#I underlined every place with a description of her appearance it’s important to me

[handthattakes]

in Tooth, in Claw

[riddlecrux]

Light seen through the windows: an analysis of windows as a literary tool in Elriel relationship

I would love to preface this meta with my favorite disclaimer that everything that I will be discussing is based on what I have gathered from SJM writing. The quotes used in this post will serve as a starting point for further analysis. Additionally, I will be using things such as symbolism, metaphors, and literary device methods to build up my reasoning and beliefs. On another note, this, as usual, is strictly pro-Elriel meta. If they are not your cup of tea and you wish to comment, please be civil and bring arguments supported by the text.

So many of us like to gaze and stare through the windows daily. Looking at the world behind the glass often is considered a form of tranquility that we feel. Windows are essentially doors that lead us to whatever lies behind them - the last border between being in one place and then in another. It isn't then surprising that windows serve as symbols and metaphors in literature. From the start, whenever I read a passage about windows in ACOWAR I was reminded of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. You may ask why?

Emily Bronte used windows as symbolism in her work. They are very important for her characters and their personal arcs. They are symbols of barriers, misfortunes that characters face. Windows there are metaphors of various obstacles estranging Bronte's characters from achieving their hopes - realizing that the dreams they had will be not fulfilled. As I don't want to get spoilery with Wuthering Heights, I'm going to draw conclusions in a very neat manner. Bronte used windows as a connection to nightmares that one of the main characters was suffering from - it ties to the fact that in his nightmares he sees the person he had loved, haunting him. Because of the relationship with a said woman, the imagery of windows in this particular scene symbolizes death, an obstacle that stands between both of them. Throughout the book, we also get glimpses of how windows might be used as a metaphor for social classes and the contrast between them, and how Heathcliff and Catherine have to go about it. Along with the windows, doors are also used as a symbol of trapping someone in one place, obstructing them from achieving their dream or preventing them from reaching out to their loved one. Not to mention that during a very particular scene with Catherine, she wants the windows open - a symbolism of her wanting to feel free, to connect with something she knows, she longs for. This leads to the conclusion that windows in Bronte's novel are symbols of life and death, they are the in-between - a symbolic barrier.

On the other hand, windows in literature signalize something called "art of watching", and usually it is connected to a female protagonist that observes life, events through the window. Not to mention, the most famous association to windows such as "windows to the soul" - which, of course, is more metaphorical. It allows us, the audience, to connect with the character's inner feelings, struggles, as we are presented with the emotional aspect of said person. They are the bridge between the inside and outside. Windows are also a source of light, which we humans crave. Looking through the window one can absorb the light, which can resonate as a symbol of growth and change. Metaphorically we see the light from the window when we feel a need to light up the darkness inside us. They expose us, our inner feelings, and struggles.

When I read ACOWAR I have noticed that SJM decided to use windows, quite clearly, in the indication of two particular characters. Azriel and Elain. For the first time, when we met Elain again in the third book the window is a big issue.

"The suite was filled with sunlight. Every curtain shoved back as far as it could go, to let in as much sun as possible."

We have a clear description of the sunlit room, curtains shoved to further underline the need for light.

"And seated in a small chair before the sunniest of the windows, her back to us, was Elain."

In the brightest place in the room sits Elain, in front of the window. She is exposed to the sun, to sunlight and is absorbing that light - which is highlighted during this scene (which makes it important to note).

"Her skin was so pale it looked like fresh snow in the harsh light. I realized then that the color of death, of sorrow, was white."

The sunlight exposes Elain, its harsh light makes her pale, almost translucent. Even Feyre realizes the graveness of this picture comparing this white hue to death. As you can see the chain of events in this scene played like that: sunlit room -> curtain swept away -> Elain sitting in front of the window -> sudden comparison to death.

"She had been always so full of light. Perhaps that was why she now kept all the curtains open. To fill the void that existed where all of that light had once been. And now nothing remained."

Feyre deducts that the need for light on Elain's part is a desperate call to brighten the darkness inside her - which perfectly aligns with the metaphorical usage of windows. Elain basks in light in a helpless cry for help. The very dark void that appeared within her after being Made eats her away. It sucks her immortal life away - the one which she yet didn't get used to. On the other hand, we as readers are presented with the fact that Elain is trapped. In this Fae life, in this room, in this situation in which she grieves for her past and many what-ifs.

Nothing. Not even a flicker of emotion. “Everyone keeps saying that.” Her thumb brushed the ring on her finger. “But it doesn’t fix anything, does it?”

Sitting in front of the window - a sunny one to be precise, which symbolizes life, growth, and change, Elain is presented in a contrast to her surroundings. To show that visible barrier that her person has to overcome. She realizes that her dreams are meant to be unfulfilled, that they are unreachable.

"My stiff, limping steps, at least, had eased into a smoother gait by the time I found Elain in the family library. Still staring at the window, but she was out of her room."

The next time we see Elain she is out of her room - her "cage", but even though she left the boundaries of her entrapment she still chooses to linger around the windows. As Feyre notices, Elain gazes through the window - we are obstructed from Elain's POV and it's hard to imagine what she could be thinking about. Yet the symbolic manner of using the window as some sort of mirror, a passage that happens throughout the series, allows me to think that the metaphorical usage of windows, in this case, isn't a far-fetched idea.

"Elain didn’t turn. She was wearing a pale pink gown that did little to complement her sallow skin, her brown-gold hair hanging in loose, heavy ringlets down her thin back."

SJM uses this sentence to highlight that it isn't just a quick glance out of the window - in fact, it is constant staring through it. It is important for us as readers to note that this thing, window gazing, is an occupation that lasts for long periods of time. It isn't something trivial, it is something that showcases the importance of said windows in Elain's journey.

“What are you looking at?” I asked Elain, keeping my voice soft. Casual. Her face was wan, her lips bloodless. But they moved—barely—as she said, “I can see so very far now. All the way to the sea.”

Feyre decides to ask Elain who is still gazing through the window. Her answer is very ominous and holds a great deal of importance, but also underlines the fact that she is drawn to the window. Not to mention that what she is seeing is the sea - another vastly discussed symbol. In this situation, I believe that the interpretation can lay in a more psychological aspect of the matter rather than a literary one. In the works of very well-known psychiatrist Carl Jung the sea "symbolizes the personal and the collective unconscious in dream interpretation". So from his notes there comes this annotation that caught my attention, "The sea is a favourite place for the birth of visions."

Elain is a seer who constantly gazes through a window which symbolizes the in-between, life and death. These two are connected to one another and SJM used many things to further develop Elain's character as a powerful figure.

"Elain only turned toward the sunny windows again, the light dancing in her hair."

After the whole conversation Elain doesn't move from her spot, quite the contrary she returns to her previous activity. Gazing through the window. Once again we are reminded about the sun and light - which signalizes that Elain tries to undergo through the process of rebirth, but also tries to break free from the unhappiness that came with lost dreams.

"Something in my chest cracked as Nesta’s eyes also went to the windows before Elain. To check, as I did, for whether they could be easily opened."

Here we have an instance of both sisters realizing that Elain spending so much time in front of windows can be dangerous, as in her attempting to jump from them. Once again, the symbolism of death.

"More steps—no doubt closer to where Elain stood at the window."

Elain is still beside the window when Lucien tries to talk to her. Even alone she seeks the place next to the window to stare.

"But sunlight on gold caught his eye—and Elain slowly turned from her vigil at the window."

Elain is still by the window, for the whole scene she is there not moving an inch from it. Furthermore, the word "vigil" is also an interesting choice. There are different meanings of it, but I find these ones very telling and suitable for this instance: a period of sleeplessness; insomnia, a watch kept, or the period of this and a devotional watching, or keeping awake, during the customary hours of sleep. We can speculate about what happened to Elain while she was in the Cauldron, what made her so withdrawn from life and so desperate for the light. I want to believe that we as readers will get our answers in the next book since Elain being a seer with unknown powers makes her a perfect target for Koschei with which she has already had connections.

She looked away—toward the windows. “I can hear your heart,” she said quietly.

Again, during the whole conversation, she doesn't move away from her spot next to the window. Windows for her, start to become a symbolism of change and rebirth - the things she probably wished while being confined to her room.

Elain only stared out the window, unaware—or uncaring.

We have another mention about staring - which further highlights how important windows are as a literary tool for Elain's character. She seeks light, she wants to overcome this barrier that was thrown at her the moment she was Made. She, perhaps, watched through the window to observe the life which was stripped away from her and turned her into this immortal being. Or, maybe she just desperately wanted to brighten up the darkness that gathered inside her because of that whole situation. Another important thing to note is that this scene is a first moment alone with Lucien - her mate, which should have been very painful for her. The conversation also held a lot of weight, yet she valiantly stood by the window as if somewhere behind it she could find an answer.

“So it can’t be a perfect system of matching. What if”—I jerked my chin toward the window, to my sister and the shadowsinger in the garden —“that is what she needs? Is there no free will? What if Lucien wishes the union but she doesn’t?”

Here we have an instance of "art of watching" in which Feyre observes Azriel and Elain through the window. By watching them she comes to the conclusion that both of them are better suited and actually can comfort each other in comfortable silence. The window here is used as a barrier to showcase parallels of two couples: happily mated Feysand and unhappily in love with other people Elriel.

"But I looked to Azriel, currently leaning against the wall beside the floor-to-ceiling window, shadows fluttering around him."

And here we are start with Azriel and windows (also in ACOWAR). He is another character that has an extraordinary connection to windows. He is often mentioned next to them and somehow parallels Elain's behavior - staring through windows, being near them.

"I blinked, realizing I’d been lost in the bond, but found Azriel still by the window, (...)."

As we can see Azriel lingers next to the window without moving away from it - as the scene progresses we know that the conversation lasts a good ounce of time, yet Azriel stands in his place by the window.

"Azriel didn’t so much as turn from his vigil at the window, though I could have sworn his wings tucked in a bit tighter."

The same wording, the same imagery. Both used for Elain and Azriel. Both of them keeping vigils at the windows, staring through them as if they could find an answer through them.

"The main room of the guardhouse was stuffy and cramped, more so with all of us in there, and though I offered Elain a seat by the sealed window, she remained standing—at the front of our company. Staring at the shut iron door."

This scene is when Elain is about to confront her lover - Greysen. It is underlined that she rejected her usual spot, which is by the window, and preferred to face the door. She was trapped, she knew that a very important discussion will take a place here. She chose to look at the door rather than at the window, which in this matter could symbolize hope for a change - she stared at the door which metaphorically means transition or imprisonment.

"(...) close to Elain’s side as she and my sister silently kept against the wall by the intact bay of windows."

Another instance of Elain and her being content with being next to the windows.

"I’d seen Elain staring out the window earlier—watching Graysen leave with his men without so much as a look back at her."

"Art of Watching", but also the window's symbolism of dreams that were unfulfilled. At that moment, we can assume, that Elain realized that her dreams concerning human life and her future with Greysen would only be unattainable dreams/hopes.

“What now?” Elain mused, at last answering my question from moments ago as her attention drifted to the windows facing the sunny street. That smile grew, bright enough that it lit up even Azriel’s shadows across the room. “I would like to build a garden,” she declared. “After all of this … I think the world needs more gardens.

At the end of ACOWAR, we have this powerful moment, in which Elain gazing out of the window sees sunny streets = life. A chance of rebirth, which also beautifully overlaps with the fact that she proposed building a garden! The in-between that she balanced on while gazing through the window for so many times turned from death and misfortunes into life and hopes of the future.

ACOFAS

"Elain politely refused, taking up a spot in one of the wooden chairs set in the bay of windows. Also typical."

From Rhysand's point of view, we can deduct that even they are aware of the fact that Elain and windows are something notable. It is a place where she feels comfortable and probably spends a lot of time.

"Beyond the windows, darkness had indeed fallen. The longest night of the year. I found Elain studying it, beautiful in her amethyst-colored gown. I made to move toward her, but someone beat me to it."

In previous quotes, we could gather information about how Elain craved the light and how desperate she was to lighten up her person. Here, we can see that she also started to embrace the darkness. She is again by the window, observing the darkness as if no one else was around her. And of course, the one person who goes towards her at that moment is Azriel, a personification of darkness in the books.

Azriel strode to the lone window at the end of the room and peered into the garden below. “I’ve never stayed in this room.” His midnight voice filled the space.

Azriel went straight to the window. And not an ordinary one, but the one through which you can see the garden. Life and light. I know many were theorizing if what kept Azriel so occupied by the window was Elain, but I would love to put some of my thoughts in this discourse. Yes, I do think that what caught his attention, or who caught his attention was Elain. However, Elain at that moment represents life and light - the things that are associated with windows. And if you spin it around you have Azriel=darkness, death staring at Elain=light, life. The in-between, the very initial symbolism of window in literature. Not to mention that in this scene we have Azriel watching the light and next we have Elain observing darkness.

“No,” Azriel said, not turning from the window.

Azriel remained at the window. “Will Nesta stay here if she comes?

“I’d still be surprised if they remember once the storm clears,” Azriel said, turning from the garden window at last.

We have a whole scene in which it is so heavily implied that Azriel was constantly staring through the window, not even bothering to move away from it. We also have another highlighted thing which is the fact that it was a garden window.

There was a tiny box left on the table by the window—a box that Mor lifted, squinted at the name tag, and said, “Az, this one’s for you.”

A small thing, yet a very sweet one. The fact that even his present was placed close to the window, which starts to become an Elriel thing.

ACOSF

"She’d barely slept for fear of Elain walking off this veranda, or leaning too far out of one of the countless windows, or simply throwing herself down those ten thousand stairs."

We have a reminder that during her stay at House of Wind, Elain was a symbol of death. She carried it on her while being associated with windows that were used as a source of light that helped her heal.

"Elain stood at the wall of windows, clad in a lilac gown whose close-fitting bodice showed how well her sister had filled out since those initial days in the Night Court."

Even when she visits Nesta, she takes the place by the windows. It is something that is strictly connected to her. As if the windows were part of her now.

Elain’s smile was as bright as the setting sun beyond the windows. “I thought I’d drop by to see how you were doing.”

Light, sun, life = Elain.

“You’ve got good coloring, I mean,” Elain clarified, striding from the windows to cross the room. She stopped a few feet away. As if holding herself back from the embrace she might have given.

SJM still used the passages to underline the passage of time that Elain spent standing next to the window. It is a place in which she feels good and perhaps safe.

"They’d sat in them, before this fire, so many times that it was an unspoken rule that Azriel’s was the one on the left, closer to the window, and Cassian’s the one to the right, closer to the door."

We also get the information that Azriel always was the closest to the window - which is an odd thing to add without a deeper meaning. As if to further build up that connection between him and Elain - that both of them are aware of the fact that they are also the symbolism of the allegory of windows. I believe that SJM really researched that light and darkness trope, with which she built and she is still building up Elriel. The windows are just another tiny nugget that further envelopes both of them as one. Because while Elain transformed from death to life, she still welcomed darkness and embraced it - and Azriel opened to the life and light, seeking it. As I said, windows are a literary tool, which perhaps wasn't the main idea in the SJM text, but the amount of parallels between both of them and even the same wording applied to different scenes tells me that it's yet another connection between them.

