#Not that anyone asked for the intricate details of how the magic system works in my lore

[charmfamily]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕿𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊 𝕱𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝕾𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖈𝖍𝖔𝖔𝖑𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝕸𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖈

Thackery Wyrmwood, the Sage of Alchemy. Lumiona Grimsbane, the Sage of Untamed Magic. Leopold Barkridge, the Sage of Practical Magic. Arabella Mellor, the Sage of Mischief Magic.

[prinxlyart]

Could I ask for some more of the wonderful fluff that is Wilumity domestic headcannons? Or, possibly if you have any, some Camileda headcannons?

*GASPS*

ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS

Willumity:

Willow is the early-riser. She’s developed a habit of waking up early to check on her plants and do her workouts. Luz and Amity have no idea how she does this every single day (they often complain because she’s also a huge source of warmth and how dare she leave their little warmth cocoon).

Amity has Routines™️ that cannot be disrupted or she will freak out. It’s an autism thing for sure, but it’s also something Luz gets. Because Willow gets up so early they tend to have their own little morning routine together; stay in bed and cuddle for maybe another half hour or so (depending on how early Willow wakes up), then they get up and do their bathroom routines. I think.....Luz is the type to do night time showers due to having such short hair, so Amity showers while Luz brushes her teeth and washes her face. Luz is usually dressed by the time Amity gets out of the shower and she gives her a quick kiss on the cheek to let her know she’s headed to the kitchen to get coffee/breakfast started. There have been a couple times Luz has forgotten to give her her after-shower kiss and Amity was so thrown off that by the time she made it out to the kitchen, her eyes were red from crying because A) Did Luz not love her anymore??????????? (incorrect, but their routine had been broken) and B) Trying to continue with your routine with a step actively missing is hell and she’s been upset ever since. Luz has usually just been too tired to remember and will immediately cover Amity in kisses to make up for it (after they go through whatever process they need to to help Amity calm down). Amity hates that she gets so upset over something so small, but Luz reassures her that her routines are important to Amity and it’s okay to be upset when those routines are disrupted. Whenever Willow catches them like this after her workouts, she requests a kiss from each of her girls on either cheek before she goes into the shower herself (usually to lighten the mood because it always makes Amity happy when Willow mimics Amity’s routine habits [it always works]).

Surprisingly, Luz is the one that does the grocery shopping. Willow knows what fruits and veggies they can grow to add into meals and how to prep food for the plants that actually eat, but she’s not especially well-versed in like. Meals. Amity has like 3 meals she knows how to make properly because they’re her favorites. Luz, with her mom’s recipes in her arsenal along with whatever wild dishes Eda’s made for her over the years while she lived in the Owl House, has the largest repertoire of Human/Witch meals under her belt. Plus, she always ends up getting little treats for her wives while she’s at the market that they adore. (Luz both loves and hates when her girls ask to go with her to help; she loves spending time with them, but she hates that they don’t know Luz’s system. She’s got a pattern that she follows and they’re just all over the place whenever they come with her.)

Every Saturday night is Date Night and one person is assigned with coming up with what they do that night. They take turns every week; Willow enjoys quiet nights in at home with them, romantic dinners with candle light and soft music while they chat about their day // Amity enjoys taking them out for romantic picnics if the weather allows, they have a few Favorite Spots they picnic at, but sometimes they just climb up on the roof. Luz always asks them to tell her about the Demon Realms constellations and their history because she loves hearing them talk. // Luz enjoys taking them to the Human Realm to visit some of her favorite restaurants and walk around a local park and watch the stars afterwards. She’ll tell them about all of the constellations she can remember (Percy Jackson phase anyone? Yeah, we all knew those shits names and constellations when we were in it, huh?). She’ll tell them her favorite stories behind each kind of constellation and tell them which ones remind her of her girls.

I 100% do not know what kind of jobs these girls would have as adults. I mean, Willow more than likely has a public garden she maintains, but I have no idea with Luz and Amity. I’ve seen a lot of headcanons in fics and art about Luz going into politics after defeating Belos but like. Luz? Luz Noceda? In Politics???????? Even in the Demon Realm I highly doubt that would happen. I think she might want to continue researching magic and how she’d be able to find glyphs for specific kinds of magic, creating new magic, etc. She might write books? Both fiction and non-fiction. I think she writes some memoirs about her life before coming to the Boiling Isles and before defeating Belos, but she’s been wanting to be a fiction writer since she was 7 years old. She’s got her own fiction series for sure. Amity might get into politics but I also doubt that. She might just be the editor and publisher for Luz’s books. Or she might work at the Library. I really don’t know. But Luz Noceda, ADHD extraordinaire, going into politics? I’d sooner expect that of Willow. And she’s already got her girls and her gardens.

They’ve got a Wednesday night book club. But it’s just them in their living room reading their own separate books after dinner until they get tired. They’ll all cuddle up together either on the couch or the floor or in bed or wherever and just sit and read in comfortable silence. Often times one of them will start absentmindedly start running their fingers through one of their partner’s hair and cause that partner to fall asleep. It is not uncommon for them to wake up in the same spot they were in for their book club with their books laying about and cramps in their necks. It’s one of their favorite things they do together.

Camileda:

Camila likes to sneak pictures of Eda in the morning cuz she thinks she looks especially cute when she’s not fully conscious yet.

Camila has no idea what the fuck is up with Eda’s hair. She’s tried asking both Luz and even Lilith but neither were able to give her an answer. They both only have theories. Eda always spouts some new ridiculous thing whenever anyone asks (she actually has a small, contained black hole at the back of her head that she uses to just store random shit // she cast an enchantment on her hair years ago to be able to use it like a Bag of Holding so she didn’t actually ever have to carry a bag // she was just born with hair that can hold seemingly anything and has never questioned it // etc.), so one day Camila just asks her. Eda tells her the truth; she doesn’t know either.

Regardless of the fucking enigma that is Eda’s hair, she still enjoys helping her wash and maintain it. Eda refuses to admit in the few first months they start dating, but she adores when Camila plays with her hair. Her hair is an integral part of who she is and it’s shockingly more intimate to her than anyone would guess when the allows others to touch her hair. She loves listening to Camila talk about her day while she braids tiny details into her hair. One day, Camila was so angry about something that had happened at work that she ended up braiding some super intricate flower designs into Eda’s hair and actually used all of it. Lilith and Luz are both in shock and awe that Camila was able to tame Eda’s mane into something so gorgeous and Eda maybe didn’t take out the broads for a few days afterwards because she loved it so much.

They love learning about each other?? Their lives up to this point have been so culturally different that all of their stories have an air of magical mystery to them that the other is always dazzled by. Eda loves learning about how Camila grew up and how she decided to become a healer (a ‘nurse’ she insists but Eda doesn’t really know the difference). Camila loves listening to Eda’s many tales of mischief of her school days and after her school days; although she does get worried when Eda mentions that she’s been to jail (Eda insists that it was only for a little bit before she figured out how to bust out! And she made off with some extra cash to boot, so it was a double victory).

It’s one thing to hear about Luz’s accomplishments from her own daughter and from Eda; it’s another to hear them coming from her teachers. Camila goes with Eda to a Parent-Teacher conference at Hexside ready to hear about how much trouble she gets into and how she needs to sign off on different kinds of detention slips and reports of damage and whatever, but is pleasantly surprised to see all of the teachers actually praising her? Some are ecstatic about her presence in heir class? They’d all been taught that humans had no magical ability at all and Luz had come into their classrooms and proved them all wrong and even helped them understand some of the nuances of their own subjects they’d struggled with on their own. By the time the conference is over, (including an incredible review from Principal Bump that left even Eda feeling moved) Camila was clutching o Eda’s arms as they left the school and crying in happiness. Her daughter was doing so well in school. All of her teachers loved her! They didn’t have any complaints about her inattention or disruptive behavior because they knew she was learning her own way. And Eda had fought for Luz’s ability to attend the first school that made Luz actually feel good about herself. Let’s just say there were a lot of heartfelt kisses that night when they got home.

I personally like to think that Camila likes to dance. Like, profesional-levels of dance. Like she maybe minored in dance in college before buckling down on her medical degree. I like to think that sometimes Eda will find her humming along to some song playing from her phone and dancing an entire routine in tiny movements while she goes about doing whatever else. Sometimes Camila will just drop into a fucking perfect split while she’s trying to reach for something that rolled under a table or whatever that catches Eda so off guard that she has to leave the room to collect herself. (It’s Camila’s love for dance that made Luz want to try cheerleading at her human school. Her school didn’t have a formal dance team, so cheerleading was the next best thing. It’s also how Luz knows how to drop into a perfect split when she first tries on that Hexside uniform despite not ever attempting it before.)

Eda’s never had any formal dance training; she’s a head-banger kinda girl. During some of her earlier escapades into the human realm, she’d sneak into many concerts and blended in perfectly with the other attendees in the mosh pit. She loves when Camila tries to teach her some more formal dances that aren’t just a free-for-all. Eda does her best to learn how Merengue works but she often gets confused as to what point she’s supposed to lean or step or spin and she usually ends up dizzy with Camila giggling at her. Camila always helps her come out of her dizziness with little kisses pressed to Eda’s temples; Camila adores that Eda tries so hard.

