#Like some writer said she’s hesitant to describe her characters drinking in her books

[duckpatrolsquad]

the way that Twitter users can find someone’s innocuous if a bit strange tweets that’s not meant for their communities and then endlessly ridicule that person needs to be studied

[pokefanclaire]

Secret Santa

Hello everyone! I’m no writer but I decided to have a crack at a fan fiction for a ship I absolutely adore. Alfendi Layton x Lucy Baker. Also I don’t own any rights to the game, or characters its purely my weird thoughts.

This fan fiction has mutual pining and teasing but is pretty tame. I’m not entirely sure how to describe this!

Secret Santa

‘Th’ Prof always uses the mug I gifted him for secret Santa. It’s a normal enough looking mug with “World’s greatest detective” printed in black ink and the inside is decorated with a flurry of magnifying glasses facing every which way. I watched him unwrap my gift for ‘im from under the Scotland yard Christmas tree about a month ago and he ‘asnt used another mug from the break room since’ Lucy thought proudly as she eyed the space allocated for making hot drinks.

“Good morning dear Lucy”

Lucy jumped in surprise of his sudden arrival and twirled to see a tired looking Alfendi sporting disheveled placid burgundy hair and 3 day old stubble across his chin.

“slept ‘ere again prof?”

“.. You know you have to fill that with water Baker?”

He gestured to the empty kettle Lucy was absent mindedly staring at. Alfendi laughed light heartedly at his assistants morning forgetfulness.

Lucy stepped aside as Alfendi began to make tea in his favourite mug. He had clearly slept in the mystery room last night she thought, yet his disheveled, unkept appearance did nothing to calm the flutters in her stomach or the increased pounding of her heart against her ribcage from his arrival to the break room.

Noticing the heat rising in her cheeks from his close proximity she snapped her attention toward the fridge to fetch a lemon slice to add to his earl grey tea Placid enjoyed each morning.

The coolness of the fridge gave her cheeks much needed relief, and Lucy gave out an audible sigh of relief.

“’ere ya are Prof”

Lucy beamed turning around. She felt a solid mass suddenly press against her entirety realising the Prof was standing right behind her.

“Sorr’ Prof”

she said stumbling back a step.

“It was entirely my fault I apologise dear Lucy. Are you okay?”

Smiling shyly placid prof tugged at the back of his neck nervously.

“It were nowt Prof, why’d you sleep at the mystery room anyways?” smiling at the nervousness she now felt. “was there some new case?”

“Not at all Lucy, I just didn’t want to get behind on paperwork. And besides my favourite mug is here at Scotland Yard. I really like it, and what it stands for”

Lucy stared at her mentor.

“I think I know who my secret Santa was”

“well you should” Smiled Lucy “been the worlds greatest detective and all that. Piece of cake for a great mind like yours”

Alfendi drank from his mug maintaining piercing eye contact with his dear Lucy.

“...And my dearest assistant, did you happen to find out the identity of your secret Santa?”

“nah Prof’ It was a crazy difficult puzzle with no instructions but it looks lik’ sum kinda box. I spent all Christmas day tryin’ to solve it. My ma and dad had a go too, and my neighbour tried but nowt”

“I wonder who would send you such a thing dear Lucy”

Lucy felt her cheeks burn from his relentless stare. She couldn't remember the last time Alfendi blinked…

“was ‘t you? Prof’”

Of course Lucy had her suspicions with him been the son of the famous Hershal Layton. A Puzzle sounded fitting. But she was a detective constable and all of Scotland Yard would of known that she would find a puzzle an entertaining gift.. Had Alfendi been staring at her this whole time? She watched his sweet amber eyes flicker to a darker, more dangerous shade of yellow.

Alfendi grinned sipping from his mug trying to guess her train of thoughts.

“You know, I’m quite good with puzzles my dear Baker. Can I possibly be of some help to you?”

Before Lucy could answer Alfendi had crossed the room to her. She had just enough time to groan as Potty Prof’s eyes met with hers. From his slightly crouched position he leant over her shoulder and whispered into her ear.

“because I am… the world greatest detective aren’t I Baker?”

“morning folks!” Dustin called glancing over at Lucy and Alfendi with a raised eyebrow “Not interrupting summat am I?”

Alfendi grinned at Dustin, his unkempt messy hair bright crimson.

“You ‘kay Lucy Love?” Dustin smiled, eyebrow still raised questioningly in Lucy’s direction.

Lucy was inches away from the grinning Potty Alfendi’s face, his unshaven dishevelled look making the break room vanish from her vision as heat rose to her cheeks. She took an inward breath, wanting to answer Dustin quickly before suspicion took hold and everyone at Scotland Yard would soon be making fun of her obvious crush on her mentor.

“um yea Dusti’ ta”

she finally managed with an altogether strange look on her face. Alfendi smelt of stale cigarettes, coffee and old books, an intresting and all together appealing combination rushing her senses.

“I’m just fine” Lucy added. Convincing herself this time.

“are you Baker? Because you look a little distracted by something, or someone perhaps?” he teased.

“then see ya Lucy love, have a good’n” Dustin stifled a laugh as he exited the break room noisily jangling his keys. “young love!” he added from half way down the corridor.

Lucy’s cheeks were hot, She could only imagine how uncomfortable she looked to Alfendi as he continued to intimidate her at her eye level.

“Baker, come with me”

He turned on his heels without looking back toward the break room certain Lucy would follow. Lucy hesitated for a split moment, deep in her own thoughts before racing to catch up with her handsome mentor. Out in the corridor, she looked left and right for Alfendi assuming he had gone to the mystery room she skipped up the corridor after him. The door to the mystery room was wide open, with no apparent inhabitant in there she knocked on the door.

“Hello? Prof? Are you here?”

her calls were met with silence but she observed on Alfendi’s desk was the still warm mug of tea, steam escaping the rim. He had to be here, She felt herself falter as she leaned inside the room knowing that it was most likely Potty Prof inside, Lucy felt the familiar heat rising to her cheeks at the thought of her Potty prof, the original Alfendi Layton. Fearless.

Lucy scanned the corridor once more before deciding to search the suspiciously silent Mystery room.

“Prof?”

Hands quickly covered her eyes as the door slammed shut behind her, heated breath brushed against the nape of her neck.

“care to guess which of your dear mentors is here with you?” Whispered Potty..

“Th’ original of course”

Silence fell once more.

“what did you call me just now” twisting to be sure he saw her lips move as she spoke. “not po…did you say original?”

“aye, I mean ya were ‘ere first wernt you? What woul you like me to call ya?”

Dazed Alfendi stared still covering Lucy’s eyes.

“...and Lucy, you aren’t scared are you? Of me I mean. Us”

He moved a hand to the side, brushing through Lucy’s golden hair. She groaned as the familiar scent of the prof fogged her consciousness for the second time that morning. ‘Get it together Lucy, he’s your boss! and this sort of thing isn’t allowed.. besides he’s just teasing. He never goes through with it, jus’ leaves me hanging. He’s all talk, that Potty’ She managed to comfort herself with her thoughts for a moment before allowing one eye to gently flutter open. He stared silently as heat rushed to her cheek turning her a shade of crimson familiar to Potty.

Alfendi gently traced the outline of her cheek with his outstretched fingers casually moving his face closer to hers before lightly brushing his thumb back and forth over her bottom lip.

“what would happen if I.. We just…..gave in Lucy?.”

Lucy stared at him in disbelief, convinced he was teasing as always she roared with hysterical laughter causing her to lose her balance and tumble forward into Alfendi.

“If I knew it was so easy to get you onto my lap Baker, I would of trapped you in the mystery room months ago”

Lucy’s eyes met with his, smiling broadly.

“I know you Prof, its all teasin’ an nowt else”

“one day I wont be able to stop myself Baker?”

Lucy was left feeling confused at the look on the now placid Prof’s face. Well placid Prof isn’t one for teasing, she thought about the living nightmare her life would become if both potty and placid decided to tease her. Shaking the thought from her head she tried to stand steadying herself on the sofa, offering both hands to the Prof she helped him regain his balance.

“Sorry abou’ falling onto you there Prof! I didn’t mean ta”

Alfendi didn’t reply, instead he stared down silently.

“wa is it?”

Her gaze fell on what had taken the Profs attention. Lucy was still holding Alfendi’s hands after helping him up.

“sorr’ Prof!”

Lucy let go of his hands instantly, retracting her arms from his direction.

“….Lu… Lucy… can you do me a favour please?”

Still looking down at his now empty hands.

“o’course Prof, anything”

Beamed Lucy, hoping by now he would of finally stopped teasing for the day.

“Can you try, to be less… perfect in my presence during work hours. I’ve found it very distracting of late” Alfendi didn’t bring his eyes to meet hers, but Lucy giggled at Pottys latest tease.

Alfendi’s hair was a placid, pale wine colour. He looked up with dull amber eyes.

“I mean it Lucy.”

A silence fell between them.

“tea prof?, how ‘bout I make us a brew! Earl grey with a lemon slice kay? Or would the othe’ trouble maker like a coffee?”

Alfendi laughed sheepishly as Lucy skipped from the mystery room toward the Scotland yard break room.

“Tea would be perfect my love”

morning turned to afternoon, and then dusk as 18:00 flashed on Lucy’s wrist watch.

“I’m ‘eading home now Prof, would you like to ride together?”

Alfendi hadn’t heard the question, or ignored his assistants declaration that she intended to leave.

“Is the mysterious puzzle in your backpack Lucy or at home?”

“s’in me backpack, I like it a whole bunch and who knows when i’ll figure it out eh?”

“May I see it Lucy? If you would kindly accept the help of your mentor”

“Sure Prof, I would love you to ‘elp me get a little further with solving the puzzle. Can I grab you some food from the take out place ‘round th’ corner” Understanding Alfendi will tackle her puzzle for a few hours at least.

“May I suggest something similar? I need to return to my apartment building this evening to take care of some household chores, and shave as i’m sure you’ve noticed I failed to remember to bring my razor with me into to work these past few days”

Alfendi ran a hand through his newly emerging beard with a disgusted curl tugging at the edge of his lips.

“we could grab some take away, and we can cycle to my apartment and I can help you with your puzzle while I take care of my chores”

“I uh.. I like it the stubbl’ I mean Prof.it suits ya somthin wicked”

Alfendi looked over at Lucy his hand frozen in the rough patch of hair now inhabiting his cheek.

“Can you confirm please, the newly emerged stubble you like?” Alfendi raised an eyebrow at Lucy.

“wel’ I guess yea.  stubbl’ or ‘least yours”

Lucy stared for a moment before realising she hadn't answered Prof’s next question.

“oh an’ take out at your place would be grand”

Alfendi didn't say a word until they reached the take out place near Scotland yard.

“what do you fancy Lucy? I mean from the take-out menu of course”

He grinned from ear to ear.

“’ello Potty, wondered if you were joining us this evening”

“Do you fancy something Italian Baker?”

“This is a chines’ restaurant silly”

He leaned into Lucy’s scarf sending his warm breath over her ear.

“I’m the something Italian silly”

“no, I don’t fancy any dam’ Italian”

“yes you do Baker”

Alfendi blew warm air over her ear and felt the gooseflesh wash over her exposed skin.

“yes you do.” he repeated.

The pair stood in silence: Alfendi grinning at her blush, Lucy pretending to be very interested in the Chinese food menu.

“now are you ready to order from the Chinese menu?”

[sigritandtheelves]

Au where mulders a writer of sci fi stories and Scullys a scientist hired by his editor to fact check some of his stories. Bonus points if theres a romantic subplot in his story and they quote lines to each other

A/N: This gets a bit meta for a quick sec. It is also… irredeemable fluff. I’ve had a hard few days and I needed something wholesome. I am 100% sure I will regret it in the morning, lol.

—

1.

He wants this one to be different. He needs the science to feel more real than the speculative world-building he’s done in his last three books. The universe should feel like ours, he thinks—its physics and its materiality should have the same weight. Its atoms the same heft. This is going to be the one, he thinks. The one that puts his name on the charts. It needs to not just be right, but to feel right. He calls his editor, asks about a consultant.

His index finger disappears inside the looping plastic phone cord as he talks—feet on the desk beside his word processor.

“Well, I might know someone,” his editor says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… she’s good. Not usually her line of work, but she’s bored with her day job. I think she’d take it on.”

“You think.” Mulder senses hesitation—the pause draws out a moment too long. “Charlie?”

“Yeah, Mulder. The thing is, it’s my sister.”

“Your—huh.”

“I’ll give her a call tonight if you want?”

“Okay.” The chair creaks as he sits up to bring the receiver to it’s cradle, but then at the last minute—“Hey Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“Is she hot?”

The line goes dead.

2.

She is, though. Hot. Not porno hot, but… something. Dana Scully is short and fresh-faced, spring-stepped and the tiniest bit awkward a suit that seems ill-fitting, a little uncomfortable. She’s a pathologist—usually spends her days in scrubs, he thinks. But she majored in physics and her science is blade sharp, a razor to scrape his work clean.

“So in the novel,” she says, “It’s a conspiracy of men?”

“And aliens,” he says.

Her look is wariness and amusement, eyebrows to the hairline, red lips pinched to hold in a smile.

“See, they’re working together. They’re developing a colonizing agent that will wipe out most of the population.”

“Unless your hero can stop them.”

“Right.”

“And he’s a scientist?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan.”

“He’s working alone?”

“He has kind of a sidekick, a friend who’s a conspiracy nerd, spends all his days in his mom’s basement, connecting dots.”

She purses her lips and he senses her skepticism.

“What?”

“Are there any women in the book?”

“The main character’s mom is in one scene. And there’s a sexy informant. Plus the aliens abduct several women, and I tell their stories too.”

