#Even though there are much better books out there than Nineteen Eighty-Four

[pseudinymous]

Doing Math on the River Styx - 1

Phic Phight / Team Ghost / word count not final

Prompt by Zainymusings:

In an effort to keep Danny from failing out of Casper High and becoming Dan, the ghosts band together to tutor Danny in various subjects (Technus in math, Ghostwriter in Language Arts, etc.) Shenanigans ensue.

Chapter Index: 1 / 2

“I, TECHNUS, GHOST MASTER OF ALL THINGS ELECTRONIC AND BEEPING, COMMAND THE GHOST CHILD TO FIND THE VALUE OF X!”

The Ghostwriter looked vacantly at Technus as if his brains were about to leak out of his ears, and for the first time in his life Danny felt as if he might agree. The three of them had been locked away in this library for all of fifteen minutes and they were already getting on each other’s nerves, but anything to prevent Danny from turning into the dreaded Dan Phantom was worth it. So here they were.

“You can’t just command him to find the value of x, Technus. You actually have to teach,” said the Ghostwriter, somehow keeping his patience. “Not everyone has a way with numbers, you know. He can’t just magic the answer out of thin air.”

Technus stared at him, dumbstruck. “Really? Human children can’t do that?”

“Most people can’t do that,” the Ghostwriter lamented, head within his hands. “Look at him, he’s just staring into that piece of paper as if the world itself is coming to an end. That’s not the look of someone who has clarity on a topic, Nicolai.”

“Fine then, you teach him!”

“Me? Teach math? In what universe? Christ, I’d pass out.”

“Will the both of you just shut up?!” Danny finally yelled, his voice shuddering the non-existent library foundations and sending them both silent. “Maybe I can do this! But we’re never going to find out if you just keep arguing with each other!”

Both ghosts suddenly realised their position in all of this — namely having gotten out of their chairs in the heat of that mildly passionate debate — and retook their seats quickly in their own embarrassment. “Sorry,” muttered the Ghostwriter, quietly. Technus didn’t apologise. What a surprise.

“… So, what part of this equation do you not understand?” said Technus, eventually.

“X,” said Danny, and Writer let out a smirk from the background. “I mean where are you even supposed to get the x from?”

Technus was feeling confident.

“You start with the first part of the equation, then you do the equation in your head, and then you only have x leftover.”

Danny’s head hit the desk. “Are you joking? That doesn’t make any sense at all!”

“He’s right, it doesn’t,” said the Ghostwriter, matter-of-factly. Technus glared at him. “If it’s any consolation, I’d like to use my keyboard to bend reality such that he would learn everything he ever needed to know in an instant, but unfortunately he destroyed it last Christmas.”

“Don’t remind me,” Danny moaned. “I can’t take much more of this, I gotta go home.”

Technus wasn’t having a bar of this. “The value of x is 16! 16!” he yelled, as if that would make his point clearer. “See! Now you can do this type of problem! Now you can find the next value of x!!”

Danny stood up from his chair about as calmly as he could manage. “Thanks, but I think I’d rather just learn the normal way from Lancer. I’m—”

“—What about literature?” the Ghostwriter cut in desperately, after watching his afterlife flash before his eyes. “Math might not be your strong point, but there’s more than just one subject.”

Danny looked at Ghostwriter as if he, too, had as much of a hole in his head as Technus. “Really? And are you gonna be any better at this than the Lord of Electricity over here?”

“I’m legitimately qualified to teach. Unlike the Lord of Electricity over there, as you so aptly put it.”

“… What? Seriously?”

“You don’t honestly think I made any money writing novels, do you?” asked the writer, looking a bit too wry for Danny’s liking. “No one does. I would’ve starved without a side job.”

Technus suddenly stood up. “ACTUALLY HE NEVER PUBLISHED ANY NOVELS, HE—”

A book came out of nowhere and smashed heavily into the back of Technus’s head. Danny watched him arc gracefully through the air, face aghast and twisting as he went, before he was gracelessly plastered all over the wooden library floor. The Ghostwriter’s brow was raised. “Oh,” he said. “How did that ever happen?”

“TELEKINESIS ISN’T FAIR GHOSTWRITER.”

“And why not? You’re perfectly capable yourself.”

“YOU KNOW IT’S ONLY ON TECHNOLOGY! BUT WE’RE STUCK IN THIS PLACE WITH ALL OF YOUR THINGS, YOU—”

A book mysteriously slid off its shelf and landed on straight on top of Technus, striking his head a second time. “Oh, it seems after three decades I’m still having accidents, I’m very sorry about this Nicolai.”

“LIKE HELL YOU ARE!” Technus screeched back. Another book struck him. The Ghostwriter grinned in delight.

“Dude, you’re enjoying that way too much,” said Danny eventually, his eyes wide open. “I thought you didn’t like to fight.” “A series of unfortunate events is not a fight,” said the Ghostwriter. He was far too happy about this situation, and he showed it with two long rows of very sharp serrated teeth. “Shall we say, it’s been a long time coming.”

“But can’t he… I dunno, kill you or something?”

The ghost shrugged. “I don’t know. Can he? Or did he accidentally become part of a pact in which he agreed I wouldn’t come to harm, then act like a monumental prat such that I might like to make every book in this god-forsaken library slide off its shelf and hit him? I suppose we’ll never know.”

… Danny refused to unpack any of that. Technus remained unmoving on the floor as if this might be the best course of action while the Ghostwriter simply stood there, apparently contemplating homicide. This was beyond messed up. But what the heck had he expected when he’d agreed to tutoring sessions in the Ghost Zone?

… Ghostwriter kind of had a point about Technus’s math teaching skills, though.

“Now that we have some peace and quiet,” said Writer, whose teeth were clenched on each of those final descriptors and whose gaze was also fixed precisely on Technus, “Perhaps you could enlighten me as to what you need to study in English class.”

Danny breathed. Maybe they could do this. Maybe it was still possible. “Nineteen Eighty-Four,” he said, staring at the sheet of paper in front him, covered in mathematics so poorly executed it was a wonder it didn’t shift the fabric of space on its own. He swapped it quickly for his English book. “I got to sort of skim it at home, but ghosts kept attacking during Lancer’s lectures.”

The ghost sat down again, slowly. “… Orwell? Very well… A bit dry, but that’s fine. They’re after an analysis essay, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” the Ghostwriter began, “Those are reasonably straightforward. All you really have to do is read the question, make something up, and argue it.”

Danny’s eyes narrowed. “Lancer said we shouldn’t make stuff up.”

“Funny how in an analysis on fiction, the writing of which is the very act of making stuff up, you’re asked not to make anything up at all. No, that’s a misconception. What you actually need to do is pretend you’re the author and lie.”

“Lie?”

“About everything,” said the Ghostwriter sagely, tapping his finger on the desk. “You can’t know for sure what was in the author’s head unless they tell you, which is fine, because it means the English teachers don’t know the difference either.”

The little cogs and gears inside Danny’s brain started to fall into place, but it wasn’t a place they’d ever fallen into before. He felt attacked, almost as if stuck in some kind of weird trap, like his fight or flight reflex should be going off. “… That seems pretty suss, why should I even listen to advice like that?”

Ghostwriter seemed almost bored. “You do realise I have a vested interest in not seeing you going insane and killing everyone?”

“Yeah, that seems kind of bad,” Technus chimed in from the floor.

“Even I’m not vindictive enough the jeopardise my own existence.”

Danny turned from his paper and looked from one ghost to the other. Were they... suddenly more tired? “… So…” he began, slowly. “Did Clockwork put you both up to this?”

Technus finally managed to peel himself away from the floorboards. “Came knocking on both our doors. Said we had to do something so that That Future didn’t happen. It’s like, as if you failing classes is tied up in the cosmos to you becoming a mass murderer or something.”

Great. Fantastic. Passing his classes was the one thing Danny didn’t seem able to do, and that was apparently the tightrope that stopped him from becoming an evil megalomaniac who murders his family members and god knows who else. Perfect. Would’ve been nice if Clockwork could’ve given him a heads up about that one before his grades started slipping into the D- range. He stared at his empty English book page and groaned.

“God,” Danny muttered. “We’ve gotta make this work…”

Chapter Index: 1 / 2

[thisisawonderfulusername]

almost normal - the apocalypse

five hargreeves x reader

summary: being pregnant in the apocalypse probably isn’t the greatest thing.

warnings: cursing, pregnancy, no baby yet, that will come in part two ;)

word count: 2.1k

a/n: yall asked for it, and i felt like i could do better, so here is your time in the apocalypse after finding out that you’re pregnant and following this we will have a commission chapter and when they get to twenty nineteen. reading the old a/n that i put here is making me realize how long this took me to actually write 🤡 anyways, this is basically what the original was but focused on the apocalypse and much, much more detailed. i’ll stop now, please enjoy!

being the daughter of two people spontaneously born on the first of october in nineteen eighty-nine, you had been gifted with special abilities, just like them. over the years of your life, they were able to teach you how to control these abilities.

by the time you were thirteen, you were able to create an invisible barrier around yourself. of course, it happened unintentionally at times.

one of those times, it protected you at the end of the world. how you wished it hadn’t for the first few years. but you surprisingly weren’t the last person on the face of the earth.

-

you stood on the doorstep of your home- or what used to be your home. it had crumbled to the ground when the explosion wiped out the entire city, leaving a pile of rubble. it was surrounded by the other houses in the neighborhood, some of which still stood as the flames continued to burn.

this isn’t real.

you pinch your arm so hard that it stings for a few moments afterward, and you start shaking your head. “this isn’t real.” you tell yourself, voice shaking with the fear that this might not be a nightmare.

stepping back from your home, you turned on your heel to run to the closest house that hadn’t collapsed yet. mr and mrs peoples. you didn’t knock, bursting through the front door and rushing through each room that fire was beginning to engulf, searching for any sign of the old couple.

when you got up the stairs and to their room, you stopped dead in your tracks. on the bed, their charred bodies lay next to each other, and you feel your eyes beginning to sting- from the smoke and from what was happening.

the city.

there must be people in the city.

you dash down the stairs as they threaten to collapse, sprinting out of the house and down the road as fast as you can. the route you’ve remembered from walking to school, the one that brought you through the crowded sidewalks.

by the time you get to the most populated part of the whole town you lived in, you’re out of breath, chest rising and falling quickly.

“help!” you shout as loud as you can, starting to walk through the streets, trying not to focus on the buildings that hadn’t made it, the burned bodies on the ground. “please! there has to be someone.” the tears that had threatened you begin to fall, running down your cheeks.

when you get farther down, you see what you think is a real, live person, searching the rubble surrounding him. but you can’t be sure. there’s smoke and your vision is blurry from your tears. “hey!” you shout, beginning to run towards the figure as fast as you can with your labored breathing.

he turns in your direction when he hears your voice, eyebrows raising in surprise. when you stop just before what used to be a building. “please-” you suck in a breath, “please tell me you’re real.”

-

he was the only reason you managed to survive. you knew now that you never would have made it this far without him.

ten years.

you’ve made it ten years so far, and the only reason the both of you keep going is each other- as well as his hope to find the right equation to get you back to your normal lives in twenty nineteen (and saving the world but that could be discussed later.)

until then, you could try your very best to make an almost normal life for yourselves.

after the first few years of moving across the city- and probably into other states as well, you couldn’t tell for sure- you had grown to have feelings for him. you didn’t know if it was because you two were the only ones left on earth, but you didn’t care. you wouldn’t want to choose anyone else to survive with.

eventually, after a few drinks to celebrate the finding of some wine, when your face was flushed with the alcohol in your system and your brain slightly fuzzy, you ended up kissing him.

the next morning, you woke up cuddled next to him, the empty bottle to your side. it brought butterflies to your stomach, and when he woke up after you, you had summoned the courage to tell him how you felt. you were lucky enough to know that he returned the affection.

you were nineteen then, only six years after the end of the world. and for another four years, you had been together.

on the third year of being together, pushing for survival, you found an old jewelry store.

-

“do you want to get married?” you call out, eyes squinted slightly from the sunlight and the strain to see him properly.

he turned at your voice, brushing his hands off on his pants. “what?”

grinning, you step over the wall. “i said,” you stop in front of him and reveal the bands, “do you want to get married?”

his eyes fall on the rings and he stays quiet for a moment, before he looks back to you, and your smile grows at the sight of his own.

“in the apocalypse?“ he chuckles softly.

you shrug your shoulders. "we can’t make it, like, official, but if we ever get back…” you press your lips together for a moment, “i think it’ll have more meaning, since we found them here.”

he seems to think about it for a moment, before he holds his hand out to you, and you clap your hands together from the joy you felt.

when you got stuck here at thirteen years old, you didn’t think you’d have anything close to a normal life. but after a few years, you realized that you could try to make it as normal as possible for yourself.

you slide one of the rings onto his finger, the sun’s light reflecting off of the gold. it’s a silent moment, and you could feel your heart beating faster than usual.

once it is snug on his finger, he takes the other from you, taking your hand. “i never thought i’d be getting married in a wasteland.”

chuckling, you watch as he gently puts the ring in it’s rightful place. “i don’t care where we get married. it would be perfect no matter what.”

five looks into your eyes, and you know that you wouldn’t have this any other way. as long as he was with you, you don’t care where you are or what the situation is.

“i love you.” you mumble quietly, bringing your hand to his cheek as you stare into his eyes.

“i guess i love you too.”

you roll your eyes, moving the hand behind his neck to pull him into a loving kiss.

-

now, it’s been about four months since you’ve ‘married’ five. it didn’t change much about your life, but you could feel that you had a newfound hope. even though you were stuck in an unforgiving world, foraging for food and clinging onto survival, you had five with you.

and now it felt like no matter what happened, he would stay with you. maybe, if you ever did get out of this hell, it could happen for real. that kept you going.

there have been changes, though. for the past three months or so, your ‘time of the month’ never came. at first, you brushed it off. this had happened before- stress could delay it, so you figured that was what it was.

but then it didn’t come the next month, either.

this month, you were beginning to notice a small bump in your belly. you told yourself it could just be you gaining weight from the food you ate, but you couldn’t fool yourself. you can’t eat enough in this world, especially not enough to gain significant weight.

and so the worrying began.

you didn’t tell five at first, keeping the anxiety to yourself as you continued on your treks through the barren land. you would chew on your lip as you walked, and it got to the point where you broke through the skin and it had bled for a bit.

he noticed, but you didn’t know that.

on your next stop for shelter that you would stay in for a few weeks to search for supplies, he brought it up.

-

“are you okay?” he questions, and it catches you off guard for a moment.

you look up from the book that you had found in the wreckage of an old library. “uh,” you hesitate for a moment, “yeah. yeah, i’m fine.”

trying to get away from his questions, you look back down to the pages of the book as if it would stop him from continuing. from the corner of your eye, you can see how his brows furrowed together.

he was quiet, but only for a moment. “i’ve noticed, you know.” the statement causes your heart to pick up it’s pace a bit, and you hope he can’t see the fear and nervousness that has overcome you.

“noticed what?” you gulp, not daring to look up from the page. you don’t know if it’s the cold air around you, but your eyes are stinging.

five stands from the makeshift seat he had taken on a fallen pillar, moving to your side and sitting in the dirt that was protected from the snow. “you know, you can tell me anything. whatever is wrong, you can say it.”

the book closes as you release it, falling to the ground at your side. “i-” you notice the shakiness in your voice, and you pause for a moment to take a deep breath, “i don’t know how to tell you.”

his arm falls around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. it’s something that has always comforted you, even in the worse days, and he knows that. he knows everything. “just say it.” he tells you softly.

you close your eyes for a few moments, pulling your knees to your chest as you gulp down your fear. “i- i think i’m pregnant.”

a tear that had escaped your stinging eyes rolled down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away on the sleeve of your sweater. it was in vain, as shortly after there were more drops falling down your face.

his momentary silence worries you, and you think if there was a way to screw up everything you've built here, it was this.

“how would you know?” he questions quietly, and of all the questions he could have asked, you think that might be one of the best ones.

sniffling and abandoning the attempt at getting rid of your tears, you take a quick breath. “it’s been a few months since my last... you know,” you begin to explain, avoiding looking at him, “and i’m pretty sure my belly is... getting bigger. and it can’t just be me gaining weight because we don’t eat much.”

you hear him let out a slow breath, and when you look at him in fear for his reaction, he seems to be staring off in thought. you bite on your lip as you try to keep yourself from crying anymore. “five?”

“we’ll figure it out.” he tells you after a moment, and you take in a shaky breath from the statement. “we’ll find a way to make it work.” he runs his fingers through your hair, “we always do.”

his sweet reassurances make your heart skip a beat. it’s unbelievable to you, even after all of the years you’ve been with him.

“god, i love you.” a small sob escapes with the words, but the tears don’t truly show how you feel. you’ve never been so happy.

you’ll get part of the normal life you always wanted as a child. a family.

you were only able to relish in the moment for a few seconds, because five suddenly jolted forward, scaring the life out of you as he grabbed onto the shotgun leaning against one of the walls.

your head turns to where he is pointing it, you saw a woman. but it wasn’t just any woman, no. she wasn’t dressed for the apocalypse like you. she had a clean, properly fitted dress and high heels, her makeup perfectly done.

who the hell is this?

taglists

main: @horrorklaus @megasimpleplan4ever  

tua: @rasberrymay @noodlextrash @atomicpillar @malfovs  @andreasworlsboring101​  

five taglist: @anapocalypseinmymind @five-hargreeves-official @insatiable-ivy @coffee-e-addict @xplrreylo @fandomfreakff @colie-babi @flowertoty @avovada @badwolf00593

[roger-that-cap]

what a lovely dream it is

english major!wanda x english major!fem!reader

summary: who would have thought that wanda, the self proclaimed queen of reading science fiction, would be just as obsessed with shakespeare as you? 

warnings: one use of the word “su*cide”. shakespeare. nerds quoting lines. bad writing. (i challenged myself into writing this in an hour and a half). cringey writing (there is a difference)

word count: 4k!

You and Wanda connected at first because you two spoke the same language from different regions. It felt like she spoke British English, and you spoke American English. You were on the same wavelength but not exactly the same individual wave, but it was as close as you had ever gotten with someone who you deemed worth your time. 

While everyone else was partying or drinking until they threw up or flaunting around bags with white powder in them, you sat with your back to the wall after studying, reading a classic, knowing that the change of her leaning against the same wall and doing the exact same thing you were was high. 

You met her in the library, on your third day at your university. You were trying to find your group of authors, your little nook where you would feel the safest in the entire school. You had stumbled right into the fantasy section, looked around for a second, and then tripped over a brown boot that was just at the start of the science fiction shelf. 

“I’m so sorry,” a woman’s voice murmured, and you just shook your head and said that it was okay, much more interested in the way that your hands suffered from the fall on the carpet than the girl. Until you looked up. 

It was everything about her that stunned you. The brown hair, the flush of her cheeks, the apologetic look in her pale blue eyes that caressed her features to sit in one beautiful and genuine expression. The moment your eyes landed on her, you swore that your heart stopped and started in the same second, and then took a run for it with all of the parts of your brain that you needed to make a coherent thought. 

 You promised yourself in that moment that you would never forget the way the woman in front of you looked. And despite seeing hundreds of more faces throughout your self-tour, you never truly did forget it. If you didn’t know any better, if you were perhaps any younger and less exposed to the cruelty of the world and fate and its way of not giving you what you wanted, you would have been certain that the universe had finally given you the contemporary meet cute that you yearned for. 

But then, you saw which aisle she was in. You looked at the books and recognized the authors just to be sure, and then you turned to look at her. “You’re into science fiction?” 

 Her apologetic look fell completely into a look of pure surprise, and then excitement, almost as if she thought that she found someone else who liked the genre she did. “Well, it’s the best genre that was ever written.” 

  “Wow, how wrong,” you found yourself saying, and somehow, you knew that the look of offense on her face was all for fun. “It’s definitely gothic literature.” The look she gave you was one that you would never forget. 

  A week later, you ran into her in the cafeteria, holding a copy of The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, your beat up one from home that you would put your life on the line for. The cover was torn up a bit and the pages were dog eared, from a time where you hadn’t discovered the way that bookmarks changed lives. It was the copy your cousin got you, and it was your favorite gift to date. 

  She was holding The Martian Chronicles. You nearly gagged. 