They love teasing each other. That’s the whole headcanon. Nah, for real tho, they love trying to get under each other’s skin with little teasing remarks and eyebrow waggles and sticking their tongues out at each other when no one else is looking like they’re little kids. It’s one of the easiest ways to get the other to laugh and they love each other’s laughs. Eda brings out Camila’s deeply-buried immature goofball personality that she’s had to push down for years just due to the nature of her studies and work, as well as being a single mom. You don’t have a lot of space to be an immature goof when you’re responsible for a whole other human being. Eda helps coax that back out of her. (Luz can’t remember ever seeing her mom so happy as she is when she’s goofing off with Eda.)

Camila’s constantly poking at Eda’s elbows and hip bones and shoulders and muttering about how bony she is; Eda replies in kind by digging her elbows into Camila’s gut or directly into her face and hip-checking her.

In a similar vein, Eda adores Camila’s curves, and not even just in a sexy way. She just loves how soft and squishy Camila is because hugging her is so comfortable; Eda swears she could fall asleep standing up if she’s hugging Camila. She also swears by this because she knows that under all that squish is some serious muscle and Camila wouldn’t let her fall.

Not really a Camileda headcanon so much as it’s just a headcanon: Camila and Lilith have the same eyeglasses prescription. It’s bizarre, that doesn’t happen really, but somehow they have the exact same prescription. This is discovered one afternoon when Camila and Lilith both arrive at the Owl house at the same time. Camila removes her glasses and sets them on the coffee table to just relax for a while while she and Lilith make small talk (Long after Camila’s reluctant acceptance of her). Lilith goes picks out a book to read and sits on the other couch to settle in while Camila takes a cat nap and she just picks up Camila’s glasses out of years of habit of picking up her own glasses. She doesn’t even notice they’re not her glasses until Eda and Luz come home and ask why in the hell Lilith is wearing Camila’s glasses. Lilith is confused but takes off the glasses and blushes because for Titan’s sake, those aren’t her glasses, those are her sister’s girlfriend’s glasses!!!!!!! She sputters out her explanation while Eda laughs at her and Camila wakes up. They end up actually properly testing it out by swapping glasses and yup; exact same prescription. They end up accidentally hoarding stockpiling spare glasses all around the Owl House for either of them to grab when they need glasses.

Please always ask for Willumity and Camileda, those are the keys to my heart 💖💕💝✨💘💞✨💖💖💘💕💝💞

[jpegjade]

I’m not a cynic - Spencer

so i finally finished this one. it was supposed to just be a song blurb but i got a longer idea for it and ended up writing it over a period of a few days. so yeah! here’s the song it’s based on: 

i’m not a cynic - Alec Benjamin

warnings: none just angsty fluff. (not really angst, just upset spencer for a sec)

__________________

“Oh my god.” Spencer groaned, dropping his keys on the floor of the hallway.

Spencer Reid was having a bad day. It started when he woke up on the wrong side of the floor, literally. He turned over one too many times and fell out of bed, directly onto the floor. You had left to go to work early so he had no body compass in relation to where you were in the bed. He wasn’t used to you leaving early so this threw him off quite a bit. 

Despite being abruptly woken up on time, he was late to work. The 10 am briefing hadn’t started when he got to the office but he was too late for coffee. There was no time to make more so he was grumpy in the briefing, hardly saying a word. 

Spencer had a ton of case files to look over, in addition to their current case, so he already felt overwhelmed. Morgan wouldn’t stop talking about how quiet he was and when Spencer snapped at him, Hotch gave him a stern talking to about his attitude over the past few days. The result was pairing Reid with Garcia, meaning he didn’t go into the field. He didn’t mind working with Garcia but he wanted to be out with the rest of the team. He always felt like he was missing out when he wasn’t there with everyone else. He felt like that for most of his life, he didn’t want to feel like he was missing out at his job too. 

Spencer pushed the door to the apartment open and found you dancing in the living room with your headphones in. 

“Hey love!” You said, loudly. 

You took out one headphone to hear Spencer but he didn’t look at you. He was looking down at his Converse as he unlaced them. Pulling off his satchel, he put it on the table and walked past you without saying anything, sitting on the couch. He put his hands in his hair and let out a deep sigh he had been holding in for a while. 

You could tell by the way his shoulders slumped and the curve of his back that something was wrong. When Spencer got quiet, something was always wrong. And when he didn’t immediately smile at you when he got home, it had been a hard day. A hard day and something bothering him meant you probably should start running a bath and the two of you could just talk it out. 

Turning down your music, you began running the bath water so it could warm up as it filled the tub. From there, you grabbed your matching comfy robes and his favorite face masks, laying everything out with your matching pajamas. You weren’t going to shower until after dinner but you figured that you could change your schedule a little bit tonight. 

Turning off the water, you walked back into the living room to find Spencer with his hands still propping up his head. He was muttering something but you couldn’t hear it. You gently sat down next to him and softly called his name. 

“Spencer?” It was barely audible but he heard it. 

“What?” He snapped. 

“Do you want to take a bath with me?” You said, trying not to be defensive. 

“No.” He said, shaking his head. 

“Oh, well. I ran the water if you change your mind.” You said, leaning back on your heels. He wasn’t normally like this. Usually, he was more reserved and stoic when he was thinking but now he seemed… Angry.

“I didn’t ask for you to run the water.” Spencer let out a large sigh of frustration. He had been building up all of this energy all day and he couldn’t take holding it in anymore. 

“I know you didn’t ask but you always want a warm bath and to relax when you have a bad day.” You said, trying to keep your own frustration with him at bay. 

“Does anyone ever think that they don't really know me or what I’m going through?” Spencer snapped. 

You paused for a moment, unsure what to really say so you just let him continue. 

“I’m not a cynic but it’s beyond not my day. This isn't my life. And it’s hard to process that no one even seems to acknowledge that I’m struggling.” Spencer said. “You all seem to think that just because I’m smart, life just goes my way. Well, newsflash, it doesn't. I can’t fix anything by being smart. I can’t fix anything by being smart and none of you get that.” 

You watched in shock as Spencer looked up at you with tears rolling down his face. It wasn’t often that Spencer snapped at you. It always had the initial stinging effect that he intended but not too long after he snapped, he always softened up because you weren’t trying to hurt him and he knew that. It was just the stress from the day getting to him. The stress from everything was getting to him. 

“Come on.” You said, holding out your hand. 

Spencer took it and you led him to the bathroom with the now warm bathwater. Spencer got undressed while you mixed more hot water and a bath bomb in the water. Once Spencer got in, you got the shampoo out of the cabinet and sat on the edge while he got comfortable in the colorful bath water and bubbles. 

“Is this okay?” You said, massaging his shoulders. He was a bit tense to the touch but he slowly loosened up the more you worked on his shoulders. 

“Yeah.” He said, nodding. “I’m sorry I snapped.”

“I forgive you. Was it a hard day?” You asked, trying to open the door for a more gentle conversation. 

“Yeah…” Spencer began detailing his day to you, piece by piece. Every frustration, every nuance, everything that made him pent up and slowly, his shoulders started to lose tension. You could feel it under your hands. 

“Have you talked to your mom today?” You asked, knowing that seemed to cheer him up. 

Instead of the reaction you hoped for, his shoulders completely slumped. You heard a couple water drops hit the bath water before Spencer’s body started shaking. 

“Y/n, she forgot who I was for half of the call.” Spencer sounded so broken. 

You rubbed his back as he cried. It was a wonder how he held that in for so long today, that pain. You didn’t say anything as a tear rolled down your cheek. Seeing him in pain always managed to hurt you more than anything else. A few more sobs and some sniffles later, Spencer was calm again. You got out the shampoo and started washing his hair in silence. You wanted to give him room to express himself in any way he felt was helpful so you figured being silent was the best thing. 

Spencer closed his eyes as your hands worked through his hair. It was one thing for him to wash it. It was another for your magical fingers to move through it. You just had a calming effect he didn’t have on his own. But that could be said about most things. You were his better half, his support system. He was a different person with you and you both knew it. He was a better person with you in his life. 

“Do you know why I married you, Spencer?” You asked, washing the shampoo out of his hair. 

“Was it for my stunning good looks?” Spencer sadly chuckled. 

“Yes. But also for your heart. Mainly for your heart. You’re smarter than I’ll ever be. You’re more beautiful than an angel. But your heart is made of gold and that’s why I fell in love with you.” You started the conditioner, the true secret to his silky soft hair. 

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Spencer chuckled again. 

“Wait, you potato brain.” You said, smiling. It was nice to hear him chuckle. “Your mom raised you with a pure heart. A heart so pure and a brain so intricate that no one will understand. Baby, no one will ever understand you. I married you and I don’t understand you. But you can’t hold that against us because we’re trying our best.” 

“I know…” Spencer sighed. 

“But at the same time, you have a right to be frustrated because you can’t help or fix the person that matters to you most. It’s hard to lose someone to something so misunderstood right now and incurable. It’s hard to watch that transition. I know. But you’re not alone, okay? It hurts me that Diana is going through this but you have to trust that she’s getting the best care to make her life easier and so are you.” You said, washing out the conditioner. 

“So if you need to cry,” you continued, grabbing him a big towel for his hair. “Then you go ahead and cry. If you need to throw things, I’ve got starburst you can fling at the wall. If you need a hug or a cuddle, you married an amazing cuddler, if I do say so myself. But please don't hold it in and blow up on me, okay?” You said, drying his hair before wrapping it.