The lip pursing has been joined by a disapproving squint. “Let me read your draft,” she says.

3.

It comes back with notes. So very many notes. At first he balks—digs in his heels and swears at the marked-up manuscript on his desk. He throws a pillow, kicks his trash can. He wanted science notes, not… ugh. Of course, she has given him the science notes… and story notes and character notes and structural notes and even a few on language. He ignores the last page, where she’s placed a yellow sticky-note:

I know this is a lot but it’s only because I really like it. I think it could be great. Call me and we’ll talk about it more?

He frowns. He pouts. He doesn’t touch the book for a week. How dare she? He thinks. But then he thinks of her freckled face, that smile he’d gotten when he described the story, the way she’d gone nose-to-nose with his crazy ideas. After a while, and after he reads everything again, he realizes that she’s right.

He tucks away his pride. He works and works and works, thinking of her raised eyebrows, her little smirk, the whole time. Thinking of her, mostly. It’s three weeks before he’s happy with the draft, but he calls when he’s finished, nervous somehow, to hear her voice again.

“I thought you wouldn’t call,” she says. “I thought maybe… I’d gone a bit overboard with the comments.”

He laughs a little. “Yeah, well… me too, at first. But I think you’re right. About almost everything. Come over?” He’s surprised at how casual his voice sounds, how easy it is to ask her.

“Okay,” she says.

She comes to his apartment bearing coffee and a box of donut holes, stands his doorway looking vulnerable. Apologetic. She’s dressed casually this time—jeans and a maroon sweater. She tilts her chin in an I’m sorry pout as she holds up her offerings.

He smiles. “Come in.”

Wary at first, not sure what to expect, she takes in his apartment: the art on his walls, his leather couch, his fish. She’s surprised at how comfortable the space feels, how she wants to curl up in his cushions, put her feet up, watch a movie with him—though she barely knows this man. A clean, printed manuscript rests on the coffee table. He gestures with his chin. “Take a look.”

She does. Her eyes go wide as she thumbs through the first chapter. “You made the scientist a woman?” She asks.

Mulder nods, chewing his thumbnail. He tries not to hover, sips coffee and chews donut holes instead. She got jelly ones, bless her. When she’s skimmed roughly a third, she sits back and looks up.

“Are they in love?” She asks, cheeks red.

“Maybe,” he says. “I hadn’t thought at first—“

“They should be,” she says, and now his face is red too. “Can I read it all?”

4.

She comes back again. And again. They spend evenings reading, sometimes aloud, her nose wrinkling when something’s not right, talking about the story, and then talking about other things. They watch Plan 9 from Outer Space and he makes her laugh when he recites the lines. He frowns at her unbuttered popcorn. They drink beer and she settles into his cushions. He watches her face while she reads. Watches her lips. She swallows hard when he tells her that there is a love scene.

“So he’s a little roughed up from his escape, and she thought he might have been dead. But then he shows up at her door, and he’s stolen some vials of the vaccine… It’s kind of a reunion, plus they think maybe they’ve won,” he explains.

Her knee is touching his. Denim against denim radiates heat up her leg. Her palms feel hot. “So what does she do?”

Mulder looks at her and there’s a smile in his eyes. He’s chewing his bottom lip. “Well first she yells at him,” he says.

“Hmm. He did do something kind of stupid.”

“He did,” Mulder concedes. “But then… then she kisses him.”

“She does?” Her breath sounds too loud in her ears. His tongue comes out over his lips again.

“Mm hmm.”

The air: so still. Fish tank burbling. Pages between them on the couch. He watches her pupils dilate. She shifts and her knee rubs along his thigh. “Oh,” she says.

And then he’s kissing her, thumbs at her cheeks, taste of coffee on his tongue. Her fingers come around his wrist, feel the pulse point, stroke the fine hairs beneath his watch. She falls. She is falling. She does not land. Somehow she knew. She knew it would be like this with him.

5.

His book does well, so much better than he expected, even gets nominated for a Hugo award.

On Sundays, they lay in bed and read the New York Times Book Review, watching his title climb the list, smelling of sex and tasting of each other. He visits her at work, brings coffee, and vomits into stainless steel basin the first time he watches her use a bone saw. She tries not to smile, rubs his back, brings him a cup of water.

When the paperback edition of the novel comes out, he has a special edition printed just for her. It is Saturday and they are in the park, legs entangled, her head on his shoulder. “I have a surprise,” he says.

He hands her the copy and she frowns because it feels strange, the cover lumpy.

“What?” She asks, but he’s shaking his head.

“Open it.”

She does, giving him that squinty, skeptical eye he’s now so used to. He’s had the dedication page changed. Where it once said, “For Dana who made this book what it is,” it now reads, “For Dana, who makes my life what it is. Will you marry me?” Taped below it is a ring.

She gapes. She almost chokes. She smacks him with the book. “You sap!” She says. But then she is crying and putting on the ring and kissing him.

At their wedding, Charlie is insufferable. He drunkenly tries to take credit for bringing them together, not to mention for the book. They ignore him. They dance.

“Let’s write another one,” Mulder whispers into her hair.

-end-

[lewispandawrites]

Something unexpected, Malec, 3153 words, T rated.

A birthday gift to a wonderful @enkelimagnus - inspired by her fic, Six of Swords

The bookstore was usually quiet and calm - it was one of those ‘hole in the world’ type of places - but people who would come there, came with purpose. Teenagers who only looked for school novels rarely visited the Reading Nook, but it still was a favourite place of many book lovers. They had many different sections, that were organised in an unusual way. Categories, such as ‘dragons’, ‘not-so-happy endings’, ‘lgbt history’, ‘animal characters’, ‘second life of a good book’ and ‘readers’ choice’ provided a different approach to finding a suitable book, and many people found it helpful. If anyone was lost, as to where look for a book they might enjoy, they could always ask a person sitting behind the counter.

Magnus loved working there. The smells of old and new books, mixed with a pot of coffee or tea always brewing in the back room, had become familiar and brought him comfort. During slower days, he could take out his painting supplies, and work on yet another deck of tarot cards to sell. Once in a while, when he wasn’t particularly inspired to paint, and no customer needed his attention, he would choose a book that had the most interesting description, and read - sometimes for hours to end. He also had a green light from the owner - who had rarely visited the place, due to his old age - to re-organise book categories, and the front display as he pleased. Magnus always made sure that something interesting and colorful was visible from the street, so more curious customers would come in. Just last week, he had finished yet another display on Harry Potter, as was his tradition for September.

The place was too small to host any meetings or book clubs, but it had a loveseat squeezed in between the window and an old, wooden bookcase. From time to time, a person or a couple would occupy it, reading or chatting quietly. Magnus had been a witness to people smiling like idiots, or shedding a few tears over a particularly good book. Sometimes, a customer might strike up a conversation with him - it usually happened when a person was looking for a book on a specific topic, but had no idea what to choose. Just last week, a teenager had come in, looking for a book on queer figures throughout history. Although, they had a section for that, they had had hard time finding a book that would be the best, and not cost crazy amount of money. Shyly, they had asked Magnus for advice, and the two had talked for over an hour - Magnus had shared his experience, as a bi man of color, and Remi had taught him about the local trans community in return. Magnus had pointed out a few books that might be helpful for Remi’s school paper, and suggested they would come and read them here, for free. He had brought in a chair from the back room, placed it next to the counter, and offered to share the space, so Remi could take notes on their laptop. After finishing their essay, Remi had sent it to Magnus, and had promised to share what grade they got on it. The encounter still warmed Magnus’ heart, every time he thought about it.

A man had entered the bookstore an hour ago. Magnus had greeted him but had kept to himself, seeing the determined look on his face. He had clearly known why he had come here. But, as the minutes had passed, and the man had kept browsing, he had started to look more and more lost.

Carefully, Magnus had placed his brush in the cup, then approached the man.

“Can I help you with anything?” Magnus asked.

“No, I’m afraid you can’t.” The stranger looked sad. Maybe he had been looking for a specific book, but it hadn’t been there? It had happened before.

“If you are after a specific title, I can see if I could order it for you?” Magnus suggested. It might take a few days, for the book to arrive, but at least the man would get it. The warehouse they got all their titles from was very well-stocked, and Magnus knew an additional bookstore owner or two, in case the book would turn out to be exceptionally rare.

Magnus got a smile in return, but one that didn’t reach stranger’s eyes. “Thank you, but I’m not looking for a specific book. I’m no longer sure, if I’m looking for a book at all.” There was a deep frown on man’s face, and he was hunched forward, looking tired. From up close, Magnus could see the dark circles under his eyes. For some reason, he didn’t want to let the man walk out right away.

“How about I make you something warm to drink, and you tell me more about what brought you here? I’m sure we can figure something out.” Magnus suggested. The other man hesitated, but eventually nodded, and took the chair that had been occupied by Remi last week. “Tea or coffee?” Magnus asked.

“Tea, please.” The man replied. Magnus had left him by the counter, and went to the back room, to boil some water. He took two mismatched mugs, and added a spoonful of his favourite green tea to each, then waiter for the water to be ready.

Not long after, he had emerged with two steaming mugs. “Be careful!” He warned his companion, as he placed a mug in front of him.”It’s still too hot to drink. And you may want to wait until the leaves will sink to the bottom.” The man nodded again, thanking him silently for the beverage.

“Magnus.” Magnus offered his name, as he sat down. He thought it was a polite thing to do, and a good conversation starter.

“Alec. Alexander.” his companion replied, watching the steam curl over the rim of his mug.

“Alexander. What brought you here?” Magnus asked, and leaned back in his chair. He wanted to give the other more space to breath and think, since he looked to be troubled by his thoughts. Something important must have had convinced him to come.

“I’m an art student.” Alec said after a moment. The frown was still on his face, as if it was a permanent fixture to his features. “We have an assignment. To create something using materials, that had already been used. Many people go for plastic bottles, or wine corks. T-shirts, pants... My friend is actually using her old pencils and crayons.” His sister, Clary, had suggested to break a few ceramics, but he wasn’t feeling that.

He called Clary his younger sister, but, in reality, they weren’t blood related. They had become inseparable, though, from the moment Luke and Maryse had first introduced them to one another, and grew up together under one roof, sharing a wall.

She had followed into his footsteps, claiming it had been him and not her biological mother who had inspired her to pursue art, and applied to the same art school one year after him. They both lived separately - Clary had a studio apartment, while Alec lived in a three-bedroom flat, with Clary’s girlfriend. It was the most bizarre combination, but the two had only been together for a few months. Maia spent most of her time at Clary’s, which gave Alec plenty of alone time, to work on his projects in the spare room. But he had been planning to ask Clary and Maia, whether or not they would want to switch apartments - they had been going pretty steady, even in such short amount of time, and Alec didn’t mind living alone, as long as he would have space to work. And he knew that Clary’s studio apartment was good for that.

It warmed his heart to see his little sister and his roommate so happy and in love, and he would do anything to support their relationship. In his eyes, those two were true relationship goals, alongside mom and his step-dad.

“I thought about using books.” Alec continued. “Wanted to cut out the letters, then layer the pages to show how our words turn into incomprehensible gibberish. How being unable to talk is the disease that kills our relationships with other people slowly, and then kills us from inside, when we are unable to express our needs and wants. We become numb, bland and detached from the world, going for the cheap thrills that promise us to fill the void inside, one we are unable to describe.” During his little speech, Alec had begun to gesture widely, and Magnus had found it adorable. What the other man was saying wasn’t anything new to him - he had understood his thoughts and concerns fully. Many writers had written about similar things. Yet, Magnus liked the idea to use this as a message behind a new piece of art - it was an old lesson, but one worth teaching again. “Or just stick to the first part, I guess. Just the gibberish.”

“And you didn’t find any of the books suitable?” Magnus asked, after carefully taking a sip of his tea. It could use a moment of two longer to brew, so he put the mug down.

“I guess I wasn’t going for any specific book. Just books in general.” Alec shrugged. “But…” he started, then grew quiet. They both just sat there, in silence that wasn’t uncomfortable, drinking the tea slowly.

Magnus was about to ask whether Alec would enjoy a homemade cookie, when the other spoke again. “I just can’t bring myself to destroy any of those books. Neither new, nor old. There’s just...so much love. It’s clear someone is taking care of them.” Their eyes finally met over the counter, and Magnus was struck by the sincerity and rawness in Alec’s eyes. Here sat a man, who was unable to destroy a thing, that had been an object of someone’s love. It was so pure and honest, that Magnus didn’t know what to say.

“I know it sounds stupid.” Alec said, and broke the eye contact. “But I just...can’t. Maybe if I psych myself up. But not today.”

Magnus reached over the counter, and placed his hand on Alec’s forearm in - what he hoped was - a comforting gesture.

“There is nothing bad about it. You shouldn’t be ashamed of not wanting to destroy something.” Magnus told Alec, and the other man met his gaze again. “Some of those books had lived wonderful lives, and have an additional story to tell. And some had been printed less than 6 months ago. But, they have all been carefully selected, so they would have something to offer to their future reader. I actually think it’s beautiful that you can see that.”

“It’s not only that. It is clear to me how someone had been taking care of them. How much love has been put into keeping them in a good shape, so they can be read by someone one day. I assume you were one of those people.” Alec added. The frown he had been sporting, had somehow smoothed during their conversation. “They are all carefully arranged, and there is no speck of dust on them.”

Magnus could feel himself smile widely, at the praise. No one had ever given him a similar compliment, but it had touched him deeply. “Thank you. I do love to work here.”

Alec’s eyes traveled from Magnus’ face, to the surface of the counter, and his eyes had finally fallen upon the art supplies. “Are you an artist as well? May I see it?” He pointed towards the tarot card. Alec understood that the projects, and the process of creation, could be very intimate and personal, so he had wanted to ask before looking at Magnus’ art.