[bookandcranny]

Entertainer in a Minor Key

Pale light filters in through tears in the canvas. Rows of bleachers and folding chairs stand sentinel over a ring of sawdust, where in the center sits a wooden box with a star painted on the side. A prop chest or maybe a crate of old costumes, forgotten like the rest of it. Whoever left this place in such a state must have been in some hurry, Tanis muses.

Curious, she steps into the ring to investigate. The look of that box brushes against another of those deep-down memories and brings to mind a child’s toy chest. The big padlock is a bit atypical though. Mindlessly she reaches for the multitool in her back pocket and kneels to fiddle with it. As she fits it into the lock, the lid props open an inch and a round, blue eye peers out at her from the shaded darkness.

summary: When you’re traveling across the country on foot in a world overrun with every kind of horror movie monster the mind can imagine on an ill-fated quest to go beat up your former boss, it’s important to maintain a sense of humor, as well as an open mind.

content warnings: descriptions of violence and gore

length: about 9k words

The fairgrounds have been long since abandoned by the time Tanis stumbles upon them. A big top tent sways gently in the wind, its candy-colored stripes looking faded and grim under the shadow of the oncoming storm. A loose bit of canvas flaps against the dark mouth of the entryway in a two-four rhythm. Pap-pap, pap-pap. 

Tanis’ inclination is to duck inside before the lazy drizzle of rain has the chance to start falling in earnest, but first, the test. Rolling up the sleeve of her flannel reveals a list written on her forearm in black marker.

NO:

Abandoned houses

Dark caves

Graveyards

Wax museums

The last bullet point is underlined. Never again.

“Well it doesn’t say anything about old circuses,” she says to herself. “But that’s probably because I’ve never been to one.”

It’s not what she’d call an inviting looking place, but neither does it seem especially dangerous, and the longer she spends deliberating outside the entrance the colder and wetter she’s getting. With no sign of any other half-decent shelter to be found, she steps inside.

There’s something oddly nostalgic about this place, she thinks. Odd because she doesn’t remember ever going to the circus as a kid. Maybe it’s the smell: wood chips and an unidentifiable sugary sweetness that reminds her of playing on the playground behind the school, the ice cream truck that parked there during the summers, popsicles melting onto careless sticky fingers. 

Pale light filters in through tears in the canvas. Rows of bleachers and folding chairs stand sentinel over a ring of sawdust, where in the center sits a wooden box with a star painted on the side. A prop chest or maybe a crate of old costumes, forgotten like the rest of it. Whoever left this place in such a state must have been in some hurry, Tanis muses.

Curious, she steps into the ring to investigate. The look of that box brushes against another of those deep-down memories and brings to mind a child’s toy chest. The big padlock is a bit atypical though. Mindlessly she reaches for the multitool in her back pocket and kneels to fiddle with it. As she fits it into the lock, the lid props open an inch and a round, blue eye peers out at her from the shaded darkness.

“Oh, um. Hello in there.”

“Please let me out,” a voice whispers from inside.

“Aw, ‘course I will. It can’t be too comfortable in there.” After a tense minute of probing with the head of a screwdriver, the lock springs open. “There we go! How’d you even manage to…”

A bone-white hand crams itself through the gap, fingers skittering spider-like over the clasp. The lid creaks open and from within rises a doll, a slender circus clown with long ball-jointed limbs tucked into its chest, unfolding like the petals of a flower. It’s taller than Tanis by a head at least and its painted face looms over her with an open-hinged smile.

“Ah. I see now.”

“Ooh, thank you thank you!” the doll trills in the voice of a bubbly young woman. She raises her legs out of the box with the wobbly grace of a drunken ballerina, head bobbing above a moth-eaten ruffle collar, causing her eyes to roll from side to side in their sockets like pale marbles.

“No need to thank me. I just popped in to catch a show but it looks like I missed my window so I’ll just be on my way.”

She makes to leave the way she came but the doll leaps in front of her with surprising speed. 

“Don’t go yet. Play with me,” she says. “Oh won’t you please play with me?”

Tanis thinks about it, weighing her options. She reaches for the guitar case slung over her back. “Yeah, alright.”

“Really?”

“Sure, it’s been a while since I had a good jam sesh. What do you play?”

The doll freezes, then with the crackling creak of stiff wooden joints it bends its body backwards and begins rifling through the crate. She fishes through frilly costumes, loose kernels of stale popcorn, packing peanuts, and emerges with a bright red toy piano. It makes a bouncy, tinny sound as she strikes the keys.

“Avant-garde. I like it.”

“If you could do me the kindness of turning my key.” She turns around and points at a brass windup key jutting out of a whole in her leotard. 

In for a penny, in for a pound I guess. Tanis gives it a few twists. It clicks, spins, and the doll jerks forward, striking a shrill note. 

“Oh that feels so much better!”

She lays her rosewood fingers across the piano keys and this time a full, rich sound echoes from the little toy. Suddenly a spotlight shines down from somewhere above them, piercing through the shadows. Tanis’ blinks against the glare. She squints up at the rafters but can’t for her life figure out where the light is coming from.

“Nice trick. You’re a performer of many talents, Ms Clown.”

“Silly! My name is Caroline!”

She nods, strumming a few experimental chords. “Tanis. What’re you doing in a gloomy place like this?”

In lieu of a response, Caroline begins to play faster, and as she plays the circus seems to be transported back in time. The ubiquitous signs of wear and age fade before Tanis’ eyes and the empty tent begins to fill up with cheers and laughter and the awed murmurs of a captivated audience. When she tries to look at them, however, like a half-remembered dream the faces of both the patrons and the other entertainers alike are replaced by churning mass of blurry gray features.

“I was the secret show-stopper, the dancing doll! The ringmaster had me made special. But one day, the show was stopped for good, and I was left alone.”

No intonation betrays her thoughts, yet as she speaks the ghosts of the past begin to fade, returning the tent to its dour state.

Not sure what to say, Tanis replies, “That’s a shame. Is that why you were all shut up in that box?”

She takes her hands off the keys, but the music keeps playing. A new vision appears; the hazy forms of strangers, travelers like Tanis whose curiosity or search for shelter drove them to this place before her. They murmur amongst themselves as they peer and point at the oddity in the ring. Caroline reaches for them and they recoil in horror before vanishing like smoke.

“No one wanted to play.”

Tanis shifts uneasily on her feet. This is awkward. “Aw jeez, I’m sorry about all that. But things’ll look up soon, I’m sure.”

No reply. Tanis’ hands still. She doesn’t really feel like playing anymore.

“Anyway, thanks for the song but it sounds like the rain’s letting up so I better be on my way.”

The music cuts out. Suddenly all is silent but for the quiet clicking of the spinning key.

“You don’t want to play anymore?” Caroline asks softly.

She put up her hands. “No offense. I just gotta keep moving. I’ve still got a long way to travel, you see.”

Once again she tries to leave and once again the doll bars her way. Standing up from the piano she twists her dexterous fingers into Tanis’ shirt collar and lifts her off the ground.

“You can’t go,” she implores. “You mustn’t go. It’s so very dangerous out there.”

Tanis struggles in her grip. “Seems pretty bad in here too.”

“Oh but I don’t want to harm you! I only wish to entertain!” 

The spectral spotlights return twice as bright, causing the woman to wince. She kicks at her captor’s wooden limbs. The thing doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Come on now, let’s be reasonable and put-” Thunk. “Me-” Thunk. “Down.”

“You’re quite spirited, Ms Tanis! I’ve so missed having a lively audience.”

She spins her around and pins her up against the bleachers. Sneaking a hand into her back pocket, Tanis pulls out the multitool and jams the knife edge into her side. This at last gets a reaction from her. She makes a small startled noise, closer to offense than pain, and throws the woman to the ground. 

The fall itself isn’t bad, but she doesn’t relish the feeling of her guitar slamming into her torso. Tanis groans and pushes herself up while Caroline continues to fret over the pocket knife lodged in her. She pulls and pulls but it's gotten all twisted up in her frilly costume and every seam she tears with her tugging makes her whimper like a distressed child. 

Taking advantage of the distraction, Tanis picks up her guitar, the closest thing to a weapon she has on hand, and swings it at her head. There’s a satisfying pop as one of her marble eyes shoots out of its socket and rolls under the stands. The doll bends double with a piercing wail. 

“Sorry about this, Caroline. You seemed alright.” 

With that, she reaches over and rips the brass key out of her back. The clown-creature slouches, then falls to her knees. The hole in her back oozes with a trickle of something-- not blood, thankfully. Something darker and more viscous, almost like molasses.

Tanis sighs and plops down on the sawdust floor. She’s relieved to find her guitar not much worse for wear in spite of her rough handling, although she’ll need to replace a snapped string. She lays it gently back into its case and fishes out a marker from her sparse bundle of belongings. 

NO:

Abandoned houses

Dark caves

Graveyards

Wax museums

Circuses

She rolls the dancing doll’s key around in her hand. After a moment’s deliberation, she lifts the oversized toy up over her shoulder and drops her back into her box. She plugs the smooth chunk of brass back into the weeping wound; Caroline shudders but otherwise remains dormant.

“There we go, no harm no foul,” she tells her limp form. “You rest up now.”

Tanis has come across her fair share of monsters already but rarely has one shown so much emotion. Most of the beasties she encounters don’t seem to know more than the bottomless hunger that drives them. She hasn’t had much reason up until now to consider what they might’ve been before, but now that the seed is sewn, she can’t help but feel a bit bad for the poor thing. 

Loneliness is a bitch and to be a performer without any audience is a plight she’s all too familiar with. She remembers the desperation, the despair, the things it could drive a person to do.

With the weight of the case back on her shoulders and the firm earth back beneath her feet, the traveler sets off again.

--

It feels like she’s been trudging through the mud for an age and a half before she reaches the next human township. Her burdens feel twice as heavy today and she’s eager to find someplace to lay them down if only for the night. 

The quaint settlement is surrounded on all sides by a high wooden wall and there’s an exposed duct trailing around the perimeter, the stagnant water turned pink from where the red soil flooded in with the rain. A tired looking soldier waves to her from his perch above the gate.

“Hello down there. What’s your business?”

“I’m just looking for a place to stay the night. If you can point me in the direction of a boarding house or a shelter I’ll be right out of your hair, sir.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I can’t let you in until I know you’re not a monster.”

She scoffs. “You guys get many monsters that look like me?”

“You never know these days. Last month we had some…  troubles.” His expression turns dark. “We’re still recouping from our losses, you understand. Can’t take the risk.”

Tanis shrugs. Fair enough. “My name’s Tanis Lahey and I’m a traveling musician.” She gestures to her guitar. “I ain’t got much in the way of money and even less to barter, but I’m not expecting luxury, just a place to rest my head and maybe a hot meal to keep me going.”

“Where do you come from, Ms Lahey? And where are you going?”

“I come from over west; Ohm Town, Oklahoma. Destination: Bigge City.”

The guard scratches his stubbly chin. “That’s a hell of a trip, especially to make on foot.”

“I had a car but it broke down as I was crossing the state line. A pack of ghouls spiked the highway. I dipped out before things could get messy.”

He nods, only half listening, she suspects. She isn’t expecting sympathy for her tale; it’s hardly one of a kind.

“Any weapons?”

“Nothing but my razor sharp wit, sir.”

He levels her an unimpressed look. “What’s your business in Bigge? Family?”

She shakes her head. “Work, sort of. I’m meeting with my manager to renegotiate a contract.”

“Good on you. Good work’s hard to come by these days.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“You said you’re a musician, right? We haven’t got much for music here. There’s an inn in the center of town that’d probably put you up in exchange for a good show.”

He turns and makes a motion behind him for whoever’s working the crank on the other side and the gate begins to rise. The wooden creaking stirs a feeling of discontent in Tanis, too reminiscent of recent events.

“Thanks for the tip, I’ll be sure to do that.”

Finding the inn isn’t hard, considering it’s one of maybe four buildings that’s more than a pop-up shanty. Settlements like this aren’t so unusual: a group of refugees from an infested district cobbles together some cheap homes, a couple municipal buildings, maybe even a business or two, and most importantly, a hefty monster-proof security system. In a few decades if the place is still standing it becomes a destination for those unlucky few like herself who are caught out traveling the wilds and secures a tidy profit in trade and touristry, if you can call it that.

It’s clear however that this particular patch of civilization has hit some hard times, even by the usual standards. It’s almost startlingly easy for Tanis to strike up a deal with the innkeeper: room and board in exchange for a few hours of music in the pub downstairs, or until the night’s patronage dries up, and she even gets to keep the tips. 

“It’s been a hard winter,” says the manager. “Folks walk around as if in a fog or else mad as hell at every little thing, just looking for a reason to start a fight. Some music might lift their spirits.”

“That’s what I’m here for, ma’am,” says Tanis. “Just give me a few minutes to tune up and get my things in order.”

She guides her to her room and then leaves her be, telling her she’ll try to get the local rumor mill turning, get the word out about her before she takes the floor. Alone now, Tanis sets her things down on the bed and opens the case, falling on her ass for the second time today when out climbs none other than Caroline the dancing doll.

“You-!” She sputters and looks around for something to put between the two of them.

“Surprise!” The one-eyed puppet throws her arms wide, wiggling her hands for emphasis. “Oh wait don’t-”

Tanis lobs her shoe at her. It hits her in the face, but she doesn’t seem bothered, or else it’s simply that she’s not capable of expressing a very wide range of emotion with her painted on expression and nutcracker-like jaw.

“No no no, don’t be afraid,” Caroline insists.

Tanis reaches down to untie her other shoe. “I’m not afraid, I’m pissed. Serves me right for taking pity on you.”

“It was fairly foolish from a strictly objective standpoint, but also very kind.”

Her narrow shoulders tuck in close, creating an almost sheepish effect.

 “Nobody’s ever done a thing like that before. Nobody’s ever taken the time to play a song with me and listen to my story.”

Slowly, Tanis lowers the shoe.

“I don’t mean to harm you or cause you any trouble,” Caroline continues. “It’s only, you’re a terribly strange human, and I wanted oh so much to keep playing with you. I thought to myself, ‘if I can’t keep Ms Tanis from leaving, I’ll simply have to go with her’. So when you weren’t looking I curled myself up all teensy tiny and climbed in with your lovely instrument and away we went! In addition to my myriad musical abilities I also happen to be a fabulous contortionist, you know.”

She demonstrates this by tipping forward and pulling her legs behind her head in a position that would’ve been truly disturbing on a flesh and blood body. 

“No wonder my case felt so heavy,” Tanis grumbles, standing up. “Look, sweetheart, you can’t be here. This is a strictly no-monster zone. We could both get in a huge amount of trouble. Not to mention I’m still not positive you won’t kill me in my sleep.”

“Please don’t leave me! We can play more music together! Or, turn my key and I’ll show you another magic trick! We can play cards or do each other’s makeup. I’ll make you look like a tiger.” She shuffles forward on ball-jointed knees, pleading. “You’re the only one who’s not afraid of me.”