“I think I’ll take you up on that cuddle and a good cry.” Spencer said. 

“Okay, Mr. Reid, I will see you in the bedroom, then.” You repositioned to stand up but Spencer gently grabbed your hand. 

“Can we stay here a little longer? There’s something soothing about the water.” He said, looking up at you with those big puppy eyes. 

“Sure, Spence. Whatever makes you happiest.” You smiled, sitting back down on your little bathroom stool. 

“You make me happiest, y/n.” Spencer smiled. 

[jeannereames]

What Genre IS Dancing with the Lion?

(N.B.: This post should not make anyone feel guilty for mislabeling the novels; I’m posting it because there seems to be some confusion.)

One of the most important parts of selling a book is getting it into the right hands: that is, to the readers most likely to enjoy it. And that involves labeling it correctly.

If you picked up Dancing with the Lion because you’re a fan of Alexander the Great or ancient Greece, the book’s genre probably matters little. I’ve read novels about Alexander in everything from lit mainstream to SFF to mystery to old-school Romance.

Yet such readers are a fraction of potential readership. For those with no particular inclination to a book about Alexander the Great, naming the genre matters. Will it meet reader expectations and appeal, or frustrate and annoy? That’s why authors worry about genre labels.

So, to answer the question: Dancing with the Lion is a mainstream historical coming-of-age novel with touches of magical realism and queer themes.

Below, I’ll explain in brief why it’s some labels and not others. But I want to stress that getting a book correctly labeled is NOT a diss at genres it isn’t. Again, it’s about getting it into the right hands so readers like it instead of hate it.

Novel: At root, two basic story types exist—those that focus on plot (romance, small /r/ = adventure story) and those that focus on characters (novel). I write both, incidentally; my current WIP is an historical fantasy adventure series. But DwtL is a novel. Characterization IS the plot, rather than characters moving the plot along.

Mainstream: Just means the book doesn’t fit into the plot conventions of commercial genre fiction. Saying something is “mainstream” therefore says mostly what it is not: not mystery, not horror, not Romance, not fantasy, etc. Some folks will subdivide it further into “literary” mainstream versus commercial mainstream with the distinction that the latter sells better and/or the former is more artsy.

Historical: A subcategory of several genres, including mainstream. Readers of historicals tolerate more historical detail and unusual names, although genre historicals can alter that. Too much historical detail in an historical Romance that slows down the love story can get an author in trouble. Mainstream historicals may include glossaries, character stemma, timelines of historical events, or other reader guides. Afficionados of historical novels are reading for that detail, not in spite of it.

Coming-of-Age: as the name suggests, this very old story archetype is all about the characters growing up. In DwtL, three characters have coming-of-age arcs: Alexandros, Hephaistion, and Kleopatra.

Magical Realism: Unlike genre fantasy, magical realism combines realistic/non-magical elements with supernatural ones. They also take place in this world, not a different fantasy world in which magic works. Yet the line between historical fantasy and historical magical realism can be fine because, in the past, people did assume magic worked, and the better authors of historical fantasy employ magical systems appropriate to that place and time. The biggest difference is that magical realism is subtler, and the supernatural elements may not be perceived by all, or even most characters. (So while Alexandros sees Dionysos, no one else does.)

Queer Themes: This is more than just Alexandros and Hephaistion as lovers. Especially in Rise, one sub-plot for Hephaistion’s coming-of-age is his own growing awareness that the way he experiences desire does not conform to the expectations of his society. He is what we, in the modern world, would call gay. I wanted to explore how it might feel for someone to be gay in a world that doesn’t have that label, and which might, on the face of it, seem more accepting…but really isn’t.

Now, for the genres it’s not, and why:

Not Romance: Capital /R/, Romance the genre has fairly locked-in plot arc expectations. The Hero and Hero (if it’s m/m) meet, go through trials and tribulations, then finally hook up in some sort of permanent way to live happily-ever-after (HEA) or at least happily-for-now (HFN). The focus of the novel must remain firmly on the Hero and Hero and their relationship. Other relationships and events should serve to frame the main one, never distract from it.

DwtL: Becoming simulates some of those things. The book does begin when the boys meet, and they go through a friends-to-more plot arc, but there’s too much Other Stuff, and in Rise, the story just keeps going even after they get together. Furthermore, Rise is not a Romance plot arc, even loosely. It’s all about Alexandros and Hephaistion entering the adult world of politics and war, and the larger theme (of the whole series, not just these books) asks what it means to be a moral/ethical sovereign?

Not YA (Young Adult): Although YA novels should have an adolescent protagonist and will often be a coming-of-age story, not all novels with an adolescent protagonist or coming-of-age story are YA. So what’s the difference? The themes and the language employed.

The plot of YA should focus on things important to that age group (13-18), not necessarily what could equally matter to someone in their 50s. That doesn’t mean adults can’t enjoy YA stories; about 55% of YA books are purchased by adults. Another aspect of YA is the vocabulary used and complexity of ideas. Sometimes adult coming-of-age stories are called more “sophisticated,” which isn’t a term I like. Intricate might be better, in characterization and theme.

Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch, Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye, and J.D. Salinger’s A Catcher in the Rye are all coming-of-age novels, and some are even assigned in high school English classes. But they aren’t commercial YA in language or theme. In contrast to, say, Madeline L’Engel’s A Wrinkle in Time, Jane Yolen’s Pit Dragon trilogy, or Ursula LeGuin’s A Wizard of Earthsea. Yet I don’t think anyone would call those latter three “unsophisticated.”

In short, a teen protagonist and/or coming-of-age story does not qualify a book as YA.

Finally, most YA treats sex gingerly as they must be appropriate for readers as young as 13, 14, 15. They may have some romance or none at all, and they may have elided sexual situations light on description. It shouldn’t be shocking, but age-appropriate to adolescent curiosity about sex. (By contrast, the category of New Adult [18-25 readership] may have quite a lot of graphic sex in it, although in other ways NA resembles YA.)

When I wrote Dancing with the Lion, despite the age of the main protagonists, I made no attempt to moderate the language. There are also POV scenes from adults, and three of the chief thematic concerns—what does it mean to be a moral king [Alex], how does one support the powerful without losing one’s self in the process [Hephaistion], and how to exercise personal agency when one has none legally [Kleopatra]—are themes that can apply to any age group. Last, the sex scenes have no stop on them. If two are over fairly quickly with general/poetic description, the third is graphic because it needs to be as what they are doing matters very much to Hephaistion’s character arc. There is also reference to the rape of women and children in war; only the aftermath is shown, but still. While I realize emotional maturity can vary wildly, I wouldn’t recommend the second novel for readers under 15/16. (I told my niece not to let my great-niece read it yet.)

That’s why I’m concerned about Dancing with the Lion being labeled YA. An unsuspecting parent might buy it for their early teen child, only for that child to get a textual eyeful in book 2!

Also, readers who pick it up thinking it’s ___, get angry when it’s not. E.g., in an otherwise fairly positive review, at least one reader wrote:

“Because the western spellings/pronunciation are so ingrained using the stranger sounding Greek slows the pace even further and seems to over complicate things merely for the sake of it. This is clearly aimed at a YA audience and so I find the choice doubly baffling - Because you want to encourage teens reading not put them off by making this harder than it needs to be.”

But it’s not YA, was never meant to be YA, nor marketed or labeled as YA on the cover. Apparently, some folks on Goodreads labeled it that in their tags, so now “Young Adult” shows up as one of its genres…and I can’t get rid of it because I don’t set those tags (nor does my publisher).

In the above case, the reader mostly enjoyed it, but her perceptions affected how she reviewed it. Authors can’t always control those perceptions and expectations, but as we really do want readers to like the book (not feel deceived), we endeavor to use the right labels on them.

[zmwrites]

tag: 20 first lines

I was tagged by @teasenpaiwrites! Thank you!

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20 stories just list them all). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favourite opening line. Then tag others!

I was tagged in a similar game LITERALLY forever ago by @scmalarky PRE-BLOG MOVE, which makes it the oldest tag game sitting my drafts. It came with the following rules:

Rules: list the first lines of your last ten published stories. note if there are any patterns yourself and see if anyone else notices any! tag ten friends!

I put it off bc to date I’ve only published two stories over on Wattpad. So doing the first lines from the last twenty projects is somehow...easier? I suppose? 

I’ll be putting the opening paragraph or so of each piece, and will only be using WIPs that I actually started at the beginning. Anything that doesn’t start at the actual beginning will be skipped.

Anyways, this is going under a cut bc I know it’s going to be ridiculously long. In order of ‘last modified by me’ as per Google Docs:

Remnants

Radka had been a seamstress in a previous life. Trained from childhood on the most delicate stitches, the most intricate embellishments. She had worked for royalty, sewing crystals and spun gold into skirts for the biggest social events of the year. Her steady hand and attention to detail had earned her a job in the palace by fourteen, and a spot on the queen’s personal seamstress team by fifteen. But that was years in the past. The girl she had been then, demure and innocent, wouldn’t recognize the woman she had grown up to be.