At first, you thought she hadn’t seen you, or hadn’t recognized you, which was even worse. You sighed under your breath and said, “at least it’s not Nineteen Eighty Four,” and watched in complete horror as she turned around. 

She locked eyes with you immediately, and her own eyes widened when she saw you, and then she grinned when she undoubtedly recognized you and your disdain for science fiction. “No, it’s even better than Nineteen Eighty Four.” 

“Anything is better than that,” you said, swallowing down your nerves at speaking to the girl again, kicking yourself for being so nervous despite not even knowing her name. 

She gave you that same “offended” look she gave you during your first interaction, and you cracked a small smile. “Um, don’t you voluntarily go into the gothic section?” 

The smile dropped. “The most valid section in the library? Sure do.” 

She smiled too, a genuine grin as she took a step forward and extended her hand. For a second, you just looked at it, the calmness that came with the discussion of literature suddenly washed away so far back into your mind that you panicked for a moment, not reaching for her hand until you saw it shake in just the slightest, like she was regretting even doing it. 

You nearly bumped your elbow on the table trying to stand up and shake her hand. Your hands connected and you grinned so wide it felt like your face had split open. You told her your name and she repeated it to make sure she had heard you loud and clear, and then, she smiled even brighter. 

“Nice to meet you, Dracula. I’m Wanda.” And that was where it started. 

As your library meetups started to become more intentional than not, you learned that not only was Wanda a student that stayed in the dorms, but the student who was next door to you. You learned that she pretty much kept to herself for the most part besides a few other people at the university, and that she kept a small circle. You learned that her favorite book was Brave New World. You learned that she would rather shy away from classic romance novels, even though you didn’t mind them, and that she hated gothic literature. You loved it. Your favorite book was The Picture of Dorian Gray, for god's sake. So, you hated each other’s favorite genres. 

  But you both loved symbolism. And you were both English majors. And for some very odd, very coincidental reason, you both met in what was nowhere near the middle- Shakespearean plays. 

  Now, that was something that you were always made fun of for as a child. No one wanted to hang out with the girl who quoted Shakespeare, especially if it wasn’t even from Romeo and Juliet. Reading normal books just made you look “smart”, but you knew that genuinely enjoying plays would make you look pretentious. So you had always kept it to yourself when you left your hometown. Until Wanda came along. 

Wanda came along, and suddenly, you found yourself quoting tragedies and getting the correct response back. Sometimes, she would even start it first. You would do nerdy things like halfway reenact scenes because even you guys weren’t that nerdy… you supposed. 

One morning, you and Wanda were in a study group (that was hardly productive because it was just Wanda’s little circle that was actually astoundingly close), and she looked over your shoulder to see your computer, where you were hardly typing an essay about the importance of the establishment of places for higher education. She put her chin against your shoulder, sat there for a minute, and then turned her head to whisper in your ear, “nothing will come of nothing.” It was embarrassing, the way your eyes lit up at hearing her voice, and even more so when Natasha, Wanda’s extremely perceptive friend, picked up on what you were feeling. The red head shot you the widest grin ever known to man. 

“C’mere, Frankenstein,” Wanda said one night, already looking over at you while you tried to finish your work for the day.

You held back the smile on your face as you sat on your bed, one leg over it while you typed. “I’m right here.” 

“No, here,” she emphasized, and then she was patting the spot on the small couch in your room, the same look in her eyes that always came with when she asked for any kind of physical contact. 

  That was by far the worst thing about Wanda, and it hardly had anything to do with her. She was touch starved, and touch was your love language. Her asking you to hold her on the couch used to mean nothing to you, because at one point, you just thought she was pretty. But now, holding her hand on top of the table while you both were submerged in your respective worlds felt like a promise ring. Letting her rest her head on your shoulder and in your neck felt like giving your vulnerability over to her, and feeling her hand rub against your back felt like she was taking it and guarding it. But you knew she didn’t feel the same way, not at all. 

She was straight. 

But it did you no good when she quoted back some of your favorite lines. It didn’t help when she said all of the romantic lines towards you at the drop of a hat, almost like she didn’t even realize what she was saying. She didn’t understand the way your heart died and was revived every time she said something like that, something that was so dear and vulnerable to you. And she certainly never would, because you would never tell her. 

Now that you thought about it, allowing yourself to fall for her was the dumbest and most destructive thing you could have ever done. The first bookworm who didn’t make fun of you for your knowledge and love of old plays was the one that took hold of your heart, and now you were paying for being such an idiot. Now you would have to sit through three more years of school with her being your friend, just your friend, while you pined over her. It was going to be hell.  

And was it. You had to sit through her saying the most romantic of Shakespearean quotes every day and act like she wasn’t making your heart shake. You had to listen to her speaking the language that you two shared and pretend that you just wanted to be her friend. You were so attached to her and everything that you two had established together, and you couldn’t ruin it by giving her googly eyes. She was way too important for that. Because now, she was way more than a person who you could talk to about old plays. She was the person that you could talk to about anything, without a doubt. Anything but the intense crush that you were harboring for her, and the way that she made your heart sing and your soul ascend whenever you smelled her perfume or saw her smile. Anything but that. 

§§

 “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” You looked up from your book only to see Wanda looking over at you, lying down on the blanket and just watching you. You swore later on when you were alone that you imagined it, but for a moment you could have sworn that you saw a flash of adoration in her eyes. “Thou art more lovely and more temperate.” 

You were choking on the inside. Your face was blank, but your mind was going haywire, and you couldn't think of anhytnign besides holding back the urge to say something that you had no chance of taking back. “You’re in a sonnet mood today, aren’t you?” 

“And what mood are you in today, Jekyll?” 

“I’m in the mood to finish this book,” you teased, and she rolled her eyes. 

“What if I’m in the mood to sit and watch a movie?” 

“Then you should do it,” you said, going the way your heart clenched at the thought of her cutting your friendly outing short. “I’ll follow you in an hour or two.”

She gave you a look. “You know I don’t go anywhere without you.”  

“You can go watch a movie, Wands.” You sighed out, closing your book and wedging your pointer finger between the pages so that you wouldn't get lost. 

 “I’ll wait,” she said, and you shook your head at her. 

“I don’t want to hold you back from getting in time with your favorite sci fi movies.”

“Can I go forward when my heart is here?”  

You were hit with such a wave of longing that you had to shut your eyes for a moment, but it looked like it was simply a long blink. “You’re so cheesy.” 

“I want to hear one,” Wanda said, leaning on her elbows as she stared up at you, and your heart pounded. She looked celestial, glowing under the sunlight with growing grass around her and a sweet smile budding on her face. “You never quote any back to me anymore, you know?” 

You knew, for sure. It was on purpose that you didn’t quote back. If you were to continue the conversation in romantic quotes, it was going to feel way too real to you. You could handle Wanda and her touches, but you were not going to be able to handle quoting Romeo and Juliet to her. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled softly, and then you heard her make a sound with her tongue, a displeased clicking noise.

  You looked up at her and lost your breath again, and your mental footing. There she was, looking up at you with her pretty eyes, giving you a look more intense than she had ever given you before. She was… it was almost like she was waiting for something, like she knew something. She was staring up at you and leaning on her hand in a way that was so oddly domestic in your mind, and you could almost see in your mind the way that she would do that if you woke up in the same bed, like she was waiting for you to wake up and trying to memorize your face. It made you warm on the inside, and just like she always managed to do, your brain turned to mush. 

“Conscience doth make cowards of us all,” you blurt, and you saw her brows pull in for a second. You blinked. 

  “Huh?” 

You were panicking on the inside. There were plenty of ways that she could have taken the quote that you had chosen, but you knew exactly what it sounded like. A half assed love confession. “You know, from Hamlet,” 

“Of course I know it’s from Hamlet, Jekyll.” She shook her head at you and sat up, crossing her legs without breaking eye contact. “But why that quote? You know so many, and you chose the one about death.” 

Unfortunately, it’s death by silence in this context, not by swords. “You said you wanted to hear a line,” you said, shrugging as you opened your book, trying to get rid of the embarrassment that you knew would stick to you for hours and hours. 

 “What a line,” she said, and then she rolled over to look up at the sky. Minutes later, you heard her sigh. “What a line.” 

§§

Romeo + Juliet was a classic for your movie night. At first, Wanda showed it to you after you boycotted it for years, despite your male celebrity crush being one of the main characters in it. You had always avoided watching because of the modernism, but one Wanda made you sit down and watch it, you actually found good things about it. For instance, the party scene. 

  “It was done wonderfully,” Wanda would always say from beside you after your extremely predictable comment of the scene being a masterpiece. 

Like always, there were a few moments of silence as you two watched the movie together, shoulder to shoulder on the small couch in your dorm while your roommate was off getting high. You watched the rest of it in near silence, halfway focused on the movie while the other part of your mind was split in two; feeling blessed that Wanda was even there with you, soclose, and feeling cursed that she was so close but so far. It was the perfect moment to hold her close like you wanted to so badly, but the timing wasn’t right. And that killed you. 

“Do you ever think about how they fell in love so fast?” Wanda asked, and you shrugged your shoulders. “I’d say that they were encroaching on soulmate territory.” 

“Soulmates, or foolish teenagers?” 

“I hardly know of any teenagers who would die for each other, even if they thought they were in love,” Wanda pointed out, and you rolled your eyes at her. “Don’t give me that face. I’m right, and you know it.” 

“I’ll always let you believe it, sci fi.” 

“But, really, don’t you ever want something like that?” 

You turned your face from the screen and looked at her incredulously, like she had gone mad while completing the process of growing three heads. “A suicide pact?” 

She groaned and threw her head back. “No. A love like that. Take away the death and violence, and look at what they had.” 

“It bloomed too quickly to have much potential later in life,” you countered. “That was infatuation, and that never lasts long.”

“You think that they both died for infatuation?”

“I think that they were young, and it’s hard to tell the difference between love and infatuation at any age, let alone as a teenager. I think they thought they loved each other to the ends of the earth, but I guess they’ll never know.” 

“You’re so cynical. Just like a person whose favorite is gothic literature.” You laughed, leaning forward towards her without even noticing what you were doing. “Do you believe in love?” 

“Of course I do,” you answered, giving her a look. “I’m just saying, Romeo and Juliet were not in true love. They were confused.” 

Then, the playful air that the conversation was flowing on changed so quickly that you nearly got whiplash and your heart started racing. The way Wanda was looking at you sent a chill down your spine, and in that moment, you were worried. “Are you confused?” 

You took in a breath. “About what?” 

“About anything,” she said slowly, almost like she felt like she was walking on thin ice with skates on. “Books, people, love, food, sexuality,” she ignored the way that you choked, “writing a paper, how to get  a strike in bowling. Or how to realize that Romeo and Juliet were definitely in love.” 

“You’re so intent on proving that they were to me,” you said, a laugh bubbling over and into your words. “Why are you suddenly so passionate about them now?” 

“The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.” 

Your heart jumped out of your chest again, and your hands clenched into weak  fists as you tried to will yourself into not assuming that she was talking about you. And then, white hot panic struck you at the thought of her being in love with someone else. “Speak low if you speak of love.” 

“Why should I?” Wands asked, shifting from her position on the couch to put a hand under her chin and watch you, her kind eyes afire with something that you had yet to see in them yet. “Really, Jekyll. Why?”

You hardly waited a full second before responding as truthfully as you ever would. “I’m afraid.” Before she could get a word in, you shook your head and finally loosened your lips, letting all of your worries and fears slide right through your teeth. “I’m afraid that I’ve fallen in love with someone who can never love me back. I’m scared to admit that I’ve been in love with you for a long time.  I’m afraid that you aren’t into girls.” You saw her make a face, almost like she couldn't believe that you were even suggesting the things that you were. “I don’t quote Shakespeare to you anymore because it feels too real to have you say lines like that back to me. I think that I’ve latched onto you without even meaning to, and now I don’t know if I can ever let you go.” 

Wanda was silent. She was watching you, as quietly as the sun hovered over the earth while she shone her light. Your heart had never beat so fast before as you watched her watch you with a face so blank that you were sure that she hadn’t retained a damn thing that you pulled from the depths of your heart. Then, the daunting thought that she had heard and understood everything but chose not to act swallowed you whole, and your hands started to shake. You gave a humorless laugh and finally looked away from the woman who had raised your spirits and crushed them all within five minutes. “I’m sorry. I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?” 

“I’m so sorry.” You repeated, shaking your head and closing your eyes for a second as hot tears burned in them. When they opened, a fat tear sappetered onto your hand. I’m such an idiot. You looked to the screen, and then saw Romeo screaming, on the ground, and you could hear the words even though your ears were rushing with blood. I defy you, stars. “You don't have to say anything back, I know you don’t feel the same.” Your eyes pulled away from the screen. “I can leave- wait, um, this is my dorm. I-” 

“Doubt thou the stars are fire,” Wanda started slowly, and your brows furrowed as you heard the words fall from her lips. Fuck. You knew what this ended with, and still, you couldn’t wrap your head around it. “Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love.”

Your eyes were wide by the end of it, watery and fixed on her. “W-what?” 

“How could you not have known?” Wanda asked softly, and you but your lip to stop from bursting into tears. 

“I thought you were straight!” You accused, and to your surprise, she laughed. 

“No, sweetheart.” Your heart stuttered. “I’m not.” 

Your breathing was still slightly heavy as you tried to get a  grip on everything that was happening. “You… you feel the same way?” 

“Of course I do, Jekyll.” She said, and you found yourself falling for her expressive eyes all over again as she stared up at you.  You reached your hand out experimentally, like she did the second time you ever met, and you waited that torturous moment for her to take your hand in a way that was much different than all the other times you shared a touch. This touch was the moment of truth.

She took your hand, kissed your knuckles, and put your palm on her cheek. 

“The very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service.” 

“This can’t be anything but a dream,” you murmured, feeling her cheek in your hand and the way they were warm and flushed. The softness was bringing you in and out of your head, and every time you went back to reality, you were thrusted into a little sliver of paradise. 

“Well, what a lovely dream it is, then.” Her lips found yours. The movie played on, the clock kept its incessant ticking, and your leg was starting to tingle from sitting on it in the same position for so long. But to you, time absolutely stopped. And as long as a particular science fiction nerd was in front of you, nothing that ticked or clicked or buzzed was ever going to matter. 

*******

i said i wasn’t going to post this, but i did it anyway!! hope you guys enjoyed this fic!! it was a lot of fun to write but it also made me mad nervous LMAO let’s hope this wasn’t absolute dogshit

@teenwonder i know you said you wanted a tag on my stuff so here it is, love!! 💕💕

[grandhotelabyss]

I’m late to discussing this now notorious list from a couple days ago, the New York Times’s “25 finalists for Best Book of the Past 125 Years” as nominated by readers. Some have called it “embarrassing.” The books that undeniably belong on the list do stand out. The Great Gatsby and Beloved and Lolita—no quarrel there. And Ulysses and One Hundred Years of Solitude might objectively be the two most important or at least influential novels of the 20th century, one the epic of modernism, the other the epic of postmodernism. 

The 21s-century selections mostly passed me by. I read 10 pages of A Little Life but wasn’t interested in the language; then I read Daniel Mendelsohn’s famous review, which convinced me it was high-end sadist yaoi—but feel free to let me know if I’m wrong. Bold of the Times to let Gone with the Wind stand given the political climate (and, well, the absence of The Sound and the Fury or Absalom, Absalom!), though I’ve never read the book or seen the film and don’t want to. With some of these books—The Fellowship of the Ring, Charlotte’s Web, Lonesome Dove, Harry Potter—I am content with having watched the movie, even if I don’t remember the movie (I do remember Charlotte’s Web). All the Light We Cannot See? Never saw it myself. I don’t always judge a book by its weird, mawkish title, but come on. I’ll finish Infinite Jest someday. A Fine Balance sounds pretty good; I should read it. Pass on The Overstory—as a bad person, I don’t really care about trees.

This mediocre, mannish, whitish list provides a rare opportunity for lovers of the canon and promoters of diversity and equity to join hands. Where are Virginia Woolf, Willa Cather, Nella Larsen, Zora Neale Hurston, Ralph Ellison, Iris Murdoch, Kazuo Ishiguro? It’s not restricted to English—so, for the love of God, where is Thomas Mann? Also, if it’s supposed to be the greatest books, why are they all novels? I vote for The Waste Land, I vote for Omeros. Kafka, Borges. Wallace Stevens, Elizabeth Bishop. Seamus Heaney. Tennessee Williams, August Wilson. Shaw, Beckett, Soyinka. Freud, Arendt; Auerbach, Frye. 125 years is enough to encompass some or all of Conrad and James. Saul Bellow, Cynthia Ozick. Thomas Pynchon, Cormac McCarthy. Joan Didion, Don DeLillo. E. M. Forster, W. B. Yeats, W. H. Auden, J. G. Ballard, J. M. Coetzee, A. S. Byatt, W. G. Sebald. Even given a commitment to the history of popular/genre fiction, 125 years include Stoker, Conan Doyle, Wells, Lovecraft. The Maltese Falcon. The Big Sleep. The Martian Chronicles. Babel-17. Kindred. There are graphic novels better and ultimately more influential than some of the pop fiction on this list: Watchmen, Maus, Akira, Sandman, Les Cités obscures. 

Let me be fair, though. Some are stigmatizing these as high-school choices. In that adolescent spirit, I am prepared to defend The Grapes of Wrath (the sentimental novel plus the naturalist chronicle plus the Transcendentalist sermon adding up to an epic of American earth) and Nineteen Eighty-Four (dystopian science-fiction as 20th-century Magna Carta, our bleak postmodern freedom charter). But I admit I did revere those novels when I was 15, and if you didn’t, maybe you can’t see their merit. For example, The Handmaid’s Tale, which I read in my 30s—fine, I guess, often politically insightful, but also a bit silly and tendentious. This might be what Orwell and Steinbeck look like if they didn’t get you when you were a kid. Yet I also read To Kill a Mockingbird and A Prayer for Owen Meaney as a teen too, enjoyed them very much, and would never mistake them for the best novels of the last 125 years. I read The Catcher in the Rye when I was 15 and didn’t like it at all, a judgment I try to keep under wraps because it’s shared with the worst moralists on social media.

Is there any disputing about taste? Of course there is, or else why are we always disputing about it? An aesthetic judgment is universal in form, or why make it? And from the relative height of 20-some years ago or even 15 years ago, we do appear to have suffered a fall.

[infinity-squared-comics]

Chess Symbolism in Media.

Hello there. Today I am going to teach you some stuff about chess (not how to play chess though, I’m not very good at chess). I am going to teach you how to write and/or identify chess based symbolism in media. Let’s start with the pieces. 

The King:

The king is (arguably) the most important piece on the chess board. This is because if your king is defeated, you lose the game. Due to this, the king can also be viewed as a representation of the player themselves. A character with king symbolism may be the chess master (pun obviously intended) staying out of harms way and ordering their troops from a relatively safe position, much like many real historical and fictional leaders who would rarely even visit the frontlines. Due to this chess master attribute, characters symbolized by the king are more likely to be villains or antiheroes, as manipulating other characters is generally seen as a bad thing. The King could also be representative of a character or object that is central to either the plot as a whole or to the motives of a specific group, much like how chess strategies are almost always based around the king, either defending yours, attacking your opponents, or both. 

The Queen:

The queen is (arguably) the most important piece on the chess board. They are the piece with the most raw power, being able to move freely in a whole 8 different directions. Due to this overwhelming power characters with Queen symbolism will tend to be the strongest in a group. They can also act as leaders, but unlike the king those with queen symbolism will tend to lead by example, fighting in the frontline alongside others. Due to this fact, if a story has both a “king” and a “queen” they will tend to be foils to each other. A queen will tend to be the single most powerful character in a story, and due to this they will commonly be villains, as it is considered normal to have an overpowered villain, but lazy writing to have an overpowered hero. 

The Bishop:

The Bishop is the piece closest to the king and queen. A character who is symbolized by a bishop will likely be emotionally close to the leader, much like how the bishop on the chess board is physically close to the leader. As characters that are closely associated with the protagonist, and tend to have  a skill set that toes the line between normal and abnormal, many lancers will be good candidates for bishop symbolism, with their close status and diagonal movement. Many bishop characters will be advisors, the people the protagonists turn to when they need help with a decision. 

