your sights on newer fare. Am I wrong?”

“I would be a most terrible liar to deny it.”

“And you are an excellent liar. Who is the lucky girl, then? I would ask after a harem, but if you have even an ounce of taste left in those old bones, I know you are choosing with care. Pretty faces and pure souls.”

“Never a combination in ready supply. Not even in these soft times.” His teeth caught the sunlight. The canines blazed. “Yet I have managed.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I should think not. You would have been sunk to the gums in her dreams otherwise. Such a tender one, in all respects. Yet a temptress wholly unaware. She will be mourned by many a poor suitor, I think. When the time comes, I do not doubt that she will have heart enough to spare for all.”

“She must be special if she has been your sole quarry since wrecking yourself on the shore. Or else you are sinking into another old custom, greedy thing that you are.”

“Greedy? How am I greedy?”

“Leaving aside the trio you no doubt left to hold down the castle while you cavort across the Channel, I could not help but notice you have another new friend already accustomed to your unique company. One not so oblivious as you usually take them. Though I do not fault you for the exception. He looked to be a charming thing. There are girls who would kill to get such a gaze without a smear of kohl. His wife was a fair match as well.” She conjured a convincing smile. “Are you collecting in pairs now?”

Her answer was a sudden hush. When Clarimonde looked up she found herself grateful for the meager shield of the cartwheel hat. It cut the Count’s gaze by half. There was more than the default of cruel joy in it now. Things moved behind the scarlet pane of his eye like demons toiling at a forge. Drawing plans, turning gears, heaping their screaming fuel upon a thousand fires. The eyes burned brighter as he spoke.

“If you refer to the couple spying on us from the park, you are nearly right. Both in their time. It may amuse you to know the young man surprised me by appearing here. He too was meant to await my return to Transylvania once my initial business was concluded here. Alas, he slipped free of his keepers.” His head canted toward her. “Not all hostesses boast such persuasive charms as yours.”

The leer found itself somewhat lost when her line of sight fixed an inch above his stare. She leaned her head back to squint beyond the brim of her hat.

“What happened here?” She tucked the box under her arm so that her hand was free to reach up and tap the vivid red scar slashed across his forehead. She had assumed on first seeing it that the wound was new and would seal up in the time it took to walk around a corner. Yet the mark lingered. “Did you run into some holy crusader aboard the Demeter?”

At this, he seemed to brighten. She watched him trace the mark with something very close to pride.

“Ah, this was a parting gift from that same young friend! I’m afraid he took his new living arrangements quite poorly and made sure I knew it before I departed. It has stayed in place as a reminder for quite some time now, if only because I have not found myself the time to gather the materials for the usual plaster. I think I may leave it a while longer, for its own sake. A visible scar puts the onlooker at ease. Any wound in plain view does.”

“If only because it proves you can be wounded. But again, it takes more than a mere scuffle to land a lasting blow on your like. So, what was it? Don’t tell me you have sacred paraphernalia just laying about in that old ruin. Your housemates could only resist such a temptation so long.”

“Ha. No, nothing sacred.”

“Then how—?”

“If I intended to divulge all my stories in a single dose, I would have already swung the doors open and let you go pillaging my memories. An allowance I never permitted cheaply.” He patted her glove with his own. “It seems you will have to suffer as the commoners do and simply not know all the interesting details in a single prying sitting.”

Memory prickled. She did her best not to show it.

While he had never been one to unload all the machinations of his thoughts and plots as the villains on a stage were compelled to—indeed, as some of the more grating self-styled kings of any age were wont to do when they wished to impress a room—the Count was nothing if not a habitual orator. So long as it was not a thing detrimental to his designs, he would happily make full use of his dead lungs and listen to himself while his audience, so often captive, debated the merits of tearing their ears off. Which was all to say that his not saying more was proof positive of…what?

Something important. Assuming anything he’s said yet is true. He does so love to mingle fact and fiction.

Yet the scar seemed evidence enough of that nebulous Something. Neither shrinking nor radiating the essence of the divine, it simply blazed there against the chalk of his brow. It made her think unhappily of damage administered to a corpse too cold to bleed. She shelved it all away in a private crevice of the mind and turned her attention back to the street.

They had managed to pass by the more crowded areas and its gawkers. Pedestrians milled thinner and thinner the further they walked from the condensed clamor of the Square. Neither could complain of exhaustion despite the unfolding distance, not even she in her button boots. It was one of those smaller perks that hitched onto the greater ones in their condition and quite made up for the price. Most of the time. Unless her senses deceived her, and they didn’t, the price would become its own boon within—oh, she would guess less than ten minutes. Fifteen at most.

In her peripheral, she saw the Count’s attention sharpen into recognition.

All we need now is Lord Killjoy and it would be our little haunting party all over again. …Oh, do not let him be part of this. I do not think I could stomach them making up for another round.

The notion was a limp one and it died almost the instant it came to her. Neither half of that pair carried a mote of forgiveness in the ravenous pits they might mistake for a soul. Both were convincing enough actors to fool less initiated victims to the contrary, but history had proven that neither was so idiotic as to buy the other’s performance. A combination of novelty, familiarity, and that occasional itch for company not predestined for the blood-crusted altar of their own appetites had been the truer bond in-between all the little evils flung at one another. But the last row had been of a very particular sort. The kind that did not merely burn bridges, but the bodies left broken-legged and howling at the middle. No, Ruthven was nowhere about. Common as well as uncommon senses verified as much. How fortunate for him.

All this mulling passed in the space of a blink.

“I shall have to treat you likewise,” she said aloud. “Though I expect it is hardly a loss for your end. I’ve so little to tell. Not all of us have grand machinations within machinations to eat up our nights, O Great Alexander with your conqueror’s itinerary. For we mere commoners, hedonism is enough to while the hours away.”

“Not all conquests are the same. Or was I deceived in all the so-secret-but-not chatter whispering of a certain rising queen among revelries? A curious phenomenon, how many speak of it versus how many bodies I imagine could actually fit in your estate. Apparently you manage to fit half of England in its walls and a third of Hell with it.”

“Preposterous. A quarter at the most. I must always reserve space for the Maenads, the witches, a few practical instructors of the Kama Sutra. And there must be comfortable space enough for all the orgies.”

No less than five sharp-eared heads turned. Notably, these were the only five pedestrians present. The herd was thinning, thinning.

“No vampires?”

“Not of late. Names will not be named,” she flicked her best glower to the side, “but in the past, certain parties had a habit of poaching my guests to excess. And, though it may wound some of those parties’ pride, it was one of my more recent invitees that sealed my prejudice against the lot.”

“Oh?”

“Back when I was touring about through Styria. It was my ball, but not my castle. Invitations were not wholly in my hands. I caught dear Millie sniffing around the girls—which would have been fine enough if I did not see the pure Lothario lurking under her pretenses. You know the type. Makes a big dramatic production of fondness and obsession and stalking and ‘I must have you, my darling!’ Then the moment the bedmate’s bled and undead?” Clarimonde flicked her hand in a dismissing gesture. “Poof. Lost in the night. Off to nibble another pretty thing. I can allow for juggling multiple loves in the know, but I quite draw the line at such utterly caddish treatment.”

“I tremble to imagine earning such displeasure.”

The barb flew—

(Again.)

—and struck. Clarimonde withheld a bristle as his arm unfolded out of her hand and moved to loop her closer. His glove rested on her like a massive spider. The sight irked her for many reasons. Reason one being that she would quite like to run a hairpin through it. Repeatedly. Reason two being that, like the rest of him, it truly was gaunter than she had ever seen him. The cut of his greatcoat was enough to disguise much of his thinness, but up close there was no mistaking the narrow dimensions that had overtaken his frame.

She did not brush off the gripping hand, but, to his surprise, tugged it nearer until she could pinch the mountain range of knuckles in her fingertips.

“All charades aside, you did finish off that whole ship, did you not? Bar the poor captain?”

“I have eaten well of late, yes. I’ve left hibernation famished and indulgent.”

“Then how did this happen, mon géant?” She rolled the spindly digits in her soft grip. “I know broomsticks with more bulk than you.”

“Ah, the return of the Nursemaid. I so missed her. Shall she kiss me better? Or do I have the pleasure of a reunion with one of the Consorts? Perhaps an Adulteress feigning a tryst behind your fresh little lord’s back?” In a blink, he had twisted her hold around so that her hand was locked inside his. It held just at the edge of pain. “You have such a broad cast living in you, my love.” He brought her glove up to his lips. Cold on cold. “Losing you was losing a legion.”

“Yet now that we’re here, you can speak to none of us.” She considered trying to pull herself free, but left it on the off-chance that he would grip it until the fingers groaned. Her thumb grazed the back of his hand. “That is your second dodge. I begin to think you do not have anything to say except that you have nothing to say.”

“I have much I wish to say to you, Clarimonde. A great deal.” He gave her fingers a parting crush before snatching his own hand daintily away. “Alas, I cannot even spare a full day’s escapade! Not even with an old friend. Too much to be done in too many ways. So many potentialities need their foundations in place.” He performed a great sigh. “I cannot even say if fair England will be my only destination in the year to come. Time must tell.” Though his face was a caricature of distress, once more his eyes gave away nothing but delight. There was a project in his hands. A true goal that had cracked through some dreary shell of stagnation and set his dust-choked mind into motion. Had Clarimonde been a dimmer person, she might have been happy for him.

As it stood, she felt a most unwelcome resurgence of concern. That vague and edgeless unease which stretched beyond herself and those she could conceive of enjoying in her immediate future. It sat in her chest like sickly flowers going into bloom. She did her best to kill it.

“In that case, I shall not force you to dally longer. If we must part ways…”

She had not made it a step away before he had snaked around her again.

“Not so soon. Not until the midday meal has been and gone. Is it close?”

“Yes. He is.” And she did not lie.

Alec Mooring was a gentleman of that particularly disappointing blend of rich prose, wide acclaim, great potential, and a wide stinking smear of prejudices and predilections to stain the underside of all the preceding virtues. Epithets were varied and plentiful regardless of a body’s hue, nationality, ethnicity, faith, or sex. There were opinions of the non-Anglo and tragically female body and brain stewing behind his pen that would make even the most odious sectarian turn from white to green. Yet enough degrees and a flair for the written word made much of his work as good as gospel in many an empowered circle.

Tragically, when away from the lecture halls and salons, one of Mooring’s most habitual locales was a certain small building he owned under a pseudonym. In the cellar of this tidy brick box, he entertained a hobby that, were it known to the shivering bruise-speckled wisp that was his wife, would see him divorced; were it known to his followers and peers, would see him violently ejected from his career; were it known to the world at large, would see him hanged twice; were it known to the families of the victims—or, considering the age of some, merely the parents—his body would never be found. At least not in one piece.

As it happened, Mooring would have his sins revealed too late for them to matter to anyone living. He had been approached whilst he was making a less fevered return to the building for a bit of clean-up. The place needed a scrub and some chemical application to fight the stench building up with its occupants.

It was as he was about to unlock the door that he felt a hook land in his head. It turned him around and brought him eye to eye with a beauty even his eloquence stumbled to define.

Love herself stood before him, poured into the hypnotically curved mold of a tailored dress. She was patterned everywhere with brilliant butterflies. More balanced on the disc of her hat. Her gaze held the lushness of the forest, the depths of an absinthe sea. In her mouth was the supple curl of the opening rose. The rose’s thorns showed behind the petals. White and pointed. She even smelled of a garden. Was it perfume or her own scent? Neither would surprise him. A springtime goddess come to visit him in the ruddy rim of autumn.

Behind her was something he first mistook for a shadow on the alley wall. But to his knowledge, shadows did not have their own eyes. Provided they did, he thought they ought not to glow like twin furnaces. Nor should they turn his bowels into quivering ice water.

“Shall we head in?”

His attention fell back to her. The seraph smiled. Love and loins demanded he lead the way in for her. Surely the threshold would clip her shadow off at the heels. Mooring held the door open for her. He had some faint idea that perhaps he was dreaming, and that even after he saw to the services he meant to apply to her indoors, she would simply cobble herself back together for another round. She seemed infinitely accommodating in all things. A perfect woman, a finely fashioned Galatea among the tawdry strumpets and frigid harpies plaguing the cusp of this backwards century. She alone was perfection. An oasis in a wretched desert.