Open Seas

Theresia Bowen sat in the back of one of her family carriages, forehead pressed against the window as she watched the countryside fly past. The sky stretched on forever above her, interrupted only by the occasional wispy white clouds, and the spring sun had melted the snow from the hills to her left. The grass was still struggling to grow but was scattered in patches across the mud. To her right, the sea rolled and waved to the horizon. Ships dotted the deep blue, their sails bright and full with wind. Most were trading ships, a few navy, and the smallest of them all were pleasure ships. It was how she knew they were close to her destination.

Indigo Wars

Violet Colby sat cross-legged on her narrow bed in the room she shared with her two sisters at Osbrick Estate. The name was a holdover from the property’s previous life as a stately home, though not much else had carried over. The walled compound was nestled in the eastern sands of Edristan, less than two kilometres west of the capital city, with sun-bleached buildings that housed several dozen orphans and foundlings.

Pine Hollow

It was a miserable Monday morning, with dark, heavy clouds masking the rising sun and a steady rain pounding the town of Pine Hollow and the surrounding area. The dirt trails through the dense forest were slick with mud, the tire ruts becoming puddles and the puddles becoming proper ponds. It was as far from ideal body hunting conditions as possible without snow, but Virginia Crane had a job to do and she wasn’t about to let some adverse weather stop her.

Rochester WIP

The wedding was supposed to begin in five minutes and the bride was nowhere to be found.

Evelyn Rochester, for her part, was not surprised. Her sister Dorothea had claimed a headache a week earlier to get out of a family outing and had been gone by the time they’d returned. A small chest and a collection of her clothing had been gone as well. Their parents had made inquiries to some family friends but no one had seen Dottie, and at twenty-six she was allowed to do as she pleased, so they’d been left to wait to see if she’d return.

Just Jane

Jane rolled over in the narrow bed, pressing her face into the pillow as though it would make it any easier to sleep. Even as she breathed in the warm, sweet scent of the bed owner’s favourite perfume—myrrh, rose, styrax, and marjoram—a new sound made her ears prick to attention.

UNSS Spectre

The spacecraft glided through the void, following its prey silently. It was using its minimum operating power, leaving the two inside to perform their duties without overhead or emergency lighting. Only the glow of their instruments illuminated the interior of the craft. 

“Cloaking device operating as normal,” Ensign Graecyn Ramsey said. She didn’t need to provide verbal updates since Captain Mezei could see everything that she could see and there was no one else aboard the tiny stealth class craft, but it was habit and she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

Fissures

Katherine Delacroix was seething. It was hard enough trying to get a gaggle of thirteen to eighteen year old girls to focus under normal circumstances but having the #1 most eligible bachelor of the school just hanging out at the back of the auditorium was making it nearly impossible. To make matters worse, the attention paid to the blond was bruising the egos of the boys in the group and she was painfully aware of how desperately the musical needed them not to quit. They already had a female Cogsworth and Le Fou; they didn't have enough girls with deep voices to play Gaston or Lumiere or, god forbid, Beast.

Snapshots

“Are you still looking for a roommate?” Misha asked, voice muffled slightly by whatever she was doing on the opposite end of the phone.

“You mean since you stole my last one? Yes,” Micah replied. He was stuck in traffic on his commute home from work, something his twin sister Misha knew, which was why she’d called when he had no excuse not to talk to her. It wasn’t that he didn’t like talking to her, he just wasn’t much of a talker.

“You’re gonna have to get over that,” she said.

The Tournament

The coin spun in lazy circles on the table, defying every law of physics. Izora Graham watched it with one hand held in a claw-like position over it. She didn't need to but it made it easier to cover the coin should anyone watch it too closely. The bar was still fairly empty so early in the evening and she was tucked away in the back booth away from the few early birds sitting at the counter, however any displays of magic would bring unwanted attention. Especially something that could be useful to any of the Upper Houses like her telekinesis.

Noyama Contest

Earthens had spread across dozens of galaxies once they’d perfected faster-than-light travel, and hundreds of solar systems within those galaxies. PT-759 was one of the galaxies they’d colonized only to find that it was already inhabited. It had ended up working out alright though, as the native species had radically different planetary needs and also happened to find Earthens downright adorable.

Naetov was a smaller planet at the edge of Federation-controlled space in PT-759. It had a few key cities where government funding was funneled to keep them perfect for non-Earthen tourists. Those cities were clean and friendly, open spaces and carefully maintained flora making up the downtown cores, streamlined designs and shiny surfaces giving the impression of a planet on the cusp of significance.

Gossamer Girl

It was the first day of winter and things were already looking bad. Even though the cold weather had held off for an extra two weeks, the harvest had been poor. A mold had festered in their southern field during the wet spring and had spread quickly. They’d razed the infected sections as soon as the fungus had been discovered but it had already destroyed a large swath of plants. They’d lost nearly a quarter of their usual yield and the troubles had only spiralled from there.

Knotted Strings

The room was just a bit too cold to be comfortable. The walls were wood panelled with some sort of reddish wood that matched the flooring. Rows of chairs with collapsible desks filled most of the lecture hall, with the front of the room dominated by a whiteboard and a table. The professor, hawkish in appearance, was perched on a bar stool facing the students and overlooking the table.

Tess lounged in her seat at the table at the front of the room, notebook open on the table in front of her and pen moving deftly across the page. She watched her competition critically as he spoke. His argument was solid enough to cast reasonable doubt on her case, or it would have been had he bothered to address a small piece of evidence she found to be damning. He finished his conclusion to a spatter of applause and returned to his seat across from her. 

“Well done, Mr. Wynn. Miss Kinney, would you like a few moments to prepare your rebuttal?” the professor asked.

“No, I’m good,” Tess replied. She sat up, scribbled a note in her book, and then pushed the book across the table.

Oh, Ophelia

Alexis lounged in the shade next to the pool, sipping a daiquiri and considering her next move. She’d been using the same identity for nearly fifteen years and the neighbours were starting to get suspicious. With all the new beauty products and surgeries available to people of her wealth it was easier to convince people she was nearing forty when she was in the body of a twenty-three year old, but now she had to deal with people asking for her skincare routines and her doctors and the identity wasn’t worth all of the research she was having to do. She was getting sick of Malibu anyways, what with the yearly forest fires that got closer each year. She missed the deep-rooted history of Europe, the memories she had in all of the major cities, the people like her who were still living in their castles and manors pretending like the world hadn’t left them behind.

Bloodlines

Ten of Wands. The Tower. Two of Swords.

Morrigan Keeling sat on the floor of her bedroom, chewing the end of a pen and staring intently at the tarot cards spread in front of her. It was a simple three card spread to indicate how her day was going to go: a card to describe herself, one to indicate what was going to greet her, and another to show the outcome of the situation. She’d gotten into the habit of doing it every day while living at home, and even five years after moving out she found it a relaxing routine to start the day.

The day’s cards, however, were not very relaxing.

PerDeA

The backseat of the car was dark, only illuminated for short intervals by the orange glow of the streetlights. Two figures sat across from each other in the shifting light. In the backwards-facing seat on the driver’s side was PerDeA. Her dark hair was pulled tightly into a ponytail, lips slightly parted as she stared unblinking out the back window. Shoulders square, back straight, chin up, hands folded neatly in her lap, her breathing perfectly rhythmic; she would have looked human if not for the faintly glowing cybernetic blue rings superimposed over her black eyes.

Westhaven

Her eyes were open but she couldn’t see anything. There were mechanical sounds ‒ beeping, whirring ‒ all around her, and voices too far away for her to understand. The sharp smell of antiseptic and the softer detergent scent beneath it.

“Initiate optical system,” a muted female voice instructed. Between one breath and the next she started processing visual information: bright white lights above her, the featureless ceiling beyond, her own nose and eyelashes. She couldn’t move her head to see much else. Walls that matched the ceiling so well it was hard to tell where one became the other, bits of the bed she was on with its bleachable white sheets and side rails.

“Increase tactile responsivity by fifty percent and disengage the motion inhibitors.”

Pro Patria Mori

She sat on the narrow bed with her packed suitcase next to her. Her blonde hair was pinned back, her blue eyes fixed on a spot next to the door, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The winter chill clung like burrs to the house, helped by the heavy spring rain that beat against the window in a staccato rhythm. Outside, trees bowed under the charcoal sky. The old house creaked and groaned around her, the wind whistling and wailing as the storm continued to batter the country estate. She waited.

At any moment there would be a knock on the main door of the house. Godfrey, the aged and shuffling butler, would answer. Standing on the other side would be some men in crisp uniforms, holding up her picture and asking if he knew her. She had seen them in town the evening before, and it wouldn’t take more than a day before someone pointed them in the right direction. They looked like military men but there was something different in their manner, something sharper. Godfrey would lead them up, and up, and up, until they reached her third floor apartment. The butler would introduce them, she would smile politely, and she would leave with them without a fight.

The Clocktower

Astra hated Capperham. The way it sprawled its squalor from border to border, from the sea in the west to the battlements in the other three directions. The harbour reeked of dead fish and unwashed human, the slums of sickness and stale beer. Even the neighbourhoods of rich merchants and factory owners lay under the thick smog of black soot the mines and mills spat out day and night. The grit and dirt was part of everything, so deeply ingrained that even the most rigorous scrubbing couldn’t make something clean.

Stars Incline Us

The Christmas gala was in full swing. The entire ballroom was full of people Pippa didn’t know, all wearing fancy clothes that probably cost more than her rent. Her own dress was aubergine and a simple V-neck, form-fitting enough to be attractive but loose enough to not draw too much attention.