Tanis can’t help but smirk at that. “Yeah, well, there’s a reason for that.”

“Oh I know, it’s because we’re best friends.”

She frowns. “No, no it’s… it’s a long story, hon.”

“I love stories!”

“Not a fun story, Caroline.” She shakes her head, rakes a hand through her short curls, growing longer and messier by the day it seems. “I’m not scared of you because I physically can’t fear any fear. Someone took it from me.”

She cocks her head. “Took… your fear?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that I guess. Sort of hard to explain.”

“Perhaps you should start with ‘once upon a time’. All the best stories start like that.”

Tanis sighs through her nose. “Agree to disagree but I’ll give it a shot. Once upon a time, in the far away land of Oklahoma…”

--

Once upon a time there was a young musician named Tanis. She worked in her parents’ bakery in a town where nothing ever changed, not in summer or winter, not in rain or blizzard or tornado. Even when the monsters came and the natural order of the world was turned on its head, for the most people still went on about their business as usual, just with an added tinge of constant dread, and even that wasn’t off-beat enough to endanger the status quo.

Tanis had big dreams of making it as a rock star and leaving her small world behind, but the people around her didn’t quite see things her way. Eventually she struck out on her own, intent on proving wrong all the naysayers wrong. Unfortunately, talent and raw gusto aren’t enough to make a star, and passion doesn’t pay the bills, as she soon discovered. 

After only just scraping by for more than a year, fameless and friendless, she was about to call it quits and head back home in shame when she was approached by a strange gentleman.

He called himself Mr Slyme, which maybe should have been a red flag on its own. But Tanis didn’t care. She was willing to do anything for success and he was promising her not only a paying gig but, if the show went well, an entire sponsored tour.

The very first time she stepped onto that stage she knew she’d gotten in over her head. In their dealings Mr Slyme had failed to mention that she’d be playing for an audience entirely of monsters. Still, if she shut her eyes while she sang the screeches and howling cries didn’t sound so different from the cheers of an adoring crowd. Skin warm from the limelight and stars in her eyes, she knew she couldn’t go back to the way things were, whatever the risk.

Mr Slyme was very pleased with her performance and had her sign a contract with his company right away. After that it was tours and autographs and show after show after show. Time seemed to blur together in a single crashing wave of euphoric adrenalin. She felt like she could go on like this forever.

Then, that last concert. The one where it all went wrong. A darkened auditorium and the metallic tang of blood in the air. She hadn’t thought to ask questions before stepping on stage, and by then it was too late. The ritual was already underway. 

It felt as though her hands were not her own. A chant bubbled up from her throat in a voice she could barely recognize. The lights were fiery hot yet her blood ran cold when she heard, above the hysterical clamour of the crowd, the word “sacrifice”.

Tanis was never entirely certain how she made it out alive. Maybe someone up there was still looking out for her, despite it all. All she knew was by the time she escaped she was in a bad state, her clothes in shreds, her hair coming out in chunks, her whole body shaking as the blood cooled on her skin, much of it her own. She got in her car and drove, no destination in mind except home. Facing her family might be the worst part of all, but there was nowhere else to go. 

She prayed that it was all over now.

The morning after her final concert Tanis woke up in a motel with a strange feeling of absence, like the tugging in your brain when you can’t remember what you’ve forgotten. She was jolted into awareness by the sound of her phone ringing, and when she answered she was greeted by the sneering, insidious voice of Mr Slyme dripping into her ear.

By refusing to see the performance through, he told her, she’d breached the terms of her contract. As recompense, he had taken something of hers. Something precious. 

Tanis wasn’t one to put her faith in the intangible, the mystical. Or, she hadn’t been back then. Even if she had paid proper attention to what she was signing she probably wouldn’t have given the clause very much thought, perhaps written it off as a joke. As it was, the sudden loss of her mortal soul wasn’t quite what she might’ve expected. No demons appeared in her motel room to drag her down into a fiery pit. To tell the truth, she didn’t feel very different at all. Still, something had changed.

As days went by Tanis began to notice herself becoming more careless. She burned herself cooking simply because it didn’t occur to her to not touch the hot pan with her bare fingers. Where pain used to be a teacher now it only made her indignant. The daily dangers of reckless drivers and unfriendly dogs and strangers coming too close to her as she walked down a darkened street no longer gave her any sense of unease. Several times she had to consciously stop herself from walking into a busy crosswalk simply because she couldn’t remember why the outcome might be undesirable. 

It may have been more tolerable, she thought, if she simply wanted to die. That’s what people tended to assume of her anyway in the wake of this new affliction. But there was no sadness or suffering in her, not even when she remembered the events of the ritual that she’d thought would scar her forever, only a slow creeping apathy which grew stronger every passing moment.

Against the odds, she did come to relearn fear, the basic mechanics of it if not the actual feeling, and stopped regularly endangering herself in such ridiculous ways. Fearlessness, she realized, didn’t have to equal reckless stupidity as long as she remained mindful of it. 

Still, this couldn’t go on forever. Mr Slyme wasn’t taking her calls, naturally, and so she set off for the one place she knew she could find him: the main offices of Slyme House Incorporated. 

--

“So, that’s me,” Tanis finished with a lackluster shrug. “I’ve managed to keep myself in one piece so far but it’s kind of difficult when you have zero sense of self preservation and there are monsters literally everywhere. I’m not sure what’ll happen to me if I die or if I even really care, only I figure if I do kick it I won’t be able to play music anymore.”

She gives her guitar an idle strum as she finishes tuning.

“Music is pretty much the only thing that ever made me really happy. If I couldn’t do that, I don’t know. I can’t feel fear but I can still feel happiness and sadness and all the rest.” She clenches her fist. “Anger too, definitely. I’m angry that I was duped like that, the kind of angry that I don’t think’s gonna let up until I put my fist all the way through Slyme’s ugly face.”

“I’m sure you’ll be quite good at it! You’re very strong.”

Tanis snaps out of her stewing, sparing a guilty glance towards Caroline’s empty left socket and the cracks still faintly visible through the tear in her leotard. 

“Listen, I’m sorry about what happened back there. I’m not really used to meeting monsters that don’t wanna, you know, kill and eat me, and my fight or flight response is pretty much just fight at the moment.”

Caroline laughs, or rather, she vocalizes a robotic sounding “ahaha!” that must be her version of laughter. “I would never eat you. I don’t even have a digestive system!”

Tanis presses her lips together. “Right.”

There’s a knock on the door. 

“Oh shit, right, I’m supposed to play.”

Caroline jumps up. “I want to come too! Please please pretty please!”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” She pauses, considers. “Unless… do you think you can pretend to be, you know, a normal doll for a while?”

“Pretend? I love to play pretend!” She claps her wooden hands together. “Lead the way, Ms Tanis!”

There’s an itching at the back of her brain that tells her this may be a mistake, the ghost of her good sense hanging on by a thread. But without concern for her own wellbeing her sympathy for the dopey doll takes the reins, and together they take the stage. 

It’s a sad crowd, both in terms of size and demeanor. Hopefully, she thinks, they’re deep enough in their cups to not question the windup automaton that stands before them.

“Good evening, folks, my name’s Tanis and this is Caroline the fantastic dancing doll.”

Caroline gives a robotic jerk and bows at the waist. It’s a surprisingly convincing performance, but then, it probably comes naturally to her. A few patrons give an amused chuckle at Caroline’s antics. Tanis takes it as a good sign and begins the first song.

Despite not having the time to rehearse, Caroline manages to play her part well, improvising along to the music the other provides with sweeping, exaggerated movements that hold the crowd’s attention. It’s actually sort of nice, the guitarist thinks, to share the stage with someone else for a change. Even if the “stage” is just the corner of a dingy inn stinking of bathtub booze. 

The atmosphere is infectious and after a few songs the crowd has doubled in number, everyone bobbing their heads or tapping their feet along with the music. It feels good. It feels better than most things have felt in a long time.

Halfway through the night Tanis breathlessly declares that they’ll be taking a break. In her excitement, she’d put some more pepper on those last few numbers than usual. The place is packed now, the staff happily passing around refills and lining their pockets. 

Caroline pretends to wind down to stop while Tanis takes a seat at one of the tables to recover. A server brings her a glass of water and she downs it in seconds. She makes a point of staying in practice while on the road but she’d forgotten how intoxicating it could be to play for a crowd, and one where no one wanted your head on a platter to boot.

While she flexes her fingers and rolls her neck in preparation for the next set, Tanis happens to overhear a conversation taking place amongst a group at the next table over.

“All I’m saying is, we know what it's after. Why are we sitting around when we could set a trap and finish the thing off once in for all?”

“If you’re looking for someone to be the bait, I call not it.”

“I don’t think something like that can be killed. My grandpa always says--”

“Nobody cares what the old man says, Jonah. I’m telling you, if it bleeds, you can kill it. That’s just common sense.”

“Excuse me,” Tanis pipes up. “Am I hearing you right? You folks are monster hunters?”

If she were looking, she would see Caroline’s head roll to the side, her good eye following her warily.

“Something like that,” says the woman at the table with a rumbling laugh in her throat. “I’m Luanne and this is Phil, and the kid is Jonah.”

Jonah, a young man with rusty red hair, grumbles under his breath. Phil gives her the barest nod of acknowledgment before launching back into his argument.

“I can’t get to sleep at night knowing those things are still out there, lurking around, feeding off our scraps all fat and happy.”

“If it keeps them from breaking down the wall and carrying us off instead…”

“What’s the point of the wall if monsters are just gonna get in anyway!”

“Ignore the boys. What’s your interest in monster hunting?” asks Luanne. “You thinking about quitting the music business? Trust me, this job doesn’t have as many perks as you’d think.”

“Nah, that’s not for me,” she says. “I’ve run into monsters aplenty on the road, but never on purpose. I just have a knack for getting into trouble, and I was hoping you could point me in the direction of someplace I could get myself a weapon. After tonight I might actually be able to afford it.”

“Don’t waste your money,” Jonah insists sharply. “Monsters can’t be killed, I’m telling you. You can hurt ‘em, sometimes real bad, but they just come back in a new shape.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it means. I’m just saying.”

“What are you saying? You think it’s pointless?”

“No, man, you know I’m not. Just that we need to be looking for long-term solutions instead of just shooting or building walls that’ll fall down in another few years. We’re not cavemen. We ought to be studying monsters, finding out what makes ‘em tick.”

“And where are you gonna find a monster to study?”

The younger stammers at that, coming up empty. Tanis smirks against the lip of her glass. Have you ever tried playing music for them until they follow you home?

Soon her time is up and she takes the stage again. By the end of the night she’s collected a hefty bit of coin and she’s more than ready to retire. A couple of the lingering townsfolk meander over to try and make conversation as she finishes collecting her dues, the trio of ameteur hunters among them.

“Don’t quit this music thing,” Luanne tells her. “If you get yourself killed tracking some beasty the world’s gonna be down a damn good singer. You write those songs yourself?”

“Some of them. Most of them are covers. People don’t usually seem to care one way or the other, and writing’s not really my forte.”

“Don’t say that, kid. You put on a hell of a show. Especially with that whole dancing doll shtick.” She gestures at Caroline who’s playing dead on the floor. “Where’d you find this crazy looking thing?”

“Oh, well, she- it used to be a circus prop. I just kind of found her.” Sticking with half-truths feels like the safest bet. She has no idea how she’d explain her away otherwise.

Phil nudges Caroline with the heel of his boot. “Kind of creepy if you ask me.”

“No one asked you, Phil.”

He grunts and turns away. Caroline pops her head up and makes a face behind his back.

Biting back a laugh, Tanis says, “Sorry to cut this short but I am beat.” 

She hefts the doll up over her shoulder-- she’s not exactly lightweight, but no heavier than the big bags of flour she would drag out of the storeroom for her mom in the mornings.

“Can we count on catching another show tomorrow night?”

“Sorry, I’ve got to be on my way first thing in the morning. I’ve still got a long road ahead of me.”

“That early? You’re sure in a hurry to get out of dodge.”

There’s something strange about the way he says it. Tanis frowns. 

“I just like to get an early start. With that said, goodnight folks.”

She hustles Caroline upstairs and shuts the door tight behind them. The moment she does, the doll springs up, fully animated once more.

“That was great fun!”

Tanis huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I guess it was.”

--

Under the golden lamplight Tanis sorts her bounty of bronze and silver coins into neat piles. Tonight was a better night than most; the folks here aren’t exactly wealthy but with so little trade coming and going what coin they have hasn’t been going anywhere except perhaps into the hands of the bartender, who’s probably faring even better than she. 

After a moment’s deliberation she pushes a stack towards Caroline. It’s not quite an equal share but then, she reasons, what’s the doll going to spend it on anyway? Even so, the thought of keeping all the spoils to herself doesn’t sit well when Caroline’s certainly put in as much work.

“For me?” she asks.

“Yup. You did good tonight and no one suspected a thing. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

Caroline, if possible, looks even more joyed than is her default state. “I won’t!” 

She then tips back her head and pours her earnings down her throat. Tanis can’t claim to understand the creature, but whatever makes her happy.

“I’m ready to turn in. What do you wanna do about this… whole arrangement here?” she asks, yawning as she nods towards the bed.

“Not to worry! I don’t require sleep, nor desire it. If you need me I shall be in your instrument case.”

Her brow wrinkles with a frown. “You sure? It looks like kind of a squeeze.”

“I’m used to resting in boxes. Frankly I prefer it. I suppose you could say it’s in my nature.”

“Whatever floats your boat.” She sheds her outerwear, stripping down to tank top and boxers. The weather’s due to turn before she makes it to Bigge, she thinks; might be worth it to invest in a real coat, maybe some nice thick socks. “‘Night, Caroline.”

“Goodnight, Ms Tanis!”

She puts out the light and closes her eyes. Sleep comes easy, tired as she is, and as dreamlessly as it has been ever since that fateful final show. Nothing short of a new apocalyptic event could get her up once she begins to drift, which is why she’s unpleasantly surprised to find herself awake not a few hours later. That, and the gun barrel tucked underneath her chin.

“God, this better be good,” she groans as the bliss of well-earned rest leaves her.

In the dark she can’t make out the figures standing around her bed. She reaches for the lamp and the shotgun at her throat cocks a warning.

“If you’re here to rob me, couldn’t it at least wait until morning.”

“We don’t want your money, hellspawn,” a voice rasps.

“Well,” says a second. “I wouldn’t say no to--”

“Shut it!”

Tanis recognizes the voices now. The monster hunters, Phil and Jonah, and she’d bargain that’s Luanne hanging back blocking the door.

“What’d I do to you guys? You didn’t like the music or something?”

“Quiet!” Phil shouts. “I knew there was something off about you the moment I saw you, so I decided to do a little investigating. Why don’t you say it again, how ‘no one suspected a thing’.” He gives her another jab with the cold metal of the barrel. “Who were you talking to, all alone in your room? Ain’t nobody here. What devils do you answer to, you traitoring rat?”