They were inside. Perfectly—ah, he could sing it, perfect, perfect, perfect!—she did not bat her eyes at the signs of his work within. Neither stain nor stench nor the sorry state of the mattress or manacles moved her smile an inch. But as he moved to shut and bolt the door, the shadow slithered in. Rather, a sort of black fog did. Mooring might have taken it for smoke but for the lack of smell and the sudden shudder of a chill that passed through him as it seeped in. The fog grew a hand and helpfully shut the door the rest of the way. And bolted it.

There was some minor debate that Mooring was aware of toward the start, before the full comprehension of the nightmare settled in. That is, the comprehension that he was not in a nightmare.

“Ladies first?”

“You are the guest, I insist.”

“I insist back. You have been starving yourself again. A holy man’s sneeze would leave you blistering.”

“Oh, but he simply reeks of the druggist. Anyway, I would not risk him enjoying even a moment of it. He deserves your attention more than mine.”

“If I decant, will you drink? More than a thimble?”

“…Two thimbles.”

“Swear a pint or it will be over in a blink for him. No play at all.”

“Fine, fine, a pint…”

And then Alec Mooring proceeded to be unmade in most meticulous fashion. Whatever noises he could make during this were as muffled behind the insulated brick as the noise of his collected tenants had been while alive. Ignorable as the squeal of vermin.

He would be found later that day by the police following an anonymous tip. Amid the mess of Mooring and the unearthed rot of his collection, only a single sign would be left of whomever might have committed the final murder in that miserable killing floor. A sole print of a sole pointed at the door.

The underside of a woman’s boot, stamped in blood.

“You know, with the proper look, you could have some passing husband lick that clean for you. There is a slavering wretch I know who would plead for the chance.”

“I would have to charge you for the show.” Though she could not deny a certain temptation of her own. The silk handkerchief was beyond saving now, swollen as it was with the coagulating mess. The Count had his matches out before she could get hers. They watched the scrap burn, its motes drifting from their rooftop perch and up to the clouds. “You really do mean to loiter here, don’t you?”

“There are worse places to run out the last of the millennium. You are here, after all. Perhaps I shall wring an invitation out of you before the next one.” He canted his head in pantomime of epiphany. “Or I could always get an invitation from one of the invited.”

“Supposing your schedule clears up.”

And supposing you know when my doors will open.

“It will be clear for the night of October 31st.” His smile widened as hers curdled. “Likewise for the week preceding and following. Oh, but I shall have to find a costume. Perhaps I will come as a priest.” 

“I would not put it past you. As for now, I believe you said you were short on time? I did not mean to distract you so long with lunch.”

“You do excel in distraction and I would gladly suffer it again. Especially if it means seeing you forestall your latest death with proper nutrition. I can tell you are out of practice.” He tapped his lower lip in illustration. Clarimonde licked her own, wiping a spot of wet red glaze from her mouth. “How often are you feeding, Clarimonde? I would so hate to think I have found my old friend again only to discover her wasting away from weakness over poor self-maintenance. Do you mean to tease your little lord into the same phantasmal play as dear Rom—,”

Clarimonde looked at him.

Clarimonde looked into him.

Not to read the secrets, but to follow the familiar routes that were open in all minds. The pathways of senses and sensation. She went to work. It was uncanny how easy it was to fall back into the old habits. Even with all the time between them. Nostalgia, nostalgia.

She watched as his eyes rolled up, red to white, his head trying to loll back with them. His mouth shuddered and twitched. Fangs still scummy with drinking caught the sun as he spasmed on his feet. Bliss. Pain. High. Low. Victories old and miseries new.

Back and down and burrowed into the meat of the human animal on which he had built himself, all the base foundations that were slick and sweating and sticky with the ghost of living longing, and then he almost pitched forward, swarmed, drowned, buried in the pretty folds and holds of loves given and stolen in ages past and they are there, they are breathing for the joy of it, incense and candles and death in the air, the fools a floor below call their teacher Geber instead of Jabir, all pretending to know the truths of God and Devil and Trismegistus, oh my, and they do not know what is up here in the dark, these greybeards will never know anything of all the black wonders of the world and the worlds beyond it until its thirsty teeth and truth bite them open and suck them dry as fruit and oh, oh, oh, don’t go, don’t go, don’t let his mind retreat back to itself, this, always this, turning, running, betraying, no, no, no—

Within him the walls cracked, the moat drained, and for just a moment there was something—

(—show me show me yes good yes look at that look how he does it, yes, yes, above God and Devil and soul, yes, good boy good man, so much hidden inside, yes yes yes, Solomon needed a ring, but all I need is—)

—there and gone before the fortress righted itself again.

It helped that his hand was locked around her throat. Crushing.

“Try that again and your next party shall be a funeral.”

“Well, that will be bothersome, but hardly anything new,” she rasped. Her lungs had no complaint beyond that. “Really, you act as if you’ve never been goosed before. You did help yourself as much as I did down there. You only have yourself to blame for possessing enough of the old verve in you to produce the,” she gestured airily at him, “natural results. Ah, but it has been a long while. Things may have changed. I do hope I have not overstepped my bounds.” She laid her fingertips on the strangling hand. Against the agony in her neck and the would-be panic trying to roost in her chest, she bowed her head until she had to look up at him through the fans of her lashes again. And winked. “Are you saving yourself for someone new, dear? If so, we could form a club. The Regrettable Romantics Society has a decent ring.”

Then Ruthven can laugh at both of us.

The Count seemed to hesitate on the line between releasing her and snapping her neck. He settled for flinging her aside. His claws had pricked through the gloves and scored her throat as she went. The skin sealed itself readily enough, but not before the blood spotted her shoulder. At least it hid well amid the butterflies. Salvageable.

Clarimonde looked to him only to discover his back was to her. He’d lost his hat as he tilted his head back. When he rose from retrieving it, it was like watching an obsidian plant grow its shoot from the earth. Slow and silent. The hat went back in place. He did not turn.

“You may see me at your revelry. You may not. Perhaps I shall pace out my time here for months and years and decades to come. Yet the odds are just as fair that I may be gone before the first gasp of November. Much is in motion. Some priorities outweigh the others. You, consort of Concini, of so many decadents besides, are not at the top of the list in any eventuality. You are there, of course. You will be seen to. But do not flatter yourself to think you are of such significance that you can be sheltered indefinitely from the consequences of your play.”

If I ever played, voivode, I never played alone. A consort does not break into the chamber where they work. They are bought and begged for. Just like any narcotic.

“I’m certain. Alternatively, if you must kill me to satisfy whatever amorphous whim dictates I must die for whatever vague crime I committed in your mind, you could always do it now. Save me the time and effort of playing hostess. Only, do try not to ruin the ensemble. But first.” She opened the box and let it fall away as she fastened the necklace and its pouring rubies at her throat. The effect improved when she opened her walking coat and the gems spilled over the dress beneath. “Leave my corpse someplace picturesque. A nice botanical garden someplace.”

 Now he turned. She recognized some of the old hunger in his look. Yet it was crowded in with something else. Something that stoked the flame that was almost fear in her. It did not lessen when he began to soften at his edges, the body breaking down into a bruised fog. She watched it seep out and away on the wind.

“Clarimonde. I would never kill you. There is no repercussion for you in that. There never has been. For you, I must utilize true artistry for a consequence, and I shall not fail the task. But if it is any consolation, such things are still at the bottom of my itinerary. If properly convinced, I may even forget it. Regardless, my love, you can go back to your château with at least one certainty to warm you in the coffin. If you are to suffer, you shall not suffer first…” Eyes and teeth were all he had left. They blazed. “…and yours will be a far kinder agony than his.”

With that, she was alone.

Time had come, time had gone. The masquerade went with it, another scintillating success, whispered about behind fans and winked about over cigars. Andy had loved the necklace.

Her friend made no appearance. Even so, anxiety had opened the door to dear Andy’s reserved wing at last, replete with the gentleman’s delight. He really was a darling thing, and she was not far off in guessing he would hear her ulterior reasons for the stay—

‘A grim shadow from my past has followed me to England, sweet Andy, and I am afraid!’

—and think himself a knight with a desperate damsel in hand. Assuming, naturally, that the fear was for herself.

If truth were told in all its coldness, she could not say she was in love with the young man. Yet she had reserved a corner of her heart for him as she had for many in her time. If the Count meant to start tightening the noose, those closest would be the first to feel the rope. She could at least buttress the manor and its people against his entry.

You say it as if it matters. He would as soon burn the place to the ground as charm his way through the door. …So why hasn’t he?

A persistent question.

Flashes that might have been trying to form an answer had come to her in dreams as September tipped to October, as October bled to November. When she was not constructing worlds against a dreamscape, she could fish for more than her own inventions in the psychic ether. More often than not these came to her as pure gibberish made of symbols and metaphor and hints so layered in enigma they bordered on indecipherable.

A whirl of bats and loose earth littering the air.

A face melting like wax between a vaguely familiar beauty and a screeching flower of teeth and blood.

A thunder-drum of living hearts beating in the same tune with eyes piercing an endless dark like desperate candles. 

A second face, another semi-recognition, grinning with hate and pulling apart into something horrid beyond words.

A pack of collared dogs with sharp twigs of ash in their mouths, a foaming pale hound racing ahead, carrying a great shining knife, all giving chase to a massive wolf leading them into snowy wilds, leaving a trail of dropped blood from the beating heart caught in its jaws.

A pair of shadows embracing, kissing, eating out the other’s heart.

A world that was a cemetery, every tomb and casket around its dead globe breaking open to scream a choir against a bleeding sky.

All less than heartening and even less enlightening. No more than her discovering the state of the Count’s Piccadilly purchase following the first nervous week of October. His estate or no, she had the benefit of not requiring an invitation at any home’s threshold. Not that there was much about the place that could suggest a home.

Here was dust tramped with strangers’ footprints, broken glass, whiffs of garlic blossom and, hidden in the lowermost dark, boxed Transylvanian dirt muddled with both its owner’s unmistakable stamp and the divine stain of the Eucharist. But no Count. Not even a spot of blood to mark a quick nibble taken before his exit. In the busiest room—at least busy in way of mess—she had found a single gold coin forgotten in a corner. There were a few fibers of fine black cloth with it.

No more than that. Not for days. Weeks. Now creeping toward months. With that time and no sign of change in the Piccadilly estate, she could only guess that whatever his business was, it had moved elsewhere for the time being. It had also given her a significant enough pause to mull her own status and that of Lord Blythe; namely, that perhaps her very nearness would be the thing to paint a target on him and his. It had already drawn enough attention to make his address known. Better to excise themselves from the others’ circles.

A dalliance was only a dalliance and the boy didn’t need to die over it.

Away and adieu, now. Go blow away to a new corner before the poor boy gets it in his head to come clawing at the door.

Such was her intention.

Among others, formless and imperative as they felt. She wanted to be away from where Dracula knew she could be found. She wanted to replenish herself with another unhappy red draught. She wanted to make a pilgrimage to poor Romuald.

She wanted to shed the nauseating disquiet of her last nightmare, a thing full of howling, barking, cackling horror that still left its echo reverberating in her head like a shriek in a cathedral, made worse for how it had crashed its way into her dream-dead mind without warning.

Away. Clarimonde wanted away. It could be her, it could be the Count, it could be the whole jagged mess that was the shattering of her latest pleasant bout of idle comfort and debauchery, so long as it was away.

For now, it must only be her. The single moving piece she had control of. She could take a holiday away from her holiday until she could arrange for a new permanent residence. All this should have been enough to consider. Plenty to frustrate the plush default of her life.

And yet, there was more.

Of course.

Three new nuisances in the shape of three envelopes of varying stationery. Two of which had come by post. The third she had found hidden, with schoolboy bluntness, waiting in the lingerie chest she had left behind during her stay with Andy. That one bore the black wax seal of the Dragon. Despite the sender’s best efforts, it did not unsettle her as much as the deliveries sent by mundane measures.

A crimson seal of an ornate dagger planted in a skull marked one’s sender clearly, even without his true name in the corner. She was less than shocked at the whiff of blood stirred into the wax. A predictable thing was Ruthven.