She and another girl who didn’t seem to know anyone at the event were chatting with Antero and Mr. Rabinoff near the edge of the dance floor. Antero was already antsy to leave despite the dinner having just ended, but Mr. Rabinoff had trapped him in a debate he was too proud to back down from. The other girl was from legal and either found them hilarious or had had a little too much to drink because she kept giggling, leaving Pippa no choice but to laugh along while adding the occasional remark to the back and forth between the men.

That brings us all the way back to October 2016. Which tells me that I need to start at the beginning of more stories haha. If anyone has questions about any of these, please feel free to ask. Also, if you read all of that, you are a saint and a hero and have my eternal friendship.

I tag @the-writing-avocado​, @radiowrites​, @pigeon-hold​, @sleepyowlwrites​, @akindofmagictoo​, and anyone else who wants to share their projects!! As always, no pressure (to play or to read this whole post lmao).

[literalghost]

Howdy, all! I’ve started up a new commission post for anyone interested.

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[tender-history]

Fic Plotting 101: How I Start from an Idea.

Hullo, hi, welcome! It’s Plotting 101 with Dee: Part One!

 Before we get started, here’s why I made this post:

 1) I get a lot of CCs asking how to approach plotting, pacing and especially story flow, and I wanted to link them all to something useful,

2) I see a lot of people wanting to write plot but unsure how to approach it because it can be overwhelming,

3) Google Searching ‘how to plot’ can be EXTREMELY scary.

 Let’s take Number 3 first. If you’re going to Google ‘how to plot’, you’re going to end up with advice on everything ranging from ‘don’t plot’ to six sheet spreadsheets with fifty columns each that wants you to put down everything from your character’s eye color to what exactly they think of instant noodles. You’ll end up with diagrams, beat sheets, templates, storyboards, and find guides that range from six-step plotting techniques to fifty-steps. And I’m not saying you shouldn’t follow that method - sometimes, if you’re a person who likes character design and questionnaires a lot, you’ll love that method. But I’m not like that, and a lot of writers I know aren’t like that either. There’s nothing I hate more than some spreadsheet asking me my character’s weight and height. And if you go down that road, chances are that you’ll just go down the rabbit hole of intricately designing your characters and settings for AGES instead of actually writing anything at all.

 So - if not through spreadsheets or beat-sheets, how DO you plot?

 If you ask me, the best plotting method is to do WHAT WORKS FOR YOU.

 How do you find what works for you? You try things. I tried many different ways of plotting before I decided what worked for me. So this is going to be less a guide on how to plot and more an explanation of the ways I plot, with the hope that maybe you can find something in here to help you.

 > For me, step ONE is the IDEA.

 This is your big shiny nugget. Your driving force. This is EXTREMELY important, because no one idea is equal to another.  Some ideas are better, because they can help you do something unique, something only you can do, which makes you stand out. For the sake of demonstrating this whole thing, let’s take The Tender History of Tides. Tender History lived on my Ideas folder in my Notes app for months before I began writing it. This was my one-line quick jot-down: ‘what if I wrote non-royalty historical fantasy set in Joseon Korea?’

 Done before? Yeah. Can be done in a unique way? Heck yeah.

 Your idea is very very important because it’s the axis on which you’ll pivot your entire plot. It’ll grow and develop and change if you just give it some thought.

 So, plotting suggestion #1 right here: Keep an Ideas folder. You WILL forget your idea, however shiny it is. Keeping it all in one place helps in more than one way: 1) You know it won’t disappear from your mind, 2) Sometimes ideas can overlap, come together, and turn into a whole new story.

 For Tender History, the historical fantasy set in Joseon Korea idea very, very quickly merged with another idea I’d had: taegi dark-fic with sea-monster Tae and monster-hunter Yoongi. They were disparate thoughts, things I thought of at different times, things I then put together to create something more unique than what they would have been individually.

 I often generate ideas this way. I’ll consult my Ideas folder for thoughts I’ve had in the past, then see if they can be combined with something else to make a better shiny.

 Few examples:

 1) vhope magic shop au + but what if the whole thing is set in a game arcade?

2) taegi vampire au + but what if this was set in the fashion world?

3) vmin library au + but what if they went to a magical school?

 Combination is one way of idea generation. Other ways of idea generation that I sometimes use:

 > Use images. Go on Pinterest, check out some aesthetics, let your imagination run wild.

> Use online prompters. There are so many prompt generators floating around! For Fantasy, I use Seventh Sanctum sometimes (they have hundreds of different sort of prompt generators, and some are really good if you’re stuck on banal things like naming, or a quick character design). For fan fiction, there are prompt bots on Twitter. You can even google writing prompts, there are several websites that offer one per day, which you can then use to kick start your imagination.

 > Now you have your idea. Step TWO, for me, is developing the idea.

 This is the step where you can really stand out in the crowd when it comes to plotting. It’s great having a unique idea, but this is the part where you flesh it out.

 Here’s how I do that:

> Scribble down a skeleton of what you think the story will be: In my case, for this Taegi fic, the skeleton looked something like this:

taegi, yoongi is a detective, tae is a supernatural being of some sort, setting is joseon korea, time period is (???), wintry, monsters and murders, dark, atmospheric, there’s a romance and it’s both soft and dangerous, side: noble seokjin, scholar namjoon, doctor jimin (?). they’re in a village and there are these murders and everyone is keeping secrets. 

This, as you see, is a ramble. It’s just whatever’s in my head, being committed to paper. Now, plotting is WORK. Putting what’s up there - that ramble, that mess of ideas - into a functioning, well-paced, structured, organized plot requires you to put work into it. It’s not easy. But it’s a lot of fun. And when it starts coming together, you really feel very good about your writing and your story!

So, moving on to the actual work now:

> Write a 250 word pitch of the story. Organize your ramble into something coherent, meaningful and easy to absorb. Imagine that this is exactly like the back blurb on a book. The back blurb on a book is meant to entice you to read it. IF it’s enticing enough for you to read, then you can imagine that it might be enticing to a reader. But first - you have to make it enticing for YOU. As the writer, YOU have to feel like, ok, this is gonna be a killer story if I tackle it.

 The objective of this pitch is two-fold:

1) You have to be able to tell three things from it: the idea, the characters, and the main conflict.

2) A complete STRANGER - i.e., someone who has no idea about your story - should be able to look at this pitch and tell what exactly the story is about.

 I can’t stress the importance of this step. Often times, it’s not until you force yourself to explain your plot in 250 words that you find possible issues with it.

 Here’s how I explained Tender History in 250 words or less:

 “In late 1700s Joseon Korea, a string of strange murders sends Inspector Kim Seokjin to a frozen northern province. Accompanying him is Min Yoongi, once a scholar of the supernatural, now an indentured laborer until a debt for his crimes against the palace can be paid. Quickly taking on eccentric artist Kim Taehyung as his assistant, Yoongi sets out to find the monster that’s terrorizing the land. But there’s more to both the icy lakes and the people here. More to Taehyung and his unflinching ease at drawing scenes of death. Yoongi just needs to figure out what.”

 Note a couple of things here.

A) You as the writer knows who the important characters are, because they are named.

B) You know the setting: 1700s, Joseon Korea, icy, winter.

C) You know the characterization and how they play into this world: inspector Seokjin, indentured worker Yoongi, artist Taehyung.

D) You know the conflict: murders, monsters, secrets.

E) You ALSO, if you look deeply enough, know the inner character conflict - Yoongi has debts, he has no free will until he pays them.

 If I show this to you, a stranger, you should ALSO be able to glean these basic details from this 250 word pitch.

 It’s not easy. It just looks easy. I spent hours putting this down in a way that was completely right: precise, simple, yet very explanatory. This pitch will force you to confront what is the story, its actual plot and actual characters, and what is only set dressing. You can’t ramble about it anymore for hours. You can’t have a bunch of disconnected ideas anymore. You HAVE to fit it into something concise, something easily absorbed - not just by you, but by a reader who can’t see into your mind. 

You will also know, by putting this down, if the characters aren’t developed enough inside your head. Because why would anyone go to a wintry frozen land to catch a monster? You can’t answer that unless you know, by forcing your thoughts into coherency, that oh, Yoongi has no real free-will here.

 > Step THREE, marry external and internal conflict.

 Or this is step 1.5, actually. You cannot plot a story without both external and internal conflict. Or, you can, but then you won’t touch your readers as much as you would want to.

 What do I mean by this?

 Your external conflict is something that exists outside of your characters - your regular villain, say. This is your Darth Vader, your Voldemort, your Capitol.

 Your internal conflict is what your character feels. This is HARDER. In Hunger Games, Katniss ponders and combats her own ruthlessness. In Harry Potter, Harry’s desire to fit into the world and live a normal life continuously contrasts with his own fame and the symbol of hope he becomes.

 In Tender History, my external conflict is very fancy: murder, monsters, scary villages, etc. Internal conflict is a lot less so: Yoongi in this fic continuously has to wrestle with feelings of guilt and unfairness, with wanting to do good but feeling too burned by the system. If you’ve read Murmuration, the external conflict is the Scarab, but the internal conflict is their own ambition, their guilt over what they had to do to survive, their (terrifying) loyalty to each other.