Tanis puts up her hands. “Whoa whoa whoa, I think you’ve got the wrong impression of me.”

“I said quiet!”

“You asked me a question.”

Phil continues, “You’re not a monster, not all the way through anyhow, I can tell. But you’re not all the way human neither. I can see it in your eyes. Empty eyes. And that doll of yours, that’s your familiar, isn’t it?”

“Are you gonna let me answer this time or--”

He smacks her hard across the face. She hisses in pain-- that sensation certainly hasn’t run empty.

“You’re a traitor to your own kind, bringing that darkness in past our walls. But now at least we got that live bait we’ve been missing.”

There’s a sudden sound of movement, a scraping against the bare floor from across the room that makes Tanis’ aggressors freeze. It’s Luanne who breaks the tense silence.

“Uh, fellas? What was that?”

On cue, Caroline rises from her makeshift bed with the gravitas of a movie vampire awakening from its crypt. Tanis should’ve expected she’d be the type to relish in dramatics. She cocks her head, surveying the scene around her, and then without further preamble grabs the closest person-- poor unlucky Jonah-- and thrusts him out of her way as casually as if she were rearranging the furniture, crashing him into Luanne and sending them both into the wall.

“No more songs tonight,” she says cheerfully. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Luanne staggers and pushes the young man off of her, thrusting a large hunting knife in the monster’s direction. “Get back, creep!”

“Silly billy, knives are dangerous. Not to me, of course, but to you.” 

She knocks the blade out of her hand. Jonah drops his own weapon before she has the chance, his hands trembling too hard to keep his grip.

“Hey!” Phil barks. Caroline’s head swivels towards him. “Maybe I can’t hurt you, but I can sure hurt your master here.”

He grabs her chin and presses his thumb to her swollen lip, swiping up a drop of blood. 

“If it bleeds, you can kill it,” he murmurs under his breath like a mantra. 

“Silly,” Caroline repeats, taking a step closer. “That’s not my master, that’s Ms Tanis!”

The hunter’s eyes move frantically back and forth, from the doll to the woman. He affects a false bravado and demands, “Then who- who do you answer to, monster?”

“Oh he’s quite dead,” she replies. “I killed him!”

Before he can react, a hand shoots out and grips the man’s neck. His companions, recovering some nerve, shout and grab at her from either side. Their combined weight unbalances the dainty doll but, with her grip unrelenting, she takes their leader with her. His finger locks on the trigger but the panicked shot goes wide. A chorus of frightened screams sounds from outside-- the manager and another couple guests that had gone to fetch her when they heard the sounds of a fight.

Tanis leaps from her bed to wrestle the larger man off of Caroline. The other two have her arms pinned down and for a moment she goes very still, but as Jonah leans in to investigate, a bizarre whining noise sounds from deep in the doll’s throat and a stream of coins begin to shoot out of her mouth. Jonah screams and falls backward clutching his face, Luanne soon to follow.

“What demon do you serve!” Phil howls. 

Tanis grimaces as spittle flies into her face. “You are really stuck on that, huh?”

She grunts and puts all her strength into shoving the man over, cracking his head against the nightstand. 

“I don’t fucking serve anybody.” She spits. “Asshole.”

When the manager finally gets the door open, the scene is not a charitable one. There’s a man unconscious on the floor with a probable broken nose, his friends scrambling for the door in terror, a bullethole in the ceiling, while the traveler and her seven foot living wind-up toy stand amidst the chaos.

“Okay, I can explain.”

“Is that blood,” the manager deadpans, going pale.

Indeed a sizable puddle has formed around Phil’s head where he lies. Tanis sucks in a breath through her teeth.

“I didn’t mean to hit him that hard,” she mutters under her breath. “I mean, he deserved it, but still.”

She nudges him with her foot and hears a faint, gurgling groan.

“No worries, he’s still alive.”

“I don’t care about that!” hisses the manager. “Shut the window, fool! Monsters can smell fresh blood from miles away!”

Tanis looks to Caroline as if to say, Did you know about this? Caroline shrugs.

“I think that’s just a myth.”

There’s a loud, guttural shriek from somewhere outside the inn, followed by the shuck shuck shuck of claws piercing the walls, coming rapidly closer. A toothsome muzzle crams its way through the window and starts snapping blindly at the air. The onlookers scatter, and even Tanis has the wherewithal to leap back and out of the way of those grasping jaws. It sniffs wolfishly and a long barbed tongue protracts from its maw, flopping onto the floor.

“Geez louise,” Tanis remarks. “Just can’t catch a break tonight. Caroline, can you, I dunno, talk that thing down?”

“I shall try!” 

She walks over to where the creature’s head remains stuck in the window. 

“Pardon me, but you are being very disruptive and I--”

The monster’s tongue lashes out and smacks her in the face. It probes into her exposed socket and, apparently deciding that whatever the doll has in place of blood is good enough, begins straining to pull her into its mouth. Tanis yanks her away just in time.

“Oh dear, that was not very polite.”

“Why’s it wanna hurt you? You’re a monster too!”

“You’re a human, and those other humans were hurting you.”

“Huh. Fair enough.”

The wooden panels around the window begin to strain dangerously as the bloodsucker starts to push through.

“Okay, we gotta go.” She rushes to collect her things and then, with a sigh, grabs onto Phil’s unconscious body to drag him out of the room. “Help me pull.”

Caroline does so, but not before asking, “Are we rescuing this man? Even though he wanted to hurt you and called you nasty names?”

“Yeah,” she huffs. “It kind of sucks, but that’s just what people do.”

Together they drag Phil into the hallway and slam the door behind them, though it’s anyone’s guess how long it’ll hold. Hopefully the pool of blood will keep the creature occupied for a short time while the other guests evacuate. Luckily there are few of them, so a short time is just enough.

Drawn out by the commotion, townspeople begin to pour out of their homes and into the street. In the chaos and confusion, nobody seems to notice the traveler and her doll fleeing the scene. 

Tanis makes a beeline for the gate. “I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but I’m ready to get the hell out of dodge.”

“Will they be safe?” asks Caroline.

Tanis stops and stares at her. “What?”

“With that large bitey fellow on the loose? Will the audience be alright?”

It’s hard to divine much emotion from Caroline’s wooden features, but in this moment Tanis can tell she’s being sincere. 

“Why do you care about something like that?”

“It’s a good entertainer’s responsibility to make sure the audience is happy.” 

She points at the crowd that’s forming in the town square: a handful of soldiers-- if they can even be called as much-- with their meager armory of shotguns and spears and some assorted farm tools, and the huddled mass of paralyzed civilians trying to think of where to run to. Many are still recovering from the last attack of this kind. They don’t have the means to defend themselves the way they need, nor to flee the way they should, and the resident monster hunters are either unconscious or god-knows-where.

“They don’t look very happy.”

“What am I supposed to do about that? No, really, Caroline. If you’ve got an idea, I’m all ears. Just because I’m fearless doesn’t mean I’m suicidal.”

The doll seems to think on this for a moment before she simply says, “Turn my key.”

Tanis gives her a dubious look. “The key that makes you act like even more of an evil Looney Toon? The last time I did that you kinda tried to kill me.”

“I did not! I wanted to keep you from the danger.” She actually sounds offended at the accusation. “I wanted to keep you safe in my circus forever. I couldn’t understand why you would want to go out into the big scary world, where people are unkind and ever so unhappy.”

She doesn’t frown necessarily, but she hangs her head, one lonesome blue eye staring into her own. 

“But when you sing, you make people happy. When you make them happy, you are happy too. I do not think you want to run away.”

Tanis watches Caroline. She listens to her speak. She groans, frustrated to realize that, against all odds, the big goofy clown doll is right. “Turn around.”

Caroline claps her hands with glee as Tanis grips her key, still faintly tacky to the touch. She turns it once, twice, thrice, until she can’t turn it anymore. The doll spins around with a revitalized sort of glow and begins bounding towards the beast as it bursts through the wall of the building. 

What else is there for Tanis to do? She follows after her. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests, this is the greatest show on what’s left of earth!”

A spotlight shines from nowhere, brilliantly illuminating the daring dancer. As the soldiers’ weapons glance ineffectually off the bloodsucker’s hide, Caroline overtakes them and kicks it square across the face, causing the beast to stagger a few steps backwards. 

At her command, a swarm of chattering windup dolls appear out of the night. Spectral and red-eyed, they pile their porcelain bodies on top of the ravenous creature. When crushing one knee-high nuisance doesn’t yield any blood or ichor, it hisses its displeasure and tosses the rest off. It stomps and snaps them until they return to nothingness, but the attack disorients it, enough for Caroline to gain the definitive upperhand. 

She seizes it by the scruff, wrenches its mouth open, and rips out its long propping tongue. The beast howls in ear-splitting pain, more of that syrupy dark substance dripping from its fanged mouth. Caroline pulls the tongue taught in her hands and cracks it against the creature’s forepaw like a whip. She faces the townsfolk.

“And now, a spectacle unlike you’ve ever seen! The dancing doll tames the ferocious beast!”

She evades another snap of its jaws and climbs atop its back, straddling it and wrapping its own tongue around its meaty neck. The monster begins to rear back, swiping at the doll with its claws. Those grasping paws, clever enough to scale walls, find purchase on her leg.

“Uh oh!” the doll remarks.

It flings her to the ground.

“Caroline!” Tanis yells. “Just kill it already!”

“Oh but where’s the fun in that?” 

Nevertheless, she pulls back her free leg and jabs her heel into one beady black eye with a gruesome squelching noise.

“Now, for my final trick, I’ll make this rude fellow disappear!”

The mystical spotlight goes out, in fact every light in town goes out, and from somewhere Tanis can hear the sound of a drumroll. When the lights return, the monster has indeed vanished, replaced by a pile of ichorous innards which have been strewn about the town square. A few members of the “audience” begin to retch.

“Ta-da!”

It’s probably not the reception she was hoping for, but there’s one person in the crowd clapping. The fantastic dancing doll takes a sweeping bow, more gore sloughing off and onto the cobblestone below.

--

“So that’s a town we can never go back to.”

Caroline pouts, as much as she can. “I thought it was a lovely show.”

Tanis shrugs. “You can’t please everybody.”

She’s back on the road, strumming a few notes on her guitar as she walks along. She’d offered to hold onto it so Caroline could have some more wiggle room as she rode along on her back. The extra baggage wasn’t exactly ideal, but despite single-handedly taking down a monster twice her size, traversing wide open spaces still made the doll nervous after so long spent confined to one place. It was the least she could do for her, she figured.

Besides being a real powerhouse when it comes to fighting humans and other monsters alike, Caroline had become an invaluable addition to Tanis’ little traveling act. She made more than twice the tips as she usually did when Caroline was dancing along to her songs. Everyone was always so perplexed: how did she make that doll move like that? It was almost like she was alive!

Yeah, almost. She snickers to herself. 

“Are you thinking of a joke? May I hear it?”

“Nah, just getting lost in my own head again,” she says. 

Privately, there’s another reason she’s glad to have kept Caroline by her side. It’s strange, she thinks, to have found a companion in a creature like her. A friend, even.

“Where will we be touring next, Ms Tanis?”

“For now we just keep heading east.” She glances back at the doll. Her head is poking out of the case, watching her again. It’s probably a good thing she’s physically incapable of finding that as creepy as it undoubtedly is. Instead, she just shoots her a sideways grin and says, “You know, you don’t have to keep calling me ‘miss’. Just Tanis is fine.”

“Okay, Ms Just Tanis!”

“Oh so she’s got jokes.”

“I know lots of jokes. What’s big and grey with lots of great big horns?”

“I don’t know but I hope it’s not following us.”

“An elephant marching band!”

God, that was terrible. “Ha. Good one, Caroline.”

“I know more!”

“Why don’t you hold onto those for now. Wouldn’t want to waste ‘em all on me before you’ve got a proper audience.”

“I will, but not because it would be a waste. Even if I was to never have another show, I should enjoy telling them to you very much.”

It’s quiet for a while after that, and Tanis, more than used to the solitude, has almost forgotten about her passenger until she pipes up once more.

“Ms- Pardon me, Tanis. What’s that tune you’re playing?”

Without hardly noticing Tanis’ hands have been feeling out the shape of a familiar melody, a slow and sentimental thing.

“Ah, it’s just this old country song I used to practice with a lot when I was still just learning. It’s funny, I can’t actually remember the last time I played it. I wanted to be a rockstar for so long, you know. But then once I was on my own again, after everything, it’s these sort of songs I ended up coming back to.”

She expects Caroline to request something more cheery, but she merely settles her head against her shoulder and lapses back into silence. For the first time since that night Tanis finds herself thinking of what the peculiar doll had told her. She had said that her singing made people happy. What did that mean for someone like her who was always happy anyway? Or seemed to be, that is.

Does my singing make you happy, Caroline? Is that the real reason you started following me? 

Softly, uncertain as the kid at her first audition she could barely remember being, Tanis lets her voice rise.

“This world is not my home

I'm just passing through

My treasures are laid up

Somewhere beyond the blue…”

[burnttongueontea]

If there was ever a good place to pick up bad habits – it was Ancient Rome.

When Aziraphale arrived in Rome, he hadn’t actually eaten anything in about a century. No, that’s a fib; he’d eaten a bowl of goat curry on a high-altitude outpost in the Himalayas, and a side of boar bought somewhere in Gaul after narrowly avoiding a discorporation, and he could remember both of those meals with a depth of detail that was truly remarkable. So, not nothing, but not very much, not since he sent in his report about the Caledonian assignment.

The painstaking project of establishing a chosen family as a prosperous local influence was one that had gone rather well, actually, and he’d submitted his lengthy report with the hopeful expectation that Head Office would be pleased with him for once. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Michael was in his room not three hours after the report got sent up.

‘Three meals a day?’ she’d demanded icily, without preamble, holding the document aloft between a rather disdainful forefinger and thumb.

‘Er,’ Aziraphale had answered, recovering the unlit tallow candle he’d dropped on the ground in surprise when she manifested. ‘Yes. The humans really rather – ’

‘And you didn’t think that was disgusting?’ continued Michael, with dangerous calm.

‘Well… no,’ said Aziraphale, painfully aware that this was the wrong answer. Not that he’d known about it before now. He’d fallen into the pattern by accident, mostly, trying not to be too conspicuously inhuman while settling in to spend a decade with a close-knit tribe. Then it had become apparent just how much the pattern humanised him to his marks. So he’d embraced it. ‘Actually, it helped a great deal with the assignment, so I thought I’d include it in the report as a sort of – as a tip. They really listen to you, when you eat with them. The same way they listen to each other.’

Michael still looked calm. It still felt dangerous. She lifted an eyebrow.

‘You’re saying you want us to recommend that other angels do this kind of thing?’

‘Oh. Recommend is rather strong. I only meant it as a, as a, as an observation. In case anyone else might find it helpful. I just thought… well, as the only angel permanently stationed on Earth, I thought – ’

‘You’re the only angel permanently stationed on Earth,’ Michael took over, ‘so it’s inevitable you’ll be forced to do unpleasant things from time to time. For appearances’ sake. But it’s disturbing that you no longer keep degrading behaviour like this to a minimum, Aziraphale.’