“Of course.” They both stood up from their chairs, to walk up to the opposite end of the counter. Alec leaned down, to have a closer look at the detailed painting. “What is it?” The small painting reminded him vaguely of something, but he had no idea what it was. Besides, this was Magnus’ project - he probably knew the best. Probably, since the results could be tricky, and sometimes things created in the process made no sense to the artists themselves.

“It’s a tarot card. The Moon.” The bright gold of the Moon was a stark contrast against the dark hues of blue and purple. Alec could vaguely make out more shapes in the dark background - two high towers, two dogs, and a lobster. “This is my take on it, but I wanted to stay within the original design. Can you see a path in the middle?” Alec’s eyes were drawn to a thin line, and he nodded, hoping that he had found the right element. “This is the path that we walk. The dog and the wolf.” Magnus pointed out to two figures, that Alec had previously mistaken for two dogs. “symbolise our animalistic nature. One is tame and civilised, like a dog, and one is wild and feral, like a wolf. The two towers in the background” They were dark, barely floodlit by the Moon. “represent the forces of good and evil. They look exactly the same, to show how difficult it can be to distinguish between those two, in our everyday life. We walk a difficult path.” Magnus traced the middle line with his finger. “between wild and tame, between good and evil, between conscious and unconscious. The pond represents a subconscious mind, and the crawfish” Magnus pointed out the lobster-like animal. “is the early stages of consciousness. The Moon, on the other hand, is the symbol of unconsciousness. This card is the essence of dual nature, and rules the astrological Pisces. Sorry, I’m probably rambling.” Magnus said, blushing slightly.

“No! No, you’re not.” Alec replied. “This is really interesting. I had never seen a tarot card in my life.” Alec admitted. “I know nothing about them. But it’s beautiful. All the detailed work, and the meaning behind it...it’s beautiful.”

Magnus blinked, surprised. “Most people would find it weird or tacky. Tarot readings, magic things and such.” He rolled his eyes at his own words, but deep down he remembered well how much the reality could hurt. “You are a one big surprise, Alexander.”

“A good one, I hope.” Came a quiet reply.

Magnus just rounded the counter, and reached for Alec’s hand, to pull him somewhere. “I may have a few things that could interest you.” He led them to a narrow hallway, that had bookshelves on both sides. There was barely any space for the two of them to fit, without touching each other. Magnus kept whispering under his nose, quiet enough for Alec to be unable to hear, as he scanned the tall bookshelf.

Eventually, Magnus stood up on his toes to be able to reach a thick volume. “Here.” He dusted off the cover, just in case, then handed the book to Alec. It felt heavy, and the only decoration on the red cover were thick, black letters.

“To my Alice. On how to find yourself.” Alec read the title aloud, then looked up from the book.

“I know, it’s very unusual.” Magnus glanced at the cover again. “It had been brought here, a few years ago, by a person who had found it in their attic. He had no idea who Alice was, and the author isn’t mentioned anywhere, but it looks to be a collection of letters, written on a typewriter. I know the volume isn’t exactly college-student friendly. Especially when you are busy. But I have read a few letters, and I seriously recommend them. Maybe it’s not a conventional way to deal with artist block, but I really hope it can help you.”

Alec just looked at him, silent.

“I could just find some books on sculpture or photography for you? Or about the zero waste movement?” Maybe he had taken it too far. He had called whatever state Alec had been in an ‘artist block’, and suggested he read what looked to be an old coaching book. Great. But he had thought they had something...deeper going between them. Apparently, he had been the only one who had felt it. “Look, I’m sorry if I overstepped some boundaries…”

“No.” Alec cut in, his voice barely above the whisper. “This is a great suggestion. I hope it can truly get me unstuck.”

And they just stood there, for what felt like eternity, eyes locked together. One artist bearing their soul to the other. It was always a magical moment, full of vulnerability and trust, but this time, it felt like something more. A ‘Thank you for understanding.’, on both sides. ‘Thank you for no laughing at me.’

Neither of them had realised, when they had gotten closer, but suddenly their faces were only inches apart.

Alec was the one to break the silence.

“Can I kiss you?”

Magnus searched his face for something, anything - he wanted to say yes, but didn’t know id they wanted the same thing. For him, one kiss wouldn’t be enough. He wanted to get to know Alec better, to go out with him, find out his favorite sitcom, and his stance on dog versus cat. He wanted to learn, and learn, until there will be no new informations.

He wanted more.

“Or I could take you out first? If this is what you want, that is. You may say no to both things. Sorry.” Alec was already backing away from him, and Magnus couldn’t afford to lose that opportunity.

“Yes, kiss me. And I know a perfect place for the first date.”

Alec’s blinding smile was the last thing Magnus had seen before closing his eyes. The other man kissed the same way he had interacted with Magnus - at first, shy. Just a brush of lips. Then another, and another, until their lips stayed pressed together. Neither of them knew who had started moving their lips again, but they kept kissing, not being able to pull apart. Magnus could feel Alec’s teeth grazing his bottom lip, before the man grabbed onto his vest, and made a move to push him back against the bookshelf.

Before Magnus’ back could collide with anything, Alec broke the kiss. Magnus was very aware of the wall of books behind him, and wished Alec could finish what he had started - an image of being pressed against a bookshelf, with Alec pinning his body there while they kissed, wasn’t exactly an unpleasant one. But he understood it was neither time nor place for such things.

Magnus leaned in, to steal one more kiss, before he covered Alec’s hands with his own. “Your tea should still be warm. Want to finish our drinks, before we exchange numbers?”

Magnus didn’t believe Alec’ smile could get any wider, but here he was, proving him wrong. “I’d love to.”

[sometimesrosy]

Alright I need to ask cause I'm in the positive boat. If you had to bet which episode clarke and bellamy FINALLY share their first kiss in this season what would it be? lol

I think mid season will be the time when we’ll see a physical manifestation of their feelings for each other. This could be anything from a continuation of our hand holding metaphor (laced fingers?)  to some version of a hug/non lip to lip kiss, to getting stuck in an enclosed space all up in each other’s business and clear sexual tension, to any version of kiss on the lips, to full on sex. I DON’T KNOW. There’s an argument to be made for any of it. And depending on your definition of kiss, the chance of a kiss happening goes up higher or lower. Anywhere from 25%-75% by midseason. Talk to me after I see the first 4 eps for more definite guess.  Which one is the one Antonio Negret is doing? I tell you, Antonio Negret directing makes sex more likely. He did a fantastic job with Olicity. And what is that? 8?

I think as season B goes on, whatever happened physically in midseason between them, will add to the emotional stakes and drama and angst of the action heavy season B. If there isn’t a kiss midseason, I see it as nearly definite by the finale. 99% The absolute LEAST amount of Bellarke I see happening is lots of sexual and romantic tension for the whole season ending in a full canon confession in the verrry end, with something like “I won’t lose you again.” linked hands. raising hands to lips and kissing them. “together.” But I think it just as likely that they have a full on sex scene mid season. So those are my two extremes of bellarke canon. Full on sex then angst then together commitment at the end. Romantic pining, sexual longing, and angst for the whole season leading to a gentle confession and physical expression of love. Which way will they go? IDK. Most likely somewhere in the middle. Also I think they did the pining/gentle confession last season so I think they won’t do it again, which makes early sex then angst more likely.

Before listening to all this fandom drama, I was really positive about Bellarke happening in season 5. It’s remarkable how fears and anxieties can just rise up like a tide and sweep you away. But most of them don’t have a basis in reality, I think, and some of them actually take what I consider to be near confirmation that Bellarke is happening to mean that they are saying Bellarke will never happen and we are being baited. And I don’t really understand that kind of circular logic. But it’s shouted with such passion and carried up so widely by the fandom that is more focused on a kiss proving canon than on the story being carefully crafted, that it makes me hesitant to make my predictions. I even came across someone who implied my meta was bullshit and has been twitter ranting about how we’re being baited. It turns out that when someone challenges my meta, I don’t rant, I go deep and explain my evidence on my own time, so this is apparently what I’m going to do.

I think this is the season. Not for established Bellarke relationship, that’s next season, but for them finally addressing their feelings for each other as more than just platonic partners. They showed it last season, with plausible deniability not just for narrative sake (mutual pining) but also for fandom politics sake (too soon! be respectful.) 

Wow. OKAY. So there’s my guess. If you want to know WHY I am predicting this, then you get to read after the jump. Because the thing is, I’m basing my prediction on narrative structure, romantic tropes, storytelling techniques, and ALSO what JR, Bob, Eliza, and reviewers have said about the new season. As well as the ep 1 spoilers (so don’t read on if you don’t want to know.) BTW. LONG because I have a lot.

Bear with me, I’m putting the new details together with my old speculation based on season 4 and development from all 4 seasons. This is to show you WHY I think what I do and that it’s not really about shipping for me, but about crafting a story. 

I’m a writer, and when I write romance into a story, I need to make sure there is enough conflict and uncertainty to make it interesting. It is built into romantic plots. However, my romances happen within one book, not 5 seasons, and fair warning, because romance is not the point of my books, they are not the finale, climax or reward. They generally happen sometime in the middle and then we see an uncertainty, fear, angst and a narrative conflict that might separate the love, leading into the plot climax/conclusion. Because I write sci fi, not romance. The goal is a non romantic one, and the romance is about character development and motivation. So love is HOW they reach the goal, not the goal itself. Which, I think, is the way this show is treated. But, this is my interpretation, and you should know that going in, it comes from someone who is also writing science fiction this way. It’s a writer’s perspective. I am trying to figure out how JR is telling HIS story.

In SDCC JR declared that Bellarke was the central relationship and it has always, in some way, been about their relationship. Listen. This means he has ALWAYS been telling the story of Bellarke. I can confirm, as can the rest of the Bellarke meta community as we’ve been analyzing it the whole time. This is important. This means that not only are we looking at Bellarke in the current season, but looking at the WHOLE show and how it’s developed. Because he did it DELIBERATELY. HIs Bellarke story has taken all four, now five seasons. (huh. he admitted it. it was the plan. it’s not a bait. it’s not fanservice. it’s the STORY.)

So when I look at the WHOLE story, this is what it looks like to me.

Season1: Trust. Get her whatever she needs. I trust him.

Season 2: Devotion. He’d do anything for her, it just makes sense. Bellamy is the key.

Season 3: Commitment. Together (drink poison) I trust you. I believe you. Holding hands.

Season 4: Romantic Love: If I’m on that list you’re on that list. She centers you. You’ve got that backwards. She’ll see how special you are. Sacrifices humanity for him. I got you for that. 6 years of pining.

Season 5:  ???? what could it be? we’ve had The 100 tell a love story by defining the elements of love, so what’s next? The next level I think is Physical Attraction.

In Conageddon, Bob and Eliza said that Bellarke had it rough. That they come back together immediately, trust is in their dna, that they are confused about who they are to each other, about their platonic relationship (if they are confused about the platonic nature of their relationship that means something isn’t platonic or it wouldn’t be confusing,) that it’s an intense relationship (upping the level of emotion,) that it’s turbulent, up and down, and first they love each other, then they hate each other, then they love each other then the verry end…we get something that is described variously as great, sweet, *silence with a smirk* and will make Bellarkers happy.  All of that description sounds to me like a description of sexual tension, except for the ending which sounds to me like canon confession of love or commitment. Or showing them TOGETHER in the transcending romance kind of MARRIED way. Not dating. Committed. Soul mates. Beyond time and space kind of thing. (but possibly not physical at all.)

Some people take the B/E concerns to be proof that there is no Bellarke happening but I take it to mean that there is. Because I’m looking at character and relationship and narrative development over the seasons (as JR said that was the story.) And B/E was always a possibility to push the story from platonic to romantic by adding conflict, jealousy, a choice, and contrast. IT’S A NARRATIVE TOOL TO MAKE THE STORY HAPPEN. We get an article saying there is no love triangle and fandom takes that to mean there is no Bellarke. And the article itself was covered with photos of Bellarke. idk. that’s a funny takeaway. When to me, it was saying the B/E issue would be resolved early in the season. 

The most relevant detail to timing of romantic development, however, is the issue of pacing. Which is a new revelation for us.

Episodes 1-4 happen within hours, apparently. The spoilers from the first episode must happen right before spacekru discovers The Eligius. Whatever happens in ep1 between BE will be brushed aside for the need to do something to GET BACK DOWN TO EARTH. And JR said that when Bellamy finds out that Clarke is alive EVERYTHING CHANGES. Now HOW exactly do you think it changes? What could the changes mean? Why is a way down to earth not more of a change for Bellamy/spacekru than finding out Clarke is alive? Because that’s pretty life changing, yeah? What’s the element that Clarke’s existence could change more than going home? Loyalties. Family. Love. ??? Their bond snaps back into place. Does it override other bonds? Which bonds are in question here in the first 2 eps? Who is unsure of her place in the family? I guess we’ll have to see, but do we or do we not have a question of B/E over B/C?  Could it be POSSIBLE that one of the things that change when B finds out C is not dead is B/E? Hmmm? When B/C was what kept B/E from happening in the first place? Hmmm? Like. Is this not simple math? someone do the math.  I know there’s an equation there. (why do I, miss mama don’t do math, keep putting math into my analysis?)

Anyway, back to the speed. If it’s really moving that fast, though, then there won’t be time for anyone to really PROCESS what Clarke being alive means. Bellamy won’t have time to understand it or make rational decisions about who comes first. Except we know he’s changed his MO, so maybe we’ll see him fighting his own head vs heart thing going on with no time to sort it out. INTERESTING. Clarke won’t have time to settle back in to the family or adjust to not being one of them. Echo won’t have time to make peace with Clarke’s possible usurpation of her place with the family. OR maybe it won’t be an issue at all. Clarke and Bellamy will just naturally slot back into place as partners, since there’s no time for thought… which would leave Echo feeling out of place. Well, we do know that Eliza and Bob did say trust was in their DNA, and they did say that Echo was struggling with her place in the family. So that seems likely.