The Knight:

The knight is (arguably) the most important piece on the chess board. Knights can move in a way that is entirely unique to them, with absolutely no other pieces having mobility even resembling that of knights. In addition, they have the unique characteristic of being able to travel over other pieces, and are the only type of piece that can single handedly threaten a queen. Characters with knight symbolism would be powerful, but not in a traditional way. Instead of brute strength or power, knight characters will tend to have unique or versatile abilities, and will tend to solve problems through more “clever” means. Ironically, this clashes with the typical traits of actual knights in fiction, who will tend to be straightforward characters who leave the more complicated thinking to someone else. 

The Rook:

The rook looks like a castle, and can move only in straight horizontal and vertical lines. This leads to a fairly obvious analogy to the common character archetype of a character that while physically strong, struggles to perform “mental gymnastics” and tend to be more straightforward than any other characters. This fits the typical knight character better than the knight themselves, and due to the contrasting nature of these two types of characters, they will tend to act as foils to each other. A rook will often be the powerhouse, the most dependable character across the board (pun not actually intended this time), whereas other characters will be more specialized in their abilities. 

The Pawn:

The pawn is (arguably) the most important piece on the chessboard. In addition to just the shear number of them (pawns are the most numerous piece on the board, being a whopping four times more plentiful than the runner up [a tie between rook, knight and bishop]), pawns are also the most versatile, as, the moment they complete their journey across the board, they suddenly gain a power level greater than that of the queen, as they can then become either a queen or a knight, depending on what the situation calls for (they can also become rooks or bishops, but doing that is generally a bad idea, as they are both objectively outclassed by the queen). Due to the fact that the ability to grow and adapt is literally written into the rules of the game for pawns, pawn characters are very likely to undergo character development. The journey of a pawn just so happens to map almost one to one with the journey of a hero. They start out weak, but over time, through hard work and effort, they become strong. The pawn symbolism is about equally likely to be given to one character that is highly important to the plot, or to a group of characters that are ultimately expendable and inconsequential. It is however possible to do both at once, by having a seemingly inconsequential group introduced near the start of a story, but having one member of that group become very important later on in the story. This also reflects how, in a game of chess, it is very rare for many pawns to make it to the end of the board and “evolve”.

Pawn W/ A Gun:

The pawn w/ a gun is, as the name suggests, a pawn with a gun. The pawn with a gun represents the breaking of traditions, and the refusal to go along with something just because it’s considered “normal”. Pawn w/ a guns tend to be free thinkers, and are less likely than other characters to accept certain societal norms just because they are, in fact, societal norms. Now, I know what you might be thinking-” Pawn w/ a gun isn’t a real chess piece! You just made that up!”. I have two rebuttals for that. First, I was not the originator of the concept of pawn w/ a gun. pawn w/ a gun has existed for years, spitting in the face of tradition and normality. Secondly- are all chess pieces not “made up?” someone came up with every single chess piece that is commonly used. Calling something a made up chess piece is like calling something a made up word-utterly meaningless. It is important to remember that chess is a game, and, like any game, rules should be changed or discarded if doing so would lead to a more satisfactory experience for both players. 

The Colors:

In chess symbolism, white is commonly associated with good. This makes sense, on the surface. White is the color of light, while black is the color of darkness. White represents all color, while black represents an absence of colors. I would, however, like to point out one small detail. In every game of chess ever played, every single one, white is the aggressor. White moves first, and this paints a somewhat obvious narrative- white are the attackers, while black are the defenders. This dissonance between what is commonly accepted and the actual truth of the game means that a white chess piece makes a perfect analogy for a villain with good publicity, a force or individual that, while seen as a force of good by the public, is in reality a force of evil. This can be seen quite well near the end of George Orwell’s famous book Nineteen Eighty Four.  I won’t spoil the twists for those who haven’t seen it, but a certain character compares the party -a group that while worshiped by the public is in fact one of the most vile organizations in the history of literature- to white in a chess game, noting that, much like how in the party approved chess scenarios “white always checks”.

[keanureevesisbae]

Coach Cavill - Chapter 7

Summary: Amelia is about to go on her first date with coach Cavill

Coach!Henry Cavill x Amelia Jung (Asian ofc)

Wordcount: 3.3k

Warnings: None

A/N: To celebrate the fact that I am done with school for a while, I thought I’d post (part one of) their date with you! I hope you like it 💕 please let me know if you want to be on the taglist!

Masterlist // Previous chapter // Next chapter

Within an hour I had to dress up to look splendid that Friday, because I didn’t want Dean to see how beautiful I was going to look. Maybe the stress dressing up under sixty minutes also had to do with the poor state of my planning today, but we are simply going to ignore that.

The entire week I have been looking forward to this. During the training yesterday, Henry kept stealing glances from me, after he made me a wonderful cup of cappuccino. It’s weird really, how head over heels I’m becoming, in just a matter of a little more than a week.

While everything Dean was exciting and somehow terrifying, since he was mysterious and a little hard to get, this instant connection I have with Henry feels so safe and familiar. I can’t stop thinking about him, to a point where Ricky, Annabelle and the rest of the little ones in my class kept asking me if I was doing okay. However, they figured out pretty soon I was a bit in love and now they continue to make kissy sounds during the day.

‘You look fucking hot,’ Eve says, as she brushes through my hair. ‘Lucky mister Henry Cavill.’

‘Is it too much?’ I ask, as I smooth down my tight dark blue dress, that Isabella insisted on me wearing and it’s a good fit: I mean, it accentuates the few curves I have. I look down at the matching high heels and sigh deeply. ‘It’s too much,’ I conclude.

‘No, honey, it’s not too much. You look beautiful and I know that Henry will think so too. Besides, he is already smitten with you, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about.’

I let out a sigh again. ‘It’s just that I’m nervous. How long has it been since I had my last first date?’

‘When you were nineteen,’ Eve answers my rhetorical question. ‘I know that, but that went well too and since Henry is an absolute angel, this date will go without a hitch, I can guarentee. And besides, you have done things much more terrifying than this. You went to South Korea, debuted in a girl group. A full one eighty in career choices when you got here, went on a date with the mysterious hottie Dean, somehow made that work. Plus, you were a total bad ass and gave birth to Isabella on your own, who was breeched.’

I roll my eyes. ‘I highly doubt you can compare giving birth to a first date.’

‘What I want to make clear to you, is that you are fierce and awesome and Henry knows that too.’ Eve and I both yelp when the doorbell rings. ‘Your future husband is here.’

‘Shut up,’ I say, as we walk down the stairs. She stuffs something in my clutch and hands it to me. ‘What on earth did you put in here?’ I hiss, as I grab my coat from the rack.

‘A condom.’

I halt all my movements. ‘You did what?’

‘Better to be safe than sorry.’

Before I can tell her off and that I’m really not going to have sex with Henry on the first date, she pushes me to the door and I quickly put on my coat, before I open the door.

I’m hit with the realization that I’m going on a date with the most beautiful man on this planet. He looks illegally handsome, with his nice suit jacket hanging open, that matches with his black pants. He is wearing a white blouse, nicely tucked into his pants and the tease has the two top buttons open and the sight of his chest (and the chest hair) is making my mouth dry.

‘Wow,’ he says with a beautiful smile, ‘you look beautiful, Amelia.’

This is going to kill me. How am I supposed to survive this entire night? ‘It’s not too much?’ I ask, just to be sure and first date jitters taking the upper hand.

He shakes his head. ‘This is exactly right.’

I turn to Eve, who is holding in a squeal. After being friends with her for so long, I know every facial expression. ‘Only call me if it is a matter of life or death,’ I tell her.

‘Have I ever called you when it was not important?’ I cock an eyebrow and she nods. ‘Right, I have done that before. I’m sorry. Won’t do it tonight, promise.’

‘Very good. Please, don’t wait up and don’t sit on the front porch with the twins, because I know you three want to do that.’

Eve slaps me on my ass, before I step out of the house and I sincerely hope that Henry hasn’t seen that. From the looks of it seems like he hasn’t seen that, but maybe he is just polite and doesn’t show me he has seen it. ‘Don’t look back,’ I tell Henry, as we walk towards his truck. ‘She’ll embarrass either one of us if we do so.’

Henry can’t help but laugh and he opens the door of his truck. ‘Do I have to give you a boost or can you manage?’

‘Oh shut up,’ I chuckle as I get in the car, after I took his hand. ‘Because I’m short, I have developed cat woman like skills. You should see me in the classroom, when I have to grab something from the top shelf.’

‘I’ll believe that right away.’ He closes the door and I wave to Eve, who nods approvingly and gestures something about how firm his butt looks. I mean, I can only agree to that, but once again, sure as hell hope he hasn’t seen any of that.

Henry gets in the truck and before he puts the key in the ignition, he looks to the side, meeting my eyes. ‘What?’ I ask him.

‘You look breathtaking,’ he whispers, almost as if he doesn’t want me to hear this compliment.

I’m at a loss for words. ‘Oh,’ I manage to choke out. ‘Thanks…’

He clears his throat. ‘I’m just a little nervous.’

‘What? Why? If someone should be nervous, it’s me. One, I’m going on a date with you and two, my last first date was sixteen years ago.’

He chuckles, but he sounds really nervous. ‘Well, mine might’ve not been that long ago… But I have never been on a date with someone like you.’

‘Do you mean that in a good way or…?’

Henry’s eyes widen. ‘In a good way, of course,’ he hastily says. ‘It’s more that you are way out of my league.’

What? ‘I think I was hallucinating. What?’

‘I mean, have you even seen yourself? You are admirable, in any way.’

Is this how it feels when your heart not only is figuratively melting, but also literally? ‘Oh.’

‘You are truly one of a kind, Amelia and I sure hope I meet up to what you deserve.’

Okay, I’m officially blanking. What are words?

Henry smiles and starts the car. ‘I hope you like the place I booked. I heard some pretty good things about it.’

✰ ✰ ✰

Leave it to Henry fucking Cavill to not only book a spot at my favorite restaurant here in town, but also to have a secluded spot that I didn’t know was here. We sit on the patio, a heater pointed at us to keep us warm, as we look over the lake. We are surrounded by romantic Christmas lights, as we sit next to each other on the soft couch. His arm is resting on the back, his thumb softly drawing circles on my shoulder.

He hands me a glass of wine and I can’t help but melt a bit against his frame. ‘You did amazing,’ I say. ‘I really like this spot. I never even knew it was here. How did you discover this?’

‘I might’ve had some help from Greg.’

‘Convenient store Greg?’ I ask. ‘You two becoming friends?’

‘Yeah, I’m there quite a lot. He sometimes watches Kal when I’m not home for too long of a time. Annabelle constantly tells him that she loves Kal, so that’s a plus.’

‘Annabelle is in my class,’ I say. ‘A true angel. A cheeky one, but she is such a delight to have in class.’

Henry smiles, taking a sip of his wine. We’re still waiting for our food to arrive, but the wine will do just fine for now. ‘It’s quite the one eighty, to go from a K-Pop idol to a kindergarten teacher.’

‘Oh, you have no idea,’ I chuckle. ‘It was so weird, to go from that hectic world, fans screaming your name, photoshoot here, there, dance practice and just never not busy, back to Luna Meadows, where every second seems to tick at least three times. I had to spend three months in the barn in the back of my parents yard, to simply talk with Eve and Johnny, getting used to this pace again. It was nice to be back here though, since this will always be my home.’

He nods. ‘So, you come back to Luna Meadows when you were eighteen, go back to college and…’

‘And I met Dean, when I was nineteen, was twenty one when I had Benji, somehow got my degree and after I graduated, I married Dean.’

‘Wow,’ he says. ‘That is top tier multitasking.’

‘That’s what I thought so,’ I chuckle, taking a sip of my wine. ‘It was really important for me to finish college, because, I wanted to be able to provide for myself and even after I graduated, I worked three days a week. I’m not equipped to be a full-time house wife. I tried that for two months and then I became mad.’

Henry laughs. ‘And now you work full-time.’

‘I do, indeed. It’s the only way I can continue to pay for the house. I don’t want to move away from Eve and her baby sit service.’

He nods in agreement. ‘You are very lucky to have friends that care so much and do so much for you.’

‘I sure am,’ I say with a smile. I take another sip, before I ask: ‘What about you? Why did you leave Jersey to move here?’

‘I was a judo coach there and worked in a cafe. However, some family stuff happened and I had to get out of there.’ Henry clears his throat and shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, no, you don’t want to talk about it, I totally understand it. Just, tell me how you got into judo then.’ I turn a bit to the side and oh my, I can feel his strong body against mine, but weirdly enough it doesn’t make me nervous anymore.

‘Oh, that was something me and my grandpa had together. All of my brothers were into team sports, like lacrosse, football and rugby.’

My eyes widen. ‘You have brothers?’

‘Mhm, four,’ he says.

‘Your mom had five kids?’ I ask him.

He can’t stop his laugh. ‘She did.’

‘Mad respect,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to be too TMI, but I had to recover six years after I had Benji before I even thought about adding another one. Not the point, Amelia,’ I quickly realize letting out a soft chuckle. ‘Your brothers were into team sports.’

Henry nods, a smile evident on his lips. ‘My entire family was obsessed with everything team sport related, including us as a family. I liked to do things solo, just like my granddad and that’s how judo became our thing. My family supported me and judo, of course, but… I knew they didn’t really like the sport as much as my granddad and I liked it. When I was twenty, I was actually doing pretty well. Competing in national tournaments, even some international ones.’

I frown. ‘Why do I feel a however coming up?’ I ask him.

He snickers. ‘However, I broke my leg in three places when I was in the gym.’

‘Oh no,’ I say, as I shiver.

‘Yeah, it was pretty bad,’ he chuckles. ‘But judo was my life and I couldn’t just let it go, so I started to work as a trainer and coach, but I didn’t make enough money to provide for myself, so I also worked in a cafe.’

I nod. ‘And why did you choose Luna Meadows?’

He shrugs. ‘It just felt right. And that’s where I met the most amazing judoka I have ever seen. Benji is miles ahead of not only everyone here, but also to everyone I have ever encountered.’

‘Including you?’

‘Including me,’ he laughs. ‘He is amazing.’

‘That’s because he has some judo genes from his amazing mother,’ I chuckle, as I throw my hair over my shoulder. ‘I was quite something back in the days.’

He chuckles. ‘So, what does Isabella do?’

‘She is in a drama club. When she was younger, she would force Benji, Yara, Jake and Lola to be side characters in a play she made up, where she was the main character. She is overly dramatic and I figured that I would do the other kids a favor if I would put her in a drama club. Yara and she go every Tuesday, Wednesday and Sunday after school with Eve.’

‘It must be amazing to have a friend this close living to you.’

‘It does,’ I say, as I stare at my wine. ‘Made the whole divorce thing a whole lot better to handle.’

‘I imagine. Divorce is never easy.’

‘Experience or…?’ I carefully ask.

‘I was married,’ he says, ‘but the second we said ‘I do’, it was already a lost cause, really. Actually, we never really fit together.’

I take a sip of my wine, but I place my other hand on his strong leg. Normally I wouldn’t be this forward, but it feels so warm and comfortable. ‘Is she part of the reason that you had to leave Jersey?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, we were married from my twenty fifth to my twenty seventh.’

Okay, he doesn’t want to continue to talk about it and for some reason I can’t stop the words from coming out of my mouth. ‘You know, I never thought I’d go on a date again.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because everyone in this town knows that I got divorced and everyone had an opinion about it,’ I whisper. ‘You know, I wasn’t exactly the most loved. A lot of them thought it was my fault that Dean started to see someone else. I wasn’t a good enough wife, who didn’t love her husband enough.’

When I look up, I see that Henry has clenched his jaw, before taking a sip of his wine. ‘That’s bullshit.’

‘I know,’ I say mostly out of disbelieve. ‘But good things happen to good people and now I met you.’

‘Moving to Luna Meadows was a good move on my behalf.’

Our pasta arrives and I sit up a bit straighter. ‘This looks delicious,’ I say, twirling around my fork, to twist the spaghetti around it. ‘Henry Cavill, you sure know how to swoop a woman off her feet.’

Henry smiles, taking a bite of his pasta. It’s different than mine, but it looks delicious. I can see him ogling my plate as well and I guess the grass is indeed greener on the other side. ‘Here,’ I say, with a fork full of pasta. I hold it above my other hand, so I won’t spill something on any of us. I now realize that it might be weird to feed a grown man on our first date, but I can’t go back now.

‘You’re a natural,’ he chuckles, before taking a bite. ‘Oh, yours is really good. Want a bite of mine?’

‘Sure,’ I say with a blush creeping up on my cheeks. He is a little clumsy, but somehow manages to bring the fork to my lips, without it spilling on my dress. With his thumb he wipes the corner of my mouth clean. ‘Am I tasting some cinnamon?’

‘That was what I was thinking,’ he says. ‘I would never put cinnamon in my pasta, but it is really tasty and it actually works.’

‘I once accidentally added honey to the chicken and somehow it turned out to be pretty okay.’

‘Yeah, Benji told me you weren’t a great cook.’

I hide my face in my hands. ‘I may have burned quite a few meals in my kitchen. One time, for Thanksgiving, I attempted to cook for Eve and Johnny, because they were having a bit of a rough time, with Lola being admitted into the hospital and all. However, I burned the entire meal, the kitchen was filled with smoke and I had a complete meltdown. Isabella called my parents and somehow my mom saved the day.’

Henry’s shoulder shake as he laughs. ‘That would be quite the sight.’

‘Oh, it was terrible. Can you imagine if I was a full time housewife? I think I’d have the fire department on speed dial.’

I want to add something to this (believe me, I have tons of stories of me nearly burning down my place), but my phone starts to ring and I quickly open my clutch to check the screen.

It’s Eve.

Part of me doesn’t want to take it, but I know that she took her promise serious. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.

‘Please, take it,’ Henry encourages me, when he sees me hesitating.

I pick up and say: ‘Eve, this better be very important.’ However I don’t hear her voice, but I hear Benji yelling in the background and that is something I barely understand. ‘What’s wrong? Is everything okay?’

‘I have no idea,’ Eve manages to say. ‘Isabella is just sitting in the corner of your living room, not speaking at all.’ That can’t be good. ‘Benji is on the edge of losing it, but I feel like he is too much in a rage to listen to any of us and Dean is outside, trying to let himself in, but we locked the door. I’m really sorry to interrupt your date, but I feel like both of your kids need you right now.’

My heart sinks. ‘Oh no,’ I mumble. ‘I’m coming back.’

‘I hate dad,’ I hear Benji yell in the background. ‘I fucking hate him.’

‘Benji, please stop it!’ Lola pleads.

‘This is not working, man,’ Jake adds.

‘Mom, Isabella is crying,’ Yara says.

I hang up, shaking my head. ‘I’m so sorry, Henry, I have to get back. Something is really wrong and according to Eve, Benji is really close to losing it completely and Isabella is not talking, Dean is outside of my house…’

‘I heard it,’ he says, already standing up, holding up my coat. ‘Let me get you home.’

[aion-rsa]

Holiday Gift Guide 2020: Books for Geeks

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The holiday season is probably going to look very different this year, but there’s one thing that hasn’t changed: the sacred ritual of gift-giving. While we might not be able to gather in the same way for the 2020 holiday season, we can still let the people in our lives know how much they mean to us with the perfect gift (and maybe get ourselves something nice while we’re at it—we deserve it).

We here at Den of Geek believe there is no better gift than a good book and, with nerd culture still very much mainstream culture, there is no shortage of geeky books to get the nerd in your life. From Star Wars and Star Trek to Outlander and Wheel of Time to those speculative fiction books that broke into the zeitgeist this year without a franchise to support them, here’s a list of books we recommend for every kind of geek…

Editor’s note: Den of Geek may receive a small commission from items purchased through the links in this story.

The Eye of the World 30th Anniversary Edition by Robert Jordan

For the “Wheel of Time” fan in your life.

We’re all excited about the forthcoming Amazon Prime adaptation of the Wheel of Time series, especially long-time fans of Jordan’s fantasy epic. It’s been 30 years since the series launched, and this special 30th Anniversary Edition of the first book in the series, The Eye of the World, helps capture all the magic of reading the book for the first time. This edition features a new introduction by Brandon Sanderson, a hardcover stamp of the snake-wheel symbol so important to the series, redesigned jacket art, and a ribbon bookmark. Whether you want to give this to a longtime fan or whether you’re hoping to hook an epic fantasy reader on the series, the high production value on this special edition makes for a great gift.