‘Oh,’ he said again, nonplussed. ‘I see.’

To tell the truth, he was rather embarrassed at the discovery that he might have been blithely committing misconduct all this time. He wasn’t quite sure whether this policy against eating was new, or if he just hadn’t known about it before now, but it didn’t seem wise to ask Michael, in case it turned out to be the latter. (Come to think of it, there had been quite a number of times recently when his superiors had dropped in on him while he was eating. He’d found this disconcerting, but hadn’t thought the pattern was intentional. Now he wondered if it was a hint, and he missed it. Oh dear.)  

Nor did it seem wise to ask whether the policy had really come from the Very Top. That might seem impertinent.

So he asked no questions.

Michael went on:

‘Luckily for you, I’d rather turn a blind eye than write out a reprimand for something so vulgar, but I must remind you informally: the more you stain yourself down here, the harder it will be to clean off.’ For a moment it seemed like this was all she had to say, but then she closed her eyes and adopted a perfectly revolted expression. ‘And, Aziraphale. Whatever you have to do to get by on this job… for the love of God, don’t make me read about it.’

Then she disappeared from his room without a farewell, as if unable to stand the sight of him for another second.

So, Aziraphale stopped eating.

This decision turned out to be less straightforward than he expected. Later on, he would struggle to remember when, exactly, the attempt to eat less had evolved into an outright ban. He just knew that it had proved worryingly difficult.

He’d simply never had to think so much about food before. It had always been a part of the job, of course. Not the most disagreeable part, either. He worked with humans, and their social practices made it inevitable that an affable, human-looking sort would get offered food fairly often, if he was hanging around them enough. If it was expedient, or pleasurable, to say yes – Aziraphale would say yes.

It was after Michael’s visit that he first encountered hunger, a feeling angels are not supposed to know. He’d always been able to go months without eating, during long journeys and famines and floods, and never experienced any discomfort. Now, for the first time, when someone offered him food, he had to remind himself to say no, even when it would have been expedient or pleasurable to accept it. And this made him notice something altogether new. Every time he said it, an unfamiliar something tugged at a spot in the middle of his chest. Not a painful tug, exactly, but there. Sometimes, difficult to ignore.

He observed this change in himself with concern. The more you stain yourself down here, the harder it will be to clean off. He’d never accepted so much food as he did in that little Caledonian village, never allowed his corporation to settle into a rhythm of predictable eating before. Clearly, doing so had left a lasting impression.

And why hadn’t he given it any thought? How had he not realised the other angels would be disgusted by it? He’d eaten so much he’d had to go to the midden every day, like a human, not just to pass water but the other thing – oh, goodness. And he’d told Michael about it. No wonder she had been upset. Aziraphale might as well have sent her a long description of his defecation habits.

When this thought dawned on him he went cold all over, and then he couldn’t seem to get it out of his head. It would come back to distress him several times a day, always at very inconvenient moments, and so intensely that he would draw alarmed looks from nearby humans as he groaned aloud and banged his fists on his forehead.

Not to mention the torture he went through after dark. He’d wasted plenty of nights worrying about his professional missteps, of course, but for some reason this humiliation crawled right under his skin in a way his previous errors had not. Aziraphale would go over and over and over the whole incident in his mind: what Michael must have thought when she read the report, what she must have said to the other archangels, whether they had laughed about him, what they now knew. Worrying about it was futile and painful and childish, and soon he was doing it every night without fail, robbing himself of his usual hours of privacy and peace. Just one more lasting consequence to his thoughtlessness. Along with this new need, this hunger.

Still, lasting didn’t have to mean permanent. He had trained himself into it, so he must be able to train himself out of it again. It wasn’t that he planned to avoid food forever. Only until the problem was fixed. If he fought it for long enough, surely, the hunger would go away.

Aziraphale waited to find out how long this would take. The answer certainly wasn’t ‘a short time’. In fact, the more time went on, the harder that something seemed to tug. Soon it was happening not just when he had to say no, but also when he heard others saying yes, or when he passed a group of humans eating together, or when he thought for too long about food. After a decade or so, the tug had become so insistent that occasionally, when someone started enjoying a meal in his vicinity, he would have to simply walk away, because the sight of it was more than he could stand.

But he didn’t give up on the idea of re-training himself. If anything, he felt more committed. His increasing discomfort only underlined the importance of getting rid of the hunger, and resisting it was relatively easy, if not very enjoyable, during that first century. Aziraphale faced little in the way of temptation, in most of the places he passed through. Head Office kept sending him to dusty little villages and remote backwaters, where people had so little that they couldn’t afford to offer any part of it to guests, and that meant there was more than one good reason to turn it down if they did. He got thinner, and people started trying to give him food more often. He miracled himself to look fuller, so they wouldn’t.

He felt pleased with himself, really. He didn’t know when the tug would go away, if a hundred years wasn’t enough, but now he knew how to ignore it, and that meant he could wait as long as it took, until it did.

And then Aziraphale walked into Rome.

Rome where they had just discovered dining culture, and takeaways, and celebrity chefs. Rome where all his wealthy marks flaunted the fact that they had far more to eat than they needed, where guests were routinely greeted by slaves with platters, where restaurant doors were flung open and street vendors sizzled their wares on the street and the scent of it was everywhere you went, like Gomorrah all over again.

Heaven hated them, these big cities, where they drank and danced and touched and ate. Aziraphale tried not to go into them, because of how much he liked them and how much Heaven hated them, but in the end he got an assignment that meant there was absolutely no avoiding the place that was currently the epicentre of everything, so he walked into Rome.

Aziraphale went almost a clean century without eating anything, and then he walked into Rome, and he could not think about anything except food.

(To be continued...)

[underthewingsofthblackeagle]

The Murderess from the Grunewald (29): Preparing for War (4)

“Like a ship that has set sail - the Elbphilharmonie in Hamburg” by wasi1370

Chapter 28

        "Please, Professor, continue!"

        Jamie reached for a pen to write down important points on the notepad in front of him.

        "First, we will not be able to prevent the press and television from taking pictures of your client in the courtroom. As I said, even the lawyers of Erich Honecker could not prevent that and at the time of his trial, he was already seriously ill. You have to talk to your client and together you should consider how she will appear in court. Although I do not get the impression from what you told me about Dr. Beauchamp that she is a very extroverted person, she should avoid anything that goes in that direction. The clothing and appearance of your client should underline the seriousness, the respectability of Dr. Beauchamp as a medical professional. However, she should not appear too impersonal or even cold. Try to find what we call the ‘golden middle’."

        Jamie took notes and nodded.

        "Second, prepare your client that there might be a press rush and prepare her also that the press might spread the most incredible things or theories about her. The media could try to put her in a historical context with women like Ruth Blaue, the Black Widows of Bodenfelde, Christa Lehmann, or Maria Velten."

        "But ... “

“Zeitung” by kalhh

        "I know, Dr. Fraser. These cases are quite different. But that's not interesting for the press. For them, it’s very simple: There have to be lines or better articles to be produced for the next issue."

         Nerz was silent for a moment, while Jamie took further notes.

        "It can also be, of course," the Hamburg lawyer then said, "that the press will compare your client with people like Niels Högel ..."

        "Niels Högel?! Professor Nerz! You don't think my client will be compared to the most horrible serial killer in our nation’s history, do you?"

        "Dr. Fraser, you will try to prove that your client was and is committed to human life as a doctor. You will try to prove that this doctor is not able to break her Hippocratic oath. Your client's professional background will play an important role in proving that Dr. Beauchamp did not murder her husband. But the press will say: 'That is not an argument! Other people worked in the medical field and killed people anyway!’ The example of Niels Högel offers himself because his case is still very much discussed. And of course, the press can also mention names like Marianne Nölle or Irene Becker. Especially Irene Becker is still well remembered by the Berlin newspaper readers and for 2021 the examination of her dismissal on probation is pending. It would be surprising if the media did not dig up and mention that case."

        Jamie sighed softly, shook her head slightly and took notes.

        "Have you heard that two of Germany's most-read daily newspapers are planning to reduce their workforce by twenty percent?

        "Twenty percent! No, that ... where did you ..."

        "It was mentioned in the Handelsblatt. The pressure to reduce the costs, Dr. Fraser, is enormous. It's all about cash, cash, cash. And everything that promises more cash ... Prepare your client for it and tell her not to be influenced by it. This is difficult for most clients. If your name or character is trampled on in public, then you don't want to be inactive. But your client doesn't have to do that either. Make it clear to Dr. Beauchamp that she must concentrate fully on the trial with you. We will do the rest and prosecute every misconduct of the press.”

        Jamie nodded. Nerz was silent.

        "Please continue.”

“Medien” by AndyLeungHK 

        "Thirdly, even in the case of your client, there is a danger that the press, the media, will turn it into a sequel. Such a sequel thrives on new discoveries, new information, and twists in the court trial. It would be good if you could talk to Dr. Beauchamp once again about whether there are things in her life that she has not told you, but which could be uncovered by the press. Are there 'corpses in the closet' in your client's life?"

        Jamie took a deep breath, noted some more key points, then looked up and through the screen to Professor Nerz. Once again he took a deep breath.

        "I spoke intensively with Dr. Beauchamp about this point. She kept on asserting that there was, that there is nothing there. But," Jamie looked at the notepad and nodded, "I'm going to talk about it again."

        "Good. Your client doesn't give me the impression either that she has a criminal past or high criminal energy. Still, just make sure. Make her understand how important it is to be prepared for everything right from the start."         

        Nerz was silent, while Jamie wrote things down. When he looked back, the older lawyer said:                  "Fourth, facts, facts, facts! As I said, we have to go against the prosecution, but even more so against the suspicions and the conspiracy theories that the press will spread with the facts. You must collect these facts now. You should also consider what your client can do to help you. If Dr. Beauchamp will agree to our work for her and if the preparations have progressed a little further, you and I, and the lawyer we will assign to your case should have a discussion so that all of us are up to date".          "Which lawyer of your firm have you chosen for this task?"          "Of course, this also depends on the time at which the trial begins and which lawyer is free then. But I was thinking of Dr. Manfred Gauz or Dr. Renate Pückert."          Jamie nodded. He had already read through all of the profiles of the lawyers who worked for the firm of Professor Nerz days ago. Gauz and Pückert were an excellent choice. Dr. Manfred Gauz was supported by his decades of experience. Dr. Renate Pückert also had many years of experience. Jamie, however, particularly noticed her for her precise way of presenting the evidence and her fighting spirit. Gauz, on the other hand, was calm, almost deliberate. But that was probably because the lawyer was twenty years younger than his female colleague.          "Both colleagues are an excellent choice and have my full confidence, professor."

“Television - Live-Transmission - Antenna” by ArtisticOperations    

         Nerz took note of Jamie's agreement but did not go into it:          "Fifth, it may be that some people or interest groups will try to make a profit from the trial of your client. In the case of the Violette Nozière, the surrealists intervened. Do we really believe that these men did this only because they believed in Violette's innocence?"          Jamie showed a broad smile.          "Certainly not."          "Exactly. The case came very handily to this group. They used it as a vehicle to pursue their own goals or to spread their own theses. For them, Violette Nozière was a means to an end. Do you remember the trial of the Austrian meteorologist who was accused of rape?"          "Sure. A miserable story. The media did everything they could to keep it going."          "And they have lost. You know that a colleague in a lawsuit against the leading newspapers in this matter achieved one of the highest compensations for the Austrian that ever had to be paid in German judicial history?”          Jamie nodded.

         "Do you also remember that Germany's 'Feminist No. 1', as a hired reporter of the newspaper that mainly makes money with photos of naked young women, reported on the trial?”          "Oh yes, who could forget that!”          "Dr. Fraser, I have two daughters of my own. And believe me, I don't know what I would be capable of if even one of them was raped. But the media and this ... person ... had condemned the man long before he could even enter a courtroom. The newspapers made cash with the 'confessions' of his former girlfriends and paid these women. Even the alleged 'rape victim' was paid 50,000 euros. And all their ‘confessions’ were made public long before the trial started."          "And during the trial, it became more and more clear with every day that the lady had obviously faked the crime."          "Exactly. No perpetrator DNA was found on the knife with which the man was supposed to have threatened her. The wounds, explored by the forensic specialists, could just as well have been self-inflicted ... they and the victim's description of the crime did not match the defendant's body measurements."          "And then the discovery of the bruise photos on the ‘victim's’ laptop!"          "She told the prosecutor that a year before the trial she had been interested in seeing how hematomas develop ... Too bad that she tried this exactly in the places on her thigh where the alleged perpetrator was said to have inflicted hematomas on her  ... I remember, the woman's testimony became even more untrustworthy when it came out that she herself had produced documents on a printer at her workplace with which she had charged the alleged perpetrator.”          "The process was a super Gau for the public prosecutor's office.”          "Yes, but sadly not for them alone  ... the process and the media coverage around it did the most harm to the women who were real victims of rape. When it came out that the alleged victim had 'produced evidence' by herself, it naturally gave a boost to those voices that had always claimed that most women would only pretend to be raped to take revenge on their former husbands or friends. And as for our ‘Feminist No. 1′, many people, especially women, including journalists, agree that she did all of this just to get herself noticed by the media and to make money."          "I remember. It was really ... an impossible ... circus."

“Zeitschriften” by jesus192

        "Prepare your client for something like this to happen. She shouldn't trust anybody who - next to you, Dr. Fraser - wants to be a 'lawyer' for her in public. Behind initiatives like this, there are mostly only profane monetary motives."          Both lawyers remained silent for a moment. Then Nerz took up the conversation again:          "One last piece of advice, Dr. Fraser. Always make it clear to your client that life goes on after a trial. Violette Nozière is an example of this and you and I could certainly give many other examples. I know it sounds like the ‘wise advice’ from a daily calendar, but it is true: Even after such a process, life goes on."          "Oh yes! Didn't the wise Dragoslav Stepanović bring it to the point: 'Lebbe geht weider'?”          Both men laughed.          "I think we're through for today, Dr. Fraser. I'll send you a draft contract in the next few days. You can also contact me or my office at any time if you wish."          "Thank you very much, Professor Nerz. I will first talk to the client and then we will see. Good day to you!”          "Have a good day, Dr. Fraser!"          Again the characteristic signal of the video transmission sounded and then the screen turned black. James Fraser got up and took off his jacket. Then he pressed the button that switched a small light from red to green on Tessa Lüttgenjohann's desk and signaled to the secretary that he was no longer in a conversation. Shortly thereafter, Jamie was already sitting at his desk again, someone knocked on his door, then it was opened and Tessa appeared.          "Can I get you anything else, Dr. Fraser? Coffee, tea?"          Jamie shook her head.          "Thank you, Tessa. There’s still coffee left in the can."          "Or maybe a vodka?"          "At this hour? Tessa, it's still early ..."          "Don't say that, Dr. Fraser. It's almost 1:00 pm."          "Oh yes! I didn't even notice ..."          "How quickly time has passed? Yes, you have spoken for almost two and a half hours with Professor Nerz. What do you think it’ll cost?"          "An estimated two thousand five hundred euros plus VAT?"          "Well, the client is not poor ..."          "Probably the papers will pay for it if they're stupid enough to write nonsense about Dr. Beauchamp."          Jamie grinned and Tessa smiled back.          "Smart business model, boss. But seriously, do you want to go out for dinner or...?”          "What would be the alternative?"          "I'd have two sandwiches with roast beef, mixed salad, and cold Pepsi Light to offer from the office fridge."