What does this mean to romantic BELLARKE? It lowers the chance of them addressing their feelings head on. Because they have no time to process or talk. But it raises the chance of them DOING stuff without conscious thought, touching, non verbal communication. Hard to tell until we see them interact, but if you move things fast, and there’s no time to address things, and they are intense and confusing and there is “love and hate” then we’re going to see things boil over without being logical. The emotions that I see as repressed here are going to be their feelings for each other. Love and desire. 

Sorry y’all. I know how many of you think it’s hopeless and have lost faith, but what I see is a really great CANON SUBPLOT of romance trying to break through the danger and action and adventure and survival and fast pace of The 100. It won’t be subjective. It won’t be all told in fades and music, it will be part of the story, and addressed directly. I can’t guess the details, but I can tell you the Bellarke story this season will be canon romance. (Please just remember that it is not a ROMANCE GENRE STORY so it will not be the majority of the plot,  but buried within the scifi survival story.)

I’m apologizing for being pro canon bellarke. Can you believe this fandom? They ship a thing by ranting about how it’s not going to happen. I do believe they are not allowed on my ship at all. Go sink your own, you blorkes.

[shoutdontwhisper]

In the past 6 months i’ve gone from thinking there is no way Robert is the father of Rebecca’s baby, to resigned to the fact he is but hating it and now i’m back at the baby isn’t Rob’s + the ONS never happened.

I’ve done the one thing i was trying so hard not to do and that is get my hopes up of an ending to this storyline that i’d love/accept. I can’t ignore what my gut told me back in April and what it is telling me now.

I’m not trying to convince anyone or get anyone’s hopes up so they can be dashed later.  I just wanted to articulate the main reasons i’m on board team Theory™ (copyright Theory queen @itwasjustmisplaced).  Something may happen next week or in 3 weeks that makes me change my mind again but for now these are the signs i’ve seen.

This became a bit of an essay so read after the break.

The weirdness of the ONS and the morning after

Lets start with the simple fact that Robert was drunk the night of the one night stand.  I don’t think it matters if Ryan didn’t act ‘drunk enough’  for you in this scene. You can compare it to others where he was stumbling or slurring his words but that’s not the point. Rebecca herself says multiple times that night that he has had too much to drink. When he admitted the ons to Chas he said “I got really, really drunk. And …i slept with Rebecca”. When Aaron asks him what he was thinking that night, he said “I wasn’t, I was drunk”. The writers have established multiple times he was drunk that night. I don’t think we are suppose to argue this.

What else do we know about that night? Not much was shown. There was no morning after scene and we learn later on that Robert had passed out, Rebeca left and he woke up alone.

The next morning Rebecca leaves this voice message

“Hey its me. Hope your head is ok this morning, you’d had a few. Things got a bit intense last night. I hope your not um…i just hope you’re alright this morning. Breaking up with Aaron can’t be easy. I’m here if you need me, anyway i’ll call again later.”

OK, this message will probably haunt many people. Honestly it seemed a lot weirder to me BEFORE we learnt that she left that night (but why would she leave him passed out?). Again, she points out he was drunk but the rest is so vague. The consistent and only interpretation of the ONS we have ever gotten from Rebecca was that she was a victim and Robert used her.

For the most part she’s showed no hesitation in saying her and Robert slept together - you could easily argue that the odd looks and pauses or the “i can’t…it’s yours” are all signs she’s lying and whilst they do contribute to the weirdness of the whole storyline i don’t want to focus on that too much.

Robert himself seemed to show no hesitation in saying they slept together when he admitted it to Chas. He even described the sex as “empty”  to Aaron which suggests he remembers something/it.  So why would he admit to it if it never happened?

Thinking you’ve had sex when you haven’t

Since the ONS the show has shown 3 instances of characters thinking they had sex with someone when they didn’t. In June Marlon thought he slept with Lydia, he even confesses to Laurel before Lydia corrects him. In August Faith also wasn’t sure what happened when she spent the night with Rodney. He had to tell her they only kissed and literally says “i didn’t take advantage of you”. Marlon and Faith was mostly played for laughs & there was nothing onscreen except the morning after when we saw them trying to sneak out.

This brings us to what Robert did to Lawrence. When I first watched this episode I was so angry but after re-watching i’m convinced it was foreshadowing or highlighting what happened that night in March. This was a turning point for me…A drugged Lawrence is confused but easily convinced that he and Robert had sex. Robert immediately plays the victim and tells Lawrence he took advantage of him “I was barely awake. You knew I was upset about Aaron. You should never had let me go along with it”. Once the confusion fades Lawrence apologises multiple times to Robert for what he “did”. 

Sound familiar?  

3 similar instances in 6 months feels like more than a coincidence to me. I can’t remember any in 2016 (please tell me if i’m wrong).

Rebecca’s missing pregnancy POV

Rebecca’s pov throughout the pregnancy has been almost non-existent. Before the ons reveal she did have a little but it’s a joke compared to other characters. I wrote about this more here.

It is actually ridiculous that we have not been shown one scene of Rebecca with a medical professional throughout this storyline. Either at her abortion appointment, during her miscarriage scare or at any of her scans.

Not only has Rebecca’s pov been missing but the details around the dates of the pregnancy are also vague. I wrote about this here.  

After the ons reveal her pov regarding the baby has gone from minimal to non-existent. The pregnancy has been told from the pov of Robert, Aaron and Victoria.

Everyone is taking her word for it that Robert is the father. THERE HAS BEEN NO DNA TEST. Again please, can someone tell me of another time on a soap when a character slept with 2 men and one was claimed to be the father without any dna test or twist?  

Rebecca’s naivety around Robert’s scheming

If you think Rebecca was a horribly written character before then it *seems* to have gotten worse since Robert started scheming the Whites.

After everything Robert did she was so quick to trust him and believe he wanted to be there for her and the baby. I struggle to believe Emmerdale would write her character like this unless for a reason. Her role has been reduced to nothing more than talking about the baby and worrying about her dad. She never gets any focus in a scene, no closeups etc. And the longer Emmerdale continue to write her as naive and insignificant the more suspicious i become. 

Just like I was suspicious when Moira was offscreen for long periods of time after sleeping with both Cain and Pete. It reminds me of a thriller/horror film. Always look out for the inconspicuous character.

Also, since the scheming what little dialogue Rebecca does have feels like she’s testing Robert. She always wanted the family he promised her years ago and she doesn’t want to push him too far too soon but she is testing his intentions and needing constant reassurance from him and he keeps giving it to her as part of his scheming. Some recent examples:

After Liv confronts them

Rebecca: Because i can do this on my own. If you think you can sort things out with Aaron then do it. I won’t stop you from seeing the baby.         Robert: No it’s a non starter with Aaron. Besides you and the baby are my priority right now.

Booking birth class

Rebecca: Well you want to come don’t you? You’ve been so supportive recently and i know it’s not very you but i don’t really wanna go on my own Robert: Try keeping me away. You know you’re not on your own for any of this

After birth class

Rebecca: Even though everyone thinks you’re my boyfriend are we cool?Robert: Ah yeah, yeah it’s no big deal

If she is lying then her lies are now paying off. This is a woman who thinks she is getting everything she’s always wanted- raising a baby with the love of her life.  

Ok so those are the main reasons/signs. But here are some more details:

Rebecca to Liv “The thing about secrets is, you have to be comfortable keeping them.”

Aaron’s extreme reaction to the baby meant the show has no intention of a Robron/Rebecca co-parenting situation

Rebecca claimed she wanted to raise the baby on her own, but was quick to drag Robert into it

It would literally be the most boring pregnancy and baby sl on Emmerdale if there was no twist

The Whites are the characters leaving and yet they are currently writing them as victims to big bad Robert (who is staying). Why? Maybe because ultimately we will learn the things they have done to him are far worse than what he has done i.e. destroying his marriage, lying about becoming a father

Rebecca has tried to split Robron up multiple times. Before the ons and after. “Can you handle this Aaron…Leave him…this is what he does to people” 

“Oh, he’s not the…”

[aphrosalexein]

The Jazz Age Whispers

Writing is like weaving, he thought. You begin from a key word, then elaborate. But it all revolves, gravitates towards that encoded unit. Loki got his pen up and quickly scribbled something in the corner of his journal paper.

This has been the daily mental exercise in the last few weeks: he got up early in the morning and wrote down the first idea that came to mind. It was meant as an effort to know himself better by capturing the most unconscious, perhaps useless (but sometimes subtle and shrouded) of thoughts. An effort to attain clarity.

He found this technique while travelling on Midgard. On Realm Eternal literature was much more classic, it both form and meaning. Writers were at the same time philosophers, sorcerers, astronomers, playwrights, historians. Most books were histories of Asgard, papers of magic, epics and works of adventure, or philosophical in manner. Well, there was also an entire series "Heimdallr's considerations on the universe: a detailed description of Niflheim, Muspelheim, Asgard, Midgard, Jotunheim, Vanaheim, Alfheim, Svartalfheim, Helheim", which were 9 tomes describing all stars, planets, galaxies, realms. Other works on astronomy were minor. One separate category were fairytales, yet those fit mostly children.

Thus, sciences in Asgard have not yet separated, as on Earth. 

During one of his visits, he entered a Parisian cafè. What attracted him inside was the music he heard; humans call it "jazz". The sinous notes pervaded through the thin glass windows, travelled his hearing channel and captivated him immediately. It was early evening and the diffuse light from this French local seemed like a true invitation to join in; it promised a warm atmosphere and significant knowledge on Midgardian culture.

He opened the door and was met with a noteworthy sight: there was a round table in the middle, surrounded by young earthlings. They seemed in some kind of debate; it was held in a friendly manner. Other people minded their own, drinking and laughing with peers. Everything was covered in a sheer layer of smoke and so the smell of cigarettes was a dominant flavour.

Their clothes complemented the overall ambiance: wood-panelled room walls, small, beige chandeliers, dark green Art Deco chairs (he learnt the precise name afterwards), black tables. Men and women alike were dressed in dark shades, adopting an elegant flair. The females had a peculiar, never seen before, style of garment; he later knew that it was essential to their look: the "flapper" dress. 

It was almost dreamlike. However, as opposed to illusions, where shadows seem like real characters and instead you fill in their real role, he was met with strange eyes. Nonetheless, nobody really minded him.

Thus, he was covered with a veil of anonimity, which was truly enjoyable. This way, it was much easier to learn unobserved. On the other side, a part of him wanted some attention.

He got to the bar and sat on a stool. The bartender said in a questioning manner:

"Haven't seen you before in here.. What will it be for you?"

"Just a straight whiskey." The youth put a few coins on the table.

"Here it comes." 

He got his glass, took a quick sip and moved towards that group. He looked again at the group sitting around the round table and overheard snippets of conversation. Following their tone, words, mannerisms, even banter, he saw how close they were, even if, in his eyes, they seemed to have known each other for no more than a day. Almost strangers, but youth united them so naturally. Their affinity shone through like a golden aura. He quickly got jealous, comparing them to his stiff almost-friends. Yet, as always, he buried deep this sentiment, thinking he should anyways enjoy himself, while it lasts. 

He got closer and distinguished more clearly their matter, only now noticing two were playing a game of cards.

"Renè, accept and move on. You lost, c'est fini. Let's start again, but don't think you'll beat me yet. After all, I taught you the game just two hours ago." 

A short-haired, blonde woman said these words, with a strange accent. She chuckled and seemed somewhat prideful, though on merit: apparently she was a good card player and also a good game teacher. She was easily the most traditionally beautiful woman at the table. Diametrically opposite, sat Renè, who looked like a classic dandy, full of poise and manners, but at her right sat one of her friends, supposedly. The other woman was engaged in a conversation with a younger man. They talked about something which she cared very much about; one could see it in the glint of her eyes. Her interest made her features look lively and captured the attention of her partner. Finally, directly in front of him were two more men and one woman, who, based on the previously heard conversation, were called Georges, Bernard and Emilie. The first two were brothers, but they didn't look alike. Emilie seemed the youngest; she was also somewhat quiet and listened to the brothers' talking. 

He wanted to get in the group, but he was too reserved to interrupt. However, the second woman, near the blonde, saw his hesitation and invited him in with her gaze. "How observant.." he thought.

And she didn't even look at him, until then.

"Noticed you since you entered in <Les Lilas>... you don't seem like the usual. But don't be shy, this place is for everyone". 

The woman greeted him, breaking the ice. She was confident, but in a more mature way than her friends. The youthful taste for coquettery was replaced by a sort of tolerance and accommodating friendliness.

"Feel free to sit here. I am Mathilde, by the way, and this is my husband, Henri." 

Henri nod his head as a salute. 

"My dear friend here is Alice and the new Bridge player is Renè." Alice smiled and Renè greeted politely. Yet they all seemed to be used to Mathilde being the mediator between old and new acquaintances.

"Finally, these are the Verdi brothers, Bernard and Georges; near them is Emilie; they are all our new friends". 

Mathilde waited now to present himself.

In a strained voice, he said: "Nice to meet you all, and thank you Mathilde, if I may, for this easy introduction. Yes, I am not familiar to this place, so one could say this is my holiday. My name is.. "

The night went by in a quick pace. He talked to all of them, although most to Mathilde, as she made him feel most comfortable. This wasn't very long ago, it must have been about 90 years, yet their introduction remains crystal clear in his mind. (However, it is the only, and the last thing he remembers this accurately. The others have long begun to change shapes and meanings. Forgetfullness tastes bitter.)