The third she did not know at all. No more than she recognized the sender’s address, being even more distant and stamp-smothered than the one in ruddy wax. It was this last alien offering that disturbed her most. Unbidden, she found herself repeatedly hiding, revealing, and hiding it again under the letters she knew. The carriage ride’s dullness had not yet bored her enough to break any of the seals. Even the train’s steady chugging march had not prodded her into killing the suspense and rending the wax. Not yet.

But her novels were tired and the fashion plates more-so. Curiosity warred with the premonition of deepening displeasure.

Clarimonde looked again at that third seal. All the while sensing, despite her best efforts at senselessness, that the seal was looking back at her and seeing more than it should.

This wax seal was gold.

And at its center was a single staring eye.

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[brothersgrim]

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He likes this truck. It goes fast. It’s bright red. Red is a cool colour, even if Kane prefers green. Still, he likes this truck. 

“Where is he?” A voice calls. Kane tenses. Oh no. Oh no. He stares at the door. Please don't be looking for him. Let it be someone else. But it’s not someone else. It never is. The footsteps get louder. Kane’s eyes dart around the room. Where can he hide it? The truck. He has to hide it. He has to. He has to, he has to, he has to.

“Still in his room, doctor.”

No no no no. Not here. Not now. Not him. Look for someone else. Got to another door. The bed. Under the mattress. Quickly, go, go, go hide it GO– He skins his elbow on the floor when he dives. It stings but he ignores it. The toy truck is wedged under the thin mattress and it's lumpy enough that it isn't obvious. Please don't be obvious. He pulls his hand away and is sitting up just in time for the door to fly open. He recoils. He can’t help it. It’s instinctive. Don’t be mad. Don’t be mad. Don’t be mad. He’s sorry. He’s sorry, he didn’t mean to–

“Good morning.” The doctor doesn’t look up from their clipboard. Kane doesn’t look away from the doctor. “Or…” The doctor glances at the watch on their wrist. “Good afternoon.” Kane blinks. He says nothing. His heart still pounds in his ears, but he blinks again, and starts to take in details of the doctor’s face. Glasses. This doctor is wearing glasses. There’s just enough glare on the well-polished lenses that Kane can’t see her eyes. He can feel them, though. He can always feel them. Watching, judging, scrutinising. Picking him apart like the specimen he was. They never liked what they saw. The doctor stares at the clipboard again and purses her lips. Her lipstick is bright red, just like the fire truck. 

“Alright. Hugh, Carl, would you mind?” She barely turns her head to speak over her shoulder. Two men in the stark white shirts all the orderlies wore stepped forward. Kane shrank back. He didn’t like Hugh and Carl. He didn’t like any of the orderlies, but them the least. It seemed like they were the ones usually called to deal with him. He knew what his father would say: Behave, son. Just behave. Keep your head down and listen to what they tell you, and I’ll be back for you soon. Please, please, please be back for me soon. 

But soon was not now. Hands on his shoulders. Hauling him to his feet. 

“C’mon, freak. Let’s get moving.” Hugh says, yanking him upwards just off-time enough with Carl that Kane staggered. He wondered if that was on purpose. He’d have to assume it was. 

“Theatre C.” The doctor says, walking ahead of them. Kane’s stride faltered as he tried to remember - what’s in Theatre C? - but hands on his shoulders again kept him moving. “Come along, gentlemen, we are on a schedule.” Her heels clack against the floor, a sharp staccato Kane feels in his teeth. Clack, clack, clack. The lights are so bright. Clack clack clack. The paper shirt scratches against his skin. Clack clack clack. It’s warm. Too warm. Too hot. Too hot. Too hot. 

What is Theatre C?

“Here we are.” The doctor said, finally looking away from her clipboard. Kane stared over her head at the closed double doors. They had windows, but he couldn’t see anything past them. That didn’t make him feel better. What’s in there? What are they going to do to him?

Is it what happened to his neighbour? The one who's screamed every night for what must have been a week? He'd come back after a while with no hair and bandages around his head. He didn't scream anymore. He didn't do much of anything. (Didn’t even get out of the wheelchair he suddenly needed.) Was that what they were going to do to him?

“Hey.” Carl shoved at his shoulder. “Let’s go.” Kane refused to move. No. No, he didn’t want to go in there. He wouldn’t. He–

A sharp blow to his legs sent him staggering forward. 

“Let’s GO.” Kane wasn’t sure who that was. Hugh or Carl, he didn’t know. Couldn’t make out the voice over the thundering of his own pulse. The doors swung closed behind him. 

And he was in Theater C. It was still dark, but not so bad as to be black. The windows must just be tinted. And then there was the chair. Cold metal with leather straps and thick metal buckles. He knew what those were for. God, he knew. He’s shoved forward again, and he knows there’s little point in resisting. Please don’t make it hurt. Please don’t make him like his neighbour. Please don’t. 

“Take a seat.” The doctor said. Kane hesitated a second longer until there were hands on his shoulders again. He flinched. He’d listen. He’d be good. Don’t make it worse. Head down. Behave yourself. 

Would I steer you wrong, son? 

… No. No he wouldn’t. His father loved him. Paul loved him. Paul was the only one who loved him. He had to listen. … It doesn’t stop Kane from shaking as he sat down. Paul loved him. Paul wouldn’t let them hurt him too badly. He wouldn’t. … The straps hurt when they tightened around his wrists. They bit into old scars in a way that itched. He could not move enough to scratch. He tried. 

“There you go, doctor.” Hugh said. Kane couldn’t see him anymore. He couldn’t see Carl, either. It was dark. So dark. So cold. The metal of the chair leeched warmth from his flesh. It was cold. So cold. He didn’t like it. He wanted out. Head down. Behave. Don’t make it worse. (You always make it worse.) 

“What do we have on the tray today, doctor?” Carl asked. The doctor wheeled over some kind of cart with a– What was that? Some kind of box. It looked plastic, and–

“We’ll find out.” The doctor said. She opened the box. Kane tried to crane his head to see what she was getting at, but the leather strap around his forehead tightened. 

“Sit still.” Hugh, this time. It sounded like he was smiling. Kane didn’t like that. The doctor rummaged around in the box and Kane shrank back as much as the chair allowed, which wasn’t much. She pulled out a syringe, he clenched his jaw. This was never good. She set it down on the cart, pulled out another. Oh no. And then… She held up a rectangle. Another mystery. He squinted. Was that a-

Click.

Light flooded his vision. He recoiled so quickly his shoulders slammed into the chair. Or, as much as they could, when he couldn’t move. His eyes were shut and they still hurt. … They were shut, right? It was hard to tell. The light on his face was so blinding he could see it even through the lids. It hurt. It burned. Turn it off. Turn it off. Please turn it off–! But they didn’t turn it off. They ignored his discomfort, as they often did. 

“This is Doctor Anne Waters.” Why was she introducing herself? “Resuming testing procedure for client D-34. Hugh, is he ready?” No, he was not. 

“Almost, doc.” Hugh replies. There’s a wet, stinging sensation on Kane’s bicep. Alcohol. He knows what that means. He’s going to get an injection. An injection of what? He doesn’t know. He tries to squint his eyes open. It’s still bright. It still hurts. He can barely make out the doctor’s silhouette. She's holding something up in her hand. Something narrow and cylindrical. Yes, he knows what comes next. It hurts more if he tenses. He tries to will himself to relax. 

It doesn’t work. 

The doctor steps to the side and stabs the needle into his arm. It stings. He presses his head back against the chair and clenches his jaw. Get it out. Get it out. Get it out, get away, get away get away get away get away– 

“There. Dose administered.” The doctor’s voice. Cold and clinical. “Beginning the observation period.” 

“How long’re we gonna be here, Doc?” Carl asked. 

“As long as we need to.” The doctor leaned in enough that she blocked out the light. Kane growled in spite of himself. Go away. Go away. Go away. The doctor wrinkled her nose and hummed a note. “Subject is showing signs of laboured breathing and perspiration. This may be caused by anxiety.” ‘May’ be. In another situation, he might have laughed. It was such an understatement, it was almost funny. It was absurd. 

It was terrifying. 

What were they doing to him? What was that injection going to do? How long was he going to be here? He tried squirming against the restraint. It didn’t work. His arm hurt. It throbbed. He could feel his pulse, each heartbeat sending a new, dull pain radiating from the injection point. Beat, beat, beat. Ow, ow, ow. Please let him out. Please stop this. Please. His head hurts now, too. Is it because of the light, or how he’s been straining, or-? He squeezes his eyes shut again. It doesn't help. 

“Patient's heart rate is accelerating further.” The doctor said. “And body temperature is…” She stopped. 

“What?” Carl asked. Hugh grunted a similar disinterested confusion. 

“Something wrong?” 

“These instruments make no sense.” She says. Why was her voice so loud? It hurt his head. It hurt his head. It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it– 

“-supposed to be properly calibrated before we got here.” The doctor’s voice pierced into the agony that was devouring his senses. Something indistinct off to the side. Kane didn’t listen. Was too busy struggling. Straining. Trying to get out. Out. Out. Out. He couldn’t breathe - chest tight, throat constricting, leather biting into his arms as he fought– 

“--Temperature that high, he’d be dead.” The doctor continued. “These readings are useless. We’re wasting our time.” Dizzy. He’s dizzy. He’s dizzy. His head- No, the whole room is spinning. Spinning, spinning, spinning, he feels– He falls. Drops from the chair and cracks his knees on the cold floor. He barely notices that it hurts. 

“-useless goddamn nurse-” The doctor sounded like she was under water. Everything was spinning. Everything hurt. Everything felt heavy. Everything was– “-again tomorrow.” He could barely make anything out. Kept trying to breathe. Trying to swallow back the bile rising in his throat. Kept trying to figure out which way ‘up’ was.  He blinked. Blinked again. A third time and he still couldn’t see. His vision blurred equally on both sides. He squinted, but it didn’t help. And then there are hands on his shoulders. And he’s tired, so tired. And they pull him to stand and if they weren’t still holding on he’d fall again. And they don’t seem to care. They say something and he still can’t make it out. And now they’re moving. And so is he. The floor is tipping– And so is he. They keep moving. So does he (somewhat). He’s being dragged, mostly. Stumbling over his own feet. Where were they going-? He blinked again and they were there. Here. Somewhere. Where-? A shove on his back. The world was tilting– No, he was. Faster, faster, until the ground caught him. The muffled sound of a door closing. 

Oh. 

Is this his room? The tile feels familiar against his cheek. Cold. It’s cold. It’s comforting. It cuts through the suffocating heat that wracks his body, and he  closes his eyes and clings to it even as his stomach finally revolts. The taste that fills his mouth is violent, vile, putrid, and hangs in the air once the convulsions have stopped and he is finally, finally allowed to rest. He rolls onto his back, then after managing a few rasping breaths, onto his other side. Yes, this is his room. If he squints, he can recognize it. And if he could just find the strength to lift up his arm… 

He could almost reach that truck.