 Internal conflict is where you find your character voice. If I’d set Tender History Yoongi in a celebrated position at his job, he’d be a much different character. His voice would be much different. He has power! He has resources! Versus this Yoongi, who has nothing, and hence has to trust the people he’s allowed to work with to tell him the truth.

 Think of it like peeling the layers:

 1) The Idea,

2) Develop the Idea,

3) Fill in the External Conflict,

4) Fill in the Internal Conflict.

 I have a few major rules I follow at this point of plotting. They’re like this:

 1) Are these the right characters for my story? - This means I do a round of thinking about whether these people are the perfect vehicle to tell this story I want to tell. Great, I want to tell a story about wintry Joseon Korea, and monster-fighting. But. Is indentured-worker Yoongi the best person to carry this? What if I make him a village leader instead? What if he’s a runaway prince? What if he’s the monster? Depending on what you want your story to be, you have to think of your character to fit the telling. In Romance of Old Clothes, I chose Tae POV for the whole thing because I wanted to illustrate his reading of people vs. other people’s reading of him. Taehyung’s internal conflict in that fic was that he lies to himself extensively. He’s got this idea of who he is, which is untrue, which is then broken down in a climactic moment. He’s my perfect character to tell that story, because of his obliviousness. Similarly, in Tender History, Yoongi’s the perfect character to tell this story, because of who he is in society, his internal troubles, and his monster-hunting experience.

 2)What are some details I would add to this world? - I have a basic idea of the conflict, the world, and the characters now. This is where I take out a chart or a notebook and get to work. I do this like a mindmap: I jot down anything I can think of - say, okay, Joseon Korea: food, art, paintings, caste system, civil examinations, scholars, winter, roads, Confucianism, shrines, religion, music, monsters, gender roles. Then I begin detailing it. ‘Food’ for example: royals eat different food from commoners eat different food from untouchable castes or peasants. Summer food is different from spring food is different from winter food. When I read about food for this fic, I read about the ‘barley gap’ or the gap between barley and rice cultivation during winter. People historically starved during this time. If my story is set in winter, this is an important detail.

 Let’s take something more contemporary. I’m writing about a vintage clothes store. Details I would need - clothes, brands, size of the shop, layout of the shop, how do they procure clothes, how do they test authenticity, what are their customers like, who do they interact with, where is their shop in the city, what does being in that locality mean, what seasons are busy for them.

 A mindmap is just a page full of words, questions, things you know, things you don’t know. Filling it up is the next major step.

 3) What is character development going to be? - This is very important. Okay, you have an external and internal conflict. Now, start of the story being point A, and end being point B, what exactly is A and B for my character? What do I want them to become? In Romance of Old Clothes, Taehyung at Point A is lying to himself about his own nature. By Point B, he’s able to identify that he needs to let people in, open up more. In Wonder Woman, Diana at the beginning of the story is rather naive, believing that if only she could destroy the God of War, the whole war will end. By the end, she understands and admits that things are not that black and white - that people sometimes fight wars because they want to, not due to some external influence.

 You have to know this to continue.

 Step 4, in how I plot, is to put down a starting scene, a few story beats, and the rough idea of an ending.

  But I’ll get into that - and more, including pacing - in Series 2 of this series of posts! Please let me know here or on twitter if these are helpful, or if I’m just rambling too much.

Since I am now struggling a lot to balance writing with work, and if you want to help me keep on writing posts like this, please consider donating to my ko-fi.

I also made a post on how I world-build, the tools and templates I use for the same: it’s over here!

 https://tender-history.tumblr.com/post/185910085044/on-research-worldbuilding-and-culture

[maximusthewolfe]

Peaches and Plums | 1/?

Back in Fillory, present day, Eliot struggles with the rush of memories from a life he apparently lived, even though he didn't. But there's a quest to be finished, a kingdom to be run, and a world with no magic to make it all infinitely more difficult. So what's a High King to do when flashbacks won't stop and Quentin just wants to move forward?

I wanted to play with all the empty spaces from THE scene in A Life in the Day, and explore the fallout from it in the present world that never really got shown. I hope you enjoy! 

Also on AO3 

“Just give. Me. A minute,” Eliot said through gritted teeth, irritation sharpening the edges of his words until they cut effortlessly.

“Babes, look, we don’t have a minute. I need you to get your shit together now.”

Margo’s voice matched his abrasive syllable for abrasive syllable, but Eliot kept the heels of his hands pressed firmly to his eyes. She was right. The quest was waiting. Their kingdom was waiting. Somewhere in the castle, Quentin was waiting. When had the weight of not one, but two entire worlds suddenly landed on his shoulders? And when had he decided he was okay with carrying it all?  He may have been miserable at Brakebills, but sometimes he missed the simplicity of burying his misery in drugs and drinks and warm bodies willing to occupy his senses for an evening.

“Can’t magic save itself for once? Let its merry band of idiots take a breather?” he said. His swift answer was Margo prying his hands from his face, an unforgiving look in her eyes.

“What the fuck is this, El? It’s your goddamn quest, you roped me in. And you know I’ll do anything to help you out here because fuck if I don’t miss magic more than that purple vibrator I left in the cottage, but I didn’t ask for this. Any of it. Do you see me moping over some lost past that probably sucked ass anyway? I mean, you apparently died, right? Sounds like a fuckin shitshow to me,” she said, hands on her hips, standing her ground, as always.

Her voice echoed slightly in the high marble ceilings of the throne room, only serving to add to the power of it. Margo had always known how to command a room. Or in this case, an entire castle. Eliot shook his head, a mess of dark curls flying from the places where they stuck out around his crown. “I know. Down, Bambi. I get it.”

“Well,” Margo said, tapping her gorgeous pointed toe boot on the floor, “What I need you to GET right now, is your ass in gear. Q’s called some sort of all-questers-on-deck meeting.”

Eliot groaned his disapproval but stood from his throne anyway. She was right. Margo was almost always right. But she had missed one fine detail. He wasn’t mourning the loss of a past he couldn’t remember. It wasn’t all lost when Margo stopped them from going to the mosaic in the first place. Oh no, not by a long shot. He remembered everything. That was the problem.

“Let’s go see what our sweet, depressive Potter thinks we ought to do next,” he said, raising a hand in protest even as he followed Margo out of the throne room. “Which, I take issue with, by the way. His incessant need to be the big man in charge. This quest was bestowed upon me, technically, and he keeps hijacking it.”

Eliot pretended not to hear the words of the Great Cock ringing in his ears. You have a brother of the heart. With the floppy hair. This quest was just as much Q’s as it was his. It might have been theirs – both of them – more than it was anyone else’s.

“Weren’t you just complaining about not wanting this thing?” Margo eyed him carefully, clearly uninterested in putting up with whatever rabid mood swing was overtaking him.

“Well, yeah, but I want the option of not wanting it, you know?” he said airily, twirling his hand above his head as though that elegant, meaningless movement explained what he meant.

“Oh fuck,” Margo rolled her eyes, “Can you not be a teenage girl for two seconds here?”

Eliot huffed, but he quieted and followed the path to the fairy-proof hallway, linking his arm in Margo’s. When they turned the corner, Eliot caught sight of Quentin pacing back and forth, hands twisting in front of him, long hair creating a curtain over his face. He could practically see the concentration on the younger man’s face, the way his forehead scrunched up, eyebrows practically in his hairline. He was trying to work something particularly difficult out, Eliot recognized the look in an instant.

****

And suddenly, he wasn’t in the pale stone hallway convening with the other questers anymore. He was outside a small hut, staring at piles of tiles around them, looking up to catch that same concentrated, problem-solving look etched onto Quentin’s face in a different world, in a different time, in a different life.

“Um – so,” Q started.

"Yeah,” Eliot paused, understanding what he was trying to say before it was said, “Um… Let’s just save our overthinking for the puzzle, yeah?”

A beat passed where Eliot’s heart was practically in his throat, and then Q nodded. “Yeah.”

And that was that, or so he thought.

The mosaic itself was increasingly frustrating by the day, but they still worked at it diligently, documenting each failed attempt and starting over again. And again. And again. By the end of the day, they were both exhausted, and by the end of this particular day, Eliot was especially exhausted. He’d been doing his best to follow his own advice, to save his overthinking for the puzzle, but it was difficult when he kept catching vivid glimpses of the night before in his mind.

He watched as Quentin moved through the little hut, anxiety coming off of him in waves as he filed away the drawings from the day according to some intricate organizational system he’d made up, and Eliot had let him run with. He’d thought he’d had a pretty good handle on all of Quentin’s… Quentinisms before they stepped through the clock and into this past version of Fillory, but the level of familiarity every tick, every look, every sigh now held in his heart only proved to him that he hadn’t known as much about the younger man as he’d assumed. So, it was unsurprising to the former (or future? Time travel had never really made sense to him) High King when Quentin looked in his direction with those big, worried eyes.

“Hey, El?”

Eliot blinked away the interest in his amber gaze and replaced it with practiced nonchalance. “Hmmm?” he hummed in response.

“You ever think about what’ll happen if we don’t figure it out?”

The fear in Quentin’s tone was poorly masked, even to the ears of someone not as well trained in emotional avoidance. Eliot’s immediate instinct was to diffuse.

“No, not really. That’s not how this story goes, Q. You’re the hero, and the hero doesn’t die halfway through the quest,” he said dismissively.