Buy The Eye of the World 30th Anniversary Edition by Robert Jordan

The Wintertime Paradox: Festive Stories from the World of Doctor Who by Dave Rudden

For the Doctor Who fan in your life.

This spin on Doctor Who features twelve stories in the “Whoverse” all set on or around Christmas. While the holiday doesn’t play an important feature in many of the stories, visions of the Doctor’s Christmas Past, Present, and Future are sure to entertain. Though most likely to appeal to fans of the series, this is also a collection marketed toward children, which makes it possible to share your love of the series with a young person in your life.

Buy The Wintertime Paradox: Festive Stories from the World of Doctor Who by Dave Rudden

Heroes’ Feast: The Official Dungeons and Dragons Cookbook

For the gamer in your life.

While cooking these recipes isn’t as simple as casting the titular spell, it does contain eighty recipes for fantasy inspired feasts. In addition to the recipes—some of which may be a little challenging for beginners, as they start from scratch rather than premade ingredients—the foods come with lore about the foods from the familiar Dungeons and Dragons cultures. Included are recipes for Feywild Eggs, “Orc” Bacon, Dwarven Mulled Wine, and Halfling Heartland’s Rose Apple and Blackberry Pie. Making some of these for game night might be a challenge, but Halfling-style Melted Cheeses with Chunky Tomato Broth sounds so good, your giftee won’t even mind if some spills on their character sheet.

Buy Heroes’ Feast: The Official Dungeons and Dragons Cookbook

Rebel Sisters by Tochi Onyebuchi

For the anti-war, YA fan in your life.

It’s been a big year for Onyebuchi, with this second book in his “War Girls” series and his first adult novel, Riot Baby, hitting the shelves. Onyebuchi’s Afrofuturist YA features nineteen year old Ify as a respected medical officer on the Space Colonies, and Uzo, a synth who’s working to preserve the memories and history of wartorn Nigeria. When a virus hits the Space Colonies, Ify must return to Nigeria for answers—even though she’d pledged to leave her homeland behind. For readers who love strong Black girls leading the action in a space-bound future, this is a fantastic pick.

Buy Rebel Sisters by Tochi Onyebuchi

To Sleep in a Sea of Stars by Christopher Paolini

For the Eragon and space opera fan.

Fantasy readers remember Christopher Paolini from “The Inheritance Cycle,” published for YA readers, which were filled with dragons and magic. But Paolini’s first adult novel heads into space, introducing the Fractalverse setting, and focusing on a xenobiologist whose encounter with an ancient, alien artifact sends her across the galaxy, where the fate of humanity rests on her shoulders. This is a great choice for fans who grew up on Paolini’s YA novels, or for readers who like doorstopper sci fi.

Buy To Sleep in a Sea of Stars by Christopher Paolini

The Hollow Ones by Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan

For fans of The Strain.

The Strain had four seasons on FX, and the horror drama procedural won fans and awards. The show was based on a trilogy of novels from master of horror Guillermo del Toro and literary heavyweight Chuck Hogan, who have now reunited on a fresh series. The Hollow Ones follows a young FBI agent who discovers an otherworldly evil when it takes over her partner—and forces her to kill him in self defense. For fans who love their procedurals with a heavy dose of horror, this is sure to keep their spines tingling.

Buy The Hollow Ones by Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan

The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian by Phil Szostak

For fans of Baby Yoda.

The Mandalorian has clearly been a breakout show for Disney+, putting new life into the Star Wars universe, and featuring everyone’s favorite new character, The Child (aka Baby Yoda). The end of each episode features concept art designed for the show, and for viewers who love seeing where the ideas germinated, The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian is a fantastic way to dig into the details of the first season.

Buy The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian by Phil Szostak

Cemetery Boys by Aidan Thomas

For queer paranormal romance lovers.

Yadriel is determined to prove himself as a brujo—even though his family hasn’t accepted him as a boy. But when he raises the wrong spirit while trying to solve the mystery of his cousin’s death, everything gets more complicated. In our review, we praised the book for its groundbreaking depiction of trans identity in Latinx culture and called it “a riveting, romantic read filled with paranormal wonder.” Fans who loved the queer romance reveal in She-Ra won’t be able to stop turning pages.

Buy Cemetery Boys by Aidan Thomas

Seven of Infinities by Aliette de Bodard

For the lover of science fiction sleuths.

This latest in de Bodard’s Xuya universe features an unlikely pair of detectives teaming up to solve a murder. Vân is a poor scholar hiding her possession of an illegal implant. Sunless Woods is a mindship who is also a thief and master of disguise. The pair have to work together to solve a murder—and unravel their own secrets. For readers who enjoyed de Bodard’s previous The Tea Master and the Detective or enjoy a good detective tale in space, this is a sure hit.

Buy Seven of Infinities by Aliette de Bodard

Super Mario: Manga Mania by Yukio Sawada

For the NES nostalgic.

It’s the 35th anniversary of Super Mario Bros! This is the first Super Mario manga ever available in English, and for classic NES fans nostalgic for the good old days of their vintage system, the zany adventures contained in this volume hit all the right notes.

Buy Super Mario: Manga Mania by Yukio Sawada

Sal and Gabi Break / Fix the Universe by Carlos Hernandez

For the young reader in your life.

The Sal and Gabi duology (Sal and Gabi Break the Universe and Sal and Gabi Fix the Universe) are ostensibly about a boy who can reach through the multiverse and bring things through to his part of reality—but they’re also about friendship, finding common ground, being your best self, and sentient AI. Most middle grade books depict middle school as an evil horrible place, as much an antagonist as the book’s real villain. The Sal and Gabi books do away with all of that. Not only is Culeco Academy the coolest middle school ever, the series manages to ramp up all the tension and drama needed without having an actual villain. (Even the people who seem villainous at first turn out to be different from expected.) These are a delight for adult readers who love middle grade fiction, but they’re even more important for middle schoolers, who deserve to see kids their age saving the multiverse in communities full of hope and love.

Buy Sal and Gabi Break / Fix the Universe by Carlos Hernandez

Outlander Knitting: The Official Book of 20 Knits Inspired by the Hit Series by Kate Atherley

For the crafter in your life.

For fans of either Diana Gabaldon’s time-travel romance novel series or the hit Starz adaptation, this collection of patterns inspired by the show will transport your crafting friend into the Scottish Highlands. Featured among the projects are clothing, accessories, and decorations for the home.

Buy Outlander Knitting: The Official Book of 20 Knits Inspired by the Hit Series by Kate Atherley

The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones

For horror fans.

Compared favorably to horror-master Stephen King’s It, this classic revenge horror seamlessly combines elements of social commentary and drama. The story follows for American Indian men who, as childhood friends, experienced a disturbing event together. Now, the past has come back with a vengeance, and there’s no avoiding the violence they tried to leave behind. Jones is making his mark in the world of horror, and this is a not-to-be-missed thriller.

Buy The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones

Teen Titans: Raven and Beast Boy box set by Kami Garcia and Gabriel Picolo

For DC fans.

Garcia and Picolo’s Raven and Beast Boy origin stories reinvent the characters for an audience who may have already met them in kid-friendly Teen Titans Go! or adult-aimed Titans. While the comic versions presented here draw on those previous incarnations, the stories are self-contained, giving readers both familiar and new to the DC series a chance to experience them for the first time. This hardcover box set gives the books an extra gift-worthy feeling.

Buy Teen Titans: Raven and Beast Boy box set by Kami Garcia and Gabriel Picolo

Thorn by Intisar Khanani

For the friend who needs a fresh fairy tale.

In this retelling of “The Goose Girl,” reluctant Princess Alyrra is happy to have escaped royal life. But when she learns of a plot against the prince, she must decide whether to reclaim the heritage she wanted to leave behind, or let the kingdom fall. This beautiful hardcover edition also features an additional short story set in the same world.

Buy Thorn by Intisar Khanani

Dinosaurs: The Grand Tour, Second Edition: Everything Worth Knowing about Dinosaurs from Aardonyx to Zuniceratops by Keiron Pim

For Jurassic World and other dinosaur fans.

While the 2020 entry into the Jurassic World franchise, Camp Cretaceous, was geared toward younger viewers, plenty of adults never grow out of their love of dinosaurs. And why should they? These prehistoric terrors continue to be amazing—and modern scientists continue to make new discoveries on an almost weekly basis. This huge guide to dinosaur species offers references for more than 300 species full of colorful illustrations that show these titans in all their (feathery!) glory.

Buy Dinosaurs—The Grand Tour, Second Edition: Everything Worth Knowing about Dinosaurs from Aardonyx to Zuniceratops by Keiron Pim

The City We Became by N. K. Jemisin

For the SFF connoisseur.

This series starter is set in a contemporary New York—but the city is coming to life. But a city killer is trying to stop New York from evolving, and the city’s mortal avatars are the target of its plans. It’s not uncommon to hear people considering N. K. Jemisin the best modern writer of speculative fiction, bar none, so picking up The City We Became, her most recent novel, is a no brainer if you’re buying for someone who likes smart, quality SFF.

Buy The City We Became by N. K. Jemisin

Cyber Shogun Revolution by Peter Tieryas

For the mecha enthusiast.

This triumphant conclusion to Tieryas’s United States of Japan trilogy, which can be read as a stand-alone, takes place in an alternate reality where Japan and Germany won World War II and divided the United States between them. An assassin known as Bloody Mary is determined to eliminate corruption from within the United States of Japan, regardless of the cost. It’s up to a secret police agent and a star mecha pilot to stop her, but determining enemies from friends is almost impossible. Tieryas balances the super cool world of mecha battles and spy action with searing social commentary and ethical questions, making this a challenging but imminently worthwhile read for fans of Pacific Rim.

Buy Cyber Shogun Revolution by Peter Tieryas

Star Trek: The Wisdom of Picard by Chip Carter

For the Star Trek fan in your life.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard has always been quotably wise. In this collection, Chip Carter pulls together some of the greatest lines, featuring Picard’s thoughts on leadership, justice, and space exploration. The quotes are accompanied by photography from iconic scenes of The Next Generation, making this a perfect gift for the Star Trek fan who already has everything.

Buy Star Trek: The Wisdom of Picard by Chip Carter

Axiom’s End by Lindsay Ellis

For fans of Arrival and Stranger Things.

This first contact story from Hugo-nominated video-essayist Ellis is set in an alternate 2007. In the world of the novel, Cora’s father has blown the whistle on the first contact cover up. Cora herself wants nothing to do with aliens, but when one of the aliens decides Cora is the only human he’ll talk to, she’s stuck in the middle of everything. For lovers of aliens and conspiracy theories, this is one to pick up.

Buy Axiom’s End by Lindsay Ellis

Court of Lions by Somaiya Daud

For lovers of YA court intrigue.

In this sequel to Daud’s Mirage, Amani, who has been forced to serve as the body double for Princess Maram, is on her last chance. The princess discovered Amani’s connection to the rebellion, and now Maram is suspicious of anything Amani does. Yet Amani is dedicated to the cause of seeing her people free, which means she has to make a choice: continue to work from within the palace and risk her life, or flee and risk her people. For a female-centered plot that deals with consequences of colonialism, this series conclusion and its predecessor are a sure hit.

Buy Court of Lions by Somaiya Daud

Star Wars From a Certain Point of View: The Empire Strikes Back

For the Star Wars fan.

Called “one of the best Star Wars books released this year” in our Den of Geek review, this anthology is packed with stories from authors both well-known and unfamiliar, whose works delve into the lives of central and side characters from The Empire Strikes Back. While some explore relationships between key characters (Luke, Leia, Obi-wan), others tackle the points of view of previously unnamed creatures (Sy-O, the space slug that swallows the Millenium Falcon). The stories are sometimes delightfully weird, other times grim or tender, and all a good gift choice for the Star Wars fan whose favorite film is still Empire.

Buy Star Wars From a Certain Point of View: The Empire Strikes Back

Remina by Junji Ito

For the manga fan.

This science fiction horror story centers on Dr. Oguro, who discovers a planet that has emerged from a wormhole and names it after his daughter, Remina. But as the girl Remina rises to fame, the planet shifts its course, threatening all life on Earth. Could Remina herself be the cause? This chilling story is a classic from Eisner-winner Junji Ito newly released for an English-reading audience.

Buy Remina by Junji Ito

Be Water, My Friend: The Teachings of Bruce Lee by Shannon Lee

For the martial arts enthusiast.

For friends who like a little more grounded, real-world take, this exploration of Bruce Lee’s philosophies, written by his daughter, offer insight into the legendary martial artist. Although this title offers no martial arts tips, it is full of philosophy, untold stories, and inspirational takes from the cultural icon.

Buy Be Water, My Friend: The Teachings of Bruce Lee by Shannon Lee

Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

For the lover of gothic horror.

When her cousin begs her to come rescue her from a mysterious doom, Noemí heads to a house in the Mexican countryside. As she looks into the secrets of both the house and her newly-wed cousin’s husband, Noemí finds that there’s more danger—real and supernatural—than she ever imagined. Set in the 1950s, this supernatural horror blends elements of Rebecca and science fiction for a chilling novel perfect for lovers of classic gothics.

Buy Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

Marvel Greatest Comics: 100 Comics That Built a Universe

For the Marvel fan.

In a collection that spans the entire history of Marvel comics, characters like the Human Torch, Spider-Man, the Avengers, and the Guardians of the Galaxy show their historical origins. If you have a fan who’s waiting impatiently for the next MCU offering, this collection of some of Marvel’s defining comics from the company’s history may be just what they need to tide them over.

Buy Marvel Greatest Comics: 100 Comics that Built a Universe

Star Daughter by Shveta Thakrar

For lovers of mythology and fairy tales.

Billed as Neil Gaiman’s Stardust meets Hindi mythology, this debut novel centers on the daughter of a star and a mortal. Sheetal tries to be normal, but when her starfire accidentally hurts her mortal father, she must travel to the celestial court in order to save him. The combination of court intrigue, mythology, and a fairy-tale like tone is perfect for YA lovers.

Buy Star Daughter by Shveta Thakrar

Emerald Blaze by Ilona Andrews

For the romantic who needs a great stocking stuffer.

Although better known for the popular Kate Daniels series, the Ilona Andrews team (husband and wife Ilona and Gordon) has knocked it out of the park with the most recent installment in their “Hidden Legacy” series. There are now five novels and a novella in the series, with Emerald Blaze as the second book of a second arc, but while the book is most likely to resonate with readers already introduced to the character, it’s also a stand-alone magic-spy-action-adventure-romance. Despite that blend of genres, Team Andrews melds it all together in a world with both super cool magic and an alternate-reality Instagram, featuring characters you want to hang out with regardless of the stakes. The mass-market size also makes it perfect to slip into a stocking!

Buy Emerald Blaze by Ilona Andrews

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[bangtan-gal]

Washed Away

Lee Jeno x Fem!Reader Agent!AU Word Count: 4.1k  Warnings: swearing, mentions of blood, kidnapping, weapon use, child abuse, angst, fluff Requested

Feet buried in the sand, eyes closed, and the waves gently crashing against the shore was the image of perfection to you. The beach was mostly empty this early in the morning, only a few runners hurrying past. You had gotten up early that morning in order to see the sunset and then found yourself too lazy to head back to the house, so instead you laid back in the sand.

It could’ve been better of course. You had booked this trip months in advance with your fiance, Jeno, but then something had come up. Specifically, work had come up. 

You were happy for Jeno, you really were. It was amazing to see him getting the recognition he deserved in the field, but it was hard. In order for him to become more successful, he had to spend more time at work and less time with you. It hurt, but you understood.

Mostly.

Jeno had tried to convince you to wait and reschedule the trip so the two of you could both go. Instead, you’d been slightly petty when you told him that you were going anyway because you wanted to be at the beach instead of at home waiting to see if he’d return from whatever dangerous mission he was on.

“Ma’am…?” Your eyes opened to see a small boy approaching you. Tears were collecting at the corners of his eyes and his lips were quivering. You sat up.

“Hey bud, what’s wrong?” You asked.

He sniffled.

“I-I can’t find my mommy,” he mumbled. You stood up and moved towards him.

“Where did you last see her?”

He pointed in the direction of the parking lot so you took his hand and walked in that direction. He followed along beside you and his eyes darted around. As you continued to walk towards the parking lot, your stomach started to twist. It was oddly empty. A woman appeared around the corner, frantically looking around.

“Is that her?” You queried, pointing. He nodded, but instead of running to her side, he stood by you. The woman saw the two of you and hurried towards you. She hugged the boy, muttering thanks and worries. Then she looked up at you and her hand wrapped around her wrist.

“Thank you so much,” she whispered. 

“O-oh, it’s fine,” you promised. Your stomach was starting to tighten even more and the cold, eerie feeling creeping up your spine wasn’t helping. Something wasn’t right here. 

You tried to pull out of her grasp, but she held tight to you. You stepped back, your breathing started to pick up as she straightened up to her full height. You opened your mouth to scream for help but somebody came up from behind you and covered your mouth and your eyes. Thrashing was useless, whoever it was was much stronger than you. 

The world slowly slipped away.

🗲🗲🗲🗲🗲

Jeno liked to think of himself as a cool-headed person and credited his success in his field to that skill. But the last time he heard from Y/N was three days ago. He’d forced himself to stay calm, telling himself that she just wanted alone time. Jeno knew she was mad at him, so he couldn’t blame her. Then yesterday when he went to pick her up from the airport only to find out she’d never even gotten on the plane, he started to lose it. Y/N had a fiery personality at times, but she wasn’t irrational. 

“Sir, you have to let me go look for her.”

His boss looked up at him from under his eyebrows. There was no worry and even any remote interest in his gaze. He didn’t care. He wanted Jeno to stay here and work on the Bluehill Killer case. 

“There’s plenty of other people who can do it,” he huffed.

“Jeno, it’s your case, isn’t it?” 

The brunette frowned. His boss and his stupid rules: you take the case, you complete it. 

“But sir… it’s Y/N.” As if that would make the answer any different. His boss shook his head once again and Jeno huffed, leaving the office. He stormed to his desk and sat down hard, angrily shoving his current case files out of the way. 

“He said no?” Taeil asked. Jeno nodded, gritting his teeth. This wasn’t okay: someone could possibly be missing and his boss didn’t even care. “Just go man. I’ll say you threw up and headed home.”

Jeno frowned. “He won’t believe you.”

“He’ll be forced to.” Taeil shrugged.

With that, Jeno grabbed his phone and keys and rushed out of the building. He was already forming a plan in his head. His best option would be to call the inn that Y/N was staying at, get a ticket to Haeundae-gu, and just go with his instincts from there. 

“Hi! This is Sana at MishMish Inn, how can I help you?” A cheery voice answered. 

“I was just curious about one of your recent guests—Y/N Y/L/N—I’m her fiance and I haven’t heard from her for three days,” he explained as he hurried to his car. There was silence on the other side for a few seconds.

“Well… when she didn’t check out yesterday morning, we went to check her room… and it looked like no one had been in there for a while,” she said, her voice losing it’s cheer, “we have police on the case already, considering how suspicious it looked. She, well, she didn’t look like someone who would just disappear.”

Jeno could’ve screamed as he slammed his hand into the steering wheel. The horn honked.

“That’s ‘cause she’s not. Do the police have any sort of lead?” He asked, starting his car. 

“It’s not my place to say sir.”

Jeno cursed and then thanked her, hanging up. He didn’t care about packing or preparing as he raced towards the airport. He thought all he had to do was flash his badge and ‘BAM!’ he’d have a flight to Haeundae-gu, but that was not how it happened.

Instead he bargained with the clerk for a good thirty minutes. He had to slid her twenty to get her to even look at planes going there and another fifty to get her to be willing to get him the ticket. He raced through security and to his gate after that. The hardest part of it was sitting still in the plane for a whole hour.

The second his feet were back on the ground, he was racing through the airport. After 96 hours, it was nearly impossible to find a missing person. He had twenty-four hours to meet that time-slot and it wasn’t enough time.

Jeno managed to get to the inn. Police cars were littered outside along with several police. Eyes darted his way in suspicion, but he ignored them. 

“Where’s the room?” He asked, leaning against the front desk. The girl looked up at him, startled. Her mouth opened and closed and then she glanced around her.