[brooklynislandgirl]

From my beloved @mouthoftheocean Optional tag: Music-fiends, you know who you are. 1.   a song you can listen to on repeat Red Right Hand || Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds Whatever It Takes || Imagine Dragons 2.   a song from one of your favorite albums Alive || Pearl Jam - 10 Levon || Elton John - Madman Across the Water 3.   a song you loved when you were a teenager or kid Mr Brownstone || Guns N Roses Me and Bobby McGee || Janis Joplin The End || The Doors 4.   a song that makes you feel strong The Warrior Song - Leviathan || Sean Householder Wolf Totem || The Hu 5.   a song that makes you sad Indian Sunset || Elton John The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald || Gordon Lightfoot Pirate’s Plea || The Musical Blades 6.   a song that cheers you up Can’t Stop || Red Hot Chili Peppers Mwahahahah || Ookla the Mok Survivor Evolved || Neebs Gaming ft. JT Music {{RIP Thick44}} 7.   a song that reminds you of your friend(s) Lux Aeterna || Clint Mansell Throw Your Arms Around Me || Hunters and Collectors Sugar in the Hold || The Jolly Rogers Friends in Low Places || Garth Brooks 9.   a song that reminds you of yourself Texas Longhorn || Django Walker Closer to the Heart || Rush A Pirate Looks At Forty || Jimmy Buffet 10.  a song that brings back good memories Get the Funk Out || Extreme Amarillo By Morning || George Strait Sex Type Thing || Stone Temple Pilots {feel free to ask why} 11.  a song that grew on you Smooth Criminal || Alien Ant Farm {cover} On a Boat || The Lonely Island 12.  a song from a musical Music of the Night || Michael Crawford - Phantom of the Opera Right Hand Man || Jonathan Young and Caleb Hyles - Hamilton You’ll Be Back || Jonathan Young - Hamilton Falcon in the Dive || Terry Mann - The Scarlet Pimpernel Into the Fire || Douglas Sills and Original Broadway Cast - The Scarlet Pimpernel Madame Guillotine || Original Broadway Cast - The Scarlet Pimpernel Stars || Phillip Quast as Javert - Les Miserables 13.  a song with a great music video Sweep the Leg || No More Kings Jack Sparrow || The Lonely Island 14.  a song that’s better as a cover Temple of Love || Johnny Hollow The Plagues || Jonathan Young and Caleb Hyles -Prince of Egypt Old Town Road || Richaad EB and Jonathan Young 15.  a song that’s better acoustic Down in a Hole || Alice in Chains Radioactive || Daughtry {cover} 16.  a song with great lyrics Anybody Listening? || Queensryche Comfortably Numb || Pink Floyd 17.  a song for summer Santeria || Sublime When the Sun Goes Down || Kenny Chesney Toes || Zac Brown Band 18.  a song for heartache Snuff || Corey Taylor {Slipknot} Fuck You || Cee Lo Green and Daryl Hall

19.  a song for car rides Life is a High Way || Rascal Flatts Free Fallin’ || Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers Calypso || John Denver 20.  a song for the rain Featherstone || Paper Kites What Kind of Love || Childish Gambino Nocturne #20 in C Sharp Minor || Chopin 21.  a song for dancing Can’t Dance || Cooper Allen Rodeo || Garth Brooks What I Love About Sundays || Craig Morgan 22.  a song for making out Hole-Hearted || Extreme More than Whiskey in Mind || Christian Kane Bad Romance || Lady Gaga 23.  a song for a lover Hallelujah || Jeff Buckley A Thousand Years || Christina Perri I’ll Be || Edwin McCain 24.  a song from before you were born White Rabbit || Jefferson Airplane Killer Queen || Queen 25.  a song from a band that’s no longer together Blow Up The Outside World || Soundgarden Big Empty || Stone Temple Pilots 26.  a song you’ve seen live Operation LIVEcrime || Queensryche {{yes the whole album/show}} 27.  a song you want to see live Hollywood Pirate || The Musical Blades House Rules || Christian Kane 28.  a song by a band you don’t usually like   Bang Bang || Jessie J, Ariana Grande, Nicki Minaj 29.  a song you recommend Montero || Lil Nas X

[brookstonalmanac]

Birthdays 4.6

Beer Birthdays

Caspar Eulberg (1825)

George Ehret (1835)

Five Favorite Birthdays

Merle Haggard; country singer (1937)

Gerry Mulligan; jazz baritone saxophonist (1927)

John Ratzenberger; actor (1947)

Paul Rudd; actor (1969)

John William Waterhouse; English painter (1849)

Famous Birthdays

Pedro Armendáriz, Jr.; Mexican-American actor(1940)

Philip Austin; comedian (1941)

Elizabeth Barrett Browning; poet (1806)

Graeme Base; Australian author & illustrator (1958)

Helen Berman; Dutch-Israeli painter & illustrator (1936)

Frank Black; rock musician (1965)

Zach Braff; actor (1975)

Leonora Carrington; English-Mexican painter (1917)

Butch Cassidy; desperado (1866)

Nicolas Chamfort; French author & playwright (1741)

Mickey Cochrane; Philadelphia Athletics C (1903)

Ram Dass; guru (1928)

Dorothy Donegan; jazz pianist (1924)

Donald Wills Douglas; airplane maker (1892)

Edmond H. Fischer; Swiss-American biochemist (1920)

Vince Flynn; author (1966)

Anthony Fokker; Dutch aviation engineer (1890)

Marilu Henner; actor (1952)

Jason Hervey; actor (1972)

Charles Huot; Canadian painter (1855)

Walter Huston; actor (1884)

Gil Kane; comic book artist (1926)

Barry Levinson; film director (1942)

Feodor Felix Konrad Lynen; German biochemist (1911)

Maimonides; Jewish philosopher, physician & astronomer (1135)

Ari Meyers; actor (1969)

James Mill; Scottish philosopher, economist (1773)

Gustave Moreau; French painter (1826)

​​Guy Peellaert, Belgian painter & photographer (1934)

Michelle Phillips; singer (1944)

John Pizzarelli; singer-songwriter & guitarist (1960)

Andre Previn; conductor, pianist (1929)

George Reeves; actor (1914)

Hans Richter; Swiss artist (1888)

Raphael; artist (1483)

Jean-Baptiste Rousseau; French poet & playwright (1671)

Levon Shant; Armenian author, poet & playwright (1869)

Sterling Sharpe; Green Bay Packers WR (1965)

Bobbi Starr; porn actor (1983)

Lowell Thomas; writer, television journalist (1892)

Julien Torma; French author, poet & playwright (1902)

Wilhelm von Kobell; German painter (1766)

James D. Watson; geneticist (1928)

Arthur Wesley Dow; painter & photographer (1857)

Billy Dee Williams; actor (1937)

[chanelfunnell]

New year mail I ignore an unwanted convo -monologue about Team Canada sex scandal and certain bs.

A) anon, Jonathan Toews has had a mental coach at least since his teens. The visualization idea comes from his mental coach.. Tazer is trained to listen to different philosophies and often to charlatans His head is extremely bloated or swollen He is still very handsome and slim so it is unusual. Either steroids, Innit Gym/Marcus Aubrey psychedelic pseudo medicine crap or serious health problems such as cardiovascular issues or kidneys.

B) anon , tune a TV etc for Marketa as she covers Winter Classics and appears on Face off biweekly. She wore Pull and Bear minidress with a mutton sleeve dressed as a lamb lol. Once in while in something sexy and for Halifax charity gala after soldiering in a soup kitchen. Goodie goodie girl but drumming Winter Classics broadcast.

Her NYE dress. She watched Canada and Czechia teams yesterday. No photos of her outfit (a baggy ttendy outfit my bet) and let's see what she wears for outdoor rink tomorrow lol she has very sharp tongue for her baby face and an attitude of icy shaolin monk with a quick sniper skills.

I understood her ,dispute, with old ex communist big wigs of Czech ice hockey was about ,muzzle gun and her idea of a breechgun if you mean what it is. A proactive d man and shortened offensive zone instead of d men sitting on a blue line. Marketa has copied it ages ago from Coach Q and Czech junior national team plays it now. Their timing on goal scoring chances is bs. They shoot on anything that moves like spray and pray. No patience of more experienced players It requires quick first step. Speedy defencemen and their own thinking and decisions to analyse and fire the puck into their own offensive zone to attack the opponent . She is seen as ugly and stupid poor girl with stupid ideas and 0 knowledge about ice hockey according old Czech ice hockey officers.

Marketa does not court press or seek the camera but she flirts with the camera and she is very keen with the camera even picking fun with the , corkscrew (also ice hockey )' curls of Patrick Kane for a red nose of Sport Relief . All M topic closed for 2023.

C) aonn, I doubt that Ashley Mrs Troll will drive circa 10 hours from Ontario across CAN/US borders to Boston for Winter Classics. No way in this weather . I expect drama by her anyway.

D) the saucer pass or a shot is overhyped. Good from time to time as very hard to catch bcs a rotating puck but you need a perfect precise shot.

[lisa--sharpe]

Like Mother; Like Son

( @kane--sharpe )

Honesty was the best policy. Bullshit! Avoiding the situation was no good for her, but honesty was turning into no good for anyone else. She sat in the dark living room, staring at her phone. Did she text him? She wanted too, but what was she going to say? She usually didn’t drink the hard liquor, but after she put Keegan to bed, she had gotten the bottle of Irish Whisky from the cabinet.

She swirled the liquid in the glass, staring into it. This was her second glass. It wasn’t making her feel better though. When the front door opened, she looked up. Had he come back? Then she saw Kane. She had forgotten. Shit. She should have gone to her room. She didn’t want him to see her like this. She stood up, picking the bottle up off the table, hoping to sneak it back into the kitchen before he saw. Sometimes even though they were adults, she forgot and still wanted to protect them from the bad things in life.

[rockislandadultreads]

Queer Holiday Book Recs

Faux Ho Ho by 'Nathan Burgoine

Silas Waite doesn’t want his big-C Conservative Alberta family to know he’s barely making rent. They’d see it as yet another sign that he’s not living up to the Waite family potential and muscle in on his life. When Silas unexpectedly needs a new roommate, he ends up with the gregarious (and gorgeous) personal trainer Constantino “Dino” Papadimitriou. Silas’s parents try to brow-beat him into visiting for Thanksgiving, where they’ll put him on display as an example of how they’re so “tolerant,” for Silas’s brother’s political campaign, but Dino pretends to be his boyfriend to get him out of it, citing a prior commitment. The ruse works—until they receive an invitation to Silas’s sister’s last-minute wedding. Silas loves his sister, Dino wouldn’t mind a chalet Christmas, and together, they could turn a family obligation into something fun. But after nine months of being roommates, then friends, and now “boyfriends,” Silas finds being with Dino way too easy, and being the son that his parents barely tolerate too hard. Something has to give, but luckily, it’s the season for giving—and maybe what Silas has to give is worth the biggest risk of all.

Written in the Stars by Alexandria Bellefleur

After a disastrous blind date, Darcy Lowell is desperate to stop her well-meaning brother from playing matchmaker ever again. Love—and the inevitable heartbreak—is the last thing she wants. So she fibs and says her latest set up was a success. Darcy doesn’t expect her lie to bite her in the ass. Elle Jones, one of the astrologers behind the popular Twitter account, Oh My Stars, dreams of finding her soul mate. But she knows it is most assuredly not Darcy... a no-nonsense stick-in-the-mud, who is way too analytical, punctual, and skeptical for someone as free-spirited as Elle. When Darcy’s brother—and Elle's new business partner—expresses how happy he is that they hit it off, Elle is baffled. Was Darcy on the same date? Because... awkward. When Darcy begs Elle to play along, she agrees to pretend they’re dating to save face. But with a few conditions: Darcy must help Elle navigate her own overbearing family over the holidays and their arrangement expires on New Year’s Eve. The last thing they expect is to develop real feelings during a fake relationship. But maybe opposites can attract when true love is written in the stars?

In the Winter Woods by Isabelle Adler

Declan Kensington isn’t really in the mood for Christmas. His latest mystery book sales are tanking, his finances are in a dismal state, and his spirits are anything but festive. Perhaps spending the holidays alone at his family lakeside cabin in the small village of Maplewood, Vermont, will provide him much-needed peace and quiet. Then he might finally get to work on a new book and (hopefully) jumpstart his stalling writing career. When he starts receiving anonymous letters threatening him to leave, Declan realizes his solitary writer’s retreat isn’t at all what he bargained for. And if the threats aren’t enough, a killer strikes, casting Declan in the role of the most likely suspect. Now it’s up to him and the handsome local Public Safety Commissioner Curtis Monroe to find out the truth before Declan spends Christmas (and the rest of his life) in jail. But as dead bodies pile up and dark secrets are revealed beneath Maplewood’s picture-perfect facade, Declan’s heart may yet be in more danger than his life…

The Inside Edge by Ashlyn Kane

What does a work-life balance look like to recently retired professional athletes? Ex-hockey player Nate Overton is trying to find out, but dipping his toes in the gay dating scene post-divorce is a daunting prospect even without the news that his show is on thin ice. Before he can tackle either issue, he skates headfirst into another problem—his new cohost. Former figure skater Aubrey Chase is the embodiment of a spoiled rich playboy. He’s also flamboyant, sharp, and hot as sin. Aubrey knows how important it is to get off on the right foot. He’s just not very good at it outside the rink. Having spent his life desperate for attention, he’ll do anything to get it—even the wrong kind. For Nate and Aubrey, opposites don’t so much attract as collide at center ice. But while Nate’s everything Aubrey has scrupulously avoided—until now—Aubrey falls suddenly head over heels, and Nate’s only looking for a rebound fling. Can Aubrey convince Nate to risk his heart again, or will their unexpected connection be checked at the first sign of trouble?