“Well, the hero also generally doesn’t kill a God and get magic turned off in the first place, so,” Quentin retorted, “I’m not sure the usual literary epic rules apply here.”

Eliot paused, elegantly wrinkling his brows at his…. friend? Fellow quester? Brother of the heart? Man he kissed and then some the night before? Quentin may have had a point, but if they couldn’t count on fairytale rules in this fairytale land, well, then what was the fucking point of it all?

“So we’re playing parts in Homer’s Morally Gray Odyssey. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“Yeah, but what if you are?”

“Then I try to be right again tomorrow. We don’t have a lot of choice here,” Eliot said finally, sighing heavily.

“Huh….” Quentin’s unspoken anxieties were enough to drive Eliot completely mad.

“Come on, out with it,” he prompted, waving at the space in front of him. “The floor’s all yours.”

“No, it’s, it’s nothing.”

In lieu of rolling his eyes so hard he gave himself a headache, Eliot replied, “Convincing.”

“It’s just – “ Quentin’s hands were headed for his hair, a nervous tick Eliot had learned to recognize long before they’d spent a year with almost solely each other. “I know we said no overthinking last night –“

Eliot held up a hand, shaking his head as he stood. He tucked in the olive green fabric of his shirt that had been pulled loose in the movement.  “Stop. No, nothing good can follow that sentence. And no offense, but I think I’m about up to my tile-riddled brain in ‘nothing good’ for the day.”

He’d woken up that morning with an impressive amount of hope in his heart for Eliot Waugh. Quentin was lying beside him in bed, his own arm draped protectively over Quentin’s waist. It was something he’d never really been able to stop himself from doing, protecting Quentin. Even when it came at the cost of his own destruction, it was a fee he would pay a thousand times over. In the morning light, Eliot was quite certain he’d never seen anything as beautiful as the peaceful planes of Quentin’s face awash in the golden-pink of the sunrise filtering in through the window. It struck him in that moment how rarely he saw the younger man looking at peace. The calm on Quentin’s sleeping face then was a stark contrast to the intense anxiety that had clouded his every feature nearly as soon as he woke up.

One year. It had taken one year for Quentin Coldwater to break his heart again. But the way he’d looked at him after remembering the previous night; the way he’d practically jumped, and then almost fell, out of bed, tucked his hair anxiously behind his ears, dressing quickly and insisting on getting to work had done the trick. It took everything Eliot had to give him the out earlier that day, he didn’t think he could bear to drudge it back up in order to allow the younger man the space to verbally hammer the final nail in Eliot’s extremely premature coffin.

“El – “ Q protested, but Eliot sauntered away in the direction of the kitchen.

“Seriously? Can we not Quentin this to death, please?” he said, his voice betraying the exhaustion he felt at the prospect of having to listen to Quentin detail all the ways in which he was “really great, but…” That was typically his speech to give.

“Eliot, for fuck’s sake, would you let me finish a goddamn thought for once?”

Quentin had followed him into the hut’s tiny, primitive kitchen. The forcefulness in his voice caught Eliot off guard. With considerable effort, he stopped himself from speaking again by biting his lower lip from the inside and crossing his arms with impossible grace over his chest. He arched an eyebrow in a sort of challenge for Quentin, conceding him the floor.

“Oh, um. Okay. I didn’t think you were really going to –“ Quentin must have caught the exasperation that swept into Eliot’s gaze, because he corrected himself quickly, “Right.”

“Look, I just – I’ve been thinking and I know that all of this,” his hands flailed around him, trying to encompass the hut, the mosaic, and the time they’d stepped into in one erratic gesture, “Is just, y’know, not at all what either of us expected. And I dunno, it’s a different world, but it’s also not? And you’re still Eliot and I’m still Quentin and I just think that’s something important. That’s something you should know, you know?”

“Q….” Eliot interjected cautiously. Biting his tongue had never been Eliot’s strong suit, but he did his best, motioning for Q to wrap it up, smirking to mask the small spark of hope that had ignited in his chest. It was foolhardy, Eliot knew, but something in the tone of Quentin’s rambles shifted the day’s despair in him slightly.

“What I’m saying – what I’m trying to say is – we’re here. And it’s familiar because it’s Fillory, right? But it’s also totally not because it’s Fillory like, forever ago, and we uh, we don’t know HOW long we’re gonna be here. We could figure this out tomorrow and I dunno, I just mean, if we did, if we do, I don’t think it would uh, I don’t want you to think it would change the fact,” Quentin’s sentence sputtered out there, his left hand raising from the place it had settled deep in his pocket and coming to rest on the back of his neck, his elbow jutting awkwardly out from his side.

“That I – I want last night to happen again.”

A hush fell over the entire hut. In the heavy silence, Eliot’s heart took Quentin’s words and used them as lighter-fluid drenched kindling, growing the spark of hope into a wildfire that propelled him forward. He reached out his arms so that his hands cupped the sides of Quentin’s face a full three seconds (damn long limbs) before the rest of him did, and pulled the shorter man up to him, dipping down to meet him somewhere in the middle, their lips crashing together far less gracefully than they had the night before. He felt Quentin’s arm drop from the back of his neck, felt the uncertainty in the other man’s body as Eliot kissed him like he was the only viable source of oxygen in the room.

When Quentin had started rambling, Eliot wasn’t sure what to expect, but it damn sure wasn’t the confession he received, and if this was a quick lapse in mental clarity brought on by the stress of another unsuccessful day at the mosaic, he wasn’t going to miss his moment. Eliot’s long fingers tangled easily into Quentin’s hair, and after a moment where Quentin’s entire body tensed against the sudden contact, Eliot felt him relax into it, felt Q’s hands wrapping around his waist, hands sliding up his back. They stayed that way for several minutes, Eliot’s tongue hungrily exploring the younger man’s mouth until finally he pulled away but kept his hands on either side of Quentin’s face.

“Done overthinking it?” he asked, a slow, playful smile spreading across his kiss-swollen lips.

Quentin looked dazed, eyes bouncing back and forth between Eliot’s as though searching for some sign that this was all a joke to the older man. He would find no such evidence. After a long moment, seemingly satisfied with his search, Q smiled, mirroring the joy Eliot could feel emanating from his own face, and lifted onto his toes to close the space between them again.

[rcracer-fromminecraft-stories]

Picture Source: http://www.furaffinity.net/view/28922042/ Character: Amaterasu Artist: xnirox

The Goddess's Carrier

by Ben James

(A short story inspired by the drawing seen above, this story doesn’t accurately portray the character illustrated above and doesn’t actually represent the character in any way)

__________________________________________________

Chapter 1: Chosen By A Goddess

I was a human male, was anyway, until one day when I met a real goddess. I was visiting Japan, staying in Tokyo, to present a new type of drone at a technology show. I had recently just made a whole new propulsion system, one that could be revolutionary. I called them “anti-gravity coils”, they were quantum coils that would move in the opposite direction of gravity when powered. This allowed this new drone to take off without any noise, or emit anything that could harm life. Making it the stealthiest drone in the world, cause it didn’t have to land to be quiet... it could fly silently thru the air. I presented the drone, showing off my new propulsion system. I already had a few offers to buy my invention for large amounts of money, but I didn’t sell it. I knew that they could just claim they invented it if I did sell it to them. Plus, I wasn’t in this for the money... I made this invention to further the advancement of technology, not to get rich. There were at least some people that appreciate my invention instead of seeing nothing but money. Some were curious enough to ask how it worked, and I told them to call me about that latter for I didn’t want to explain it in front of others who would only try to replicate it and sell it.

I left a bit early, the constant attention becoming too much for me. I decided to walk back to the hotel I was staying at, for it was a beautiful time of year here in Japan. The trees were blooming, and so were many different flowers, making the whole landscape look alive. Though, it technically was... the plants were living creatures. I didn’t get very far from the building that I presented in before I was stopped by a grumpy old Japanese man.

1) Old Man: *in Japanese* “People like you are disturbing the balance of this land, get out!” 2) Me: *in Japanese* “What balance?” 3) Old Man: *in Japanese* “Nature’s balance, you’re ruining life... now get out!” 4) Me: *in Japanese* “I’m sorry, I’ll try to fix the-” 5) Old Man: *in Japanese* “No you’re not, get out before I have to kick you out!”

I could tell his mind was set, so there was no point in arguing with him. I quickened my pace, leaving like he was telling me to. I kinda understood what he was saying, the advancement of technology has taken its’ toll on the environment. I did care about nature, plants & animals, and I didn’t like seeing the damage we humans have done to nature. That’s why the drone I made, including the anti-gravity coils, were made of eco-friendly resources. But I couldn’t expect everyone who uses my anti-gravity coils to make the thing they mount it on out of eco-friendly materials. After I got a good distance away from the old man, he yelled something at me in the distance...

6) Old Man: *in Japanese* “Our gods shall punish you for your misdeeds!”

I quickened my pace further, intimidated by his words. I was a man of science and therefore found it hard to believe in gods & goddesses. However, I suppose they might have existed... I just wouldn’t believe they existed until I found evidence. Little did I know that on this day, evidence would find me.