“Are you the guy who called earlier?” She muttered, tilting her head. Jeno huffed, pulling his ID from his pocket and showing her it. Her mouth opened in an ‘O’ and she wordlessly pointed down the hallway. 

Jeno’s heart pounded as he made his way down the hallway to where a few police officers conversed outside a door. He stared into it, eyes zeroing in on her unpacked suitcase and the few articles of clothing tossed around the room. He forced the gasp to stay in.

“Sir, we can’t have you over here,” a man in a suit muttered. Jeno shook himself out of his daze, showing him his badge. The man stared at it skeptically, then glanced up at him.

“Detective Huang,” he muttered, holding out a hand, “why did Seoul send you down here?” Jeno opened his mouth and then closed it with a frown.

“We… uh, we’ve seen a lot of disappearances like this,” he explained, “wanted me to check it out.”

The detective handed him his badge back, a skeptical stare on his face. Then he shrugged, turning towards the scene.

“Y/N Y/L/N, nineteen, female,” he stated, “went missing last night. No witnesses.”

“Do you know where she went missing?” Jeno asked. 

“The staff said that she went down to the beach early morning every day. It’s natural to assume that she was taken around that time period in an area close by.” The detective paused for a second, pulling out a notepad and biting his lip. “Some of the people we’ve interviewed think it’s human trafficking.”

Suddenly Jeno had to fight the strong urge to throw up.

“I-is that common here?” “Not until recently, there’s been a reported gang that just migrated here,” he sighed. Then Detective Huang looked back at him. Jeno didn’t like the way he stared at him, almost as if he was picking him apart piece by piece. “This is gonna be a hard case.”

Jeno raised an eyebrow, relief washing through him.

“You’re not gonna drop it even though you have under twenty four hours?” The detective snorted. “I don’t believe in time limits.”

🗲🗲🗲🗲🗲

Y/N had been missing for eighty-two hours. Jeno was counting them and each one tied the knot in his stomach even tighter. Him and Detective Huang—Renjun—had interviewed over twenty people. They weren’t getting anywhere: no one had seen her. They had no leads and Jeno was disappointed to say that he could feel himself giving up. 

“Have you seen this woman?” Renjun asked, holding up a picture of Y/N to a passerby. The man stopped, eyes scanning over the picture. Recognition lit up in his stare.

“Yeah, I’ve ran past her on the beach several times this week,” he replied, gaze moving between the two men. “Is everything alright?”

“Did you see her at all on Tuesday?” Jeno jumped in, desperation leaked into his voice. The man paused in thought, chewing on his lip. 

“I… I was running by just as she was walking with a little boy to beach parking,” he murmured, “the kid looked like he’d been crying.”

It wasn’t much, but it was all Jeno needed. A spark of hope, a bright trail in the darkness. The two of them thanked the man and quickly made their way to Renjun’s car, discussing newfound information. Lost kids were a common trope for human trafficking gangs and it was possible there have been other victims and witnesses to it. 

Renjun managed to contact the head of his office to get a notice set up, to see if anyone could give any insight to what happened. Renjun got off the phone with a smile, saying that it would be sent out soon. The two sat in silence for a second, both of them relishing the small victory. To outsiders, it may have been pointless, but it was a step in the right direction.

“Look, I don’t mean to intrude, but you seem really into this case. Is there a reason?”

Jeno paused, staring out the car window and into the slowly darkening sky. Then he shrugged. He wasn’t sure if now was a good time to tell Renjun the truth; he couldn’t risk getting kicked off the case and his boss being called. 

“I-my sister was kidnapped a few years back. I guess you could say that it just reminds me of her,” he huffed, lying straight through his teeth with a calm expression. Renjun nodded in understanding and it almost made Jeno feel guilty. For all he knew, the man beside him could have actually experienced that.

“Did you ever find her?” Jeno looked down at his hands, voice dying out. “Not yet.”

Renjun didn’t ask anymore questions as they drove back to the station. Now all they had to do was wait for the calls to come in. Jeno found it painful and had to admire Renjun for how calm he was. This had always been his least favorite part of being a detective. The waiting.

Several hours passed and the sky continued to get darker. Jeno sat at an unoccupied desk, biting his nails. Renjun had dozed off and Jeno found himself to be the only one awake in the office. The silence was eerie and he hated it. The stillness gave him a chance to be alone with his thoughts, and in that moment, he didn’t want to.

Thankfully, he was given a distraction by one of the phones ringing.

“Haeundae Office.”

“Um… you guys put out a notice about lost kids… and suspicious mothers?” The girl’s voice was soft. Jeno quickly pulled out his notepad, balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear. Renjun hurried over, crouching down next to him.

“Yes, yes we did,” he rushed out, “have you seen something?” “Last week… it was late and I was at a store. A young boy approached me, sobbing and saying he couldn’t find his mom. He said they had been walking to store when he suddenly lost her… so I took him out to the parking lot. That was when we ran into his mother and I guess my instincts kicked in, because something didn’t seem right. 

“The woman tried to grab me, but I escaped her and then there was some man approaching me. It haunts me to think of what would have happened if they got me.” Her voice was soft and continued to waver as she explained what happened. Jeno bit his lip, refusing to let that thought wash away the hope that was slowly flaring inside him. They had a witness and a lead.

“Thank you so much,” Jeno whispered into the phone, “did you get a good look at any of them?”

There was a nervous hum from the other end of the line.

“The little boy had dark brown hair and his eyes were really blue. The mother… I just remember her being really bony. I’m sorry, I was so desperate to get out of there that I didn’t pay much attention to details.”

“No, you’ve been lots of help miss. Have a good evening.”

Jeno hung up the phone, handing his notepad to Renjun. The detective’s eyes scanned over it and then he glanced up at Jeno.

“I recognize the description. A couple weeks back a report was called on a woman screaming at her son. It also helps that red hair isn’t very common here,” Renjun muttered, “we have her address in our database, but we need a reason to arrest her.”

Jeno snorted. “We don’t need a reason to ask her some questions.”

Renjun’s eyes flashed as he looked up at Jeno. The concern in his eyes was obvious, but he didn’t state it aloud. The detective was hesitant to give Jeno the address, but eventually he caved in. As Jeno got up, hurrying towards the door, Renjun grabbed his arm.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“So?”

“I’m not gonna go now and you can’t go alone.”

“I believe I can,” he retorted. 

Silence stretched between them.

“Just don’t do something irrational,” Renjun sighed, stepping back. Jeno nodded, grabbing the car keys and hurrying outside. Jeno hopped into the car, typing the address in. 

The drive was short. There were shivers running up and down his spine as he drove down the dark and empty roads. He didn’t realize how late it was—it was nearly midnight.  As Jeno pulled drove by the house, he saw a little boy with red hair sitting on the porch. The lights were on. 

Jeno slid out of the car, hand resting over his gun under his waistband. The boy noticed him as he slowly made his way up the driveway. It was the same description that the girl had given him: red hair and bright blue eyes.  The boy had been crying.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered once Jeno was in hearing range. “Mommy has visitors.”

There was a bruise forming on his cheekbone. Jeno stepped up onto the porch and crouched down in front of him. His eyes darted to the door.

“Did the visitors do this to you?” He asked, brushing his thumb over the bruise. The boy flinched and then nodded, tears starting to slip from his eyes again. Jeno realized that he didn’t need to talk to the mom, the boy might talk better than any other suspect. He turned on his recorder and smiled at the boy. “Hey, can you tell me about a girl?” The boy stared at him as Jeno pulled out a picture of Y/N, showing it to him. He bit his lip and took the picture from Jeno, staring at it. Jeno felt his gut pull at the sight of guilt that overwhelmed the boy’s face; he looked way older than he should’ve.

“Mommy made me do it… she said she wouldn’t feed me if I didn’t do it,” the boy explained, “she was at a beach and I lied to her. Now… now she’s getting hurt.”

Jeno’s heart thumped. 

“Do you know where she is?”

“One of Mommy’s friends took her to his house,” he mumbled, handing the picture back to Jeno. His blue eyes darkened as he glanced over his shoulder. “He’s in there with Mommy. He’s not happy.”

Jeno nodded with a smile. “Thank you. I-I’ll try to help you after I catch this man, okay?”

The boy didn’t reply and Jeno quickly hurried back to his car. His heart was racing as he pulled the car a little way from the house and then turned it off. This was reckless and completely stupid, because if something went wrong, he was alone. Yet he couldn’t find it in himself to pull away and come up with a plan. Y/N was in trouble and he found it his job to save her. 

A car drove by him and then parked in front of him. He stared at it, eyes widening as Renjun stepped out of the driver’s seat. The detective brushed his hair out of his eyes before hurrying towards Jeno’s car. He slid into the passenger’s seat and the whole time Jeno just stared at you.

“I thought you didn’t want to go.”

“Yeah, well, if you died, that would look bad on my record,” Renjun joked and then glanced towards the house, “so, what’s the plan?” Jeno also looked at the house.

“I talked to the boy. He said the man who took Y/N is in there, so I guess I’m just gonna follow him once he leaves,” Jeno muttered. 

“That’s a really bad idea.”

Jeno ignored him and continued to keep his gaze focused on the house. It wasn’t long before the door opened and a man stepped out. Jeno’s back straightened as the man stepped into a car across the street and his car stirred to life. He waited until the car was several meters down the street before he turned on his car and carefully followed.

“You know, he’ll probably notice us and proceed to lead us on a wild goose hunt,” Renjun pointed out. 

Jeno shot him a look of disbelief. “Are you always this positive?”

“Oh sorry—this is a fabulous plan and we won’t get caught at all!”

Jeno grumbled a ‘shut up’ and then focused on the car in front of him. The man didn’t seem to notice they were following as his driving stayed controlled and it wasn’t like he was trying to shake anyone. Eventually he pulled into a huge house and Jeno stopped several blocks away, his hands starting to shake.

“You good?”

Jeno looked over at Renjun and then nodded. 

“Yeah, let’s just go catch this scumbag.”

“Actually, why don’t you try to find the girl while I distract him. The two of us barging in there might not go too well,” Renjun hummed, stepping out of the car. Splitting up was a bad idea, but so far, this whole plan was just rolling with the punches.

Renjun marched straight up to the door, shoulders and chin high and looked almost as if he didn’t even fear death. He rang the doorbell excessively as Jeno hurried towards the back, searching for a window or door to slip through. Jeno had to thank his luck as he found a window slipped a crack open. He opened it up and climbed through. 

The house was mostly dark and was huge. He started racking his brain for where to search. Where were the best places to hide someone? In a house this big, especially with neighbors over a mile away, you could put someone in the kitchen and be fine. 

He could faintly hear Renjun chatting away with man, mumbling something about how his car broke down and that this was the closest house. Jeno didn’t waste any time, quickly opening doors and searching rooms. Renjun’s act wouldn’t last forever and sooner or later, the man would either shut the door or Renjun would do something even crazier. 

Jeno tried his best to be quiet as he rushed up the stairs. Doors opened and closed. His heart was starting to race. What if she was already gone? What if they’d already put her in the system or she was dead? 

He didn’t want to know how he’d react if that happened.

He threw one door open and was greeted by a creepy looking office. It was empty, but something about it compelled him to venture in deeper. He opened drawers, tried and failed to log into the computer, and read the notes that were scattered across the desk. He walked around the desk, questioning his sanity and that was when the floor creaked beneath him.

It creaked like stairs.

It creaked as if there was something hollow beneath it.

He crouched down, tracing the floor until he found a spot where the floor was no longer even. There was a split, leaving one side higher than the other. He traced it, going around a corner and across that side until something cold lay under his fingers. There was no key and the latch opened swiftly and somehow quietly.

The shelf beside him exploded as a bullet pierced into the wood.

Jeno jumped up, eyes meeting dark green ones. The man stared at him, head cocked to the side, and gun still pointed at him. 

“I knew something was fishy about that skinny boy.”

Renjun.

Shit, was the detective okay?

“Sir, if you could just put the gun aw—”

He fired again and this time the bullet hit between Jeno’s feet.

Something told him he was out of warning shots.

“Look, we can talk about thi—”

BANG.

Pain exploded in his thigh.

BANG.

The green-eyed man in front of him collapsed and Renjun appeared behind him, blowing a tuft of hair from his face. Jeno crumpled to the floor as well, hissing and pressing his hand to the wound. 

“Oh fuck.”

“I’m fine. I’m fine! Get down there, I think-I think she’s there,” Jeno snapped, scooting back. Blood seeped out around his fingers and slid down his jeans, staining the dark wood beneath him. Renjun opened his mouth and then didn’t argue, crawling down the ladder. Jeno’s eyes pinched shut as the pain only got worse and he could already feel the room around him start to drift away.

“She’s here!” He groaned in relief.

He heard sobbing and something rushed up the stairs. He forced his eyes open, watching as Y/N’s head appeared above the ledge. Her eyes met his and her mouth dropped open, momentarily pausing on the ladder. Then she threw herself at him, sobs growing louder as she wrapped her arms around his torso.

“Oh my god, oh my god, I’m alive. You’re here,” she gasped out. Y/N pulled back and her gaze dropped to his thigh. “Y-you’re hurt.”

She looked up at him.

“You dumbass,” she whispered.

He cracked a smile.

“I’m your dumbass, right?” 🗲🗲🗲🗲🗲

Two Months Later

The sky had never looked more blue. Jeno grinned, wrapping his arm around Y/N. The breeze was cool, but it was relaxing as it shifted through his hair. The waves crashed quietly against the shore as the pair stood in the sand. Y/N’s eyes weren’t focused on the sky though, it was focused on the paper in her hand. 

Jeno’s resignation letter.

“I never thought you’d do it,” she muttered, handing it back to him.

He shrugged.

“I don’t need my time with you being taken away because of that job.”

He stated it simply. 

It was simple.

Y/N was more important than anything else in his life.

[acourtofbooksandmemes]

Books read 2019: November

1. The Diviners (The Diviners #1) - Libba Bray 🔪

Halloween was closing in and I wanted some spooky reads so I watched recommendation videos from the booktubers I was following and found this, it really intrigued me. And it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. New York, 1920, diversity, mystery, murders and diviners/cool powers. What more can I ask? I must admit, I didn’t get into it from the beginning, but when I did wow I was stuck. Not to mention it had a hell of a lot pages for being the first book, but oh no I’m not complaining! I’ve never read about this scenario and Libba Bray really made everything so believing with her writing style, like I actually lived in 1920; going full-out with descriptions and even adding a lot of POVs from outside to explain how things went daily for common people, and atmosphere during some events. The murderer's and the victims’ POVs made everything so much more chilling. These characters are so amazing; a flapper girl with psychometry powers who drowns her problems in fame and the pleasures of life, a Jewish chic-magnet and thief on a quest after his mother, a fierce flapper girl from an abused past, the new Orleans gay song-writer with the funniest personality, a poet from Chinatown with healing powers. I don’t know what more to say more than I hope I’ve convinced you to read it :)

2. Lair of Dreams (The Diviners #2) - Libba Bray ⏳

The series just gets better and better and seeing the characters coming together was the best part. I liked the first book but with this one it has become one of my all-time favorites, wow and the fact that I have two more.. The story just keeps evolving and you get a taste for the for what all this is leading up to, or more like from. The second book goes deeper in the ability to dreamwalk and talk with the dead, not to mention in ways my heart can break :’( also I would die for Sam Lloyd

3. The Amulet of Samarkand (Bartimaeus Trilogy #1) - Jonathan Stroud ⚡️

Lockwood & Co is my second favorite childhood series so I was excited to pick this one up. Not gonna lie it wasn’t my style but I enjoyed it quite a deal, mostly because of this arrogant century old demon. The other main characters who was a twelve year old boy or something who summoned Bartimaeus turned out to be someone I couldn’t care less about. BUT I’m sure it will change through the series, if he’s a part of the other books as well. Other than that I like London with magic and the whole set up.

4. Nineteen Eighty-Four - George Orwell 🚬

Was handed it as a project in English class about literature. As a whole it is a good book, even though i had a hard time getting through it. It’s a hard dystopian where the government has total control over the population through obligatory tv screens and enforce them to behave in just one way and erasing what it means to be an individual. Everything is about killing the right amount of people and having full control of history. “Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.” I like it cuz the book was well written and not your usual story, but the characters aren’t likeable and you really can’t there’s any light in it.

5. Heartstopper: vol 2 - Alice Oseman 🧸

These two are the goofiest dorks I’ve read about and I love seeing their relationship evolve and the way Oseman take on social problems.

6. Heartstopper: vol 3 - Alice Oseman 🖼

Not so much more to add than the story isn’t getting worse.

[elcrivain]

It’s time. You have to pick up that dreaded classic you have lying around. Maybe it’s Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables, or even worse, William Shakespeare’s Richard III. Those things look terrifying with all that fancy bindings and annotations. But you have to read it anyway, either because some lame English professor assigned it or because you want to be well-read. Either way, you know it’s going to be hard.

Why do we struggle so? Why do such books make even the most avid of readers tremble in their boots? What is the problem with these damned things?

It’s all about the context. Or, rather, about how most modern readers lack the context to understand and appreciate classics. The boring dictionary definition of context is: The circumstance or setting in which an idea or even can be fully understood. If you don’t have context, an idea — such as the ones in classics — are liable to be misunderstood or outright overlooked. We, in all of our modernity, lack context for many classics in several respects.

The Context of Prose and Style

Language evolves. Sentence structure shifts. Words fall in and out of fashion. Even word meanings metamorphose.

It takes only a quick survey of English literature to see how much can change in a few hundred years (and we’re not even getting into translations):

A wys wyf, if that she can hir good,

Shal beren him on hond the cow is wood,

And take witnesse of hir owene mayde

Of hir assent; but herkneth how I sayde.

— Geoffrey Chaucer, “The Wife of Bath” in The Canterbury Tales (1475)

This isn’t the work of a drunken five-year-old with atrocious spelling skills. It’s Middle English, a variant of English spoken after the Norman Conquest in 1066 and before the 16th century. It bears some resemblance to modern English, but it’s gosh-darn hard to read without annotations (and alcohol).

To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them? — To die, — to sleep.

— William Shakespeare, Hamlet (1603)

Now that we’re in Modern English — yes, Shakespeare is modern — the spelling is improving, but it’s still tough to get through. Shakespeare’s heavy use of figurative language flummoxes us, literal-minded modern readers. No, those slings and arrows aren’t real!

The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up in one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint. This writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small — Catherine Earnshaw, here and there varied to Catherine Heathcliff, and then again to Catherine Linton. In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window, and continued spelling over Catherine Earnshaw — Heathcliff — Linton, till my eyes closed; but they had not rested five minutes when a glare of white letters started from the dark, as vivid as spectres — the air swarmed with Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusive name, I discovered my candle wick reclining on one of the antique volumes, and perfuming the place with an odour of roasted calf-skin.

— Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights (1847)

Compared to Shakespeare, Brontë seems straightforward, except for one thing. Like many other 19th century writers, she uses long, flowing, and descriptive sentence structure that seems incongruous compared to today’s staccato sentence structure.

Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.

— George Orwell, Nineteen-Eighty-Four (1949)

Now that we’re in the really modern part of Modern English, things are so much better. Orwell adopts the simpler, more direct style that we’re more used to. Whew! (Note that simple and straightforward prose doesn’t always translate into simple and straightforward meaning.)

Not all troublesome prose comes from old and dead white folks. Some contemporary authors eschew plainness for some flair in their prose. Whether you find that dazzling or confounding is up to you.

…I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire… I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

— William Faulkner, The Sound and Fury (1929)

Faulkner’s convoluted prose forces the reader to focus single-mindedly to follow along. Confusing as it may be, Faulkner’s marriage of the stream-of-consciousness writing of modernists and descriptiveness of Romanticism give a certain élan to his writing. Just don’t read him before bed as you’ll fall asleep without any memory of what you’ve read.

Now a member of the company seated there seemed to weigh the judge’s words and some turned to look at the black. He stood an uneasy honoree and at length he stepped back from the firelight and the juggler rose and made a motion with the cards, sweeping them in a fan before him and then proceeding along the perimeter past the boots of the men with the cards outheld as if they would find their own subject.

— Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian (1985)

McCarthy’s combination of complex sentences and a disdain of punctuation gives his writing an air of inscrutability. Love or hate him, you have to admit that the dude got a style.