[xmanicpanicx]

Mammoth List of Feminist/Girl Power Books (200 + Books)

Lists of Real, Amazing Women Throughout History

Bad Girls Throughout History: 100 Remarkable Women Who Changed the World by Ann Shen

Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls by Elena Favilli & Francesca Cavallo

Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls 2 by Elena Favilli & Francesca Cavallo

Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls: 100 Immigrant Women Who Changed the World by Elena Favilli & Francesca Cavallo

Brazen: Rebel Ladies Who Rocked the World by Pénélope Bagieu, Montana Kane (Translator)

Rejected Princesses: Tales of History's Boldest Heroines, Hellions, and Heretics by Jason Porath

Tough Mothers: Amazing Stories of History’s Mightiest Matriarchs by Jason Porath

Women in Science: 50 Fearless Pioneers Who Changed the World by Rachel Ignotofsky

Bygone Badass Broads: 52 Forgotten Women Who Changed the World by Mackenzi Lee

Wonder Women: 25 Innovators, Inventors, and Trailblazers Who Changed History by Sam Maggs

The Little Book of Feminist Saints by Julia Pierpont

Rad Women Worldwide: Artists and Athletes, Pirates and Punks, and Other Revolutionaries Who Shaped History by Kate Schatz

Warrior Women: 3000 Years of Courage and Heroism by Robin Cross & Rosalind Miles

Women Who Dared: 52 Stories of Fearless Daredevils, Adventurers, and Rebels by Linda Skeers & Livi Gosling 

100 Nasty Women of History by Hannah Jewell

The Warrior Queens by Antonia Fraser

Sea Queens: Women Pirates Around the World by Jane Yolen

The Book of Gutsy Women: Favorite Stories of Courage and Resilience by Hillary Rodham Clinton & Chelsea Clinton 

Fight Like a Girl: 50 Feminists Who Changed the World by Laura Barcella

Samurai Women 1184–1877 by Stephen Turnbull

A Black Woman Did That by Malaika Adero

Tales from Behind the Window by Edanur Kuntman

Amazons, Abolitionists, and Activists: A Graphic History of Women's Fight for Their Rights by Mikki Kendall

Witches and Pagans: Women in European Folk Religion, 700-1100 by Max Dashu

Mad and Bad: Real Heroines of the Regency by Bea Koch

Modern HERstory: Stories of Women and Nonbinary People Rewriting History by Blair Imani

Individual and Group Portraits of Real, Amazing Women Throughout History

Alice Paul and the Fight for Women's Rights: From the Vote to the Equal Rights Amendment by Deborah Kops

Vanguard: How Black Women Broke Barriers, Won the Vote, and Insisted on Equality for All by Martha S. Jones

Ruth Bader Ginsburg: A Life by Jane Sherron De Hart

The Firebrand and the First Lady: Portrait of a Friendship: Pauli Murray, Eleanor Roosevelt, and the Struggle for Social Justice by Patricia Bell-Scott

I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban by Malala Yousafzai, Christina Lamb

Life Undercover: Coming of Age in the CIA by Amaryllis Fox

Native Country of the Heart: A Memoir by Cherríe L. Moraga

The Soul of a Woman by Isabel Allende

Hidden Figures by Margot Lee Shetterly

Ashley's War: The Untold Story of a Team of Women Soldiers on the Special Ops Battlefield by Gayle Tzemach Lemmon

Alice Diamond and the Forty Elephants: The Female Gang That Terrorised London by Brian McDonald

Women Against the Raj: The Rani of Jhansi Regiment by Joyce Chapman Lebra

Girls to the Front: The True Story of the Riot Grrrl Revolution by Sara Marcus

The Amazons: Lives and Legends of Warrior Women Across the Ancient World by Adrienne Mayor

Rise of the Rocket Girls: The Women Who Propelled Us, from Missiles to the Moon to Mars by Nathalia Holt

The Women of WWII (Non-Fiction)

Women Heroes of World War II: 26 Stories of Espionage, Sabotage, Resistance, and Rescue by Kathryn J. Atwood

Skyward: The Story of Female Pilots in WWII by Sally Deng

The Women with Silver Wings: The Inspiring True Story of the Women Airforce Service Pilots of World War II by Katherine Sharp Landdeck

The Unwomanly Face of War: An Oral History of Women in World War II by Svetlana Alexievich, Richard Pevear (Translation), Larissa Volokhonsky (Translation)

Les Parisiennes: How the Women of Paris Lived, Loved, and Died Under Nazi Occupation by Anne Sebba

To Serve My Country, to Serve My Race: The Story of the Only African-American Wacs Stationed Overseas During World War II by Brenda L. Moore

Standing Up Against Hate: How Black Women in the Army Helped Change the Course of WWII by Mary Cronk Farrell

Sisters and Spies: The True Story of WWII Special Agents Eileen and Jacqueline Nearne by Susan Ottaway

A Woman of No Importance: The Untold Story of the American Spy Who Helped Win World War II by Sonia Purnell

The White Mouse by Nancy Wake

Code Name Hélène by Ariel Lawhon

Code Girls: The Untold Story of the American Women Code Breakers Who Helped Win World War II by Liza Mundy

Tomorrow to be Brave: A Memoir of the Only Woman Ever to Serve in the French Foreign Legion by Susan Travers & Wendy Holden

Pure Grit: How WWII Nurses in the Pacific Survived Combat and Prison Camp by Mary Cronk Farrell

Sisterhood of Spies by Elizabeth P. McIntosh

Spy Princess: The Life of Noor Inayat Khan by Shrabani Basu

Women in the Holocaust by Dalia Ofer

The Light of Days: The Untold Story of Women Resistance Fighters in Hitler's Ghettos by Judy Batalion

Night Witches: The Untold Story of Soviet Women in Combat by Bruce Myles

The Soviet Night Witches: Brave Women Bomber Pilots of World War II by Pamela Jain Dell

A Thousand Sisters: The Heroic Airwomen of the Soviet Union in World War II by Elizabeth Wein

A Dance with Death: Soviet Airwomen in World War II by Anne Noggle

Avenging Angels: The Young Women of the Soviet Union's WWII Sniper Corps by Lyuba Vinogradova

The Women of WWII (Fiction)

Among the Red Stars by Gwen C. Katz

Night Witches by Kathryn Lasky

Night Witches by Mirren Hogan

Night Witch by S.J. McCormack

Flygirl by Sherri L. Smith

Daughters of the Night Sky by Aimie K. Runyan

The Lost Girls of Paris by Pam Jenoff

Code Name Verity series by Elizabeth Wein

Front Lines trilogy by Michael Grant

The Alice Network by Kate Quinn

All-Girl Teams (Fiction)

The Seafire trilogy by Natalie C. Parker

Elysium Girls by Kate Pentecost

The Good Luck Girls by Charlotte Nicole Davis

The Effigies trilogy by Sarah Raughley

Guardians of the Dawn series by S. Jae-Jones

Wolf-Light by Yaba Badoe

Undead Girl Gang by Lily Anderson

Burned and Buried by Nino Cipri

This Is What It Feels Like by Rebecca Barrow

The Wild Ones: A Broken Anthem for a Girl Nation by Nafiza Azad

We Rule the Night by Claire Eliza Bartlett

Tigers, Not Daughters by Samantha Mabry

The All-Girl Filling Station's Last Reunion by Fannie Flagg

Saving CeeCee Honeycutt by Beth Hoffman

Bad Girls Never Say Die by Jennifer Mathieu

The Secret Life of Prince Charming by Deb Caletti

Kamikaze Girls by Novala Takemoto, Akemi Wegmüller (Translator)

The Island of Sea Women by Lisa See

The Passion of Dolssa by Julie Berry

The Scapegracers by Hannah Abigail Clarke

Sisters in Sanity by Gayle Forman

The Scandalous Sisterhood of Prickwillow Place by Julie Berry

The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires by Grady Hendrix

The Lost Girls by Sonia Hartl

Hell's Belles series by Sarah MacLean

Jackdaws by Ken Follett

The Farmerettes by Gisela Tobien Sherman

A Sisterhood of Secret Ambitions by Sheena Boekweg

Feminist Retellings

Stepsister by Jennifer Donnelly

Poisoned by Jennifer Donnelly

Girls Made of Snow and Glass by Melissa Bashardoust

The Girl Who Fell Beneath The Sea by Axie Oh

Kissing the Witch: Old Tales in New Skins by Emma Donoghue

Doomed by Laura Pohl

The Seventh Bride by T. Kingfisher

The Boneless Mercies by April Genevieve Tucholke

Seven Endless Forests by April Genevieve Tucholke

The Queens of Innis Lear by Tessa Gratton

A Thousand Nights by E.K. Johnston

Kate Crackernuts by Katharine M. Briggs

Legendborn series by Tracy Deonn

One for All by Lillie Lainoff

Feminist Dystopian and Horror Fiction

The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

The Grace Year by Kim Liggett

Sawkill Girls by Claire Legrand

Godshot by Chelsea Bieker

Women and Girls in Comedy 

Crying Laughing by Lance Rubin

Stand Up, Yumi Chung by Jessica Kim

This Will Be Funny Someday by Katie Henry

Unscripted by Nicole Kronzer

Pretty Funny for a Girl by Rebecca Elliot

Bossypants by Tina Fey

We Killed: The Rise of Women in American Comedy by Yael Kohen

The Girl in the Show: Three Generations of Comedy, Culture, and Feminism by Anna Fields

Trans Women

Redefining Realness: My Path to Womanhood, Identity, Love & So Much More by Janet Mock

Nemesis series by April Daniels

American Transgirl by Faith DaBrooke

Tranny: Confessions of Punk Rock's Most Infamous Anarchist Sellout by Laura Jane Grace

A Safe Girl to Love by Casey Plett

Gracefully Grayson by Ami Polonsky

Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars by Kai Cheng Thom

Becoming Nicole: The Transformation of an American Family by Amy Ellis Nutt

George by Alex Gino

The Witch Boy series by Molly Ostertag

Uncomfortable Labels: My Life as a Gay Autistic Trans Woman by Laura Kate Dale

She's Not There: A Life in Two Genders by Jennifer Finney Boylan

An Anthology of Fiction by Trans Women of Color by Ellyn Peña

Wandering Son by Takako Shimura

Stone Butch Blues by Leslie Feinberg

Feminist Poetry

Women Are Some Kind of Magic trilogy by Amanda Lovelace

Wild Embers: Poems of Rebellion, Fire and Beauty by Nikita Gill

Fierce Fairytales: Poems and Stories to Stir Your Soul by Nikita Gill

Great Goddesses: Life Lessons from Myths and Monsters by Nikita Gill

The Girl and the Goddess by Nikita Gill

A Bound Woman Is a Dangerous Thing: The Incarceration of African American Women from Harriet Tubman to Sandra Bland by DaMaris B. Hill

Feminist Philosophy and Facts

The Creation of Patriarchy by Gerda Lerner

The Creation of Feminist Consciousness: From the Middle Ages to Eighteen-Seventy by Gerda Lerner

Misogyny: The World's Oldest Prejudice by Jack Holland

White Tears/Brown Scars: How White Feminism Betrays Women of Color by Ruby Hamad

We Should All Be Feminists by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Dear Ijeawele, or a Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Colonize This!: Young Women of Color on Today's Feminism by Bushra Rehman

Feminism is for Everybody: Passionate Politics by bell hooks

Here We Are: Feminism for the Real World by Kelly Jensen

The Equality Illusion by Kat Banyard

White Feminism: From the Suffragettes to Influencers and Who They Leave Behind by Koa Beck

Everyday Sexism by Laura Bates

I Have the Right To by Chessy Prout & Jenn Abelson

Feminism and Nationalism in the Third World by Kumari Jayawardena

The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir

How to Suppress Women's Writing by Joanna Russ

Invisible No More: Police Violence Against Black Women and Women of Color by Andrea Ritchie

Ain't I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism by bell hooks

Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment by Patricia Hill Collins

But Some of Us Are Brave: All the Women Are White, All the Blacks Are Men: Black Women's Studies by Akasha Gloria Hull, Patricia Bell-Scott, Barbara Smith Women, Race, and Class by Angela Y. Davis This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color by Cherríe L. Moraga, Gloria E. Anzaldúa