Although, different memories flow by, some half forgotten, some improved and romanticised by the crafty side of his brain (who doesn't accept that even he can't remember everything). Loki realised that these six people, or mortals (as he referred to them later), were his only friends in his millenium of existence. Disastrous. Yet, he began to reminiscence their times spent together, which helped him understand better than anyone, he thinks, humanity's internal and external crisis of the 20th century. They also helped him understand himself, a great feat, really. So, his writing now is also the result of their encounter. 

Once, Mathilde told him: "Always so perceptive about everyone but yourself. You know, you could become a great writer, if only you would dive in and gain clarity."

He responded, thinking of Asgardian epics and legends: "And what? Create another Odysseus? I'm afraid nobody would be interested. These stories are no longer fit for the present society; nobody ever goes to an adventure nowadays to discover himself. You just live in the same place, doing the same things. History moves on, quickly, in a rush (just look at newspapers) and you delude yourself you'll do something new tomorrow. What a pity."

"You're right, but I never said to write about manly men and fair ladies.

Exactly the absence of adventure, as you understand it, is the greatest adventure of our lives. Our journies nowadays are on the inside, concealed, and in your soul there's as much action as in the external lives, conquests and adventures of any classic hero. Yes, outside noise covers it, you said history, but that doesn't undermine the reality. In the past, it was possible to become a valiant warrior, as the background did not change: same old kingdoms, empires, nobility and vassals. Now it is vastly different: social ranks are no longer for life and moreover, the outside rate of change and the oversaturation of (unimportant) information outshine our private lives.

You just need to find a way to express this. Anyways, I'll try to help you. Try to write down everything that comes to mind, without judgement or censorship. Even better, do this as soon as you wake up or in a moment you're most relaxed. I'm sure..."

Her advice continued and he was grateful for it. Maybe not in that moment, but now he appreciates the value.

Where was he before this sentimental intermission? Oh, mornings gave the prince a great opportunity to enjoy and relish in the best time of the day. Nothing surpasses the crystal stillnes of silence before sunrise, even some moments afterwards. It is not an empty quietness ("like in the Void", he thinks with a shudder), but rather the "fullest" one; in an ambigous sense of this word. "Fullness"... when all particles of nature stand unbearably close to each other, affecting all neighbours with their inherent agitation. But the space is so close, that they can't neither reject nor accept eachother totally. They seem as if in a frozen state, separated by equal distances, yet the truth stands on the opposite side. It is the purest form of movement. Each particle identifies with all others, and through it's manipulation, it is able to influence all others. ("What an illuminating thought! Then so is the essence of his seidr, is it not? This particular state of matter, this total unity.")

Just the right moment; it all seems cohesive, no disruptances in flows of energy, everything moves in sync. The puzzle is complete: one can see and identify each piece individually, but also perceive the whole in it's "fullness". "What a strange word"... he wrote it down with beautiful and elegant penmanship on his paper, determining it as the final result of early meditation hours. 

Suddenly, calmness washed over him. He lost his peak of focus and felt all muscles in his body lose their imposed rigidity, returning to natural tension. This is what he meant through clarity. A direct sense of perception. He looked inside, finally.

[nethwan]

Tied

Chapter 4 - Yes, I guess

Fandom: Hetalia

Characters/Pairing: APH Netherlands & APH Taiwan (Human AU)

Summary: Is it possible to fake love and be happy?

Note: I think this chapter makes no sense. I am sorry ;w; I tried my best.

Also on ff.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12663486/4/Tied

It was their wedding day. Mei was nervous; she looked at herself in the mirror, in some minutes she and Lars would be wife and husband. Lars was waiting for her, he looked at his watch, she was five minutes late. He calmed down when he saw her arrive.

It was a civil marriage, just family and close friends were there. Her dress was white and simple, as she wanted, and as always, she was wearing flowers on her hair. She noticed that he tried to change his hair style. After some words and sign papers, they placed a ring on each other’s finger and kissed. Now they were husband and wife.

The reception was bigger. Everything was decorated with roses, peonies and tulips, and the chocolate cake was delicious. Their parents invited everyone, even people they didn’t know. Mathias and Matthew gave a very touching speech, they asked her to take care of him and loving him, because he was a good man, and they wished them to be happy. Also, her friends asked him to take care of her.

She cried when she heard those kind words, he took her hand. This time, his touch was warm and she could feel as if he was telling her that everything would be fine because he was with her. Then they danced slowly, it was awkward because he never danced, but then she told him to just follow her.

He wrote his vows, even if he knew he wouldn’t tell them but words couldn’t describe how he was feeling. He adjusted a flower on her hair, she looked at him, and then he bent down and kissed her. She didn’t care and kissed him back. It was so brief but they felt that the world stopped. They separated and looked at each other in the eyes, and then their relatives and friends interrupted them to congratulate them.

Lars felt dizzy, his heart was beating so fast, he couldn’t hear what his parents and hers said, he just saw them moving their mouths without making any sound. He saw Mei; also she seemed overwhelmed with so much attention. He didn’t want to admit that he was in love with her, because she didn’t love him and never will.

They said goodbye to everyone to go to sleep. They arrived to the apartment. She had already chosen her bedroom, he asked her to do it days ago.

“Good night” she told him.

“Good night” he said.

She hugged a pillow, while she remembered how he kissed her, how she felt the time to stop, and she kissed him back, she didn’t knew why, she just wanted to do it. But obviously, he didn’t see her as his wife, for him, she was a woman with who he played house.

He thought about her, how beautiful she looked. And she was sleeping in the next room. She was his wife now. His wife. But he was sure she didn’t thought about him as her husband. And that kiss… she kissed him back, but why? He didn’t want to overthink. He decided to sleep and dream of her instead.

The next morning, he found her in the kitchen, she was making breakfast. He thought he was dreaming. It was so early. They looked at each other: both were wearing pajamas and their hair was messy. He thought that even that way she looked beautiful. And she thought that he looked handsome with his hair down.  

“Good morning. Did I wake you up?” she said.

“Good morning. No, it’s fine, I am not a morning person” he confessed.

“Drink some coffee” and she gave him a cup.

Later, they opened their presents. Lots of stuff for their home, and other things they didn’t know how to use. They spent the rest of the day packing to their honey moon; it was another surprise from their parents as the rest of the things they got.

They would go to certain idyllic islands. Lars fell asleep as soon as the plane took off; ironically, he wanted to avoid talk with her for a while. Mei looked at him, she got mad, why he was sleeping. The hotel room had a great view. The bed was big but he told her that he would sleep on the floor, and she agreed, she was still bitter.

They decided to go out for a walk. She asked him to wait for her while she changed her clothes. Minutes later, she looked for him, then, she saw him talking with a woman. And that woman was hitting on him; she smiled a lot and touched him when she had a chance. And even though Lars didn’t seem interested, Mei felt disgusted, she approached and said:

“I finally found you, dear” she said taking his hand and ignoring her.

The woman saw her faking a smile.

“She is Mei, my wife” he said relieved emphasizing the last word.

“Lars, darling, I didn’t know you were married. Well, nice to meet you” the woman said pretending she was surprised.

Mei didn’t respond. The woman told them she had to go because she needed to do something important. Mei seemed angry.

“She’s just an acquaintance. She wanted to go somewhere, although I told her I’m married” he said.

“Why do you think I want to know it?”

“I don’t know, I thought it was the right thing”

Mei released his hand. She thought that probably he realized she was jealous, and yes, she was, but she couldn’t admit it because then he could feel so important and that’d be the worst. Her only relief was that he wasn’t a ladies man.

They went to the beach, she wanted to play with the water, but then, she remembered that woman. She compared herself with her. Mei didn’t have low self-esteem, in fact, she considered herself pretty, but she thought that her breasts were so small; she blushed and crossed her arms to cover her chest, besides she felt so short and skinny. She was tired that people tell her she seemed younger than she actually was, and sometimes, people didn’t take her seriously. She was an adult woman not a child.

Her past boyfriends were nice people, they got along well, and however, she sometimes felt that they treated her as if she was very innocent. She never saw herself married with one of them. Besides, she never imagined with what kind of man she would get married.

She looked at Lars. Her husband. He was very tall, built, confident, serious, a successful lawyer. And his shy smile was so cute, the way he looked at her and how he took her hand, and his lips… She stopped.

“That woman was really beautiful, like a model” she commented.

“So?”

“Don’t you like her? What kind of woman do you like?” she asked him pretending she didn’t care.

“Why do you want to know that?”

“It’s just a question, I mean, you surely had several girlfriends”

“I didn’t have so many good experiences; ok? I am not an interesting man. You already know that”

“Just answer my question”

“Well, I like confident women, those who don’t hesitate too much. What about you? Do you like men like Mark?”

Why he was messing with her friend? She thought that if Lars wasn’t that disdainful, then she would think he was jealous and that’s why he disliked Mark so much. She sighed.

“He and I went out on a date only once; it was the worst date ever because we liked each other as friends, he had always been in love with Tiffany and I am glad she loved him too. To be honest, I never saw him as more than a friend. Are you happy now?”

Lars felt relieved, he didn’t have a rival.

“And about what kind of man I like, I like those who aren’t possessive or jealous” she said.

“I don’t like jealousy either. We have that in common” he teased.

“But, didn’t you think that you would have married one of your girlfriends? Like that… chick, for example?” she said with all the resentment she had in her chest.

“No, and a lot less with her, she doesn’t know what no means. I… went out with her a couple of times, then I found out she had a boyfriend… Can we stop talking about my love life? I don’t know why you are so interested. Besides, I just marry you. This is our honey moon”

“I don’t care about it, I was curious. Forget it and don’t remind me that” she said annoyed.

They remained in silence watching the waves. He wanted to tell her that his ideal woman was her: a cheerful and confident woman, who was intelligent, sweet, beautiful and a talented writer. Mei was mad but deeply in her heart, she felt happy that he was jealous.

“We should go eat something. I am hungry” she said.

“Alright”

Lars glared at some men who looked at her, he put his arm on her shoulders, but this time, Mei let him do it. Later, they went to their room, they were tired. She got in bed and he was lying on the floor. Her conscience didn’t let her sleep. Then she called him:

“Are you awake? I am sorry”

“Uhmmm?” he turned around.

“I apologize for make you feel uncomfortable. I was being childish; besides, you didn’t have to explain me anything”

“Then, you aren’t jealous…”

“Of course I am not! It’s not as if we were really married!” she replied.

“Alright, I forgive you. Good night”

“Wait, why don’t you sleep here? The bed is big enough for the two of us…”

He sighed and got in bed next to her. They put a couple of pillows between them. He was happy and fell asleep. She felt strange, it was the first time she shared a bed with someone. The next morning, she woke up first, she saw him and smiled. She thought he looked so cute sleeping, she wanted to caress his hair, but she didn’t want to wake him up. When he did it, he felt disappointed for not being able to see her sleeping next to him.

The rest of the honey moon passed with no much novelty. They went out on walks and tried to relax. They were there for a couple of days, but he’d have more time to be with her. He was ready to win her heart. He only needed to know how to confess, and the only idea scared him.

At home, they spend the afternoon organizing their belongings. She noticed that he had several books. Almost all of them were novels, poetry and some others about gardening. It was interesting.

Saturday, they went to buy some groceries.

“Mei, Lars, what a surprise! I thought you’d be still enjoying your honey moon!” Feliks said winking at her.

She laughed nervously and her face was red. Lars blushed too, but he didn’t say anything.

“We are going to buy groceries” Mei said.

“Well, have fun”

They said good bye. Lars took her hand.

It wasn’t that bad living together, she thought looking at him while she read the shopping list, and he put the things in the cart. At least, they didn’t argue too much. They didn’t mind to see the other as they were in the morning; they took turns to use the bathroom. She had ready his cup of coffee every day, he always went with her to buy groceries and both did chores together.

He liked her cooking, and she liked he was so tidy. They spent some afternoons talking about their childhood, their friends and every issue. Even though, he didn’t tell her so many details about his life, he preferred to listen to her.

She decided to give him a present, she spent so much time trying to find something simple but at the same time, something special he could like. One day, after work, she said:

“I have something for you”

“Really? What is it?”

“It’s a little present. I hope you like it”

He opened it, trying to hide his emotion. She felt like a teenager who has confessed and want an answer. Lars was happy when he saw the book.

“Thank you. This is my favorite author” he said and kissed her on the cheek.

She blushed and smiled.

“I am glad you liked it. And please, don’t feel as if you owe me something, you already gave me some many things before”

He remembered that moment, when she told him to stop sending her presents. But he’d do it again, he’d give her everything she wanted, but Mei wasn’t that kind of person. He wanted to kiss her again, and hug her. He didn’t know it, but she wanted the same. They smiled shyly at each other.

“Then… Could I read you a poem?” he asked her looking at his shoes. The same he did when he asked her to live there.

She thought that was an adorable gesture and accepted happily. He started reading; his voice was deep and calm. She felt involved in his words, and the way he expressed the emotions the author put on the poem. She wished all those feelings were for her. When he finished, she asked him to read other, and he gave a hint of a smile and did it. Mei thought that behind that stoic face there was a really kind and sweet man.

She didn’t know how or when happened, but now she wanted to be near him. He stopped being an iceberg to become the sweetest man she knew. But she couldn’t stop get defensive or awkward when he was around. Besides, she felt as if he wanted to tell her something, his gaze seemed to hide a secret. What was it? Why he didn’t trust her? Was there something wrong between them? She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know it.

[ignisaurumprobat19-blog]

Giving life (full story)

(initially published on r/nosleep)

I don't know if I can call myself a writer. I've never been published and I don't know if my writing is any good, to be honest, but I've always liked writing and sharing my stories with others, so that kind of makes me a writer, right ?