The Context of Historical Settings and Culture

Most authors write for their contemporaries, not for some unknown high school student 100 years in the future. They assume that their reader knows the social and cultural contexts. Once a book survives the test of time, this assumption fails.

Jane Austen’s books serve as a good example of how our ignorance of the social mores of early 19th century genteel society can lead the reader to miss allusions that would’ve been obvious to a contemporaneous reader.

“Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?”

“Yes, ma’am, all.”

“All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The younger ones out before the elder ones are married! Your younger sisters must be very young?”

“Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps she is full young to be much in company. But really, ma’am, I think it would be very hard upon younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to marry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth at the first. And to be kept back on such a motive! I think it would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.”

“Upon my word,” said her ladyship, “you give your opinion very decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?”

“With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth, smiling, “your ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.”

Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.

“You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not conceal your age.”

“I am not one-and-twenty.”

— Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

A reader unaware of the importance (and meaning) of “being out in society” in Georgian gentry wouldn’t note how uncouth it was to have five sisters out all at once, a serious social misstep by the Bennets. (And no, “coming out” doesn’t mean the same thing as it does today.) They would also have missed how tactless it was for Lady Catherine to harp on this point and Elizabeth’s impertinence for evading Lady Catherine’s question. This is why an unschooled reader would overlook the biting satire in Austen’s novels, which is a horrible shame.

Many classic novels attack contemporaneous cultural, religious, and social conventions. If you don’t understand the norms under attack, you lose context to why the novel was so daring, so bold.

I made this mistake with Jane Eyre. Upon my first reading at 13, I dismissed it as melodramatic slop. When I revisited it at 18, I saw how Charlotte Brontë criticizes the prevailing religious belief of charity and how remarkably independent Jane Eyre is, a shocking thing for a Victorian woman. I, however, still think that the book has too many dei ex machina (overly convenient plot twists).

The Context of Narrative Conventions

Following or breaking it, many classics take a stance on narrative conventions. Thomas Hardy embraces the pastoral and tragic narratives in Tess of d’Urbervilles as James Joyce bucks the Realists’ more removed narratives with his stream-of-consciousness writing.

To understand a book’s attitude toward narrative conventions is to understand why certain writing, plot, or characters elements exist (or disappear) from a novel. These expectations ease the way for your reading. Really!

When I began reading Tess of the d’Urbervilles, I knew that it was a pastoral tragedy, which prepared me for two important things. First, since it was a pastoral, I knew Hardy would describe the setting to such detail that the town(s) would become characters in their own rights. So I was prepared for passages like these which would seem unnecessary and boring to the average modern reader (fairly enough):

The village of Marlott lay amid the north-eastern undulations of the beautiful Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor aforesaid, an engirdled and secluded region, for the most part, untrodden as yet by tourist or landscape painter, though within a four hours’ journey from London.

It is a vale whose acquaintance is best made by viewing it from the summits of the hills that surround it — except perhaps during the droughts of summer. An unguided ramble into its recesses in bad weather is apt to engender dissatisfaction with its narrow, tortuous, and miry ways.

— Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d’Urbervilles

Second, since Tess is a tragedy, I prepared myself for many frowny-face moments. If you go into a Hardy expecting a happy ending a la Pride and Prejudice, you’ve taken a wrong turn in the 19th-century bookstore.

The Context of Symbolism

When you’re a high school student studying The Great Gatsby, it might seem like the teacher is inventing all those meanings from rivers and currents to justify their paycheck. You think, “Damn it, why can’t a boat just be a boat?”

English teachers’ flights of fancy aside, symbolism is a real thing. Under the best of circumstances, symbolism deepens existing themes and ideas already present in the novel. Problems begin when you don’t recognize the signs of symbolism.

Here’s an example: The last lines heard ‘round the world:

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter — to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…. And one fine morning-

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Scholars have quarreled over the meaning of this passage for decades, showing that there is no purely correct answer. Therein lies the subjectivity of literary analysis — but it remains vital that you understand the purpose of symbolism and are able to recognize it. (Hint: watch for recurrent motifs and ideas.)

The Context of the Original Publication (or Performance)

This oft-overlooked context can massively alter your reading of a classic. Many classics weren’t originally presented in the format in which it is read today. Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales was performed in verse. Shakespearean plays were meant for the stage, not small English classrooms. And so it goes.

But those are well-known examples. The examples nobody talks about are these 19th-century epics, most of which were originally published in a serialized format where the author was paid by the word (Anna Karenina, A Tale of Two Cities, The Count of Monte Cristo). This small detail completely alters the structure and flow of those stories. The serialized format and the pay scheme encouraged such writers to write more, more, and more. This is why Anna Karenina clocks in at almost 1,000 pages filled with descriptive passages of Levin moving grass. The format also means that the author didn’t consider the “flow” of narration from chapter to chapter, creating a disjointed reading experience as the story hops from one perspective to another. These stories were never conceptualized as a novel in today’s sense. You might even benefit from reading in small bursts, just like these newspaper readers did more than 100 years ago.

If you happen to read a classic out of its original publishing context, be mindful of how that’ll affect your experience. To get the fullest and richest experience, you might want to revert back to the original storytelling form, such as watching a Shakespearean play or movie. (I recommend Much Ado About Nothing, just ignore Keanu Reeves.)

Context is everything. Without the right context, many classics appear inscrutable and downright mystifying. Most of us aren’t born with a knowledge of Middle English syntax and deep knowledge of manners among the English gentry during the Georgian era.

Where does that leave us, the befuddled readers? It leaves us with the hard reality that we need to investigate the context in which the classic was written. That means glancing at a Wikipedia page about the French Revolution before (and during) reading Les Miserables. It also means preparing yourself for a fantastical twirl through time in a South American village before you read One Hundred Years of Solitude. With some preparation, you can actually appreciate those dusty little classics.

N.B. I adopt the more expansive definition of classics as notable works of literature due to their excellence and significance, rather than the more traditional definition as pre-17th-century works of literature.

[chroniclesofamber]

THE CHRONICLES OF AMBER & History Lessons

It should be obvious that writers, composers, painters and all artists respond to the time in which they live, and that this is reflected in their art.  And it should also come as no surprise that some material is more strongly influenced by the historical moment than other art.  All this is at least as true for Roger Zelazny and his idolized Chronicles of Amber — perhaps somewhat more so, given that these five books in no small way chart a complete decade.

NINE PRINCES IN AMBER (1970)

History:  Pieces of the first book saw print as early as 1967.  It appears Zelazny worked on the book here and there for three years or more until its publication in 1970.  Still looming over the political landscape of the time was the assassination of John F. Kennedy years earlier, which had led to the Johnson “great society” era and from there to Nixon’s struggles with China, the Soviet Union and the Vietnam War.  Just as influential was the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr., as well as that of Robert Kennedy.  The 1960s were dominated by these issues, the Cold War and threat of nuclear annihilation, the rise of the counter-culture and protest movements, the Beatles and Woodstock, and the first landing of men on the Moon.

As someone familiar with Jungian psychology and Frazer’s Golden Bough, Zelazny saw a way to harness the interregnum turmoil of the Sixties while incorporating the ritual of “the Killing of the King.”  (Conspiriologists left and right — politically, and otherwise — have long adhered to the notion that it was not a coincidence that this particular killing of the king had been carried out in accordance with ancient ritual.)  The King of Amber is missing or deceased. Factions have quickly aligned to jockey for the best position to take advantage of the power vacuum.  That a conspiracy to remove both the king and Corwin is uncovered, a few books later, also mirrors the deaths of the Kennedys.  Our hero, already in a state of confusion over his own identity and situation, is thrust into the midst of this power-struggle and — like Armstrong and Aldrin aboard the Eagle — soon finds himself visiting another world.

Lesson:  Corwin charges in somewhat blindly, and is literally blinded (and imprisoned) as a result.  When he miraculously regains both his sight and his freedom, he vows that patience and planning will guide him going forward and that, this time, he will prevail and take his rightful place in Amber.  He also learns that what drives you, what you want, has a lot to say about who you are.

Journey:  He starts out being held against his will in a hospital, recovering from broken legs and near-drowning from a car accident.  By the end of the book, he is recuperating from years of blindness and imprisonment under much better circumstances in a remote lighthouse while cared for by an old friend.  When he leaves the lighthouse, no one tries to thwart his departure (he is voluntarily assisted, in point of fact), he knows exactly who he is and what he wants, and has a clear idea of his objective and how to achieve it.

THE GUNS OF AVALON (1972)

History:  Two years pass, eventful ones.  No shortage of natural disasters — major cholera epidemics in Istanbul and Slovakia; avalanches in France and Peru; earthquakes in Tonghai, Gediz, Burdur, Bingöl, Peru and elsewhere destroy cities and kill thousands; Mount Etna erupts; Montreal is buried by the blizzard dubbed La Tempête du Siècle; the Odisha cyclone overtakes the Bay of Bengal and claims 10,000 lives; 50 tornadoes tear through Louisiana and Mississippi; floods put Bangladesh and eastern Bengal underwater; the Bhola cyclone wipes out half a million people.  But the real disasters turn out to be man-made, so much so that this period could easily be described by the phrase “state of emergency.”  The Apollo 13 mission fails, though the astronauts survive and the summer of 1971 sees a rover rolling across the surface of the Moon.  Oil-price instability and Nixon taking the dollar off the gold standard together signal economic and energy crises yet-to-come, but the real instability is social, political and military.  Coups and assassinations become commonplace as former colonial possessions are granted independence.

Keyword:  Napalm.  Bombs, terrorism, murder and violence, state-sanctioned and otherwise, plague the United Kingdom due to resistance to British rule in Northern Ireland.  American incursions into Laos and Cambodia fuel growing anti-war sentiment.  The publication of the Pentagon Papers and the COINTELPRO documents stolen from FBI offices in Pennsylvania, news images of the Kent State shootings, and revelations of the My Lai Massacre throw gasoline onto the fire:  150,000 protest the Vietnam War in San Francisco on the same day that half a million march on Washington, D.C.  60% of Americans oppose American troops in Southeast Asia.  Meanwhile, the ashes of Hitler, Eva Braun, and the Goebbels family are scattered in East Germany’s Biederitz River.  Echoing all this, Zelazny pulls from the Grail quest an idea which unites the chaos reflected in the natural and human worlds in a single image — the Wasteland — and gives it the form of the Black Road, which Corwin discovers runs all the way to the outskirts of his beloved Amber.

Lesson:  Corwin struggles with his commitment to his system of values as demonic beings and foreign-imposed dictatorship threaten the shadow world Lorraine and Amber herself.  With some reluctance, he risks his own neck for a place lost to him long ago, and abandons his scheme to turn his troops and guns against Amber when the kingdom seems on the brink of falling to an enemy coming in strength.  He understands the necessity to adapt to changing conditions and to remain flexible while pursuing his goals.

Journey:  Corwin intends to sail straight to Avalon but gets lost in his very own Wood of Error, so that a spontaneous choice leads him instead into the hell of Lorraine, its Goat, and the citadel at the heart of the Black Circle.  Toward the end of the book he is again diverted from his course in that his original mission, to exact vengeance on his brother Eric and seize the throne, is set aside when he comes upon the creatures of the Black Road at Amber’s gates.  Just as he set out seeking gunpowder in Avalon but found something else along the way — the knight errant he once was long ago — he marches to Amber to find that the regicide he believed he desired was not what he would ultimately want or choose to do.

Vietnam and the 1970s

The tide had definitely turned against U.S. participation in the Vietnam War by the first years of the decade.  Nixon, having seen Johnson’s presidency founder and meet an early end due to the war, initiated a draw-down of forces.  Australia and New Zealand pulled out of the war in 1971.  By the end of that same year, American ground forces had been withdrawn from the war effort, though involvement would drag on a few more years.

Britain, though victorious after World War I, had been left depleted and weary of war — brutal trench warfare had cost the nation more than a million lives.  The Gulf of Tonkin Resolution of 1964 more or less marked the beginning of the Vietnam War in the minds of Americans, when U.S. troop strength went from 23,000 to 184,000.  It had therefore gone on longer than World War I and wound up costing approximately 60,000 American lives.  In America a fatigue had taken hold which was not so different from what post-Great War Britain had known.

Zelazny may have been responding to the mood of the times when portraying the enormity and senselessness of the losses witnessed, and caused, by Corwin and other princes of Amber.

From the first book:

“…ten thousand men dead in a plains battle with centaurs, five thousand lost in an earthquake of frightening proportions, fifteen hundred dead of a whirlwind plague that swept the camps, nineteen thousand dead or missing in action as they passed through the jungles of a place I didn’t recognize, when the napalm fell upon them from the strange buzzing things that passed overhead, six thousand deserting in a place that looked like the heaven they had been promised, five hundred unaccounted for as they crossed a sand flat where a mushroom cloud burned and towered beside them, eighty-six hundred gone as they moved through a valley of suddenly militant machines that rolled forward on treads and fired fires, eight hundred sick and abandoned, two hundred dead from flash floods, fifty-four dying of duels among themselves, three hundred dead from eating poisonous native fruits, a thousand slain in a massive stampede of buffalo-like creatures, seventy-three gone when their tents caught fire, fifteen hundred carried away by the floods, two thousand slain by the winds that came down from the blue hills.”

What tends to jump out from that passage (especially to readers harkening back to the ’70s):

(1)    napalm dropped from aircraft on troops moving through jungles below results in a number of casualties far higher than deaths from any other cause;

(2)    immediately after thousands depart for paradise, their desertion is contrasted with the hell of the detonation of a nuclear weapon;

(3)    aside from deaths due to centaurs, war machines, nuclear warfare and napalm, natural disasters are responsible for the mass losses of life, yet the total taken by disaster is still dwarfed by the number slain in combat.

There is not much other commentary on war in the series.  The subject of warfare is largely confined to the first two books.  But there is this from the end of the sixth chapter of Nine Princes in Amber:

“As I stood on a hilltop and the evening began around me, it seemed as if I looked out over every camp I had ever stood within, stretching on and on over the miles and the centuries without end.  I suddenly felt tears come into my eyes, for the men who are not like the lords of Amber, living but a brief span and passing into dust, that so many of them must meet their ends upon the battlefields of the world.”

[…to be continued in a future post…]

[drowning-in-dennor]

To Know

Henrik and Stellan answer questions about each other. (Warning: Crass jokes, sappiness, many, many innuendos.) All the questions were taken from here.

[Stellan picks up the sheet of paper, glaring at it as though personally offended. Henrik, laughing, swipes it out of his hand and adjusts the camera.]

Henrik: Hey, everyone! Today we’re doing some sort of challenge. I honestly don’t know what this is, but... yeah! Let’s do this!

[Staring nervously at the camera, Stellan reaches over to take Henrik’s hand.]

Stellan: Yeah, let’s get this over with.

Question One: Describe them when you first met.

Henrik: Cute!

Stellan: Annoying.

[Henrik pouts and stares at Stellan.]

Stellan: You walked up to me while I was reading and went, “yo, is that H.C. Andersen?”, then proceeded to grab the book out of my hands. Asshole.

Question Two: How tall are they?

Stellan: A hundred and eighty-three centimetres.

Henrik: One seventy-nine.

Question Three: What’s their ancestry background?

Stellan: Yeah, this one’s obvious.

Henrik: Easy.

Stellan: Danish-Swedish, born on Gotland.

Henrik: And Stell’s Norwegian-Icelandic, grew up on Svalbard.

Question Four: When’s their birthday?

Henrik: May seventeenth.

Stellan: June fifth.

[They look at each other. Henrik cracks a grin.]

Henrik: Don’t ask about the year. We don’t remember.

Question Five: What’s the first thing they’d buy if they won the lottery?

Stellan: Enough cloth and thread to clothe an army, along with probably all the embroidery supplies the world has to offer.

Henrik: A butter factory.

[Stellan groans, smacking his forehead.]

Stellan: No.

Henrik: Hold up, what?

Stellan: I’d probably use it to buy some land and grow stuff. Or I’d buy those big oil companies and order them to switch to natural resources.

Henrik: That’s my Stell, always caring about the environment.

[Henrik leans over to kiss Stellan on the cheek.]

Question Six: What’s their favourite band?

Henrik: Stellan’s not a band person.

[Stellan rolls his eyes.]

Stellan: Our band. And yes, we have a band.

Henrik: You bet your ass we have a band! It’s the best one in Europe, if you ask me.

Stellan: Please don’t remind me.

Question Seven: What’s their favourite meal?

[Henrik grins suggestively.]

Stellan: I know what you’re going to say, don’t say it.

Henrik: My a-

Stellan: Don’t you dare.

Henrik: My apple tarts. Seriously, he asks me to make them all the time.

[Stellan hides his face in his hands and mumbles something.]

Henrik: We can’t hear you, babe!

Stellan: Sosekjøtt. This fucker next to me really likes it when I make sosekjøtt.

[Pincing Stellan’s cheeks, Henrik laughs as his hands are swatted away.]

Question Eight: What’s their favourite physical feature about you?

[Stellan turns red.]

[Henrik laughs, nuzzling Stellan and dodging a poke to his nose.]

Henrik: Aww, no need to be shy about it! You know you like my hands, especially when they’re-

[Stellan gestures at the camera.]

Stellan: Apparently Henrik likes my smile, so I’d say my... mouth?

Henrik: Yeah, they look great when you’re-

[Henrik yelps as Stellan kicks him from under the table.]

Question Nine: What’s their favourite personality trait about you?

Stellan: That’s a lot to choose from, but I think he likes that I’m calm and collected.

Henrik: You’re right! And, uh, I know you like that I’m funny, don’t you?

[Reluctantly, Stellan smiles at Henrik and nods.]

Question Ten: What type of clothing looks best on them?

Henrik: Stellan really, really likes it when I wear suits, even when he steps on my feet and messes up my nice shoes. 

Stellan: One look at Henrik’s camera roll will tell you that he goes batshit when he sees me wearing his jackets or scarves.

[Henrik scrolls through his phone, showing the screen to the camera. An album, titled ‘Stell wearing my stuff’, is shown.]

[Stellan grabs Henrik’s phone.]

Stellan: You have an entire six-hundred-and-eighty-eight-photo album of me? Why am I asleep in so many of these?

Henrik: I couldn’t resist, you look so cute!

Stellan: Why do I have on nothing but - delete those!

Question Eleven: What word describes them best first thing in the morning?

Stellan: Bleary. Once, he thought I was having a nightmare, yelled in Danish and ‘reassuringly’ grabbed my face, the dumb shit.

Henrik: Dopey.

Stellan: Excuse me?

Henrik: You’re like a confused kitten! 

[Stellan kicks him under the table again.]

Question Twelve: What would they say is their worst physical feature?

Henrik: Stell complains about his left middle finger a lot. It’s crooked from holding a pen all the time, but it just makes it even more dramatic when he flips people off.

Stellan: He doesn’t like how pointy his nose is, which I never get. 

Question Thirteen: What’s their best talent?

Stellan: Embroidery.

Henrik: Writing.

Stellan: Henrik’s tapestries are amazing. He works so hard on them and they’re all masterpieces, and-

[He suddenly remembers that he’s being filmed, and looks down, flustered.]

Question Fourteen: What are they terrible at?

Henrik: Huh, that’s a hard question.

Stellan: Oh, I’ve got many answers.

Henrik: Hey!

Stellan: Saying the right things at the right times.

Henrik: Keeping his desk clean.

Stellan: Once, Tino was venting to me about how he lost his favourite book, and Henrik just burst in and was like, “’tis I, the guy who wants to die.”

[Henrik slams his head down on the table.]

Henrik: Yeah... let’s not talk about that.

Question Fifteen: What’s their perfect pizza?

Stellan: We don’t eat pizza.

Henrik: Yeah, Stell would sooner go hungry than order it.

Question Sixteen: What’s their favourite alcoholic beverage?

Henrik: Most of the time Stell gets akvavit, but I know he really likes champagne when we can get it.

Stellan: Beer. If not for the health risks, I’m pretty sure Henrik could drink beer all the time.

Henrik: My favourite’s Gammel Dansk, actually, but you’re not far off!

[Stellan claps the table, his other hand going to cover his mouth.]

Stellan: Fuck!

Question Seventeen: What’s their favourite cuisine?

Stellan: Pretty sure it’s Dutch.