Half the Sky: Turning Oppression Into Opportunity for Women Worldwide by Nicholas D. Kristof & Sheryl WuDinn

Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches by Audre Lorde

Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay

Difficult Women by Roxane Gay

Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body by Roxane Gay

Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture by Roxane Gay

This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color by by Cherríe Moraga & Gloria Anzaldúa

Power Shift: The Longest Revolution by Sally Armstrong

Eloquent Rage: A Black Feminist Discovers Her Superpower by Brittney Cooper

Hood Feminism: Notes from the Women That a Movement Forgot by Mikki Kendall

Had It Coming: What's Fair in the Age of #MeToo? by Robyn Doolittle

She Said: Breaking the Sexual Harassment Story that Helped Ignite a Movement by Jody Kantor & Megan Twohey

#Notyourprincess: Voices of Native American Women by Lisa Charleyboy

Girl Rising: Changing the World One Girl at a Time by Tanya Lee Stone

Dead Blondes and Bad Mothers: Monstrosity, Patriarchy, and the Fear of Female Power by Sady Doyle

Sisterhood is Powerful: An Anthology of Writings from the Women's Liberation Movement by Robin Morgan (Editor)

Girls Make Media by Mary Celeste Kearney

Rock She Wrote: Women Write about Rock, Pop, and Rap by Evelyn McDonnell (Editor)

You Play the Girl: And Other Vexing Stories That Tell Women Who They Are by Carina Chocano

Things We Didn't Talk About When I Was a Girl: A Memoir by Jeannie Vanasco

The Portable Nineteenth-Century African American Women Writers by Henry Louis Gates Jr. (Editor), Hollis Robbins (Editor)

Shrill: Notes from a Loud Woman by Lindy West

A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf

Believe Me: How Trusting Women Can Change the World by Jessica Valenti and Jaclyn Friedman Bread Out of Stone: Recollections, Sex, Recognitions, Race, Dreaming, Politics by Dionne Brand

Other General Girl Power/Feminist Awesomeness

The Edge of Anything by Nora Shalaway Carpenter

Kat and Meg Conquer the World by Anna Priemaza

Talk Before Sleep by Elizabeth Berg

The Female of the Species by Mandy McGinnis

Pulp by Robin Talley

Juliet Takes a Breath by Gabby Rivera

How to Save a Life by Sara Zarr

That Summer by Sarah Dessen

Someone Like You by Sarah Dessen

Honey, Baby, Sweetheart by Deb Caletti

The Girl With the Louding Voice by Abi Daré

Mrs. Everything by Jennifer Weiner

Beauty Queens by Libba Bray

Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden

American Girls by Alison Umminger

Don't Think Twice by Ruth Pennebaker

The Color Purple by Alice Walker

In Love & Trouble: Stories of Black Women by Alice Walker

You Can't Keep a Good Woman Down: Stories by Alice Walker

Wonder Woman: Warbringer by Leigh Bardugo

Sula by Toni Morrison

Rose Sees Red by Cecil Castellucci

A Deadly Education by Naomi Novik

Moxie by Jennifer Mathieu

Rules for Being a Girl by Candace Bushnell & Katie Cotugno

None of the Above by I.W. Gregorio

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

Orlando by Virginia Woolf

Everything Must Go by Jenny Fran Davis

The House on Olive Street by Robyn Carr

Orange Is the New Black by Piper Kerman

Queens of Geek by Jen Wilde

Lady Luck's Map of Vegas by Barbara Samuel 

Fan the Fame by Anna Priemaza

Puddin' by Julie Murphy

A Heart in a Body in the World by Deb Caletti

Gravity Brings Me Down by Natale Ghent

Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See

The Summer of Impossibilities by Rachael Allen

The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall by Katie Alender

Don't Tell a Soul by Kirsten Miller

After the Ink Dries by Cassie Gustafson Girl, Unframed by Deb Caletti

We Are the Ashes, We Are the Fire by Joy McCullough 

Maybe He Just Likes You by Barbara Dee

Things a Bright Girl Can Do by Sally Nicholls

The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks by E. Lockhart

Uprising by Margaret Peterson Haddix

The Cure for Dreaming by Cat Winters

Dress Coded by Carrie Firestone

The Prettiest by Brigit Young

Don't Judge Me by Lisa Schroeder

The Roommate by Rosie Danan

Tomboy: A Graphic Memoir by Liz Prince

Surpassing the Love of Men: Romantic Friendship and Love Between Women from the Renaissance to the Present by Lillian Faderman

All the Single Ladies: Unmarried Women and the Rise of an Independent Nation by Rebecca Traister

Paper Girls comic series by Brian K. Vaughan

Heavy Vinyl comic series by Carly Usdin

Please feel free to reblog with more!

[edsonlnoe]

MG Awards 2020 | Nominaciones

Película And Then We Danced Black Is King The Lighthouse Monsoon Portrait de la Jeune Fille en Feu Sound of Metal Director Levan Akin | And Then We Danced Robert Eggers | The Lighthouse Hong Khaou | Monsoon Darius Marder | Sound of Metal Céline Sciamma | Portrait de la Jeune Fille en Feu Joe Talbot | The Last Black Man in San Francisco Actriz Awkwafina | The Farewell Hong Chau | Driveways Eva Green | Proxima Noémi Merlant | Portrait de la Jeune Fille en Feu Tessa Thompson | Sylvie’s Love Alfre Woodard | Clemency Actor Riz Ahmed | Sound of Metal Levan Gelbakhiani | And Then We Danced Henry Golding | Monsoon Robert Pattinson | The Lighthouse José Pescina | Territorio Aaron Taylor-Johnson | A Million Little Pieces Actriz de Reparto Mabel Cadena | El Baile de los 41 Olivia Cooke | Sound of Metal Paulina Gaitán | Territorio Adèle Haenel | Portrait de la Jeune Fille en Feu Ko Shu-Chin | Yàngguāng Pûzhào Zhao Shu-Zhen | The Farewell Actor de Reparto Willem Dafoe | The Lighthouse Aldis Hodge | Clemency Jonathan Majors | The Last Black Man in San Francisco Paul Raci | Sound of Metal Lukasz Simlat | Boże Ciało Bachi Valishvili | And Then We Danced Guión Original And Then We Danced Boże Ciało Driveways Monsoon Palm Springs Sound of Metal Guión Adaptado Emma. Jojo Rabbit Martin Eden The Sisters Brothers Transit Unpregnant Edición And Then We Danced Boże Ciało Black Is King Palm Springs Sound of Metal Uncut Gems Fotografía 1917 And Then We Danced The Last Black Man in San Francisco The Lighthouse Mano de Obra Portrait de la Jeune Fille en Feu Diseño de Producción El Baile de los 41 Black Is King The Last Black Man in San Francisco The Lighthouse Portrait de la Jeune Fille en Feu Rebecca Diseño de Vestuario El Baile de los 41 Black Is King Emma. Little Women Portrait de la Jeune Fille en Feu Sylvie’s Love Make-Up & Hairstyling El Baile de los 41 Birds of Prey: And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn Black Is King Busanhaeng 2: Bando The Lighthouse Sylvie’s Love Efectos Visuales / Especiales 1917 Birds of Prey: And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn The Invisible Man The Midnight Sky Project Power Tenet Edición de Sonido 1917 Busanhaeng 2: Bando Extraction The Lighthouse Soul Sound of Metal Mezcla de Sonido And Then We Danced Black Is King The Lighthouse Onward Soul Sound of Metal Score Ema The Last Black Man in San Francisco Monos Soul Sound of Metal Wendy Soundtrack Birds of Prey: And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn Black Is King Ema Project Power Sylvie’s Love Waves Canción “Black Parade” — Beyoncé | Black Is King ”Brighter Dawn” — Laura Mvula | Clemency “Destino” — E$tado Unido | Ema “Green” — Abraham Marder | Sound of Metal “Hear My Voice” — Celeste | The Trial of the Chicago 7 ”Húsavík (My Hometown)” — Molly Sandén | Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga “La Jeune Fille En Feu” — Para One, Arthur Simonini | Portrait de la Jeune Fille en Feu ”My Power” — Chika | Project Power “Real” — E$tado Unido ft. Stéphanie Janaina | Ema Diseño de Créditos Birds of Prey: And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn The Invisible Man Mulan Project Power Underwater Waves Trailer Ema His House The Lighthouse Onward Uncut Gems Waves Poster El Baile de los 41 The Invisible Man The Lighthouse Onward Portrait de la Jeune Fille en Feu Yangguang Puzhao Poster en Cortometraje Abrir la Tierra Lamento & Carne Lily <3 Sol del Llano Nahjum No Crying at the Dinner Table Actuación en Cortometraje Riz Ahmed | The Long Goodbye Ari Albarrán | Los Últimos Recuerdos de Abril Tatiana Gaviria | Sol del Llano Paola Lara | Reina Denis Lavant | Figurant Ruth Ramos | Lamento & Carne Realización en Cortometraje Diego Cruz Cilveti, Bastián Pascal | Edición | Ayer y Mañana Juan Pablo Ramírez | Cinematografía | La Bruja del Fósforo Paseante Casa Anafre, No Budget Animation | Animación | Dalia Sigue Aquí María Villalpando | Caracterización | Nahjum Damián Aguilar | Cinematografía | Sol del Llano Mauricio Sánchez | Cinematografía | vii. Domitilas Guión en Cortometraje Diego Cruz Cilveti | Ayer y Mañana Kaspar Jancis | Kosmonaut Jimena Muhlia | Lily <3 Manuel Del Valle, Erik Hirschhorn, Sebastian Torres Greene | Nahjum Mario Hernández | Salvo el Crepúsculo Nancy Cruz Orozco | Los Últimos Recuerdos de Abril Dirección en Cortometraje Diego Cruz Cilveti | Ayer y Mañana Yi Seung-jun | Bujaeui Gieok Sofía Carrillo | La Bruja del Fósforo Paseante Manuel Del Valle, Sebastian Torres Greene | Nahjum Carol Nguyen | No Crying at the Dinner Table Song Siqi | Sister Cortometraje de Ficción Ayer y Mañana La Bruja del Fósforo Paseante Nahjum Salvo el Crepúsculo Sol del Llano Los Últimos Recuerdos de Abril Cortometraje Documental Abrir la Tierra Asho Bujaeui Gieok La Felicidad en la que Vivo No Crying at the Dinner Table Quebramar Cortometraje Animado Adelina Cycles Dalia Sigue Aquí Kosmonaut Sister Sitara: Let Girls Dream Película Animada The Croods: A New Age Onward Over the Moon Scoob! A Shaun the Sheep Movie: Farmageddon Soul Off-Screen Performance Cathy Ang | Over the Moon Angela Bassett | Soul Jamie Foxx | Soul Tom Holland | Onward Rachel House | Soul Ben Schwartz | Sonic the Hedgehog Non-Anglo Performance Bartosz Bielenia | Boże Ciało Levan Gelbakhiani | And Then We Danced Ko Shu-Chin | Yàngguāng Pûzhào Luca Marinelli | Martin Eden Noémi Merlant | Portrait de la Jeune Fille en Feu Franz Rogowski | Transit Performance Mexicano Luis Alberti | Mano de Obra Mabel Cadena | El Baile de los 41 Daniel García | Ya No Estoy Aquí Mercedes Hernández | Sin Señas Particulares Alfonso Herrera | El Baile de los 41 José Pescina | Territorio Featured Actor Mathieu Amalric | Sound of Metal Danielle Brooks | Clemency Leon Dai | Your Name Engraved Herein Carol Kane | The Sisters Brothers Richard Madden | 1917 Giovanni Ribisi | A Million Little Pieces Allison Tolman | The Sisters Brothers Gina Torres | Selah and the Spades Giorgi Tsereteli | And Then We Danced Stunts 1917 Birds of Prey: And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn Busanhaeng 2: Bando Da 5 Bloods Extraction Tenet Breakthrough Actriz Ella Jay Basco | Birds of Prey: And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn Mariana Di Girólamo | Ema Barbie Ferreira | Unpregnant Dominique Fishback | Project Power Julia Fox | Uncut Gems Sunita Mani | Evil Eye Wunmi Mosaku | His House Lovie Simone | Selah and the Spades Sydney Sweeney | Nocturne Breakthrough Actor Mamoudou Athie | Black Box Bartosz Bielenia | Boże Ciało Jimmie Fails | The Last Black Man in San Francisco Daniel García | Ya No Estoy Aquí Levan Gelbakhiani | And Then We Danced Roman Griffin Davis | Jojo Rabbit Lucas Jaye | Driveways Jonathan Majors | The Last Black Man in San Francisco Tom Mercier | Synonymes Rising Filmmaker Eugene Ashe | Sylvie’s Love Lucio Castro | Fin de Siglo Rachel Lee Goldenberg | Unpregnant Darius Marder | Sound of Metal Joe Talbot | The Last Black Man in San Francisco Fernanda Valadez | Sin Señas Particulares Lulu Wang | The Farewell Remi Weekes | His House David Zonana | Mano de Obra Ensamble Birds of Prey: And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn | Margot Robbie, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Jurnee Smollett, Rosie Perez, Ella Jay Basco, Ali Wong, Dana Lee, Chris Messina, y Ewan McGregor Boże Ciało | Bartosz Bielenia, Aleksandra Konieczna, Eliza Rycembel, Leszek Lichota, Tomasz Ziętek, Zdzislaw Wardejn, Łukasz Simlat, y Barbara Kurzaj Jojo Rabbit | Roman Griffin Davis, Scarlett Johansson, Thomasin McKenzie, Sam Rockwell, Alfie Allen, Archie Yates, Rebel Wilson, Stephen Merchant, y Taika Waititi The Old Guard | Charlize Theron, KiKi Layne, Matthias Schoenaerts, Marwan Kenzari, Luca Marinelli, Harry Melling, Veronica Ngo, y Chiwetel Ejiofor The Sisters Brothers | John C. Reilly, Joaquin Phoenix, Jake Gyllenhaal, Riz Ahmed, Rebecca Root, Allison Tolman, Rutger Hauer, y Carol Kane The Trial of the Chicago 7 | Eddie Redmayne, Sacha Baron Cohen, Jeremy Strong, Mark Rylance, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Yahya Abdul-Mateen II, John Carroll Lynch, Alex Sharp, Kelvin Harrison Jr., Michael Keaton, y Frank Langella Escena Honey | And Then We Danced The Farewell | The Farewell He’s All and He’s More | The Old Guard I Always Had You | Onward La Jeune Fille En Feu | Portrait de la Jeune Fille en Feu Those Moments of Stillness | Sound of Metal Blockbuster Birds of Prey: And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn Busanhaeng 2: Bando Cindy La Regia Greenland The Invisible Man Sonic the Hedgehog Non-Theatrical Release Black Is King His House Palm Springs Sylvie’s Love Uncut Gems Unpregnant Documental Una Corriente Salvaje Las Flores de la Noche Honeyland Landfall Titixe Las Tres Muertes de Marisela Escobedo Película Mexicana El Baile de los 41 Una Corriente Salvaje Mano de Obra Sin Señas Particulares Territorio Ya No Estoy Aquí Película Iberoamericana Ema Fin de Siglo Ofrenda a la Tormenta Retablo Un Rubio Vendrá la Muerte y Tendrá tus Ojos Circuito Independiente And Then We Danced Boże Ciało A Hidden Life Portrait de la Jeune Fille en Feu The Sisters Brothers Transit