“Tiernahrung” by monika1607          "Oh yes," Jamie's face was scurrying with a big grin, "that would be just right for me now."          "I thought it would," Tessa mumbled quietly as she left the room.

         Jamie stood up and opened a window. Shortly afterward Tessa returned with a tray. She put a set in its place at the table that was also used for meetings and put a plate with the sandwiches on it. Cutlery, napkin and a large glass of Pepsi light followed. When the secretary turned to leave, Jamie asked:

         "Have you already..."

         "Eaten? No, I do now."

         "Won't you sit with me?"

         "Gladly."

         It didn't take long until Tessa appeared again with a tray. This time she brought a large plate with mixed salad and a glass of water.

          "Hm, looks good too."

          "Thank you. Enjoy your meal."

          "And thanks again for the good ... all-round care," Jamie said smiling.

          Tessa smiled, then she began to eat.

          During the meal, they discussed what Jamie had planned next. He wanted to continue working for some time on the draft contract that Tessa had already typed down. The second version of the contract was to be forwarded to Ned Gowan. Jamie then wanted to go home to prepare for the next day's meeting with Claire.

           "Is there anything else I need to think about," he asked before drinking the last sip of Pepsi.

           "Oh yes, I almost forgot! The owner of your “Späti” called. The sixty cans of cat food and the five bags of cat litter I was supposed to order have arrived. You can pick it all up."

           "Good, I'll take care of that on the way home."

           "Say," Tessa asked and small wrinkles appeared on her forehead, "isn't a dog enough for you?”

           Jamie laughed.

           "That's not my cat for whom I need this food. It's our client's cat."

           Once again Tessa looked at him questioningly.

           "Dr. Beauchamp's cat."

           "Oh well," Tessa said, stood up and began to put the dishes on the tray. Jamie also got up and returned to his desk.

           "The client's cat," Tessa thought as she walked out of the room. And in thought, she added, "I've never seen him take care of a client's animal before. Nightingale, I hear your traps."

Sorry for the delay. We had connectivity problems since Monday evening. 

[candace-engl-306-blog]

Pages 1-4 ish

Description of art and panel layout of the first few comic pages:

Page 1-2 ish:

A date at the top of the page indicates that it is December and the drawings and panels of this graphic story are functioning as a diary of sorts. To open the narrative, a series of panels showing a post office box (mail boxes in an apartment building), in progressing levels of morning sunlight. These panels and the ones following will be mostly black and white and drawing with pen, with loose crosshatching to show value and detail. A hand reaches out and opens the box. A hallmark letter sized envelope waits inside. The rand removes it, and there is a pause as the protagonist (Audrey) holds the envelope and examines the return address. It’s from an old coworker of her mother’s and Audrey’s old 2nd grade teacher, which is confusing because Audrey hasn’t really heard from any of her teachers in the past, and although this woman was close with her mom, she hasn’t ever gotten mail from her in the past. This won’t necessarily be obvious on the page just yet. The panel will show Audrey’s face examining the envelope, giving the reader the first real glimpse at the “narrator” so the drawing will be somewhat more precise than the previous panels to make it stand out and indicate her role as the protagonist. This will also be an important portrait of Audrey because it will be the only time the reader views her before she discovers the death of her mother.

A series of panels shows Audrey opening the envelope while still downstairs because of her curiosity. The corner of a card peeking out of the simple drawing of the envelope shows detailed and vibrantly rendered colored flowers on the front of the card. Audrey’s hand pulls it from the envelope. A cliché note about loss and grief is written in three different cursive fonts. By all accounts the design on the card is intricate and ugly. Audrey, confused, her hands shaking a little, (shown by drawing two panels that show the briefest lapse in time of just her hand working up the courage to open the card), opens the card and reads the message from her mother’s coworker. “Very sorry to hear of your loss. Please give a call if you need anything (anything underlines and written in swooping cursive). God bless, Ms. Molly”

A panel shows Audrey looking up. A man sits at the lobby desk but there’s no indication he is meant to work there or is just lounging. His expression is bored, and he stares at Audrey as if she is paint drying and he is trying not to fall asleep. Audrey checks the time on her phone. Every moment is now being rendered in its own panel to slow the pacing of the narrative and distort the flow of time.  These eventually grow darker in value and the reader then suddenly see a message typed hastily on a phone cancelling what the reader can assume was a date.

A rather thick black line cuts the above panels off from a panel that is the width of the page. From the reader’s POV, Audrey has transported to the train station. This transitional panel depicts a lowering (or raising, since the panel that would reveal which way it moves is not present) guard rail and commuter legs crossing in front of the “camera.” This is an above ground train, with only two tracks, indicating Audrey’s location somewhat outside of the denser parts of the city. Audrey stands on the platform with her arms crossed and one hand raised to her ear, holding her phone.

 Page 3-ish

A detailed drawing of Audrey in profile is lit by the phone screen pressed to her ear, indicating that she just checked the screen to ensure the call was going through before returning the phone to her ear. This light does the work of an onomatopoeia for the reader, the Samsung dialing tone is evident. For a few panels Audrey waits for an answer, the wind blowing her hair to indicate the movement of time. Audrey’s sister answers. Audrey closes her eyes, and the page becomes black and a dialogue in white lettering transcribes the conversation.

             Audrey: Hannah? Hello?

             Hannah: Audrey? A baby cries in the background. Yeah hi! What do you need, what’s up?

             Audrey: I got a weird card. Wait, what do you mean what’s up? You know what’s up.

             Hannah: Oh Audrey. Oh…

             Audrey: I got a card from one of Mom’s old friends. Hannah, when did she die? What… I?

             Hannah: I really did mean to call you. It was only a few days ago. Just hold on. She whispers harshly to a child to drop something. Audrey, you there? Try not to worry, I was going to call once the arrangements had all been made; Dad didn’t want to worry you with all this.

             Audrey: You’re talking to Dad? No. Wait. How did she die? Hannah this is a huge shock, I don’t understand what’s going on. A kid shouts on the line. Are you listening to me?

               The black background begins to lighten, and a silhouette of Audrey is visible under the still-white and fading words.

             Hannah: Oh crap, what, yes, I’m here. Look, I have to go. The baby just threw up and Peggy’s screaming at her sister. I’ll call you later OK?

             The black fades completely and the reader sees Audrey in profile again, but from her other side. She hangs up the phone and static starts to overtake the page. She looks down into the train tracks, but the reader doesn’t see what she’s seeing, just her face, blank, which is unsettling or unexpected considering how she’d discovered her mother’s death. The camera pans out and the static surrounds her more. Then Audrey’s figure is replaced by a detailed and colorful drawing of a cup of green tea.

 Page 4 ish

The same cup of green tea is held by a familiar hand. It’s the first panel on the new page. The lighting is colorful and golden, and no black values exist in most of this page. The exception is a drawing of Audrey sitting on the floor of her apartment and looking out a window. She holds a mug in her hand, but it isn’t the same mug as the cup in the top of this page. The tea from the cup bubbles up and then spills over the page, swirling into a waterfall, going from warm yellows and greens to cooler but still calm waters.

At the bottom of the page, kid feet dash past. A rope guardrail merges from one panel into the next. Two young girls appear hooking their arms over the rope and swinging on it. Behind them walk the torsos of a young couple, not a new couple, but not yet in their 40s. Their faces are hidden by the panel gutter. Remarks on time and memory can be made here, on how kids don’t remember their parents’ faces and just their smells, voices, and hugs. The woman kneels between the girls. They look out at the small waterfalls, large in a child’s memory, but really just a creek pouring over a small cliff, just barely eight feet high.

<The thumbnail sketches of these pages are in a separate post>

      And for some context, here is the written scene that became the opening scene of the graphic story (so you can see how this has developed):

I awoke early that morning by some accident, maybe knowing what the day held, if you believe in that sort of thing. I slipped on a sweater and went downstairs to check my mail. The man behind the front desk greeted me with a smile as I unlocked my box.

             The pale blue envelope tucked inside was stamped with the army seal, and as I withdrew it, I thought it felt too small and too light in my hands. I knew what it was, and I suddenly realized I needed to choose a place to open it. My apartment? No, I needed to live there. And I couldn’t do it here, in the lobby.

             I hid the letter away and took the stairs back up to my place. I sat in front of the window and lifted back the curtain just enough to see outside. Nothing had changed. The city glistened with cold, but the sun warmed me through the glass. I could taste sleep in my mouth.

             I knew that breaking the seal wouldn’t be what killed my mother, but I put it off. I sat for a while, maybe an hour. I took note of the room, of the way the sunlight fell behind me onto the floor, of what I was wearing, of the movement of the cars below, the pattern of the trains coming into the station. I counted the seconds between the guardrails dropping and the trains bisecting the road. Trying to commit to memory the last moments I had before my mother was dead.

             Finally, I pushed myself up and forced my boots on, grabbed my jacket and keys and went out into the street. The sun’s rays made it feel deceptively warm at first but then I ducked my face into my scarf against the breeze. The guardrail bells began to ring, and I headed for the station. I bought a platform ticket and the gate ate it and spit it out as the limited rushed through the station. As it passed, I reached the edge and could look down into the tracks. The cold had set in permanently over the rails, untouched by the sun. I slipped my hand into my pocket and touched the envelope there. I didn’t know what compelled me to need to open it at the station. The trains had become a vein connecting me to the city, my commute familiar, so that I couldn’t feel like an outsider while I rode to and from the hospital.

             But whatever the reason, I figured it was time. I opened the notice, and my mother was dead. As express train after express train shot past, the tracks disappeared and reappeared in a blur. I imagined watching myself getting caught underneath the platform, in the hidey-holes carved into the concrete in case you fell in. Or just lying down and waiting. If I fell in, could I make myself flat enough to avoid having my body smeared away? The letter didn’t say how she died. I didn’t know if it mattered to me; people only want to know how others died so that they can get a hint about their own end. Would my death creep up on me like a dream, allowing me enough time to realize what was happening?

             As the bells began to ring again, I stepped closer and peered down into the tracks. I thought maybe I’d start crying.

             “Hey you, stand back behind the line!”

             I jumped and backed away as the local train slowed into the station, whistling. The conductor in the front car turned his head to look at the weirdo (me) as he passed. I hadn’t been leaning over the edge, so decapitation wouldn’t have been possible, but I stopped zoning at the idea of suddenly becoming just a head. I folded up the letter and tucked it back inside the envelope.

[gaad]

"When contemplating the Notre-Dame cathedral, one had better consider how it compares with other cathedrals and sacral buildings rather than begin by visualizing it as an accretion of mineral solids."[1] One also rarely judges the construction and constitution of it but rather contemplate it, astonished, without grasping the motive, as one could freeze in front of a monster. This accretion of mineral solids who stands in front of us, and those disseminated in Paris, are our rivals today. And we shall overpass them by our greatest attention. By listening to you, you will listen to us. It is time for a new humanism. Time to set a place, a forum able to stage the powers of today. Time to call up the ancient, dispose them, squeez them, twist them to reassess today's world. We have lost the meaning of natural proportions, let us look at godly excess. Monotheic religion castrated our apprehension of the world, seeing things either good or bad. Even the Opera Garnier which claims to be an ecclectic, never-ending spectacle appears flat in its complicated oppulence. Sophisticated complexity is what we are longing to. The polytheic family encompasses the world and beyond, spinning around our prosaic flatland. A figure founded on intricated concepts is a powerfull constellation naviguating above polysemic ambiguities. As the grand daughter of the Philantropist eponym Elisabeth Murdoch, our Elisabeth Murdoch feels the will to engage her vision in the public debat. Since her childhood she was confronted to a rigourous, competitive and mostly manly world. Inspired by her grandmother she cultivated a spiritual friendship with greek feminin characters. Grew up with them. Now she wants to stage them. But how do they want to talk ? "Where should one search, in the city, for that lost unity of glance and speech? In what space can one again listen to himself? Can the theater, which unites spectacle and discourse, not take up where the unanimous assembly left off? "[2] As we stand here, in a place of great affluence and exposure, with the reminiscence of a residential block behind us, Notre Dame before and the Seine and green spots inbetween, I cannot help myself but to think of "the Paintings (in the ancient theatres that) represented three sorts of Buildings, which made three sorts of Scenes, The Tragick by Magnificent Pallaces, the Comick by Private Houses, the Satyrical by Fields and Groves."[3] This is the place. "(...)(A)dvertising, news, publicity, periodical literature." This is Elisabeth's inherited background. "(...) They work to a single end: to give the stamp of authenticity and value to the style of life that emanates from the metropolis(...) , (to) create a picture of a unified, homogeneous, completely standardized population (...)." Take Paris for example: "(...) the Champs Elysées, bec(a)me the goals of vulgar ambition (and a)dvertisement bec(a)me the “spiritual power” of this new regime."[4] Elisabeth has grown bored of this univocal apprehension and wants us now to refute that. "This is the moment when the masterpieces of ancient sculpture are about to appear in all their glory in front of the eyes of France (...)  (they) have chosen to live amongst the French, and are to be adored in their living images. Ah! Who would be able to step into the temple of these divinities without saying to himself: these masterpieces, these gods had ceased to be gods for us; the cult of Antiquity had been forgotten; who would believe it?(...); it is Vien, it is David, who then made themselves into their apostles and ministers; it is through them that this great revolution, which has at least given us the hope of creating gods ourselves, has taken place in the arts."[5] It appears also appropriate for us, architects, to call up and refer to past apostles of our art. Vitruve and Alberti. The one who in Momus places "the extended climax (...) in an urban theater where the gods act as their own effigies(, the one who) repeatedly uses the word persona (“mask” or “personality'') to underline the false, theatrical behavior of his characters."[6] Alberti will embody our urban theatre, Elisabeth's friends, our Personas. The story will therefore intentionally follow the unfaithfull path. And those masks will "assure(...) the erection, the construction of the (new) face (of Elisabeth), the fascialization of the head and the body: the mask(s) (are) now the face itself, the abstraction or operation of the face. The inhumanity of the face."[7] So be it. Let them be the masked actresses of a twisted tragedy, trapped in their performance, speculating above our heads, fertilizing our ground. A spectacle of a new kind. Let them play, individually, together, contradict each other, themselves. Let them work as technologies embedded in concepts and rituals. As a constellation, they are powerfull. As a system, they can deal with the plenty, transform it. As an unfaithfull story, it accesses the realm of discussion. Finally as statuses, they need a sophisticated territory from which to operate, a palace. Three Faces where "(i)t is not the individuality of (each) face that counts but the efficacy of the ciphering it makes possible (...)."[8]