Henrik: Norwegian...?

Stellan: You’re wrong.

[Henrik stares at him.]

Henrik: But it’s all you cook! 

Stellan: They’re family recipes, dummy. My favourite’s Japanese.

Henrik: Well, I eat Norwegian almost every night!

[Stellan glares at Henrik and gets up from his chair, walking away.]

Henrik: Wait, come back!

Question Eighteen: What’s their favourite Disney movie?

Henrik: The Little Mermaid.

Stellan: Frozen, even though people think it’s my favourite.

Henrik: I thought you’d like it because of the trolls!

Stellan: You all are delusional if you think trolls are going to give you valid relationship advice.

[Henrik laughs, clapping Stellan on the shoulder.]

Question Nineteen: What’s their most-used curse word?

Stellan: Dammit, fuck it, or anything with an “it”.

Henrik: Shit.

[Stellan looks at Henrik as though enlightened.]

Stellan: Shit, you’re right.

Henrik: HA!

Question Twenty: What adjective describes them in the bedroom?

[Henrik grins perversely and leans over to whisper to Stellan, who glares at him and desperately tries to cool down his reddening face.]

Henrik: Contained. Wild, but the controlled type. Does that make sense?

Stellan: ...dangerous.

[Stellan tries not to fall off his chair.]

Henrik: Aw, yeah, my danger makes stuff really exciting!

Stellan: Shush.

Question Twenty-One: Which one’s funnier?

[Stellan points at Henrik.]

[Henrik points at Stellan.]

[They both stare at each other for a moment before laughing.]

Question Twenty-Two: Who dances better?

Henrik: Stell, hands-down. He teaches ballet at the local studio.

[Stellan shows a video of Henrik dancing to the camera, stifling his laughter.]

Stellan: The only type of dance Henrik can do is awkward dad dancing, solely to embarrass Harald.

Question Twenty-Three: What nicknames do they give you?

Stellan: No.

Henrik: Come on, just tell ‘em!

Stellan: Nei.

[Henrik whispers to him again, and he sighs.]

Stellan: Kanin. It means ‘bunny’, apparently.

Henrik: He’s so old-fashioned! Sometimes when I’m working on my tapestries, I hear Stell go, “darling, can you get me some coffee?” or something like that, and it’s so cute. But again, at night he calls me ‘Mas’-”

Stellan: NO.

Question Twenty-Four: Who uses the Internet more?

Henrik: He shitposts. A lot. For a bestselling author who writes for Disney, you wouldn’t imagine him to be on the Internet a lot posting stuff like “I brewed some leaf juice”.

Stellan: Henrik really only goes online to look for photos or buy stuff.

Question Twenty-Five: If they’re on YouTube, what are they watching?

Stellan: Videos of the songs I wrote lyrics to, or dead memes. I caught him playing the ten-hour loop of “Yee” the other day.

Henrik: He listens to ancient music.

[Stellan crosses his arms indignantly.]

Stellan: They’re from the nineteen hundreds, that’s hardly old. Uncultured pencil.

Henrik: Pencil?

Stellan: Uncultured shit, if that’s what you prefer.

Question Twenty-Six: If they could travel back in time, where would they go?

Henrik: The fifties.

Stellan: The Viking age, clearly.

Question Twenty-Seven: What do they have too much of?

Stellan: Photos, most of them of me.

Henrik: Notebooks.

Stellan: Those notebooks are filled with important drafts!

Henrik: Well, those photos are of important people!

[Henrik sniggers as Stellan blushes for the umpteenth time.]

Question Twenty-Eight: Which of their pickup lines really got you?

Henrik: “You’re amazing.”

Stellan: You still remember that from ten years ago? That’s barely even a pickup line.

Henrik: Of course!

Stellan: “If you need somebody to cuddle with, I’m always down for it!” 

[Henrik grins and wraps his arms around Stellan.]

Question Twenty-Nine: What’s their favourite emoji?

[They both take out their phones to type.]

[Stellan shows his first.]

Stellan: ♡. He’s ridiculously sappy.

[Henrik shows the emoji on his screen.]

Henrik: Stell doesn’t use emojis, but the emoticon he sends the most is (._.).

Question Thirty: Draw your partner.

[Henrik draws a simple sketch, displaying it proudly.]

[Stellan draws a stick figure.]

Henrik: Holy crap!

Stellan: I’m good at writing, not drawing. Now shut up.

...

Henrik: So, that’s the end of the challenge, and I hope you liked it!

Stellan: I certainly didn’t.

Henrik: Bye!

Stellan: Thank goodness it’s over.

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped: Part 8

I’m really excited about this chapter....here.

AO3

It takes a week to re-open the alley behind the Ripped Tavern.  Hiccup technically could have gone back to an old tour route that starts out front and goes by Astrid’s apartment as its first stop, but he likes the other script better and if he went in that order, he’s not sure how he’d end it.  He saw Heather a few times, the feather in her hat visible above the larger than normal crowd collected around her just outside the caution tape at the mouth of the alley.  So much for losing a few tours in the face of an actual murder.

He had time, if not money, to actually dry clean his hat and coat though and thanks to Snotlout’s unusual generosity, he picks them up the day before he’s set to restart his own tours.  He hasn’t heard anything from Detective Eretson aside from a single phone call asking for Gobber’s information and he feels reasonably safe avoiding suspicion on his old route.  If anything it’d be more suspicious to stop at this point, probably.

“Is the goat smell dead?”  Snotlout greets when he gets home, taking the plastic wrapped coat from him and pressing his nose up against the collar.

“Have you considered that my coat smelled because it was next to your uniform coat after you took the petting zoo call?”

“No, and I won’t.”  He hands it back, “it smells fine now, by the way.”

“And they got the toothpaste out of my hat,” Hiccup demonstrates, gesturing at the clean black felt like it’s the reward on a niche game show.

“It looks…no, it looks dorkier now.”

“I’ll admit the stain had a certain charm,” he hangs it on the hat rack by the door and sits down in his dad’s chair.

A certain charm bestowed upon it by Astrid when she flung her toothbrush at him and started something.  Or maybe he started something when he shined a laser pointer through her window, those are semantics, but something feels started.  He was addled from the long night when he walked her home from the tavern and he thinks he hid it well, but that means the details came back to him slowly over the next few days.

The suspicious way she looked at him when he avoided telling her the whole story all at once.  The way she took his hand when she saw he was upset.  The look she gave Heather when they were interrupted.  Her expression when he showed her his leg, no scrap of pity hidden in the bright curious spark in her eyes, like she was almost glad to have something else to get to investigate.

She keeps him focused in a way he’s never liked until now.

“I’m sure Astrid will whack you with another toothbrush,” Snotlout cuts off his train of thought with a disparaging sigh, “your eyes are glazing over, dude, just text her.  I swear, if you haven’t scared her off with your weirdness by now I don’t think it’s possible.”

“Yeah, she doesn’t scare easy,” he shakes his head.  The only time he’s seen her scared was when they happened to overhear someone’s last scream, a memory that still sends a sick chill down Hiccup’s spine, and it’s made worse by Snotlout’s easy teasing.  He and Snotlout don’t really have secrets, especially legally implicating secrets, but if Hiccup brought it up now it would be obvious that he’s been hiding it, which he has.

He knows Snotlout is stupid and stubborn enough to protect him no matter what, and it’s better for both of them if he looks as innocent as possible.

“So just text her,” Snotlout shrugs, “send her a Venice Gelato fact or something.”

“I know you know his name is Viggo Grimborn.”

“I thought no one knew what his name was because no one ever figured the murders out,” he throws a pen cap at Hiccup’s face and it bounces off his forehead, “see?  I pay attention.”

“For the record, I have been texting her.”  Hiccup scrolls through his phone, “she told me that the cops talked to her and warned her about some cameras and I said thank you.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Sure it does, it means she’s glad I’m not in jail and she’s telling me what to avoid to keep it that way.”  He hasn’t told Snotlout that he’s waiting for an invitation to the archives for an entirely different reason, namely, the amount of mocking he’d have to endure for being excited about being invited to a room full of musty old newspapers.  It’s the kind of thing to mention after it goes well, especially ever since the first few failed dates he got from tours became Snotlout’s favorite ‘embarrass Hiccup’ stories.    “Fine, I’ll text her.”

Hiccup (6:02pm): hey

Astrid (6:05pm): still not in jail, I see

That’s a kind of a start.  Hiccup can work with that, maybe.  He turns sideways in his dad’s chair, legs over the arm of it to better ignore Snotlout crunching his cereal while watching the evening news.

Hiccup (6:06pm): living in constant fear but when have I ever let that stop me from living my life lol

Astrid (6:06pm): shit, what did you hear?  Are you in trouble? Astrid (6:07pm): I was there

Hiccup (6:08pm): are you offering to be my alibi?

He regrets it as soon as he sends it because alibi sounds like a term of endearment.

Hiccup (6:08pm): not that I need one since I’m not guilty as you know

Astrid (6:09pm): doesn’t the ‘as you know’ kind of automatically make me your alibi?

Hiccup (6:10pm): eh Hiccup (6:10pm): only if you want it to, I could ask Viggo

Astrid (6:11pm): so there are no developments in the case?

Hiccup (6:11pm): not that I’m aware of

Astrid (6:13pm): maybe they just aren’t telling you Astrid (6:13pm): which is good news

Hiccup glances at Snotlout, who’s wiping cereal milk off of his chin with his sleeve, before answering.

Hiccup (6:14pm): I haven’t heard anything about me going to jail

Astrid (6:15pm): I’m off work at 5 tomorrow but I could stay late and show you the Al, I. picture

She punctuates her interpretation of the message precisely and Hiccup smiles to himself.  He does love that she has a theory, he loves that she isn’t listening to what anyone says and instead is finding her own conclusion, most of all because that conclusion seems to include him.

Her theory is wrong, for the record, because the four main Grimborn murders line up very precisely, but there’s no reason to fight her argument, especially the way her eyes light up when she’s making it.

Hiccup (6:15pm): sure, sounds good

00000

Hiccup hasn’t really been to the archives since Snotlout got his full access at the police station.  It’s not that he felt he’d gotten through everything that the archives had to offer, it was more a combination of the fact that he and Heather weren’t really talking anymore and the fact that the police station had so many things he’d never seen.  When he shows up a little after five though and the blonde guy at the front desk gives him a look overflowing with withering recognition, he remembers the other reason he prefers researching elsewhere.

At the police station, he’s always the only person in the file room.  At the archives though, it’s the view of the establishment that he is the wrong kind of obsessive academic.

“Hi, I’m looking for Astrid,” he pauses at the desk to shake the drizzle off of his hat and adjust his bag over his shoulder.

“She told me,” the guy nods curtly and goes back to the blueprint on his desk.  It looks like some kind of manufacturing facility, the machinery drawn out carefully with painstakingly thin lines of black ink.

“Is that the warehouse that used to be over on fifth?”

“It has nothing to do with Viggo Grimborn,” he doesn’t need to look up with his tone making his opinion so obvious.

“I know that,” Hiccup shoves the hand not holding his hat in his pocket, “it was just a pretty building.”

“It was a sweatshop.”

“And the strip mall they put in to replace it isn’t?”  He laughs, “there’s like two Starbucks in it and a seasonal Halloween store.”

“Sorry, Fishlegs,” Astrid rushes out of the back, stopping at the second desk to check something off of a to do list, undone hair falling over her shoulder.  It’s longer than Hiccup thought it was, longer and obviously in the way in a way that suits her.  Of course, she’d be constantly engaging in a battle with something growing out of her head.  “I know I said I wouldn’t make you talk Grimborn.”

“It gets us all eventually,” Fishlegs looks up at her, irritated like a fond older brother roped into playing tea party.  He turns to Hiccup then, eyes drifting from his coat to his hat, lip curling slightly under his respectably waxed moustache.  “But just because I feel like I have to say it, you do know that we have all kinds of historical information. Not just information pertaining to six months in the early eighteen eighties, right?”

“Of course I do, you have all the information on the nineteen fifty-two Grimborn copycat killer, right?”  Hiccup grins, placing his hat back on his head, “I’ll be sure to have a look at that.”

“I remember you,” Fishlegs narrows his eyes, “you’re the guy who broke the photocopier trying to shove a comic book in it.”

“That was three years ago,” he laughs, “and I fixed it.  Which is really ridiculous, because Berk University is still a public institution the last time I checked, so really my tax payer dollars should have fixed it.”

“You don’t pay taxes,” Astrid rolls her eyes, efficiently grabbing Hiccup’s elbow and pulling him towards an aisle made of industrial bookshelves lined two thick with old, yellowed newspapers.

“And he doesn’t even pay taxes,” Fishlegs mutters under his breath before the density of the historic walls blots him out.

“You know, even if I work tax free, I still pay taxes,” Hiccup says, wishing his messenger bag were on the other side instead of bumping into her hip every couple steps and risking alerting her to the fact that she’s still holding onto his elbow.  “Property tax.  Sales tax, I do buy things, when I have money.”

“I didn’t realize online sellers properly taxed Grimborn paraphernalia,” she snorts, letting go if his arm when she turns a corner into a smaller aisle, this one interrupted by a low wooden table, covered in a few spread out papers.  The table is pushed up against a shelf full of stacked volumes of almanacs and encyclopedias from the early eighteen hundreds, as well as manila folders full of carefully catalogued scraps of paper.

“They don’t, but I eat.  Occasionally.”

“Do you?”  She teases, elbowing him in the side as she flips through a Berk Enquirer with careful fingers.

“Again, when I have money.”  He sets his bag down and looks over her shoulder, stepping a little too close when he notices a picture of Bog street that he hasn’t seen before.  She smells like old book dust and something floral and he clears his throat.

“Sorry, I should have just left it on the picture, I got the paper out last minute.”

“No, it’s fine, I love skimming stories about…” it takes a minute to focus on any thing on the page with her so close and he steps to the side and leans against the table instead, “the alien connection to Berk’s city planning.  That’s some hard-hitting journalism right there.”

“You know, almost everything I’ve found has been in the Enquirer,” she pauses, pointing out a bible sales ad in the corner and raising an eyebrow.  “And considering you’re here to see what I found, despite your obvious blood feud with Fishlegs, maybe you shouldn’t disrespect it.”

“Blood feud?”

“I’ve never seen him be that rude to anyone, you knew his blueprint and he still lectured you.”  She laughs and turns one more page, nodding to herself, “here we go.  One Police Constable Brown was kind enough to donate his daily paper, and on this day he made a note of the time when he checked out the courtyard at 324 Harbor Road.”

Hiccup freezes, eyes widening as he takes in the small, grainy picture.  He remembers the way he felt on his first Grimborn tour, standing outside that apartment building and feeling connected to the city for the first time since his dad died.  Like he was somewhere that had lived through tragedy before, somewhere that had recovered.

Astrid steps back to give him space and he picks up the paper, holding it from either side like a police officer did a hundred years ago.  Like his dad used to hold the paper at breakfast, except his dad wasn’t usually reading an article insinuating that a dragon was the cause of the barn fire the week before.

“I can’t believe this exists.”

“What?  The punctuation?”  She’s smiling when he tears his eyes away from the paper, not smug so much as rightfully triumphant.  “Because it definitely does.”

“How did you—I never would have thought to check the Enquirer.”  He shakes his head at the picture, mouthing the caption and sighing.  “Everything surrounding this picture is crap, but it’s…genuine.”

“I would have thought it’d have your name all over it then,” she says too quiet, like she thinks she can keep it a secret from the books around them, absorbing and storing everything over centuries.

“What?”

“You know, Admiral Haddock,” she tucks her hair behind her ear, either embarrassed or annoyed to have to explain herself.  Maybe both.  “It’s complete bullshit, but it’s your favorite theory.”

“Well, yeah, how could it not be?”  He doesn’t think anyone else could tear his eyes away from this paper right now, but Astrid is inexplicably blushing as she tucks her hair behind her ear.  “Do you have one yet?”

“I don’t share a name with an implausible famous serial killer suspect, no.”

“No, do you have a favorite theory yet?”  He can’t put the paper down but he can’t look away from Astrid either.  He’s stuck holding onto a scrap of history he wouldn’t have without her, but it feels more like a springboard to somewhere else.

“Like do I have an opinion about who Viggo Grimborn is?”  She cocks her head, arms crossed, stance so rigid it’s active.  Alive.  Pulsing with things she might tell him if he just shuts up for a second.

He shrugs.  She bites her lip and exhales.

“No, I mean, none of them are a favorite.  All of them are full of holes,” she flips through a notebook that’s also on the table, neat handwriting flying past, “it’s never going to be answered.”

“I know that, but I don’t know, you worked so hard—“

“The Enquirer,” she cuts him off, but she’s smart enough to not take the paper from his hands, instead picking up another issue on the table and showing a larger bible ad, dated before the second murder, and Hiccup’s chest burns.  “It’s been completely ignored because it was a little weird or loud or ridiculous—“

“I know the feeling,” Hiccup watches her because he doesn’t have or want a choice.

“It’s full of witness accounts,” she finds a page and her face lights up, determined and absolutely ready to fight with him, “like here, Reginald Smith of 32 Downer Lane saw lights on the rooftops on the night of Catherine Whittaker’s murder, but it’s reported as an alien appearance—“

“Because he said it was an alien spacecraft,” Hiccup hates himself for interrupting but Astrid’s expression only gets more rigid.  More stern.

She doesn’t want his validation she wants to convince him, to present the facts that make him come around to her idea all on his own.

“Yes, but it was the late eighteen hundreds, he was poor and drunk and uneducated.  He saw something he couldn’t understand and read the cheaper newspaper and extrapolated with what he could.  By cutting out the sources that don’t make the best soundbites, the entire case was…bungled.  Honestly, if the detectives had talked to anyone other than respectable witnesses, maybe you wouldn’t be so obsessed with it today.“

“If you’re going to educate me like this, I think you need the hat,” he laughs, because he doesn’t know what else to do.  He’s never been so scared he’d damage an artifact as his hands start shaking and a bead of sweat blooms on his brow.

“Maybe I do,” she sets her own newspaper down and takes his hat, setting it on her head.  It’s too big, again, falling slightly crooked to the right, but that doesn’t change how bright the black wool makes her eyes look.  “The investigation was completely swayed by the same class distinction as the crimes, if you dig through the Enquirer for what?  An hour?  Ten minutes?  You’ll find multiple reports of people seeing lights on rooftops or mythical creatures in the woods that almost perfectly align with some drunk idea of already named suspects.  Are you saying you’ve never read a description of Drago Bludvist and thought sasquatch?”  She laughs, shrill and convincing, her face on fire.  “Because I have a description somewhere here…”

She starts to flick through the spare few papers she has laid out on the table, her tongue barely peeking out of the corner of her mouth, and Hiccup doesn’t know he’s moving until he is.  He doesn’t decide to let go of one side of the paper he’s holding, he doesn’t decide to touch her jaw, his fingers curling gently around her chin as she freezes, eyes wide.

He does choose to kiss her though, the brim of his own top hat against his forehead.

She exhales softly, a shaky hand landing against his arm as she responds, as slowly and enthusiastically as she does to everything.  Her lips move like she hasn’t forgot her determination and Hiccup slides out, his hand to her waist and pulls her close, the crinkle of newspaper filling the silent hallway.

“Wait,” she pushes him away, gentle like she’s scared of offending him even though she’s obviously already offended, “the paper—“

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s old, this is a hundred years old,” she pulls back far enough to set the paper he’s been holding in a single clenched fist into a careful layer.

Then she smooths over it with a gentle palm, biting her lower, slightly swollen lip.  It’s careful document care, her hands worrying the paper with quick, sure motions. His tophat falls down over her forehead and she adjusts it, the brim of it setting heavy on her ear and making it stick out further. He doesn’t think his heart has ever pounded this hard in his life.

She stands up and her wide eyes dart to his lips. He surges forward before he can think twice, one hand on her waist and the other on the back of her head as he pushes her against the bookcase, his lips meeting hers somewhere along the way.  He swallows her grunt that verges on a moan, fingers curling in her sweatshirt as her arms wrap around his neck. She holds him close, like she’s scared he’ll try and get away and he kisses her like he can convey that’s the last thing on his mind.