I'm Owen, by the way. I've been a lurker on nosleep for a while now, but I didn't think I would have anything interesting to post, before what happened today.

I'm not sure if what happened qualifies as nosleep material. To be honest, I start to question my own sanity, maybe I read too much into what simply were coincidences, but if that's all it is, it's definitely troubling.

You see, twice a week I work the night shift at a 24/7 McDonald's. I work mondays and tuesdays, so they're usually quiet nights, unlike friday and saturday nights. I usually get a rush of activity around 10-11pm, when people get out of the movies, and then the early birds start coming for breakfast at around 5am. Between 12 and 5am, however, I rarely get customers. My manager knows I'm just a broke student trying to pay off his student debt, so when it's quiet he usually lets me sit down at a table with some food and do some work for college or write some stories. I have to get back to work as soon as a client enters, but I usually get a good 2-3 quiet hours in the night.

So at around 1am today, I settled down with a cheeseburger and fries and started writing a new story. This one is about a 22 year old guy, named Jackson, who just left an abusive household and tries to start over in a new city. I hoped to make it into a full length book someday, but now I don't know if that's a good idea.

I wrote about 3 pages before the customers started coming in, so I had to get back to work.

The rest of my shift went by without incident.

When I got out of work at 7am, I went straight to the Starbucks across the street to have coffee and a couple of muffins before starting my second job. I'm a babysitter for a family a few streets away, I basically just walk the kids to school in the morning, then I pick them up at the end of the school day, walk them home, make them a snack and play with them for an hour until their mother gets home from work. The kids are cute and it pays well.

Anyway, I was settling down with my coffee and food and decided to write a little bit more. I didn't search too far for inspiration : I wrote down a scene in which Jackson went to Starbucks (unoriginal, I know, but it would be a good set-up for meeting what would become his girlfriend, a complicated, dark character that I named Emma). I was deep into my writing, trying to describe this early-morning atmosphere as best as I could to make the scene realistic, when I noticed a guy standing in line at the counter.

He looked every bit as I imagined Jackson.

Now, I know that's nothing out of the extraordinary, as my Jackson is pretty average : brown hair, blue eyes, average height and built, no tattoos or piercing...

Still, I couldn't help but observe him. That's when things got weird. He got the exact order I wrote about (Caramel Macchiatto with two pumps of white chocolate syrup- not the kind of stuff guys usually ordered, it was meant to be the conversation starter between Emma and him), hesitated over the muffins just like I wrote in the story, before chosing not to have any food with his drink.

When he sat down in the exact spot I wrote about, I got to see his name on the cup. Jackson.

I know this can all be a serie of coincidences, as Jackson isn't a rare name, and there are probably shitloads of brown-haired, blue-eyed guys in their twenties in this city, but what really fucked me up is what happened afterwards.

I was a little unnerved by all this, so I tried to be rational and make a little experiment: I started writing the rest of the story, to prove to myself that what I wrote and what happened IRL were two completely separate things. So I wrote :

“Jackson stood up, regretting his choice of not getting a blueberry muffin. He deserved a treat, after this hellish past days.”

And sure as hell, the real Jackson stood up.

“He walked to the counter. The line has dried up, so he could order immediately”.

I shit you not, the line dried up in seconds. Okay, there was only two people waiting, but they  both got their order as soon as I wrote this line, and they hurried out of the café.

I slowly wrote “He asked for a blueberry”, and, yes, I heard Jackson saying “Hi again, can I please have a blue-” and then I deleted the past three sentences.

He froze in place, a look of confusion on his face.

The barista looked concerned : “Yes, sir?”. He just stood there for a couple of seconds, said “never mind” and walked back to his seat.

I got up and left. I know I should have stayed, maybe try it again, try to work this out, but I got scared.

I passed by Emma on the way out. I don't know if she's actually named Emma, but she looks exactly like the Emma I imagined, down to the mole on her right cheek.

I just got home from taking the kids to school, and I don't know if I want to keep writing my story or not. You see, if I manage to write a whole book out of it, it won't be a happy story. I plan to make Jackson and Emma go through a lot, and one of them isn't going to make it. It was fine as long as I believed they were fictional, but do I really want to take the risk of being a murderer?

[vaffaznculocolmpadrter]

OC Interview: Sparrow the Druid

Rules 1. Pick one of your characters 2. Fill in the questions/statements as if you are being interviewed for an article and you were your muse. 3. Tag people to do this meme

Holy fuck this is a lot of words for a lot of questions. I hope you enjoy this out of context hullabaloo i had fun writing it at least.

       As a mysterious journey brought our heroes to the lakeside city of Thrushmoor, a man decided he wanted to know more. More about this strange band of adventurers, who were traipsing about this dour nation of Ustalav and righting some of its many wrongs. After an afternoon of asking about town, he easily discovered the name of their inn. (Appearances such as theirs are not easy to mistake, especially a young lady of drow descent and a woman with what only be described as a ‘mane’ of impossibly red hair). As luck would have it, it was those very same women he chanced upon.

       He introduced himself as a writer, and told them of his plea; they were understandably confused. (The purple-skinned elf coincidentally played the part of the shrinking violet, while her companion could not have been any more her foil if she tried). The wild, redheaded lass towered over them, and after a few more explanations, agreed to speak.

      That interview is recorded here, exactly as it occurred.

What is your name?

Sparrow.

What is your real name?

*Sparrow ruminates for quite a bit before answering.*

You know… when a serial killer ghost uses names for his dumb ghost magic, and you see the word ‘sparrow’ appear in blood on the wall… I guess there really isn’t any other answer that matters.

Do you know why you were called that?

Nah, not really, though I’ve been called that for like, EVER. As long as I can remember, even… Huh… I wonder if little me ever knew.

Are you single or taken?

What’s that mean?

*Her companion Cylerra walks over and leans down to whisper something in Sparrow’s ear. A look of realization blooms on her face as she listens.*

Oh. Uhhh… that is. Hmmm. That first one sounds about right, I guess.

Have any abilities or powers?

Oh dude easy question. First off I’m a druid do you know what a druid is yeah yeah you know what a druid is. So I’m one of those. Oh. You want a bit more than that? Uh. I’m pretty good with fire magic and… what else. Oh! Oh oh I know I don’t look it but I’m pretty good at making magical do-dad thingies.

*Sparrow waves Cylerra over again,  points to the small ornate clip nestled in her white hair, and grins.*

See that? I made it. It’s cute as fuck too, right?

Stop being a Mary Sue.

*Sparrow silently squints, her mouth slightly ajar. She closes and opens it a few times before responding*

I’m. Going to assume that’s a bad thing to be. So… sure. I guess.

What’s your eye color?

Well, if you asked me a month ago the answer’d be some kind of grey… but recently we all woke up with some sparkly ass silver eyes after a weird divine magic butterfly dream thing. I think it’s pretty neat, seeing as all of us match now and stuff.

How about your hair color?

Oh! Okay so imagine the reddest red you’ve ever seen. Ever. In your WHOLE entire life. Got it? Now…

*Sparrow hovers her thumb just a centimeter away from her index finger.*

That’s how close my hair is to your reddest red.

Have you any family members?

Huh. Hmmm… now that i think about it, I suppose I got three different families.

*Sparrow begins to count on her fingers as she lists them off. She hesitates on the first finger, motioning with it several times before speaking.*

…there was- …there is- …there- fuck! There.

*Sparrow grows flustered, sighs, and begins counting again.*

Ma and Pa. The wolf pack. And the old green dickbag who taught me magic… There, that’s- Wait… actually no, sorry. I was being dumb for a second. There’s four.

*Sparrow’s mood brightens as she turns to see Cylerra, who meekly waves back in response before returning to her book.*

I have four families.

Oh? What about pets?

I suppose you mean that wolf pack I just mentioned. Like I said before, I consider them family, which is probably going to confuse a few people. I guess I could explain a bit. They’re family because, well… they saved my life. It happened when I was little… and when I needed them most.

*Sparrow averts her gaze toward the floor, and absentmindedly begins tracing circles on the table.*

Afterwards, I was… really, really scared. I didn't want to be left, alone... So I. You know. Followed after them… I don’t remember for how long. Or how far. But then, one day… I was just. There. With the wolves. Sleeping. And eating. And Playing.

*Sparrow glances back up just as tears begin to well in her eyes. Her emotional display startled her, and she quickly wipes her face with a hand.*

Oh, wow. Jeez, what am I  doing? My friends don’t even know those details and I’m just spilling them all over your dumb stupid shitty fucking notebook… Sorry. I didn’t mean to call you and your notebook dumb. Oh, I didn’t call you dumb? Well. I was thinking it, so. Sorry about that too, I guess… So, uh. Pets, right? Um, I have a silly little plant buddy I made with magic, does he count?

Do you have any hobbies/activities you like doing?

Let’s see…

*Sparrow straightens up a tad and takes a deep breath.*

Relaxing. Hunting. Goofing off. Solving mysteries. Hanging out with Cylerra. Poking fun at Cylerra.  Exploring. Swimming. Watching my friends do the things they like. Drinking. Dancing. Eating- Oh yeah can’t forget about eating. Feeling mud between my toes. Listening to the forest. Meeting new people. Playing with fire. Star-gazing. Seeing Trey be bad at being serious. Sun-bathing. Making nifty magic crap. Sleeping. Fucking. Kicking ass. Fl- oh, okay sure I can stop if that’s enough.

That’s cool I guess, now tell me something you don’t like.

Undead come to mind for sure. I hate zombies I hate wights I hate ghosts I hate wraiths I hate werewolf ghosts I- Oh, yeah. And FUCK mummies. HOLY SHIT DUDE DO I HATE MUMMIES. Throw every single one of them into the garbage pit and set it on fucking fire please.

Ever hurt anyone before?

I think that’s like… part of being an adventurer, right? Like. If you are an adventurer and you go on adventures if you keep continuing to adventure, you are gonna hurt someone eventually. Punching or feeling wise, its bound to happen.

Ever….killed anyone before?

I have, yeah. Like, when I count it up, Ive definitely hunted plenty of animals and recently began killing a good chunk of undead, but they probably don’t fall under everyone’s ‘anyone’ category. I think it’s safe to say werewolves and cultists do though, so yeah. I have killed dudes before.

What kind of animal are you?

Well technically I can be basically whatever the heck i want, but I think you mean like, in a figurative way? Still though. Dude. I think it’s pretty obvious.

Name your worst habits.

I’m told I say things I shouldn’t a whole bunch. Like basically every day all the time. ‘Sparrow no you can’t say that, no Sparrow that’s inappropriate, Sparrow stop you’re offending them.’

*Sparrow sighes.*

What else… I get told I’m too loud. or wait, I don’t think that’s really a habit. Hmmm. Some people complain about how I eat? Manners or something dumb like that.

Do you look up to anyone at all?

Not that often. Apparently I’m pretty tall for a lady, so most of the time I’m looking down to people instead. I definitely had to look up to Gallows though, that dude’s hat scraped on door-frames sometimes.

Gay, straight, or bisexual?

Uh. Hmm.

*Sparrow counts on her fingers as she mouths a few words to herself. After several seconds, she quickly gives up .*

I don’t really know how this sort of thing works. Do amounts matter?

Do you go to school?

I’ve gone to a school once, when we visited Cylerra’s old one. But you mean like, going to school, like what she did. So no. I’ve never gone to school. And thinking about it… even if things had been different… I don’t think I ever would’ve had the chance anyways.

Do you ever want to marry and have kids one day?

*Sparrow freezes for several seconds, then laughs uncomfortably. She begins fiddling with her hair as an awkward silence fills the table.*

I’ve, uh. Never really… thought. About it. Before…

Do you have any fanboys/fangirls?

Oh! Do kids pretending to be me count? Because if that does then yeah yes I do have fans. Man, those little pups were really sweet once the town finally unstuck themselves from their own asses and realized we weren't trying to ruin their lives.

What are you most afraid of?

Most afraid of? Hmmm. I guess... being unable to- to- Damn I don't know how to say this. Okay. Say someone I knew and liked was in trouble. Like, some really, really bad shit was going to happen to them and I’m seeing it as it happens. I'm afraid of when a time like that comes... and I can't even try to do something about it.

*Sparrow pauses.*

Wow. That was so serious I bet you wanted things like heights or dark spaces.

What do you usually wear?

I don't really got a signature outfit or nothing but you can bet you'll see me wearing this!

*Sparrow enthusiastically gestures to the wolf pelt slung around her shoulders.*

Do you love someone?

Well, I love my families. I love my friends and my pack and my. Parents. And I love my shitty teacher too, I guess. That's ab- Huh? What do you mean that's not what you mean? Oh. Oooooh. You mean like. How my Ma loved my Pa, and my Pa loved my Ma...

*Sparrow rubs her the back of her neck as she falls deep into her thoughts.*

... No. I don't really love anyone the way they love each other. And I'm not really sure if I ever will...

What class are you? (high class, middle class, low class)

I never cared about stuff like that. I never had to. I was the little girl of a hunter and a potion maker who lived in a house outside of town at the edge of the woods and we were the most happiest people in my whole wide world...

*Sparrow’s wistful stare is distant, and accompanied by a small smile. It lasts but a moment before her face turns sour and she shakes her head.*

Then I lived in the forest with a whole shit ton of wolves and a crappy old orc for a while. So. Low, I guess.

How many friends do you have?

I like to consider anyone who isn’t a jerk to be a friend. Life is a whole lot funner that way. But if I gotta name names... Kendra, I think. Zokar the tavern owner - damn I love that guy I kinda miss him. Grimsbarrow... Shit basically the entire town of Ravengro. That cool Crooked Kin circus we ran into. Barrister Kaple - hope he keeps growing that backbone we gave him. The Beast of Lepidstadt- Ah! See, I knew you were gonna give me a face like that. Nothing but the truth my man. Hmmmm. Oh! That badass at the lodge... Graydon! Graydon.