The face is a surface, (...) the face is a map." [9]

We have announced a number of figures and our intention to spatialize them. "For each genre, now, the problem will be to decide whether its audience is such as to demand utility or delight or both, and what brand of either of these will be acceptable to it."[10] Time to summon Alberti and Vitruve. But keep in mind : "The mathematics that is needed here is of a new brand."[11] According to the treatises of our masters, the theatre is a kind of mythical module present in most classical entertainement building. Take the theatre, elongate the arms along parallel lines and you will have a circus, or duplicate it, set them in a circle and you will end with an amphitheatre. As such, they have most of their elements in common. Or as Alberti likes to say "if (he is) not mistaken, (they) are totally composed of either stairways or, more especially, windows and doors."[12] Elizabeth's palace will merge the three typologies and be simultaneously a theater, a circus and a amphitheater, composed of stairways, windows and doors, as the temple of our time, able to adapt to change, suitable to glorify the unknown. A place which could embody the spectacle. The Palace of Spectacle. Three personas. Pandora, Circe, Metis. Not the ones we usually know. Their Alter Ego. The ones who stand up, do not apologize. These are Elisabeth's Friends. These are the masters of the area, the rulers of the "compartition (which) divides up the whole building into the parts by which it is articulated."[13] "The idea of a constitution, therefore, involves not only the idea of hierarchy of authority or power but also that of a hierarchy of rules or laws, where those possessing a higher degree of generality and proceeding from a superior authority control the contents of the more specific laws that are passed by a delegated authority."[14]   Approching the building you would have already noticed on the façade the different motivations at stake in the building. Flavoured rythms, proportions and nodes are just the superficial expression of the inner game. Otherwise the colonnade and "the spaces between the columns (which) should certainly be considered among the most important of openings"[15] bind, over three tiers, "as far as possible, (the whole in an) integral and unified structure"[16] reflecting the building's main function as a theatre. By its semicircular form, it is accessible from three sides through "royal doors"[17]. Each persona takes its origin behind the colonnade, in a chamber equal to one third of the lineament, expands from there through the whole building, converging at the center of the stage and intersecting themselves beneath it. There, at the very heart of the theater should lie Elisabeth's private hotel. But we will eventually get there, let us first retrace our steps a bit and proceed to the description of the private quarters of our personas. Pandora has herited a box, a jar which contains unspeakable truth, she knows now how to sort things, pick up elements, unleash others. She actually lives outside, among the men. As such her chamber is characterized by openness. There are two types of skin, the inner and the outer."[18] If the latter is kind of strict or well defined, her inside space is far more curvy and mellow, embracing the visitor. Everything there reminds of the sensual, material, confortable and overwhelming nature of its resident. Highly decorated, floor, wall and ceiling are a canvas where she do not mind showing off all her pomp and circumstance. It is a showcase she presents you. Treasures, gifts, jewels, secrets, objects of all kinds. honest and luxuous. Circe masters metamorphosis by exploring with drugs and potions, she learned to articulate her recipes and to play with the right parameters. She erected her own palace inside the building, living there isolated, luring you to her. In "(t)he zone stretching between (the structure) referred to appropriately as "paneling" (and consisting of) (...) the skin and the infill."[19], she created an ambiguous space which folds and unfolds in every part. Simultaneously inside and outside, most of all inbetween. She embodies bipolarity, dualism. Before you even notice, you are at her mercy, enchanted, trapped, swinging between fear and desire. and Metis, renowned for her cunning and wiseness, makes problems no longer valid. She is from another world, inhabits the space, fills it. She is the omniscient negative space. Floor, wall, ceiling are defined and modelled on the volume they content. Her. If she is the flesh, "anything else (...) come under the description of bones. Also included in the bones are the coverings to the openings, that is, the beams, whether straight or arched: for (we) call an arch nothing but a curved beam, and what is a beam but a column laid crossways?"[20] Columns pointing in all directions. As such, the room is acetic and performative, tricky and threatening. Overwhelming in its kind. Material and immaterial.

Pandora, Circe and Metis "(...) (a)re living geometry, lines and curves of color, entwined into a coalescing whole yet maintaining distinct identities."[21] "(V)aulted passageways, all similar and modest in size, (..:) some leading into the central area and some ascending to the uppermost steps"[22] act as neutral territory to connect every parts of the building including Elisabeth's Appartment, the fourth chamber. In this room, the three personas intersect to form the most sophisticated and suitable dwelling for our host. Above unfolds the actual theater where our personas play yet another kind of game, much more specific. The stage belongs to Pandora, the ceiling and backwall all glassed to Circe and the portico to Metis which "work prevents sound from escaping, and compresses and fortifies it (...).[23] Inbetween, the steps, the common ground, the binding element, as the motive of the theatre, "the place from which shows are seen", as an accretion of mineral solids. Finally if you dare yourself till the top of the steps and through the portico, you will reach the terrasse slightly above the surrounding parisian roofs and from there, be able to listen to the city.

[1] D. Corfield, Towards a Philosophy of Real Mathematics [2] Derrida, Of Grammatology [3] Perrault, An Abridgment of the Architecture of Vitruvius [4] Mumford, The Culture of Cities [5] Harrison Wood Gaiger, Art in Theory 1648 1815 [6] Alberti, Momus (Preface) [7]-[9] Deleuze Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus [10] Weinberg, A History of Literary Criticism in the Italian Renaissance 1 [11] Ayache, The Blank Swan [12]-[13] Alberti, On the Art of Building in ten Books [14] Hayek, The Constitution of Liberty [15]-[20] Alberti, On the Art of Building in ten Books [21] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology [22]-[23] Alberti, On the Art of Building in ten Books

[820poetics]

The Art of “Spilling”--a usable form

~Kara Pernicano

When I think about becoming a writer of violences, I experience epistemological doubts--how can I ever fully know and represent my own let alone others’ traumatic experiences in a way that respects the identity of the individual, the messiness of experience, and the sensitivities of community and culture? Effects on the mind and body may trace back to a traumatic event or recurring, everyday stressors and oppressions. Perhaps to write is to build empathy through trauma and recovery, even as to write it is to know it over and over again. While the exact painful experiences invoked may remain elusive, a making of myth out of difficult memories seems inescapable. The style and anonymity of “spilling” in Alexis Pauline Gumbs’ spill: scenes of black feminist fugitivity resonate with me--as critic, theorist and writer. Her work builds upon the myth-making work of Hortense Spillers and Ralph Ellison, aesthetically and theoretically envisioning and embodying a black feminist poetics. When Gumbs turns to Spillers’ Black, White, and in Color: Essays on American Literature and Culture to theorize violences against women of color, she finds something particularly usable in Spillers’ sentence structure to embody this struggle to write violences. She writes of Spillers’ work: “What kept me coming back to her essays over and over again was not only what she said…; it was also how she said it. Again and again, there were phrases in her work that did far more than make her point. They made worlds. They invited affect” (xi). The manner of telling or “spilling” is as important to the artistic expression as the content.

When Gumbs draws from “Ellison’s ‘Usable Past’: Toward a Theory of Myth” to build her own black feminist poetics, spill only adds to the myth-making that Spillers sees in Ellison’s Invisible Man. In Spillers’ discussion of Ellison and myth, she quotes Barthes: “Myth is not defined by the object of its message, but by the way in which it utters this message” (109 qtd in Spillers 67). Similarly, Spillers’ deliberate wording stirs up Gumbs’ vocalization to “black women who make and break narrative.” The grammar and syntax, sound and sequence, of Spillers’ work, when broken down and rearticulated, literally and metaphorically, by Gumbs, re-inscribes the powerful tool of fracture in language and narrative. Short sentences, stated questions, and cumulative clauses build affect. There are several poems in spill that were particularly inspired by lines in Spillers’ essay on Ellison and myth-making. Thus, Gumbs’ work calls attention to myth-making through its very starting points and formal elements--a fresh, original way of inscribing the ruptures of personal experience into history. Like Invisible Man, Gumbs’ woman of color represents an invisible, unidentified, multi-faceted self. While the narrator of the poems remains unnamed, the poems mimic a person’s spilling of life-experience, so the art of spilling builds a safe space to make meaning of negative affects---divulging a shared or individual wound may involve active processing and reprocessing through a theoretical and poetic practice. As long as pain is felt and known or remembered, more details and scenes are added with each prose poem and each part. The telling may be cathartic and painful, even as the voice grows in boldness over the course of the narrative.

Interestingly, “it,” the cause and subject of the spilling, is referenced repeatedly throughout the prose poems, so the trauma is never quite named. spill endeavors to fill a gap in black feminist history. The way that a precise definition of her oppression slips past her is as important as its routine quality, as Gumbs writes, “but she can’t see it” (33). Her oppression, the overarching myth that her everyday experiences indicate, is often unconscious but not unreal. We are all steeped in myth. While some sensory details are given, the sentence flow alone conveys a set of learned patterns and rhythms. The repeated phrases and words suggest a rehearsal. The spilling is calculated; “it” has been deliberated upon: “it shows up on Saturday… it shows up on Sunday… it shows up on Monday… it shows up on Tuesday… [and so on]” (Gumbs 33). “it” refers to her daily grind, an oppressive routine, “purple and loud,” “tender as a plum,” “relentless and ready to work” (33). We come to know “it” through the narrator’s sensations and interactions with “it.” Indeed, the prose poem itself is inspired by Spillers’ line about the descriptive power of myth; Spillers explains, “In fact, in Barthes’s example, the signifier cheats, for it tells far less than it shows” (Spillers 68). The myth pervades her every moment--asleep or awake. Gumbs expresses in an earlier poem, “it actually lifts her out of the bed. breathing or something like it. water in her veins. salt. spirit. rush. she has no one to describe it to” (19).  The sensation of “it” compares to the Invisible Man’s state of being as Gumbs draws directly from Spillers’ “notion of vision-in-dream-brought-on-by-other-power” (Spillers 72). Continuing into the section, “Where she ended up,” another of Gumbs’ poems emphasizes how “it was” and what was “needed” (101). Again, the “it” in the poem draws from “Ellison’s ‘Usable Past’ ”--it “glitters with a notion of black disobedience” (Spillers 80). Her black feminist poetics borrows from Spillers, Barthes and Ellison, so Gumbs commands the use of the master’s tools--the refashioning of myth through language and narrative across time, individuals and generations.

The very “spilling” of memory as a woman of color’s traumatic narrative is myth in the making. Spillers herself begins her essay, “Ellison’s ‘Usable Past,’ ” with reference to “Certain decisive memories” (65). These words prompt Gumbs’ prose poem about “the [many] times” (89). This poem falls in the section where Gumbs dares to write “What He was Thinking.” The “time” appears to suggest many times of abuse, but all that is remembered and shared in this poem is how she acted; for example, “the time she shut the door and locked it” and “the time she walked to the edge, jumped off” (89). In another poem in the section on “How She Spelled It,” Gumbs writes, “she won’t remember the routine wreckage she used to walk through barefoot here. she sands it out” (27). This poem comes from Spillers’ opening as well, referencing, “profound changes in aesthetic surface” (Spillers 65). Spillers’ sentiments have implications upon Gumbs’ own understanding of the self’s place in critical theory and aesthetics. Indeed, Gumbs’ anonymous manner of spilling draws from Spillers’ understanding of myth: “It talks to itself about itself” (Spillers 66). This line in Spillers prompts Gumbs to list over and over “this is why” (Gumbs 123). Seemingly, the list is meant to provide explanations and evidences of oppression, falling within the Section, “The Witness the Wayward the Waiting,” but the manner of anonymous spilling suggests a telling over and over to oneself. The reader becomes complicit in the narrator’s struggle to witness. One’s knowledge of self and memory affects the very myth-making. In “How She Survived Until Then,” Gumbs envisions, “she could not escape the rhythm of traction and sand of creating the world every day with her hands… she could have spit, but she just sucked her teeth” (49). The woman’s behavior bears weight as literally the work of her hands defines her own oppression; her identity is shaped through the everyday experience of oppression. As Gumbs continues, “she is learning it slowly cell by cell” (50). Furthermore, as “it” is invisible but learned, the woman is unknown to herself. As Gumbs captures Spillers’ notion of “the domain of invisibility,” Gumbs writes, “day in day out. She act like she don’t even know she there” (Spillers 71; Gumbs 50). Gumbs’ work claims the knowability of an invisible woman’s oppression.

As the narrative moves from “How She Knew” to “How We Knew,” Gumbs’ myth-making project culminates with the development of a black feminist epistemology, a new shared knowledge. Three poems in the section, “How We Knew,” reference “Ellison’s ‘Usable Past.’ ” The opening poem presents a scene with repeated suggestions of “once [upon a time]” (127). Through the address to “you,” Gumbs challenges a wider audience as she repaints Spillers’ understanding of the pervasive mindset of a generation: “men in their time in a way more consistent with the stars of heaven” (Spillers 75). Gumbs writes of the generational myth, “they were warnings saying mind your direction” (127). The other two poems in this section draw more specifically from passages in Spillers that discuss myth-making to Invisible Man and a African American literature; Gumbs references Spillers’ analysis of Invisible Man as “black American experience... vulnerable to mythic dilation” and “countermyth of good intentions” (Spillers 67, 68). As Gumbs’ describes an African American experience, her writing claims the significance of a growing heritage of countermyth to a black feminist poetics: “once we knew that we did not know and we cherished it. now we are policing wandering. we perceive no one to be where they belong. once we just longed for understanding and underlined it with a song, now our stomachs are lined with lead. now our children are better off dead than being what we think of them” (139). The gaze upon “Ellison’s ‘Usable Path’ ” suggests a high degree of self-reflexivity upon one’s shared narratives and individual life-experiences. The reflection prompts an ever renewed and expanded vision of self and knowledge of the past and the present. In a further application and visualization of the concept of “mythic dilation,” Gumbs describes a black woman’s sense of knowing as seeing: “to let the light in. her eyes grow to pools of black spill the edge of her face seek the sun in a solar system that seems to have lost one” (138). To spill prompts a similar opening up, widening of the eyes and enlarging of perspective.

As Gumbs concludes, her writing literally and metaphorically commands “The Way.” The way to write a history of trauma and oppression is to re-inscribe the personal and the political into everyday writing practices. Perhaps art takes on a form of auto-theory, and critical theory re-discovers an aesthetic value. Indeed, the practice of criticism and art both encourage an expansion of knowledge--a vocalization of the self and the gaps in history. Traumatic narratives reveal the unconscious power of myth and the resonance of speech. As Spillers writes, “all disobedience, in the very force of the language, is black” (80). Gumbs’ words carry on: “release your breath. unlearn your shame. resume your size. stand down. stand down and recognize. the future writing its name” (149). A black feminist poetics invites rupture, reinvention and relationality.