[saecookie]

Ooooh @irisviellavellan just did this tag for her OC and it was so fun to do for Sae. I'll probably do it for Kane too. @zet-sway if you wanna do it, and anyone who has OC, consider yourself tagged ♥!

rules: bold = always/totally fits them italics = sometimes/somewhat applies/sort of fits them strike-through = never fits them

— LIGHT SOURCES

SUN RAYS.

effervescent smiles, dandelion puffs, bare feet, beach waves, flowers pressed into books, champagne glasses, rose-gold eye shadow, boho skirts, wire-rimmed glasses, hair in loose waves, kaleidoscope eyes, sunshine in your hair, fire in your soul.

INCANDESCENT BULBS.

crop tops, floral print, dancing in the rain, quiet defiance, hand-knit beanies, rosé, painted bookmarks, marble floors, cirrus clouds against a blue sky, polaroid pictures, hands held, fingers intertwined, flower crowns, baby bluebirds.

STARDUST.

lace bralettes, brisk breezes, jasmine-scented perfume, books with yellowed pages, tracking constellations, sterling silver, violin music, chess games, iced coffee, glittery dresses, high heels, secret grins, midnight meetings, wishing upon a star.

CANDLE FLAMES.

denim jackets, gladiator sandals, braided hair, messenger bags, movies at the cinema, stolen kisses, wax-sealed envelopes, haiku poetry, cherry wood, succulents, fountain pens, jigsaw puzzles, soft tired eyes, hidden smiles, cuddling with someone you trust.

MOONBEAMS.

newspapers, over-sized sweaters, dancing shadows, fleece throws, cutoff shorts, piano chords, red wine, messy buns, embossed journals, a hint of blush dusted across your cheeks, freshly fallen snow, tranquil solitude, burning incense, light hair and dark skin.

AURORAS.

combat boots, burgundy lips, infectious laughter, spiral-bound notebooks, pencils used down to the stub, ripped jeans, painted nails, cloud-watching, summer thunderstorms, hiking trails, vinyl records, film cameras, skating on a frozen lake, hot chocolate by the fire.

FIREWORKS.

dancing until the break of dawn, heelys, being wheeled around in a shopping cart by your best friend, the euphoria of soaring through the air, being excited for what the future holds, group hugs, colourful tattoos, bronzer-highlighted cheeks, hugging a stuffed animal, lifting a child onto your shoulders, space buns, bright streaks in your hair.

— BODY LANGUAGE

DEFENSIVENESS.

arms crossed on chest / crossing legs / fist-like gestures / pointing index finger / karate chops / stiffening of shoulders / tense posture / curling of lip / baring of teeth

REFLECTIVE.

hand-to-face gestures / head tilted / stroking chin / peering over glasses / taking glasses off; cleaning / putting earpiece of glasses in mouth / pipe smoker gestures / putting hand to bridge of nose / pursed lips / knitted brows

SUSPICION.

arms crossed / sideways glance / touching or rubbing nose / rubbing eyes / hands resting on weapon / brows raising / lips pressing into a thin line / strict, unwavering eye contact / wrinkling of nose / narrowed eyes

CONFIDENCE.

hands behind back / hands on lapels of coat / steepled hands / baring teeth in a grin / rolling shoulders / tipping head back but maintaining eye contact / chest puffed up / shoulders back / arms folded just above navel / wide eyes / standing akimbo

INSECURITY & ANXIETY.

chewing pen or pencil / rubbing thumb over opposite thumb / biting fingernails / biting lips / hands in pockets / elbow bent / closed gestures / clearing throat / “whew” sound / picking or pinching flesh / fidgeting in chair / hand covering mouth whilst speaking / poor eye contact / tugging pants whilst seated / jingling money in pockets / tugging at ear / perspiring hands / playing with hair / swaying / playing with pointer; marker; cane / smacking lips / sighing / rocking on balls of feet / flexing or cracking fingers sporadically

ANGER & FRUSTRATION.

short breaths / “tsk” sounds / tightly-clenched hands / fist-like gestures / pointing index finger / rubbing hand through hair / rubbing back of neck / snarling / revealing teeth / grimacing / sharp-eye glowers / notable tension in brow / shoulders back, head up; defensive posturing / clenching of jaw / grinding teeth / nostrils flaring / heavy exhales

— SENSES

SIGHT.

small towns. big cities. six thirty curfews. lights that take the place of stars. blanket nests. light through the blinds as a wake up call. found family. finding a single star in the middle of new york city. window shopping. watching something terrible and enjoying it. growing numb to the sight of injustice. wilted flowers. faded caricatures. bright, bold colours.

HEARING.

crickets and lightning bugs. car engines and a/c units. a phone call to mum / dad. laughing with friends. jokes that are so bad you have to laugh. the clicking of computer keys. noise cancelling headphones. the sound of silence. muffled music from another room. drumming fingertips on a table. clicking of pens. listening to a clock and swearing the ticks get slower. ringing in the ears. the voice of someone you love. pitch shifted songs.

TOUCH.

being held close during a long night. fleeting reassurances. holding hands when you’re scared. brushing fingers through strands of hair. freshly dried clothes. bruises on your knuckles. silk and satin. your favourite pet’s fur or feather. wringing your hands anxiously. snuggles. comforters in the dead of winter. nails against skin. cold metal. leather in summer.

TASTE.

coffee in the morning. tea in the evening. bubblegum that lost its flavor. alcohol burning the back of your throat. homemade cooking, no matter what’s made. blood in your mouth. stale air. mint. fresh vegetables. that processed taste of citrus candy. the first meal you cook by yourself that tastes good. foreign sweets. fast food. bittersweet. sour. spicy. sweet. bitter. too much salt on fries.

[acciostorian]

mae reads the kane chronicles: the serpent’s shadow the red pyramid

(aka we see mae go through many emotions in the space of 2-3 days)

holy fuck ive only got to the contents and the chapters have those classic pjo click bait titles i’m so happy rn

WAIT IM SUCH A FUCKING IDIOT- the serpent’s shadow is the THIRD BOOK. uh-oh i almost fucked this whole series over lemme change the book real quick....

i’m literally on the first page and i’ve already been sent on a mission, so the kanes are THOSE bitches

SADIE AND KANE ARE BRITISH???? omg yes please

THEYRE IN LONDON MY HOME

never fucking mind they’re from LA

oh wait sadie was raised as a british kid. that’s very sexy of her.

carter be like, “you wouldn’t be interested in my dad’s lectures.” SHUT UP CARTER I WANNA KNOW MORE ABOUT EGYPTIAN PUNISHMENT

so sadie was raised in east london???? THATS SO SEXC BECAUSE ME TOO BOO

sadie has a british accent. a b r i t i s h a c c e n t.

FIT

“six years in london and she thinks she’s james bond” LMAO

sadie’s so emo/alt i love it. does rick always write his characters like this??

sadie pronounces it “mum” and carter says “mom”

it’s so refreshing to read mum ngl

sadie said bloke omg

i’m feeling carter’s pain. little sisters are shits and honestly sadie has the same vibes as my little sister and me and carter are quite similar. i hate this.

oh wow they really said sadie was too white for their family...

sadie did not HESITATE to be like, “yeah dad we’ll lock that guy in his office. mint.”

sadie telling the story is an experience

sadie said “maths” and “mates” in the same sentence. this is some refreshing shit.

sadie’s friends saying carter is hot is fucking hilarious. like it’s a classic piss-off to thirst over your mate’s sibling

THEYRE GETTING DEPORTED????

LMAO AMOS WAS LIKE, “yeah we don’t talk about manhattan. they’ve got their own problems. *cough percy jackson cough*”

i read thoth the god of knowledge as thot the god of knowledge

carter is right, amos has undeniable swag

philip of macedonia. the crocodile. cool.

i love how the greeks and romans be like “if we don’t honour the gods we’ll get SLAUGHTERED” and the egyptians are like “you know what? fuck the gods me and my homies hate the gods”

sadie kane would stab you in a back alley and dance to mcr as you bled to death and carter kane would take you to a museum, tell you everything about everything and then commit a terrorist attack

amos really went “don’t touch anything, the cats in charge and peace out bitches” and then fucking jumped off the balcony of his five storey mansion

sadie made that door go BANG

that fucking clay statue came to life and not one of them screamed. I WOULD SHIT MYSELF.

i’m giggling, all the greek/roman gods have really long/scary/cool sounding names like tartarus and chaos and nyx but the evilest guy in egyptian myth is called set. S E T.

please make muffin some crazy badass animal like crookshanks or swiftwind.

WHO DARES THROW HANDS WITH PHILIP?????