*Sparrow leans forward, hides her mouth with a hand and whispers.*

Now, I said I have a lot of friends, but I think Cylerra is my best friend. Don‘t tell anyone though it might hurt their feelings.

What are your thoughts on pie?

I like them. Especially fruit ones. Though Zokar’s meat pie was pretty good with some ale.

Favorite drink?

Oh, fuck. I don’t actually know... There’s so much good stuff out there and I’ve only had like a sliver of it.

What’s your favourite place?

Wow damn dude you keep asking all these hard questions. How can someone decide when there are so many places to choose from? ...Eh, I suppose I could say the woods I spent my whole ada- adu- ader- Sorry hold on.

*Sparrow swivels around and shouts Cylerra’s name at the top of her lungs. Cylerra yelps in surprise and the book she had been so patiently reading clatters to the floor.*

WHAT’S THE THING THAT’S NOT A BABY OR A KID, BUT ALSO NOT AN ADULT OR AN OLD PERSON?

*Cylerra glares at Sparrow, and begins to move one of her hands in an intricate fashion. Suddenly, small fiery letters appear out of thin air in front of Sparrow. As the word forms one letter at a time, it clearly spells ‘ADOLESCENT!’ But the moment the exclamation point appears, the entire array explodes with a loud pop and a large puff of smoke! Cylerra storms out of the room, as Sparrow is left with a soot-covered face.*

THANK YOU. So yeah I spent all of that thing in the same huge ass forest. I know that place in and out and up and down and basically any other direction you can think of.

Are you interested in someone?

Yeah I- Wait. Is this another one of those questions? Where I don’t understand it at first and it ends up being about sex or something? Yeah, I thought so. Looking for someone to fuck is not really on my mind considering the fact that I mmmmm-not going to tell you that because it would be dumb and get me thinking about it again and then get me worrying about it aga- MMMMMNH!

*Sparrow’s nostrils flare, and her face contorts into an expression of exasperation as she wipes the soot from it.*

Next question please.

What’s your bra cup size?

*Sparrow casually reaches into her shirt and gropes herself. After a squeeze or two, she removes her hand and shows it off.*

About that big.

Would you rather swim in the lake or the ocean?

Oh oh oh I’ve never been to the ocean that’s the one with the salt in the water right? I really want to go! I want to see it for myself, hopefully I can drag my friends with me it sounds like a blast.

What’s your type?

*Sparrow’s face becomes stoic as her eyebrows raise.*

I think I know your game now, mister writer man. My type is people I like. Okay? Okay.

Any fetishes?

Huh? You mean those little charms you make that are suppose to ward off evil or whatever?

*Sparrow immediately drops her deadpan facade and taps a finger on her lips in thought.*

Nah, not anymore. The green geezer had me making them all the damn time when he first started teaching me. It didn’t even have anything to do with druidism he just wanted to waste my time. I wanted to run away so bad back then, but he kept finding me and dragging me home every time I tried. I guess I gave up after failing for like a year. I think that’s about when he starting teaching me for real.

Seme or uke? Top or bottom? Dominant or submissive?

I don’t even know what half of these things mean but I’m definitely not submissive, so dominant I guess.

Camping or indoors?

NATURE IS MY MIDDLE NAME OF COURSE I’LL ALWAYS PICK CAMPING also nature is not actually my middle name don’t write that down.

Are you wanting to quiz to end?

Yeah this took way longer than I thought you should really tell people that before you sit them down and vomit questions at them.

[storytellersinkpot-blog]

Publication Interview with Rebecca Grabill: Halloween Good Night

Author and MFAC alum Rebecca Grabill talks about her novel, Halloween Good Night. Halloween Good Night, published July 25, is a counting book starring your favorite monsters. 

Gliding through the moonlight

come the monsters big and small,

sliding up your stairway

and oozing down your hall.

They aren’t very scary,

in fact they’re rather sweet.

So snuggle into bed and let them whisper,

“Trick or treat!”

Why do you write?

I won’t be the first to say this, but I write because I must. It’s not self-expression or fame (who cares what I have to say?), it’s not some deep idealistic zeal to change the world (I’m far too cynical to do more than hope). It’s compulsion, plain and simple. When I go too long—a couple days—without writing, I feel uneasy, then agitated, then depressed, until I write again, even if all I can manage between newborn feedings and dropping teens at events is a few lines of a lousy poem. I have to write. There’s no other option.

How did HALLOWEEN GOOD NIGHT get published?

This is actually a fun story (see what a great teaser that is? That’s why I get the big bucks. Umm…). Anyway, I wrote the first draft of HGN during my MFA at Hamline, during my semester with the venerable and amazing Phyllis Root (whom I adore). I remember reading it at a student reading and thinking, “Yes, finally I figured this picture book thing out!”

Sadly editors weren’t agreeing. After graduation I did everything to the story from changing it to a direct “copy” of Over in the Meadow (super super simple and made me want to weep with self-loathing), to attempting to rewrite it in a little monster preschool setting. That’s where I realized I didn’t want to write a monster-goes-to-preschool book (well, I might want to, but I didn’t want This book to become That book). So I stopped re-envisioning it and revised to make it as sparkly as I could, and then I waited. I was also expecting a baby (#5) around then, so I was well practiced at waiting.

In fall of 2014 when I was barely able to function because of newborn and life, my agent called to say she had interest. Apparently an editor she knew was looking for a Halloween book, and she said, “Oh, I have just the book!” and passed it on to the editor and the editor happened to LOVE my story.

A few days later, on Halloween day, while I was hiding in the car and nursing the baby while my big kids were in class, the official offer came in. I got off the phone with my agent and floated around the rest of the morning. Until the kiddos were done with class, and then real life returned with, “Mommy, I’m hungry,” and so forth.

When you start writing, do you know what the ending will be?

Generally, yes. The ending is often the first thing I know about a story. Or think I know, since everything is open to change as the story and characters develop. This is especially true with picture books since these stories are so palm-sized and visual. I sometimes have an “image” in mind of the end before I even have a beginning. I certainly did with HGN. I saw a child tucking all the “scary” Halloween monsters into bed, mastering fear, being the adult, and the story grew from there.

On the flip side, I have a fantasy series in the works, and the ending has been a struggle for as long as I’ve been writing it. It’s been dormant for a few years, but now that I contemplate returning, I know that blasted ending will still be there, ugly as it is. I haven’t figured out what to do about it—yet.

What’s your writing process?

Um, cry, eat chocolate, drink coffee (decaf, see the in-utero comment above), cry some more… Just kidding. Sort of. Because of the demands of life, I have to guard my writing time (afternoons while the littles nap, big kids do independent schoolwork/pretend to do schoolwork, i.e. binge watch inappropriate Netflix or YouTube), and I have to accept that a little progress each day is better than no progress at all.

Basically, when 2pm rolls around, I put on my noise cancelling headphones and let the rest of the world shriek. And I write. I don’t do warm up exercises (please, as if I have time for that!), I don’t freewrite and brainstorm and play with my little Garbage Pail Kids figurines (ok, not much), I pick up where I left off the day before, and I keep going. I stop only when nature calls, when I need to tell one of the kids, “Yes, fine, whatever, go eat a bowl of ice cream with marshmallows and popcorn and watch Walking Dead” (not really, really I’ll just grunt and wave them away and discover later what they were asking me), and I keep going until finally I realize if I don’t stop Right Now nobody will be eating dinner.

This of course will all be blown to h@ll in December when the baby comes, but it’s what I’ll work toward even then.

As far as process for individual books, it varies so incredibly for each project it would be useless to describe. Some are written in a bout of inspiration, others are written and re-written dozens and dozens of times over the course of years. And yes, I do mean years. My current project started as an essay around 2003. It’s now almost “done” (whatever that means) and has been rewritten from the ground up at least six times, and heavily revised and restructured twice that many. AND I’m not sick of it, which means something. Hopefully something good about the manuscript and not something disturbing about myself.

What do you do when you’re not writing?

I homeschool four of my five children and feed the youngest sixth child—in utero until December—copious amounts of chocolate and cucumbers, but not together because I may be pregnant but I do have standards. I also love to binge-watch Netflix in the evenings and read books about food and sustainable agriculture.

I spend an inordinate amount of time in the kitchen because of medically necessary food restrictions—some mine, some belonging to various children. And I spend an inordinate amount of time Googling bizarre medical (and other) questions, which I could say are research, but come on, let’s be real. Weirdness and the abnormal, medically and otherwise, fascinate me.

I have kept chickens, though after a recent raccoon massacre I’m taking a break, and I have a large, ill-kept garden of mostly tomato hornworms and herbs. I also do photography (mostly stock) when the whim strikes at a time when I also have time, which doesn’t happen often, sadly. Sort of like an eclipse.

What advice do you have for aspiring writers?

Don’t try to copy another writer’s process. Seriously, I LOVE reading about how Stephen King writes, or Hemingway, or Anne Lamott. I love it because I think somewhere in their process will be this Golden Truth I’m missing in my own process. I think if I adopt their Magic, somehow my writing will go from slow-plodding-work to flying on clouds of bliss. Except then I get pissy because their process won’t work for my life. Like seriously, if Stephen King were a homeschooling mother of soon-to-be six, would he have time to write ten pages every single day? If Robert Olen Butler were a mother of ANYTHING would he be getting up at 5am to write from his dream state? So that’s to say, don’t look for the magic wand, golden ticket, mythical Dream State. It doesn’t exist. The only way writing gets done is by writing. Period.

Also, listen to feedback. Especially editors/agents, but even Uncle Sal knows a good book when he reads it (usually). Your readers know more than you think. Are they wrong sometimes? Sure. But if three of five readers are saying, “This really shouldn’t be in verse,” then try it in prose no matter how attached you may be to it the way it is. The worst that can happen is you spend some time making a change that doesn’t work. The best is that you end up with something amazing. Risk, try, and for heaven’s sake back up to Dropbox or the cloud or something. And consider Scrivener because it’s awesome, and no they don’t pay me to say that (but they should!).

What are you working on now? Any upcoming events or other info you’d like to add?

I’m finishing up a Middle Grade novel about “influence” and happy little topics like race and cruelty and beauty and friendship. Or I think I’m finishing it. I’ve “finished up” this novel before, so I hesitate to say anything for certain. Then I’ll turn my attention to maybe some picture books or an early MG about a hog, or that ending-less fantasy. Or maybe I’ll be so thoroughly pregnancy-brain-addled that I’ll decoupage everything in the house. It’ been known to happen. Or tie-dye all the diapers… Hmm, actually that does sound fun.

That’s writing stuff. Once publication happens, there’s a whole new to-do list. I have an author questionnaire to fill our for one book (with things like the names of all my local librarians, all the famous people I know, Costco’s buyer and home phone number [kidding, sort of]), and another book that will be hitting editorial soon, and I have an October full of book-release events for Halloween Good Night, plus social media/blog/etc. to keep up with.

Anything else?

Be sure to check out my website: www.rebeccagrabill.com! And if you’ve read and loved Halloween Good Night, I would love love love to see some nice reviews pop up on Amazon!

[yogaadvise]

What Does Your Spending Style Say About You?

I'm the very first to confess: I enjoy purchasing and I often tend to live for the minute. I took a quiz lately that evaluated my economic knowledge, and also for the concern, 'What would be thought about a lasting economic objective?,' I picked 3 to six months, the right response is greater than 5 years. A lot of my spending isn't exorbitant-thrift shop finds, the occasional Zappos splurge, way too much eating out-but, gradually, it started weighing on my wallet as well as my mind.

The very first time my domestic partner suggested creating a budget, I fought back hammer and tongs. To me, investing by the numbers really felt stale, regulating, the diametric opposite of spontaneity as well as flexibility. My worldview essentially steams down to 'Life is a getaway'- and every person understands that you don't see your investing when you get on vacation.

Our attitudes and activities around cash can be substantial indications of the emotional and also spiritual concerns we're grappling with-even, or maybe particularly, those we haven't completely acknowledged yet. It's like a shark fin: If there's a herd of charge card cresting the waves, you can be quite sure there's something hazardous under the water.

The Kundalini Yoga exercise educator and also entrepreneur Expert Jagat, who has three yoga exercise centers, a document tag, an upcoming book with Harper Collins, as well as a vision to located spiritual centers around the globe, states that money (like sex) is 'final frontier things'- it could be a driver for deep investigation of the self. 'Company has been such a powerful area for me to collaborate with my spiritual maturity, to realize impression and also workout valor,' she claims. She shows that there are inevitably 2 channels we can choose in between: prosperity or poverty.

' We bring our histories with us when we handle money,' states Judith Gruber, an accredited medical social worker, psychotherapist, and also life, business, and also job train, that focuses on aiding people create a healthy and also well balanced method to cash. 'It exposes how we feel regarding ourselves, exactly what we believe, as well as exactly how we value ourselves.' As an example, if you have a difficult time buying traits for on your own, you could be overlooking your self-care in various other means as well.

If you're all set to drop light on your financial life-and you're seeking something a lot more compared to referrals for user-friendly budget plan software-here are five means to start building a more conscious relationship with cash and with yourself.

1. Identify just what kind of spender you are, and just how you obtained that way.

Before you can transform your habits around money, you have to examine the feelings and beliefs that underlie that behavior. Gruber suggests writing a 'cash autobiography' that traces what you were taught concerning cash as a youngster as well as the emotions that come up for you around dreaming of, obtaining, and investing. Her principle of the 'MoneyMask™' thinks that the way we spend reflects the emotional wounds we obtained early in life. We might spend too much to impress others as well as really feel powerful, or we may hold on tight to exactly what we have actually obtained since we have actually never really felt totally overfilled and also taken care of. Cash coach as well as psychotherapist Olivia Mellan, writer with Sherry Christie of Money Consistency: A Guidebook for Individuals as well as Couples, has recognized 6 major money personality kinds: the Hoarder, the Spender, the cash Monk, the Avoider, the Amasser, as well as the Cash Worrier. (Take the test to uncover your economic character.)