[datinglove07-blog-blog-blog]

Step-by-Step Online Dating Profile Creation Guide - Online Dating Advice | Free Dating Guide and Tips

New Post has been published on https://onlinedatingloves.com/trending/step-by-step-online-dating-profile-creation-guide-online-dating-advice-free-dating-guide-and-tips/

Step-by-Step Online Dating Profile Creation Guide - Online Dating Advice | Free Dating Guide and Tips

Online Dating Guide Profile Recap Rule Description Avoiding Elimination Don’t feel that you have to reveal every last detail about yourself. Brevity Your profile should only take a minute or two to read. If your profile contains screens full of text you’ll want to think about slimming it down. Avoid Confusing Jokes Don’t obsess with trying being funny. You’ll have plenty of time to win them over when you’re communicating. Trying to be funny hurts far more profiles than it helps. Stay Positive Being negative in your profile can give people the wrong impression of your personality. Remember: your profile is their first impression of you. What You Aren’t Looking For Don’t list everything you don’t want. Profiles written like drive away contacts. Again, be concerned with the first impression you’re providing. Be Honest Don’t use pictures that are 5 years old, don’t lie about your appearance or height or whatever. You will meet some of these people and their first thought when they meet you if you do this will be that you lied to them.

Now that we’ve covered the basics of what you should be keeping in mind as you write, let’s begin looking into a simple way to create your profile.

Step 1: Get Away From Your Computer

The first step is to sit down somewhere quiet and write the ideas I’ll be presenting here down on paper. Trying to create your first dating profile or even trying to get it just right can be an intimidating process. So find a quiet place and grab a pencil and a piece of paper. Also, be prepared to put some time into this. Some people will only spend a few minutes creating their dating profile only to remain dating online for months with a sub-par profile. You should plan on setting aside some time so you can really think your profile through.

Step 2: Thinking About Who You Are and What You Like

Here you’re going to need to think at least 10 words or phrases that describe who you are and some of the things you like. This may be more difficult than it sounds. If you have trouble thinking of things, concentrate on how you’ve spent your time over the last week. What hobbies have you pursued? Have you looked forward to watching particular shows or are you reading any interesting books? If you didn’t have any responsibilities for the next week, how would you spend that time? Take the time to think about these things and write each item down on your piece of paper. You should have at least 10 items here. Don’t stop until you have that many!

As an example, I would write the following items down for myself:

homebody my dachshund video games reading church The Office blogging computers the Steelers Counting Crows Digg.com Philosophy my job

Step 3: Fine-Tune Your Personal List

Look at your list. It’s time to identify the areas that will best reflect who you are and remove the ones that aren’t likely to help you find any dates. Review your list and underline any of the areas that you would like to expand on. I’d recommend at least two or three of the items. Be sure to pick the items that you think are most relevant to who you are and items that you can easily speak about. Next, cross out any of the items that you think won’t help your profile much. Don’t exclude anything that makes up the core of who you are even if you think it wouldn’t help your profile! Right now we’re just getting rid of some of the noise that could potentially clutter your profile (remember: brevity!).

From my list above, what I would end up having would look like the following:

homebody my dachshund video games reading church The Office blogging computers the Steelers Counting Crows Digg.com philosophy my job

I’ve eliminated video games and computers because they’re both a part of my life but by no means do I need them to be a part of the life of the person I meet. Additionally, neither of these areas is likely to help me have a connection with the women reading my profile. I also remove philosophy, not because it’s a bad thing but because trying to make yourself sound smart or funny in your profile can be a turn-off and I want to avoid even giving the appearance of this.

I’ve decided that I’ll talk about being a homebody (that I prefer staying in over going out) because it is a very large part of who I am. I’ll also talk about my dog and my participation in my church because of the role they have in my life and then I’ll talk about the Counting Crows for a little extra insight into who I am. I’ll also include some about my job as it will provide me a good opening to my profile.

Step 4: Making Your List Into Dating Profile Text

Now I’ll take each of these areas that I’ve identified and I’ll incorporate them into the beginning of my profile by writing out a rough draft. Here’s what I would end up with:

Hello! My name is Brad and I’m a software developer in the Pittsburgh area. I work on an application that uses statistics to catch people stealing supplies so it’s a very interesting job. I have a miniature dachshund named Brownie who is a ton of fun. I’m something of a Netflix addict and really enjoy getting comfortable in the evening and watching a movie or catching one of my favorite shows (like The Office or Modern Family!). I’m also very involved at my church and really look forward to getting together with my friends for our small group every week. I am a quiet person and much prefer intimate settings over a loud bar or club…unless I’m going to see something like a Counting Crows concerts (who I’ve seen far more times than is reasonable). Aside from that, I really enjoy reading, blogging, browsing Digg.com, and watching the Steelers.

In this example, I’ve made an effort to expand on each of the important areas I identified in Step 3. Also, you’ll notice I don’t come out and say “I’m a homebody”. I don’t want to introduce anything into my profile that might be negative but at the same time I really do enjoy a quiet evening on the couch with someone I love over being out. Instead of bluntly stating this, I emphasize this fact as I describe myself throughout this section of my profile.

Step 5: What You Bring to a Relationship

The next section of your profile will be where you “sell” yourself. You don’t want to sound like you’re bragging but you do want to make the case for why you’re worth that first date. Just as before, take some time to think and then write down the things that you’ll bring to a relationship that others would like. This section can be significantly shorter than the first but that’s no excuse to not put in time thinking about this! Identify a few areas of strength about yourself and briefly describe them. Below is my list (including the second step of fine-tuning my choices) and then the next section of my profile is created based on this:

loyal patient independent playful caring emotionally solid

I’m very loyal, especially to my friends and those I care about. I value the idea of having standards and standing by your word, even when doing so becomes inconvenient. I believe that I’m emotionally steady and very little gets me upset or angry. I’m also very caring and as a line from one of my favorite movies says, it’s just as important for me to love as it is for me to be loved.

Step 6: Thinking About Qualities You Want in The Person You Date

Just as was done with personal traits/hobbies, you’re going write a list of the most important thing you would like to find in the people you date. This list doesn’t need to be as long as the previous one but be sure to really think about what is important to you. Again, this list will be fine-tuned by identifying which areas are most important to you and which ones can be left out. Below will be the list of qualities I would like already fine-tuned and following that will be my next paragraph of my profile:

caring understanding creative willing to compromise Christian intelligent long-term relationship

The woman I’m looking to date is very caring; she is someone her friends and family refer to as “sweet”. She is intelligent and creative and helps me see the world in a new way. Because of my commitment to my faith, she is either a Christian or open to discussions on faith and learning about mine. If this woman sounds like you, feel free to contact me.

Here I eliminated the qualities that I thought might be misunderstood or, if I’m honest, the ones I had trouble deciding how to describe it.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this article I think it is best if you personally write your profile so that it most accurately reflects who you are. My hope is that this process will help those with dating profile writer’s block without taking away from the personal feel of their profile.

Source

Step-by-Step Online Dating Profile Creation Guide

[allen-d-rivers]

Imitates Art

Beginning of my latest project. Hopeful to pitch it to publishers after this current round of submissions. Thoughts? 

                                                                           1

By the end of this story I will either be dead or imprisoned for the rest of my natural life.

And I’ll deserve it, too.

There will be no injustice, simply consequences for the atrocities I have committed. Things that are heinous. Things that are vile.

Unspeakable, even.  

Some claim that all writing is autobiographical. That, to a degree, everything the author writes comes from experience, whether it be a character, place, story, or observation. This book is autobiographical in that sense.

But also another.

We think of autobiographies as creative works spawned from a lived life, but what if the inverse is also be true? Perhaps sometimes, it is the art that creates the artist.  

Art is what makes us human, after all. Without our imagination, our ability to create alternate realities, we’re just the same as any other animal. Miring in simplicity, there would only be the mundane, with existential suffering the sole respite.

Art is what sets us free.

It keeps us entertained. Inspired. Fulfilled. It provides us purpose and individuality. Identity. It even allows artists to live beyond their physical years.

Everyone wants that taste of immortality.

Even if it’s a knock-off brand.

I may die for my expression. Others already have. Their bodies have been butchered, mutilated; the savagery an intricate detail of a beautiful process. In death they have become a part of something so much more magnificent. Once this production is completed, regardless of the consequences, it will all be worth it. Every horrific thing I’ve done will be absolutely worth it.

There is no art without sacrifice, after all.

                                                                             2

She’s looking at me amorously, lashes fluttering as she bats her eyelids up and down in an intentionally slow motion. Her eyes are locked onto me, honed in on every movement, waiting for every word, but she looks dazed, in a dream-like state.

It’s the type of look you’re flattered to receive but ashamed to enjoy.

I stand in front of the class and wonder what the hell I’m doing here. Tall and skinny, my suit billows around me, wafting with every motion, somehow the correct size and baggy at the same time. My tie is too tight, so much so that it feels like I’m choking, and my glasses just won’t seem to stay on straight.

What am I doing here?

Sure, I had signed on to adjunct this course. Yes, it was research for the next novel, and of course I had a lesson plan for the class…

But I’m no professor.

Even as Melody Brooks, the curvy brunette Junior stares at me, plugging me into her hot for teacher fantasy, I do not fit the role of professor. I did not go through a rigorous Ph.D program; I’ve never taught a course in my life.

I’m just a writer.

A New York Times Bestseller of transgressive fiction, gory and grotesque works at that, but a writer of books all the same. If you tear away the titles, labels, the fanfare, we’re all just human deep down.

Well, most of us.

I walk back and forth in front of the classroom, surveying the bored and distant faces of my students. I am surprised to see that they look incredibly young. I’m barely in my thirties but this crowd looks wide-eyed and babyfaced. I’m supposed to feel out of place, intimidated even, but the sight before me eases my woes.  

“Write what you know” is a principle nugget of wisdom used by many writers. Fiction is more engaging and authentic when it’s been seasoned by real thoughts and experiences. My latest novel is about a college professor, Thomas Murrow, a stuffy pompous type from a privileged background. He’s been a refined egghead all of his life, and currently is residing in his ivory tower, but soon something else rises to the surface.

Something savage.

My last two books, while commercially successful, have been panned by critics as hollow, inaccessible, inauthentic, and too sparse. They say the books lack a “genuine voice.” Thus, I contacted my alma mater, the University of Drayton. I offered to adjunct a course, one per semester, nothing intensive, just a way to dip my feet in and experience the life of a professor.

I write a phrase on the whiteboard, a light thumping noise echoing throughout the room as I construct the letters, underlining the phrase when I am finished. There are fifteen students in my class, and I will attempt to learn the names of a handful, the types that distinguish themselves as memorable.

If life was a book, would you be a named character?

Would you be mentioned at all?

“The first line of a novel is the most important,” I read the words in a cliffhanger tone. I survey the sea of faces in the classroom, each staring to me in one of two ways. A few are interested, leaning forward, lips pursed together and brows furrowed. A majority of the students choose the second option, vaguely glancing my way with glazed, glossed over eyes; attention as a mere formality.

I pace back and forth. I stare at the faces with an air of challenge to my expression.

The first line is the most important in a novel because it’s the baited hook. It’s what captures the reader or lets them slip away. People won’t read stories that don’t interest them, that don’t speak to them right away, so it’s imperative to begin the book with an intriguing message or description.

The students stare at me. One lets out a yawn.

While the hook is very important, it is nothing without some line to keep reeling the reader in. If the hook is followed by fluff, unnecessary description and needlessly long words, it’s practically literary masturbation.

Is that writing done for the audience or the author?

A student snickers at the word masturbation used in an academic setting. The metaphor catches the attention of a few of them, whose eyes shoot open in surprise.

A student raises her hand. She’s a blond and reveals her name to be Leah. She asks me, in a soft and timid tone, if any writer can truly create art. If the practice is not purely subjective.

Postmodernism at its finest.

I tell her that art is certainly subjective, as everything is, but within subjectivity is a form of consensus, a type of hive mind if you will, where certain techniques and works strike a chord with an array of hearts, truly touching humanity. In this way, the artist has engrained themselves within the viewer in a meaningful way, changing their perspective or outlook, in their own sense, becoming part of the viewer.

A good book never leaves us, after all.

The girl appears unconvinced but nods, biting her lip and not following up her question. It’s a topic we will get to in time, and I make a mental note of Leah’s name. She may prove herself worthy enough to end up in a book one day.

I scan the room and see that some students have offered me their attention, however, there are others who still slack. In particular, the scruffy kid in the second row, who taps away at his phone while barely bothering to hide it. His hair is oily and greasy, draping down in limp curls over his pudgy face. If I were pressed to describe him in one of my books, I’d call him doughy and forgettable.

I remove a pen from my shirt pocket and walk over to him, twirling it in my fingers. The smile on my face is warm, soft, and welcoming; the type of look one would reserve for an old friend. I slam my hand down upon his desk and he jumps.

He looks up at me, face lit with surprise, and opens his mouth to apologize, a harebrained excuse en route just as I cut him off.

By stabbing him in the throat with my pen.

This is called a tonal shift.

I drive the fountain pen (solid metal and with the finest of ink, no expense spared) into the zit-pocked nape of his neck. He lets out a stunted cry, the sound of violin strings snapping, as I sever his jugular. The screams of his classmates rise around me in a chorus.

I seize hold of his shoulder, fingers digging into his shirt, and rip the pen from his neck. A rush of blood sprays out, a line of it shooting across the aisle and dousing another student. She cries out and falls from her desk to the floor, wiping her face like a maniac.

The student (Gary, I believe his name is) lets out a wet choke and slaps my arms away. He falls from his seat to the floor but I’m upon him, standing over him as I drive the pen down, piercing his throat again. I grab hold of him, continually stabbing him with the pen, the side of his face and neck turning into a punctured jelly doughnut.

I stare down at the frantic, dying man, and think about how this is an excellent teaching moment for my class.

A central challenge of writing transgressive fiction is balancing the descriptions of violence and gore to the point where they are effective yet not too gratuitous as to push the reader away. For example, I could describe how, through the mutilated mess of Gary’s neck muscles, I can see his ravaged artery flapping as blood squirts out of it. While this detail would be powerful to describe the pure intensity of the scene and truly convey the utter savagery of my action, it would be ill-advised since it borders on the grotesque, a move that would simply be gore for gore’s sake.

Gary flops around like a fish out of water, splashing in the blood pooled around him, leaving streaky hand and shoe prints on the floor. His face is a torn and ragged palate. I take a moment to appreciate just how much damage I’ve done with a simple writing instrument.

The pen is mightier than the sword, after all.

The students are shrieking. Gary’s breaths are shallow. He looks to me, his eyes glazed and listless, a bubble of blood caught on his lips. His complexion is pallor, his ghostly white skin staunchly juxtaposed by the dark puddle growing around him. I stand over him, leaning down for our final exchange.

“Use of technology for social media purposes in class is expressly forbidden,” I say.

Gary stares at me.

I drive the pen into his eye and erase Gary from existence. His body jolts before going rigid. A final wheeze of air slips out from his lips before he exits the world.  

I stare down at my body. My hands and suit are stained with blood, My hair is wild with gore. I must look like some kind of psychopath.

I clear my throat, regain my composure, and turn to face the rest of the class.

“Now it’s time to cover the syllabus,” I announce.