THE SHABTI FUCKING STOLE AN ARTEFACT THATS AMAZING

i love carter sm, even tho he’s scared as fuck he still picked up that ancient sword and was like “ig i’ll bash some heads in whilst sadie holds the cat”

MUFFIN JUST TURNED INTO SOME WARRIOR CAT LADY AND SHE INSTANTLY GAVE ME CATRA VIBES

every cat in new york is helping them

bast jacked that car like it was nobody’s business

i used to think the greek gods were stupid for having so many things to control but honestly the egyptians are taking the piss, do you really need a whole scorpion goddess?

the kane siblings are written so well. like i actually BELIEVE they’re siblings

i think carters gonna become a comfort character now... like i relate on another level. little siblings always take the spot light and you have to act level headed and calm because the younger ones start shit and you’re like “i gotta be the good one because my family would fall to shit if i didn’t behave.” so big kudos to carter, i love you

so carter’s a king huh? I DIDNT NEED YOU TO TELL ME THAT RICK I ALREADY KNEW HE WAS

zia was like “king tut?? ugh he was such a boy, there were waaaaay cooler tombs out there x x”

i read “nectanebo II” as “nintendo II” and i was like ??? when was that a thing

i drinking camomile tea whilst reading this and i feel so peaceful uwu

sadie really can do magic like THAT like bitch be like “i just copied what zia did and yeah it worked lol”

okay so i’m sorta feeling bad about sadies life rn but i’m still very pro carter

set’s laugh makes me uncomfortable. because when most villains laugh it’s usually described like “their laugh was like a knife, cold and sharp. i hates it.” but when sadie discribed set’s laugh she was like “it was warm and friendly. beautiful.” LIKE AAAA THATS A RED LIGHT

set: the god of theatre because gods dam is he a good actor

sadie saw some hot emo guy and was like “omg marry me”

iskandar be like “lmao imma speak in alexandria greek all the time but this girl bouta die? i switch to perfect english for dramatic effect”

woooOooaaaah SLOW DOWN THERE BUDDY, tongue tattoos???

zia: you guys will probably suck at this at first but oh well we all can’t be great

sadie: *makes fire first time* wooosh

sadie and kane: *doing cool shit* me and my tea: sluuuurrrp

bast is so sassy i love it

me when it’s a sadie chapter: okay ig :/

me when it’s a carter chapter: HOLY SHIT CARTER HEY OMG YOURE DOING CRAZY STUFF???? COOL. i love you.

bast: so yeah, you’d be stupid to teleport to paris, this is desjardin’s home territory

sadie and kane, lying in the streets of paris: oh cool cool

sadie: like i might die rn but i don’t care, as long as it doesn’t get filmed and put in youtube, that would be embarrassing

like ???? sis get your priorities together smh

sadie: *sees hot emo guy again in her spirit adventure, he hints that’s he’s dead or something*

also sadie: so will i see you again?

“no, an egyptian drink. you’ve heard of hot chocolate? this is rather like hot vanilla.” dam now i want some.

carter is an amazing older brother. he’s written perfectly and he’s a great character to relate to for me. even though sadie can make his blood boil, he dropped everything to calm her down when she was panicking about not being able to change back from a bird. i too have to do that for my little sister - sadie and ava are ironically the same age - so i find that very comforting that there is someone like me to relate to!

‘a businessman with a rolling suitcase was waiting by the doors. his eyes widened when he saw me. i must’ve looked pretty strange — a tall black kid in dirty, ragged egyptian clothes, with a weird box tucked under one arm and a bird of prey perched on the other.

‘“how’s it going?” i said. “i’ll take the stairs.” he hurried off.’ LMAO THIS IS WHY CARTER BABY I LOVE YOU

highkey pissed that carters like “i’m always edgy around the police. once i turned eleven they started giving me the Look. when it doesn’t happen it’s always a pleasant surprise.” LIKE FUCK NO HE SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO WALK AROUND UNHASSLED WHATS WRONG WITH HIM

lmao bast be like “imma jump off this national monument. see ya at the airport in my finest clothes and jewellery x”

FOOD UPDATE: i’m eating a chocolate covered waffles and having some tea and i feel so happy rn sorry i know you don’t care but like aaaaaaa

bast called carter her little tomcat and my heart exploded

bast really likes convertibles huh

thoth: i hate rereading my old writing, my present self would never write like this now!! SOMEONE GET ME A RED PEN

are they... are they going to dig up elvis presley?

might put some elvis in for this part, y’know, to set the mood?

i cant stop reading ‘thoth’ as thot even though i know how to pronounce it

the captain with a axe for a head: my name is bloodstained battle axe 😸

yuh bast did some shit ...

imma stop now because spoilers, GO READ THE KANE CHRONICLES THEY ARE THE MOST UNDERRATED RIORDANVERSE BOOKS X X

[brookstonalmanac]

Birthdays 4.6

Beer Birthdays

Caspar Eulberg (1825)

George Ehret (1835)

Five Favorite Birthdays

Merle Haggard; country singer (1937)

Gerry Mulligan; jazz baritone saxophonist (1927)

John Ratzenberger; actor (1947)

Paul Rudd; actor (1969)

John William Waterhouse; English painter (1849)

Famous Birthdays

Philip Austin; comedian (1941)

Elizabeth Barrett Browning; poet (1806)

Frank Black; rock musician (1965)

Zach Braff; actor (1975)

Butch Cassidy; desperado (1866)

Mickey Cochrane; Philadelphia Athletics C (1903)

Ram Dass; guru (1928)

Dorothy Donegan; jazz pianist (1924)

Donald Wills Douglas; airplane maker (1892)

Anthony Fokker; airplane maker (1890)

Marilu Henner; actor (1952)

Jason Hervey; actor (1972)

Walter Huston; actor (1884)

Gil Kane; comic book artist (1926)

Barry Levinson; film director (1942)

Ari Meyers; actor (1969)

James Mill; philosopher, economist (1773)

Michelle Phillips; singer (1944)

Andre Previn; conductor, pianist (1929)

George Reeves; actor (1914)

Hans Richter; Swiss artist (1888)

Raphael; artist (1483)

Sterling Sharpe; Green Bay Packers WR (1965)

Bobbi Starr; porn actor (1983)

Lowell Thomas; writer, television journalist (1892)

James D. Watson; geneticist (1928)

Billy Dee Williams; actor (1937)

[crimsoncityhq]

The Washington Gala: Chicago Day of Giving Part II

The night winds down, and the guests gather up their belongings for the long trek home when a voice rings out from the stage, presenting the winner of the door prize. Everyone holds their breath in hopes they’ll be presented with the Bugatti parked out front, draped in a bright red bow and the object of every patron’s desire. The speaker sucks in a breath as he tears into the envelope, just wrapping his lips around a name when a high-pitched, technical beep shrieks from under the stage. The platform bursts into flame, blowing debris, blood, and entrails into the first few rows of tables—and the panic sets in. The guests turn on their heels and find the exits blocked by burly Vasiles cradling machine guns in their arms and wolfish grins on their lips. There’s only one escape, and that’s to the maze garden, but anyone can guess it’s a mouse trap with its winding walls and dead ends. Still, choices are limited and adrenaline is rushing, so the crowd takes the bait, scurrying past the threshold and into the garden. The Vasiles are locked and loaded, hidden in the shadows and thirsty for victims. 

In part II, your character has a choice. You may stay with your group and work together—even with your enemies—to survive, or you can search for a familiar face and pray you all make it out alive. Only the Vasiles and police officers have weapons, save for the tableware your muse may have swiped up before fleeing to the maze garden. Avoid the fountain in the center of the maze; there will be someone waiting for you. No matter how you choose to go about it, there’s one rule of thumb to abide by: don’t get c a u g h t.

The Washington Gala: Chicago Day of Giving Part II begins now and ends on Monday, June 1st, at 11:59 p.m. EST. You’re welcome to have your characters injured ( or injure others, with permission from the mun ), just please let us know beforehand. Again, you may opt to stay in your groups, or your character can find their respective families/connections and work in tandem to escape.

As a reminder, your groups are under the cut—sans the Vasiles, of course.

GROUP 1 — Audric Noire, Fletcher Hargrave,  Rosalie ‘Rosie’ Halliday, Jacob ‘Thorne’ Louthorne

GROUP 2 — Christopher ‘Chris’ Evans, Kitty O’Shea, Xavier Harris

GROUP 3 —  Daniel Adler, Gerald O’Shea, Nova Devereaux, Allegra Cooper, Darren Murphy, Joel Maddison

GROUP 4 — Esmeray Demir, Hana Faust, Koa Naihe, Sebastian Hargrave, Cassandra Harris

GROUP 5— Adrian Brooks, Davut Demir, Juliet Leon, Levi Bohan, August Brooks, Julianna Hellthorpe

GROUP 6 — Audrey Rousseau, Oliver Faust, Chaeyoung Moon

GROUP 7 — Amelia O’Shea, Effie Faust,  Ophelia O’Shea, Veronica Pierce, Logan Washington

GROUP 8 — Angelique Calore, Hayden Dixon, Kian Hannigan, Peyton Bridges

GROUP 9 — Angelo Madden, Clara Davila, Isaak Peters, Tia Valentine, Tyson Kane, Milena Washington

GROUP 10 — Ingrid Vasile, Autumn Dawson, Cecilia 'Cee’ Cavendish, 

GROUP 11 — Amara Ricci, Summer Moore

GROUP 12 — Caleb Duval, Eva Clarke, Faith Williams, Leslie Adal Galahad, Richie O’Shea

GROUP 13 — Calhoun O'Farrell, Erin Cerci, Gemma Faust, Nathan Anderson, 

GROUP 14 — Asli Demur, Charlotte O'Day, Gabriel Hill, Maisie Kane, Samuel O’Shea

GROUP 15 — Arielle Hernandez, Diamond Washington, Penelope 'Poppy’ Levenberg, Ren Daae, Teagan Michaels

GROUP 16 — Blair Faust, Edgar Ortega, Giovanni Rossi, Holden Mercer, Zoe Washington

GROUP 17 — Brayden Adler, Darcy Faust, Liam O’Shea,  Maggie Lee,  Isabella Rossi

GROUP 18 —  Evander 'Evan’ Montague, Wynter Ellis, Christian Yi, Edith Cohen

GROUP 19 — Rylin Dixon, Harley Kincaid, Maeve O’Connell, Teddy Cohen, Sawyer Nichols

GROUP 20 — Alexander Washington, Dawn Montgomery, Andromeda O’Shea

GROUP 21 — David Sharpe, Jace Dubois, Lenny Navarro, Rahi Kumar

GROUP 22 — Dominic Murphy, Sloan Washington, Wesley ‘Wes’ Ahn

GROUP 23 — Aurora O’Shea, Caroline Shepherd, Jesse Valencia, Rosalia Leon

GROUP 24 — Avery Simmons, Genevieve Bisset, Monika Adler, Andrew Whitmore

GROUP 25 — Birdie Mendoza, Zane Washington, Andrea Reed

GROUP 26 — Blue Daniels, Marizia di Greco, Violet Madden

[dcladies]

DCLADIES' PRIDE MONTH

➞ DCTV + LGBTQ+ ladies

from left to right: Mazikeen (Lucifer), Alex Danvers (Supergirl), Ava Sharpe (Legends of Tomorrow), Anissa Pierce (Black Lightning), Kate Kane (Batwoman), Grace Choi (Black Lightning), Maggie Sawyer (Supergirl), Sara Lance (Arrow, Legends of Tomorrow), Nyssa Al Ghul (Arrow, Legends of Tomorrow), Nia Nal (Supergirl)

[lisa--sharpe]

Peace in Paris || Kane Sharpe

( @kane--sharpe )

Lisa missed her family. She missed them a lot. But there was just something about here in France that was refreshing and she couldn’t bring herself to go home just yet. She had taken on some work in a cafe, needing to fund this little escapade. She also had gotten herself into a small cute temporary apartment with no contract so that when she decide it was time to go home she could just go. 

After having texted Greg, he hadn’t seemed to have forgiven her. So, now was still not a good time to go home. She was not about to ruin this stress free freedom. “Vanilla Latte with extra foam, and one of those delightful looking danishes.” She smiled brightly to the barista. Today she was just enjoying the fresh air and planning on sitting by the window in this cafe with a cup of coffee and a book. She looked down, beginning to read her book before turning to go toward her table. 

“Excusez-moi!” She gave a tiny laugh, walking directly into someone. She reached down, picking up her book before looking up. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Was he really here? “Kane?!” She practically squealed, throwing her arms around him. “What are you doing here? I can’t believe this...” She laughed.