2. Understand when and also why you're spending cash for simply psychological reasons.

Retail treatment isn't really necessarily a bad trait, but it is very important to recognize as well as acknowledge it, states Master Jagat. 'You constantly need to ask yourself, exactly what are you attempting to load up?' she says. 'Exactly how swiftly do you really feel empty once more after taking in? There's no embarassment in it-just know it. I'm constantly really aware of when I'm doing retail therapy due to the fact that I require to blow off some steam, and also I provide myself a spending plan.' (She additionally makes a point of doing her retail therapy in your area to sustain fellow business owners.) To help identify patterns and practices, Gruber recommends keeping an economic journal to track your day-to-day activities and also responses around cash. Do not judge on your own, she stresses-simply observe.

3. Make use of a spending plan as a tool to plant equilibrium, thankfulness, and also healthy and balanced boundaries.

Crafting a budget can be 'extensive as opposed to constrictive,' Gruber says. See the glass as half full-instead of focusing on exactly what you can't manage, check out everything your money is providing for you. Just as youngsters are said to crave boundaries, Spender types like me function better with clear delineations around what's appropriate. As my companion kept promoting a budget plan, and as college tuition for our child impended better, I at some point caved. At initially, when we took a seat at our particular gadgets to gauge our income as well as outflow every month as well as categorize where it was all going, it seemed like a little torture. Slowly, I started to take some contentment in seeing how carefully we might make the reality suit the pie-chart wedges on the screen. And-coincidental or no?- we jointly began gaining more and investing less.

4. Know that you could pursue the spiritual without relinquishing the product.

The stereotype of the spartan with a beggar's bowl is not suitable or desirable for the majority of modern Americans, claims Expert Jagat. 'We're still working with these polarities-people think they have to be poor and distribute all their ownerships to be spiritual,' she said. Her instructor, Yogi Bhajan, that is attributed with bringing Kundalini Yoga to the West, educated that economic wellness mirrors the state of one's connection with the outside world, the interpretation of true success, he claimed, was the capability to support 25 family members. 'He was very clear that we are not sadhus,' Master Jagat claimed. 'Kundalini is an owner's scientific research. He came to The U.S.A. with 35 cents in his pocket and he was a multimillionaire when he died.' (Yogi tea and also Tranquility grains are among the products created by the 17 companies he assisted create.) On an emotional level, Gruber posits that people that wear the 'Spiritual MoneyMask™' are making use of a disdain for wide range as a cover for their hesitation to deal with further concerns around money.

5. Load the opening with another thing.

Whether we're hoarding it or investing it, an out of balance partnership with money is usually a means to fill what Master Jagat describes as the 'gaping maw' inside us. Try out various other approaches to discovering meaning as well as satisfaction in life: meditation, yoga, company, creativity, time in nature. Expert Jagat's Kundalini-based 'yogic success modern technology' concentrates on educating the mind and also the nervous system 'to search for based experiences throughout the day, so the upcomings and also goings and ups and downs don't drink you as a lot.' She states, 'A growing number of people are realizing that no amount of cash or success will certainly make life much better unless you have your mind called right into experiencing it in a proper means. If you compass your life to offer something larger compared to your personal individual neuroses and also limitations, to be of service or to produce or whatever [is best for you], that in itself is the best action toward prosperity.'

[aion-rsa]

Bio Comic Shows the Inventor of the Zombie Did a Lot More Than That

The cartoonist of seven books, including “Mid-Life,” “Happy Stories About Well-Adjusted People,” and “This Will All End in Tears,” Joe Ollmann has not only received a Doug Wright Award, CBC Radio called him “a master of the short story” and compared him to Alice Munro. His new book, “The Abominable Mr. Seabrook,” looks to continue the accolades for the accomplished creator.

The book details the life of William Seabrook, a writer best remembered for introducing the term “zombie” into the English language, though as Ollmann makes clear, Seabrook wrote about and did far, far more than most might think. Seabrook wrote about Haiti, Arabia and Africa, early plane travel, alcoholism and bondage; he was friends with Gertrude Stein, Aleister Crowley, Sinclair Lewis and Man Ray. He was the forerunner of the model of adventurer and writer that has been carried on by the likes of Hunter S. Thompson.

CBR: William Seabrook was a real character — I don’t know how else to describe him! How did you first encounter him?

Joe Ollmann: I discovered him in a zombie anthology called “Zombie.” There was a short piece by Seabrook in there, which was very good. It’s a true story of zombies in Haiti from his book “The Magic Island.” It was a good story, and I really liked his writing, but what interested me more was the short biographical blurb before the story. The people that he’d known, the places that he traveled, and other salacious facts, like his bondage fetish, and cannibalism, and alcoholism. I’d never heard of the guy, and I felt like I should have because he had a pretty interesting, storied life. That sent me searching for more info. I was a little surprised that there wasn’t more info on him. None of his eleven books were in print at the time; Dover has started to bring some of them back into print, but he was a bestselling author in his day. It seemed like people should have known about him because he had a pretty interesting life.

One person you quote in the book makes the observation that what Seabrook would have liked was to be misunderstood. He wasn’t, however, and instead was a huge success.

That was Alexander King, the illustrator, who was an editor at “Life Magazine.” He said that Seabrook wanted to be a misunderstood author who was deep and artistic and inscrutable, but he was this populist writer who wrote about lurid subjects, mostly. But he wrote about them very intelligently and very well. Seabrook was always torn; he wanted to be a Gertrude Stein or a James Joyce or someone like that, but he came from a trashy Randolph Hearst newspaper background, writing stories like ‘Caught in the Death Grip of a Giant Clam.’ He wanted to do art, and he did very good populist stuff.

At the same time — and I couldn’t help but think of this in terms of his alcoholism and self-loathing — he sought out the company of people like Gertrude Stein and James Joyce, people who were in that Left Bank or Greenwich Village crowds.

He was very well connected. They sought him out, too, it seems, because they remembered him well enough to write about him in their autobiographies. Gertrude Stein, Sinclair Lewis, Man Ray, Aleister Crowley wrote about him. He obviously made an impression on these people. I would imagine he was quite a character, a guy who was fun to go to parties with, but not so fun to live with.

So when did you go from being curious about this writer to making a book about him?

At the beginning, I was just interested and I started to read. There was a little bit on the Internet. There were Seabrook fans on LiveJournal that had a lot of information, and that steered me towards certain books, which was quite helpful. I started buying his books and reading them. As I was reading them, I started keeping notes. I first started taking notes around 2006, so it’s been more than ten years now that I’ve been unofficially researching. I traveled to North Carolina with my wife — she was at an academic conference and I went with her because a collector there had a trunk of Seabrook stuff. I went to the University of Oregon for almost a week, and went through the archives of Marjorie Worthington, who was Seabrook’s second wife. She was an author, and her archives were there. I was going through boxes of her stuff — journals, letters, photos.

At that point, I’m wearing white gloves at a university archive and taking notes and I was like, “I guess you’re making a book of this guy, because what else are you going do?” [Laughs] I had already invested a lot of time and travel and money, so it became apparent that I had to do something with it. It was more than just a hobby. I talked about it a lot for years with people and everybody was very intrigued by the elevator pitch of this guy’s life and they never heard of him so they said, you should make a book about him. I could have just written a proper biography – a “book book” as we call real books in the comics world – but I’m a cartoonist, so I did it as a comic book biography.

I can imagine you spent part of that decade digging up visual reference and focusing on depicting those details.

I don’t usually use a lot of visual reference, but I really tried to get the details as correct as possible with this book. I felt it deserved the extra time. It’s set in many different time periods on different continents with many different cultures and with historical characters. I did a lot of research — I have folders of reference material for each section. I’ve never really done that much research visually before, so hopefully it improved the book.

I’ve read other books of yours, and it’s clearly your style, but it also felt very different than anything you’ve done before.

I think so. In a way, it’s not proper nonfiction. I see any biography with dialogue in it is out of the realm of nonfiction and into “speculative nonfiction,” where it’s well researched but I extrapolated and made up dialogue to fill in the story. It is different, but I feel like readers of my normal depressing comics that I do which are slice of life kitchen sink dramas of normal people who are troubled and they’re sad but they have humor in them, I think the Seabrook book probably has a similar feel because you know we put our stamp on everything as an artist or a writer so even though it’s his story it definitely has my fingerprints all over it I would think.

Drawing things like bondage — I’ve never done anything like that. I talked to cartoonist Pascal Girard years ago when I was living in Montreal, and his advice was draw the bondage stuff really frankly. Don’t not show it, but don’t make it sexy. I drew it very openly, not trying to make it salacious or sexed up. Hopefully that worked.

What made Seabrook fascinating wasn’t that he practiced bondage, but he wrote about it and he collaborated with Man Ray on series of photographs depicting bondage.

He and Man Ray were friends for a long time. Man Ray took a lot of photos of Seabrook, like when he was arriving back from Africa on a plane. Then he did the photos of Seabrook and Lee Miller where she’s wearing a collar and he’s holding the collar. There’s a whole other series of photos that they did, The Fantasies of Mr. Seabrook, which are pretty hardcore bondage. I think that was Seabrook trying to legitimize his kinky side by turning it into art. It could be perceived as legitimate because Man Ray was this established, respected artist at the time and collaborating with him would bring a legitimacy to it.

Seabrook is also fascinating because for his time, he was very progressive when writing about Haiti and Arabia and the people he meets.

For his time he was very progressive in writing about race and his interaction with other cultures. That what I find fascinating. He is very respectful of the cultures. He’s not a detached observer like an anthropologist would be. He’s living as equals with them and I think he’s accepted by the Bedouins when he’s living in the Middle East and again in Haiti by the Haitian people there. In Africa as well, although in Africa he’s acting more like a “great white hunter” in that book. I think he was more famous, and his alcoholism had progressed to the point where he wasn’t making good decisions about anything. But I agree, for his time, he was very progressive on matters of race, and very respectful of the Arab and Muslim culture.

One reason I don’t think that Seabrook isn’t one of the great travel writers like Thesiger or Stark is because, as you point out, Seabrook had a tendency to embellish and make things up.

He did a bit of that. Maybe I make too much of a deal about it. The famous thing he lied about — that in Africa he ate human flesh — which he doesn’t but he does eat human flesh when he returns to Paris to make it “true.” There was also people that criticized his details of the facts of the voodoo religion in “The Magic Island.” Seabrook cited Zora Neale Hurston, who in her book “Tell My Horse” writes about very similar things. Hurston is a respected anthropologist and she’s a black woman who has less to gain from maligning the people of Haiti, and she supported his facts, basically, in her book. As a guy that was a reporter, I think he took the facts seriously. I think he exaggerated. I think he’s a typical raconteur who will exaggerate and be hyperbolic to make a better story. I hesitate to say that he was constantly lying about things in his books, although he may have — it’s hard to know.

You make an interesting observation at the end, which is that it might be best to think of him as a precursor to gonzo journalism.

I think so. The act of throwing yourself into the middle of the story and making the story about you. I couldn’t find out in Hunter S. Thompson or any of that school read Seabrook, but I suspect that Thompson probably would have. They shared a lot — the wild man, hard-drinking lifestyle, but also being a very serious writer. For all of his drinking, Seabrook was a real work horse. Even at the height of his alcoholism, he would get up in the morning at five, make coffee, work ’til noon and waste the rest of the day. I think he was a hard working reporter at heart.

Having spent all these years working on this book, what do you hope people take away from it?

My intent, really, was to serve as an introduction to the guy’s life. I don’t mean it to be a cautionary tale at all. If people read it, they’ll come away and say, obviously, it’s not a good thing to drink excessively your whole life because it will catch up with you. I just think it’s an interesting story. I wanted to introduce people to his work and maybe they’ll seek it out and read it. I think a lot of his stuff is still worth reading.

You mentioned that when you started, all of his books were out of print but now “Asylum” and “The Magic Island” are back in print.

Dover did those two, and I did the covers and introductions in comic form for them. “The Magic Island” is great, because they have an intro by George Romero. Seabrook is credited with bringing the word “zombie” into the English language, and “Magic Island” was the basis for the Bela Lugosi film “White Zombie,” so Romero writes about how he owes a debt of gratitude to Seabrook for starting the whole genre of the zombie. Then there’s an afterword by the ethnobotanist Wade Davis who wrote “The Serprent and The Rainbow.” Davis confirmed a lot of the aspects of the zombie being a genuinely chemical phenomenon instead of supernatural that Seabrook posited. It’s a travelogue, and it’s very detailed. He’s writing about the cultural history and the geopolitical history of the island and about the situation at the time in the 1920s where they were under occupation by the US. It’s just good, meandering travel writing. Those first three books of Seabrook’s are excellent.

Having spent a decade on this book, does it make you want to make another book along similar lines, or go back to making a slice of life story like you’ve done in the past?

I’m of two minds. I have a bunch of longish short story pieces that I’m ready to start on. I also have a nonfiction project about Canadian history that I’m working on. That would take a little more time. When I finished this, I was like, I don’t want to do nonfiction anymore. The research is too hard. I just want to do fiction, where you can make your characters do what you want and you’re not limited by what actually happened. I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Hopefully I’ll live long enough to do both of them. As you get older, you start to think, how many books do I have left? Comics take so long that you want to be sure what you’re doing before you commit two or three — or five or ten — years to a book.

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