She’s warm and soft, all long lean lines arching against him as he slides his hand to her hip, her cold fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. There’s a thud, but he can’t tell if it’s his heart or something else and he ignores it, kissing along her jaw and trying to remember how to breathe. She grabs his chin and pulls his mouth back to hers.

Another thud.

Breathing isn’t important anyway, why was he so hung up on it in the first place?

She hooks her heel behind his knee and he loses balance slightly, catching himself on the metal edge of the bookshelf. The clang can’t compete with Astrid’s hand fisted in the front of his coat though and his hand dips under her sweatshirt to feel the smooth skin of her lower back.

“Come on, guys!” Someone yells and Astrid pulls back with a surprised gasp, tophat deeply crooked, lips swollen and chin red from stubble.

“Shit, sorry Fishlegs,” she pushes him off, gently, tugging her sweatshirt down and wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. Fishlegs is at the end of the aisle with his arms crossed, tapping his foot like a dad two minutes after curfew and Hiccup can’t hold in the laugh that bubbles in his chest.

“Yeah, sorry Fishlegs.”

“You took out half the Britannicas,” he nods at the dozen or so encyclopedias on the floor, explaining the thuds.

“I’ll clean it up, sorry,” Astrid tries to fix her hair but blushes impossibly deeper when she brushes the brim of the hat still on her head.

“It was a pristine collection—”

“I said I’ll fix it.”

“If any corners are blunted—”

“Fishlegs!” She snaps, glancing at Hiccup out of the corner of her eye, “can you give us a second? Please?” The last word is gritted through her teeth, politely threatening.

“This is what I get for helping with Grimborn research,” he grumbles under his breath as he walks away, “it took me years to get that eighteen eighty seven and it ends up on the floor…”

“So, umm—” Hiccup starts but Astrid doesn’t seem to be listening, instead picking up books and dedicatedly checking their corners.

“Help me get these onto the table at least, I’m going to be here an hour cleaning this up.”

“Sure,” he picks up too and looks over at her, that adorable tongue sticking out again as she squints at a publication page and smooths it carefully in a way that makes his heart rate tick up again. “Are they ok?”

“Yeah, they’re fine, Fishlegs is just being, well, Fishlegs.” She sets the book down and pauses, looking at him carefully, cheeks still stained bright red, “so, umm, what are you doing after this?”

“What am I doing after this?” The question doesn’t quite register. It’s not a question she should be asking him after he came to her job and insulted her research and made her wear a stupid, but somehow-incredibly-attractive-on-her hat before attacking her against a bookcase. He swallows hard.

“In case you wanted to talk about…you know,” she waves at the bookcase and bites her lip, as hesitantly open as she was definitively closed on the first tour she took with him.

Fuck. His tour.

“I have a tour,” he checks the time, “I have a tour in…about as much time as it takes to get there if I run, I’ve got to go.”

“Right, your tour, sorry—”

“No, no, no. Don’t apologize,” he runs a frantic hand through his hair, “and I really hate to do this. Like, I don’t think you understand how much I hate to do this, but…I need this back.” He plucks his hat carefully off of her head. “I’ve got to go, I—”

“Go, I’ll talk to you later,” she waves him off, making a vain effort to fix her staticky hair. A lock of her bangs is sticking out to the side and he wants to smooth it down but if he touched her right now, he wouldn’t stop.

And that’s bad because he’d miss his tour. And he’s out of money. Even if Astrid is looking at him, he still has to care about money, right?

“Ok, yeah, later.”

00000

It’s really hard to give a tour when every other word in his head is ‘Astrid’. Viggo Astrid Grimborn Astrid was Astrid a really Astrid bad Astrid guy. It’s harder to give a tour when questions stall him for twenty minutes at the fourth murder site, questions he doesn’t want to answer. Questions about a recent murder that he doesn’t want to think about.

“I heard from the bartender inside that the body was positioned exactly like Mary Johnson,” a man with coke bottle glasses that make him look a little too fascinated with everything asks eagerly, staring at the storm drain and reminding Hiccup what he saw. “Down to the placement of the intestines—”

“I don’t know anything about that,” he lies, “it’s an ongoing murder case, I’m here to do a tour about Viggo Grimborn if anyone wants to listen to that.”

“But surely you must be interested in the resemblance—”

“I’m not. Or even if I was, it’s an ongoing murder case, I’m not going to stand here in an alley I tour nightly and talk about it.” He starts walking and hopes the larger than usual group will follow. They did already pay, but that’s not why he does this, why he wants to do it. The copy of the ‘All Safe’ message in his bag burns to be shown around and his brain flicks back to Astrid, Astrid, Astrid. Astrid. “I’ve got reasons to stay out of custody for looking accidentally guilty.”

“I heard they arrested someone when they found the body,” someone murmurs and glasses speaks up.

“Do you know anything about that?”

“No, I don’t. I know about Victorian slums and Viggo Grimborn and the fact that the local reverend believed that decreasing the cost of bibles would infuse the community with renewed Christianity and righteousness and that would fix the prostitution problem,” he gestures at the church as they walk past, “instead of, you know, feeding people.”

“I just don’t think you understand the statistical improbability of identical intestine placement of two disemboweled corpses found at the exact same spot over a hundred years apart—”

“I also took high school statistics,” Hiccup sighs, pausing to face the group, “and like half a college statistics course, but that’s not—let’s get one thing straight. The women who died a hundred years ago and the woman who died last week aren’t corpses, or they are, but—they were people with feelings and lives and yes, the circumstances of their death is morbidly fascinating, but does that mean we ignore the circumstances of their life?”

It’s silent for a second and someone in the back raises their hand.

“Yeah, go ahead, despite the lecture this isn’t a class.”

“Do you think it’s a copycat killer?” They ask and Hiccup sighs heavily.

“Onto site one.”

[grandhotelabyss]

—Paul Skallas, “Who’s Pushing the Dystopia Narrative?”

Dystopia has been a cenrtral genre since the Great War, and not only in recognized texts like Orwell’s and Huxley’s. Major critical schools, Christian and Marxist in particular, have always seen literary modernism as essentially dystopian. They went beyond obvious cases like Kafka or The Waste Land to claim even Ulysses as the modern Inferno. Christians were pleased; with modern life disqualified, one turns, with Eliot, to God. Marxists, by contrast, charged the dystopians with slandering human agency, a superficially persuasive indictment, except that what Marxists themselves justified in the name of a “human” agency aggrandized by the one-party state lent itself precisely to dystopian portrayal. 

Dystopia, therefore, has a social use as a branch of satire: its cynicism prevents demagogic religious and political authorities from abusing our compassion, social hopes, or spiritual longings. Dystopia’s true antithesis may not be the utopia—utopias are themselves usually semi-satirical, ironic and self-undermining, as in Plato and More—but the sentimental novel of moral exhortation, Richardson, Stowe, or Dickens, which presents dystopian conditions coupled with an injunction to the reader to repair them. If dystopias imply such an injunction, they rarely state it outright, and tend to end in defeat, from Gulliver’s concluding disgust to “He loved Big Brother.” Hence dystopia also risks inducing learned helplessness, numbing us to abuses until we shrug in the face of each new outrage, expecting little better than the boot to the face. 

Marxists reproached Orwell for producing this political despair, but Orwell rebuked his precursors in similar language, as in this quotation from a 1940 essay, “Notes on the Way”, a truncated version of which I saw circulating recently on social media:

Consequently there was a long period during which nearly every thinking man was in some sense a rebel, and usually a quite irresponsible rebel. Literature was largely the literature of revolt or of disintegration. Gibbon, Voltaire, Rousseau, Shelley, Byron, Dickens, Stendhal, Samuel Butler, Ibsen, Zola, Flaubert, Shaw, Joyce—in one way or another they are all of them destroyers, wreckers, saboteurs. For two hundred years we had sawed and sawed and sawed at the branch we were sitting on. And in the end, much more suddenly than anyone had foreseen, our efforts were rewarded, and down we came. But unfortunately there had been a little mistake. The thing at the bottom was not a bed of roses after all, it was a cesspool full of barbed wire.

It is as though in the space of ten years we had slid back into the Stone Age. Human types supposedly extinct for centuries, the dancing dervish, the robber chieftain, the Grand Inquisitor, have suddenly reappeared, not as inmates of lunatic asylums, but as the masters of the world. Mechanization and a collective economy seemingly aren't enough. By themselves they lead merely to the nightmare we are now enduring: endless war and endless underfeeding for the sake of war, slave populations toiling behind barbed wire, women dragged shrieking to the block, cork-lined cellars where the executioner blows your brains out from behind. So it appears that amputation of the soul isn't just a simple surgical job, like having your appendix out. The wound has a tendency to go septic.

Unfair as this may be to some of the names on his list, who seem to be accused merely of not (save Dickens) being Christians, he echoes contemporaries like Camus and Arendt when he attributes 20th-century terror to loss of soul.

Without disparaging real literary achievements in sentimentalism or dystopianism—both Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Nineteen Eighty-Four transcend Orwell’s own category of “good bad books”: neither should be, but each in its way is a major novel—I prefer a tradition that charts a middle path between them: life portrayed in all its variousness, the good with the bad and neither always marked as such (like a medieval allegory or modern political cartoon) for the reader. Such fictions become an investigation of our agency rather than calling on us to use it immediately or deciding in advance that we can’t or mustn’t. The self shown in these authors is expansive and intricate, irreducible to a predictive grid, capable of decisive change. Whether we want to call it the soul or not seems to me merely semantic; what’s important is the experience of encountering and then being such a self. Joyce, rightly understood, belongs here, alongside Shakespeare, Austen, Woolf, Murdoch, Bellow, and more, including the best of Dickens and the Orwell of the essays. They refuse the apocalyptic temptation, secular or spiritual, and recall us instead to our daily making and remaking of the world.

[justforbooks]

I suppose it’s O.K. to give away the address now. The books are gone, packed up in dozens of cardboard boxes and hauled away. When you ring the buzzer for apartment No. 7, nothing happens any longer, and won’t, probably, until someone else moves in. The old feeling you’d get, that you had sprung a trapdoor, discovered a secret passage, won’t come anymore.

Michael Seidenberg’s one-of-a-kind bookshop, Brazenhead Books, closed last month. For seven years, it operated out of an apartment at 235 East Eighty-fourth Street. Of course no bookstore or other business had any business being there, in that rent-stabilized apartment, so it was, strictly speaking, illegal, and because it was illegal it had to be secret. The secret was known to a small number of discreet patrons and shared strictly by word of mouth. (At first, Michael saw customers by appointment only.) Inside, the windows were blacked out and covered with shelves. On bookcases, in every room, volumes of all sizes in serried ranks rose two deep from floor to ceiling. More were stacked on desks and tables and grew in unsteady columns from the floor. There was a stereo (covered in books), a few chairs, and a large desk in the front room (likewise all but submerged), on which Michael kept a half dozen or so bottles of wine and spirits, a tower of plastic cups, and a bucket of ice.

Walking in, you might find a handful of patrons lounging on chairs with drinks in their hands, or browsing amiably, making conversation, generally about books, but often ranging widely into art, politics, personal life stories, and the history of New York. In the same way that children imagine adults living in perfect freedom, enjoying all the cookies and television they want and staying up till all hours, Michael’s shop was what a bookish child might dream up as a fantasy home for himself, a place far from any responsibilities, where he would never run out of stories.

It was, of course, no more practical than a gingerbread house. There was no bathroom or kitchen. (When nature called, customers had to knock on the next-door neighbor’s apartment and ask to be let in.) The affable if somewhat inscrutable proprietor, potbellied and gray-bearded, in his late fifties, lived elsewhere, and held court in the shop on Saturday nights. At least, that was how things stood in the summer of 2011, when I first started visiting.

The story of Brazenhead goes like this: in the nineteen-seventies, Michael ran a bookstore in Brooklyn. That was the first Brazenhead Books. The novelist Jonathan Lethem, as Patricia Marx reported in Talk of the Town, in 2008, worked there when he was fourteen years old. (He was paid with books.) Michael eventually moved his shop to the Upper East Side, only to lose his lease several years later when the rent quadrupled. Lacking options, he moved the books into his own apartment, but there were too many—so many that he and his wife moved out to make room for them all. After that, he plied his trade occasionally, and more or less thanklessly, at book fairs and on city streets. Otherwise, in the apartment on East Eighty-fourth Street, the books gathered dust. It was not until 2007 that his friend George Bisacca, a longtime conservator of paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, helped Michael turn the apartment into the place I came to know. The Times, writing about Brazenhead in the fall of 2011, was near the mark in calling it a “literary speakeasy.”

In the years after I discovered the shop, I occasionally introduced others to it, bringing them with me one at a time, as if inducting them into a secret society. With time came practical improvements: the addition of a working toilet (but no sink), better-organized collections of Russian, Japanese, and Latin American literature. Michael even hired an assistant. As a result, the contents of the shop, formerly in a state of apparent chaos, began to assume a peculiarly perfect kind of order.

But the unlikeliness of the place never dissipated. On one of my first visits, Michael and I bonded over a shared fascination with the work of Edward Whittemore, an unjustly neglected American writer who, after graduating from Yale, in 1955, served in the Marines and as a C.I.A. operative in the Far East and Jerusalem. The first of his books, “Quin’s Shanghai Circus,” was published by Henry Holt, in 1974, and was described in the Times as “a war novel without the usual furniture of war,” “peopled with circus masters, prostitutes, priests, gangsters, voyeurs, retarded man-boys, pornography collectors, pederasts, dwarfs, fat American giants and sadfaced secret-service agents, who change identities from time to time and drift through landscapes that resemble Tokyo, Shanghai and the Bronx.”

There was a copy of the novel on a low shelf in Brazenhead’s back room, the first-edition room. Beside it were the hardcover volumes of Whittemore's magnum opus, the Jerusalem Quartet, all long out of print, which stand in relation to “Quin’s” much as “The Lord of the Rings” stands to “The Hobbit.” (Paperback reissues of the five novels, published by Old Earth Books, in 2002, are likewise out of print.) Frustratingly, though, Brazenhead had only books two, three, and four of the quartet; the first volume, “Sinai Tapestry,” was missing. I bought “Quin’s,” and asked after “Sinai Tapestry.” Michael indicated that it was in his private collection, and not for sale.

If it seemed strange for a bookseller not to sell a particular book, it was stranger still to let people treat his shop as a hangout without pressuring them to buy anything. His patrons, a mix of bright young things and old eccentrics, were fiercely loyal. The considerate ones bought books, or at least brought a handle of booze once in a while to replenish the bar. The inconsiderate treated Brazenhead like their own parlor—drinking up the whiskey and port, blocking the doorways, rarely buying anything. On any given night you were liable to encounter a poetry reading or a musical performance. For a time, on Thursday nights, the bookshop hosted weekly meetings of the staff of the New Inquiry, the lefty Web magazine, until Michael had what he described as a falling-out with the editors. From then on, Thursday was an open salon night, just like Saturday.

But for me, the books were always the biggest draw. Michael’s collection seemed incomparable in both its idiosyncrasy and its quality. There was a wall of poetry, another of science fiction. A special New York section. General fiction and literature were organized alphabetically, more or less, and stretched across several bookcases. Pulp novels higgledy-piggledy in one corner; art books enshrined in another nook; a few shelves reserved for the collected letters and journals of Edith Wharton, Hart Crane, James Joyce, and their peers. There were trashy paperbacks and American first editions of Yukio Mishima. One night, one of the New Inquiry editors and I gave an impromptu reading of a poem by Suzanne Somers—that Suzanne Somers—from a collection called “Touch Me,” a slim volume I was half-convinced Michael had somehow dreamed into existence. The poem was called “I Want to Be a Little Girl,” and was even more unsettling than it sounds. When I’d looked inside the front flap to see Michael’s asking price, there was no dollar figure, just one word, in pencil: “Priceless.”

When the notice of eviction came down, in the summer of 2014, the whole dynamic changed. All at once, Brazenhead was on borrowed time. No one knew how much. Patrons began to be looser with the address. There was a rumor that someone’s posting of the address online—a big no-no—had attracted crowds finally too large to ignore, and that this was what had occasioned the eviction notice.

As word got around, the crowds swelled. Minor celebrities dropped in. Everywhere you looked, on a Saturday night, you saw people guzzling red wine and Wild Turkey. Pot smoke was general, and it became hard to see the books through the throng. Michael and his shop were featured in the oddball web series “The Impossibilities.” He officiated at least one wedding on the premises.

Each supposed last night gave way to another. Nobody wanted to say goodbye. On July 28th, Michael advertised a final poetry reading—“apocalypse edition”—on Facebook. “See you there or on the other side,” he wrote.

Where will that other side be? Michael does plan to reopen somewhere, somehow. “The future will begin in September,” he told me recently. I don’t know whether he has chosen a location, or whether the store will retain its semi-clandestine nature. When I pressed him, he said only that he was off to the country to relax, and would be “back in September for Brazenhead—whatever that will be.”

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[merrilark]

Title: Nineteen Seventy-Seven Author: David Peace Genre: Fiction / Mystery Page Count: 352 Trigger Warnings: Murder, descriptions of gore, humiliation, severe police brutality, brief depictions of rape, decade-accurate slurs and attitudes toward race and sexuality, mentions of true crime... In the last review, I said Nineteen Seventy-Four takes the "Dead Dove: Do Not Eat" cake, but actually, I think this one might be marginally worse for the intense depictions of police brutality and gore alone.

Nineteen Seventy-Seven is every bit as grim, cynical, and unforgiving as Nineteen Seventy-Four. Set in 1977 and focusing more on the real-life Yorkshire Ripper murders, this book follows the viewpoints of two main characters: Detective Inspector Bob Fraser and star journalist Jack Whitehead.

While Eddie Dunford had the personality of soured milk, in hindsight, he now seems like a sweet angel in comparison to the selfish, rotten Bob Fraser. It's both interesting and terrifying to be forced into the POV of a corrupt police officer, and Peace doesn't shy from expressing just how hateful and incompetent Bob is.

At times, the police brutality toward women and POC felt gratuitous, to the point that it was extremely hard for me to finish reading some passages, but, as with all the other examples of cruelty in this series, I believe it is Peace's somewhat heavy-handed attempt to force the majority to look at the ugly parts of society that we would rather ignore. It also serves to highlight and express what I imagine is a very real frustration for Yorkshire-born Peace toward the police force and their blatant incompetence and disrespect toward victims and civilians during the hunt for the Ripper.

Fortunately, though, for as abhorrent as Bob is, Jack proves to be a much more likable character than both Bob and Eddie. Charismatic, generally patient and kind, good at his job, and just flawed enough to feel real, he is the better written of our protagonists so far. I like him a lot, and he didn't disappoint me.

I'm trying to avoid big spoilers as much as possible, but one of my biggest critiques is that this book felt a little too abstract and confusing. Many passages are taken up by surreal dream sequences, nightmares, and (possibly?) visions from Jack Whitehead, who we begin to understand has suffered some sort of semi-recent tragedy that is gradually driving him insane. None of these dreams are explained until the end, and just as we're given a clearer picture, Peace throws more questions at us and a wall of surreal imagery that leaves us more confused than when we began.

Overall, I'm left feeling strange about this book. Besides Jack, I hated most of the characters who frustrated me with their senseless violence, anger, and lack of emotional maturity. Very little about it was pleasant, and there were a few times where I hadn't a single clue what was going on. And yet I couldn't stop reading.

Peace may not write the best characters, but his pacing and ability to make the reader want more is phenomenal. This novel felt like careening down a steep cliff in a car whose breaks have just given out; awful and terrifying and you want to stop, and even though you know what's coming once you hit the bottom, you can't do anything but scream and keep speeding faster toward the end. And for an apparent masochist like me, that is extremely enjoyable.

I'll give Nineteen Seventy-Seven four out of five stars. It was more gruesome than Seventy-Four, and harder to read in terms of content, as well as just... really weird and confusing, BUT I liked Jack more than Eddie, and found the ending far more intriguing. So much so that I'm not even going to read something light-hearted as a palate cleanser. Instead, I'm jumping straight into Nineteen Eighty because I have to know what'll happen next.

Do I recommend the Red Riding Quartet yet? Nope. Still nope. Not unless I know the person I'm recommending them to fully understands what they're getting themselves into and enjoys dark fiction. I can stomach quite a lot, I think, and am not easily bothered or disturbed when it comes to fiction, but even I scrunched up my face and needed a moment during some parts.