I continued down the path, going thru the forest which was beautiful in the springtime. I checked behind me and was glad to find that the old man wasn’t following. He.. did say that I’d be punished by his gods. So, did he know his gods would punish me? Or... had he just told one about me? I suddenly felt a strange sensation come over me, it felt like I was being watched. I looked around as I continued walking forward, but I couldn’t see anyone watching me. It... couldn’t be a god... right? I wasn’t sure, maybe there really was a god coming for me. And if that was the case, what chance did I have against a god?! None, I couldn’t even fight the average human let alone a god! I came upon a temple, decorated with pretty oil paintings. The path led around it, so I rounded the corner and that’s when I saw... her.

She... wasn’t exactly human, but she had the figure of a human. She had the head of a wolf, covered in white fur with intricate patterns of red lines in her fur. Her eyes were black, with yellow irises. She was wearing traditional Japanese clothing, so she was clearly intelligent. She spotted me looking at her, her vision sharp like a wolf, and she watched me as I walked by. I kept walking, having a hard time believing she was real. She kept looking at me until I rounded around another corner and our line of sight was broken. W-Was... that the god the old man said would punish me? I suddenly heard footsteps behind me and I turned around, but there was nobody there. Weird... I swear I heard someone walking. I sighed, and then I turned back around and was met face-to-face with her. I jumped back, startled by her sudden appearance. How did she get there? I didn’t hear anything, and she would have had to be moving fast to evade my vision. She swiftly stepped forward and grabbed my arm, making sure I didn’t get away from her. I stopped in my tracks, not resisting her for I was terrified of what she might do to me. She looked me over, her sharp eyes looking at every detail of me... it was like she was judging me for my worth.

She really seemed like a goddess, she was faster than physically possible... like she had some powers or magic or something like that. That’s when I noticed the floating green disk behind her back, levitating like her body was a magnet. I saw a burst of fire being emitted from the center of the disk and felt a surge of power blow past me. No, there was no doubt about it... she was magical, or at least had mystical powers. I looked into her eyes, her irises radiating with power. She was a goddess, she had to be! Then, she must be here to punish me. I swallowed, fearing for my life. Oh no, what was she gonna do to me? Maybe my punishment wouldn’t be as severe if I told her I really did care about nature. I parted my lip, preparing to talk to her, but she swiftly covered my mouth.

7) Her: *sarcastically* “I’m sorry, did I give you permission to speak?” 8) Her: *seriously* “No... no, I didn’t.” 9) Her: *stern tone* “You’re in the presence of a goddess, you shall treat me with the utmost respect.” 10) Her: *seriously* “Lucky for you, I’m feeling merciful... so I’ll give you a chance, but only if you serve me.” 11) Her: *demanding tone* “Forget whatever god you pray to, I’m your goddess now... you shall devote yourself to me, and obey me without question.” 12) Her: *demanding tone* “Now bow down before your goddess.”

She took her hand off my mouth and let go of my arm, and I immediately bowed down to her... going all the way down on my hands and knees. I didn’t believe in any gods or goddesses, but I did now. 

13) Her: *huffs* “Much better... remember your place mortal, beneath me.” 14) Her: “You are now my servant, and therefore you can do only what I tell you to do and let me do anything to you... got all that?”

I nodded, not sure if she just gave me permission to talk. I was in for it now, there was no hope of me getting away. I was now her servant, hers to command. My fate was in her hands, hers to weave. There was no point in resisting, so I gave up. She stuck her paw under my chin and lifted my head up to look me in the eyes... her claws ready to slit my throat. I didn’t resist, knowing full well she could take my life whenever she chose to. I was nothing but her servant, she could do whatever she wanted to me and I was powerless to stop her. Plus, it was considered a betrayal to resist your goddess... I would be punished severely. I just simply looked into her eyes, letting her have her way with me... for I was beneath her. 

She retracted her claws, setting my head down on the ground. She turned my head with her paw, pushing my cheek to the side. She then stood on my cheek with her paw, pressing my head into the ground... asserting her dominance over me. She was a goddess and I was just a mortal, powerless compared to her. She owned me, she controlled me... what I wanted didn’t matter anymore. She spread her toes and extended her claws, poking at my skin with them... testing me. I didn’t resist, letting her do what she wanted with me... giving myself to her, for I was her servant. Who I had been this morning was no more, my hopes & dreams crushed by her will. I was nobody now, just her human servant. 

15) Her: “That’s it, give in to your goddess... give yourself to me.”

She took her paw off me, swiftly bending down to make me her servant. I opened my eyes to see her looking me in the eyes, her eyes pulsing with power and her gaze sharper than ever. Her eyes focused this power like a laser, sending two powerful beams of magic energy into both my eyes. I felt the energy strike my eyes, making me close them out of instinct. I felt the energy get absorbed into my eyes, having an unknown effect. What did she do to me? I opened my eyes, curious to find out. I could see some strange symbols that moved with my eyes, as if imprinted on them. I looked up at her to find she had symbols in her eyes as well, symbols that seemed to complement the ones in mine. She reached for me, grabbing my lower jaw and gazing deep into my eyes. Her eyes were still pulsing with power, causing my eyes to pulse back... the power in her eyes reacting to the power she put in my eyes. I couldn’t look away, entranced by a mysterious power. The symbols slowly faded in both my eyes and hers until they disappeared. I regained control of my eyes, but kept looking into hers.

16) Her: “You have been marked by your goddess, your body & soul belong to me now... you are now my eternal servant and you will serve me without question.”

I nodded hesitantly, realizing I’d be her servant forever. She would keep me alive to serve her and I would do that for all eternity. Such a life would be almost not worth living. But what choice did I have? She wouldn’t let me die, wouldn’t allow me to kill myself. I’d do nothing but serve her, forever. 

17) Her: “What’s with the grim face?” 18) Her: *smiles* “I’m not heartless, I’ll still feed you and clean you and give you a nice place to sleep... I’ll treat you good if you serve me well.”

I relaxed, glad she was willing to treat me better than a slave. Besides, the word of a goddess is said to be absolute. She let go of my chin and I held my head in place, acting like a poseable doll. She kept smiling at me, wrapping her hands under my shoulders and lifting me up as she stood up. She held me delicately, smiling warmly at me. I gazed into her eyes, seeing kindness in her eyes. I was taken aback by her sudden kindness, considering she had been so fierce just a few moments ago. I hope she would be kind to me as I served her. She said she’d take care of me as her servant, said she’d treat me good if I did my job well. Maybe being her eternal servant wouldn’t be so bad. She lowered me back down, setting me gently on the ground, patting my head briefly like I was a child... I was 22, but I guess I was a child compared to her.

19) Her: “You know, you’re the first human who’s been able to see me in the past 100 years... you might be just what I been waiting for.” 20) Her: “And if you’re not, I could use a personal servant.” 21) Her: “It’s not safe to talk out here, others will hear us.” 22) Her: “So come with me, I’ll have to take you to where we can’t be found.”

I did as she said, without question, walking over to her and standing beside her... ready to follow her. I couldn’t help but wonder why no other humans have been able to see her. Was I just much more observant than other humans? Not likely, 100 years is a long time for her not to be spotted. She was a goddess and was very magical, so maybe she was invisible to those who don’t believe in magic. No, that’s not it either... cause a lot of people here in Japan believed in magic. Then... why was I able to see her? I wasn’t anyone special... I’m just a nerdy scientist like many other scientists. I lost my train of thought, as she suddenly grabbed my arm and tugged me along as she started to walk. I walked with her, not wanting to be dragged on this stone path. She led me down the path for a little while, and then led me into the forest beside the path.

I did my best to divert my gaze from her, thinking she probably didn’t want me looking at her. However, my curiosity eventually got the best of me, and I turned my head to look at her. She was holding my wrist with a firm, but not painful grip. She walked with such elegance, her movements were very smooth & controlled and swift when needed. Her paws landed softly on the ground as she walked, not disturbing the ground she walked on, it was as if she weighed nothing... light as a feather. She kept her other arm at her side, keeping it from swaying as she walked. Her tail swayed back & forth as she walked, but not that much. The disk on her back floated inches from her back, moving side to side as her shoulders did like it was attached even though it clearly wasn’t. I wonder why she had that disk... I had seen it emit a burst of flame, so maybe that was her source of power. Although, her eyes radiated with power... so it probably wasn’t the source of her power, but it might be an amplifier or container of her magic energy.

23) Her: “You know it’s rude to stare, but I sense you’re just very curious, so I’ll just let it slide.” 24) Her: “But, I’m not always so forgiving... you’d do best to keep your emotions in check.”

I nodded, not sure if she could see me... but she had noticed me staring at her, so she likely saw me doing that. She said she sensed I was curious... but how? Was it just written on my face? Can she feel my emotions? Can she read my thoughts? I mean, she is a goddess... reading minds seems well within the capabilities of a goddess. Regardless, I’d have to do better at keeping my emotions in check. I was lucky she had spared me twice, and I couldn’t count on that happening again. She was nice but strict and I wanted to stay on her good side.

25) Her: *commanding* “Stop.” *I stopped quickly, and she had already stopped* 26) Her: “We should be far enough away now.” 27) Her: “Time to see if you’re the one I’ve been waiting for.” 28) Her: “Let’s have a look at your soul.”

She let go of my wrist and grabbed my shoulder with the same hand. Her other hand began to glow white like her fur and became slightly transparent. She reached for the center of my chest with her glowing hand, and I watched her hand with great interest. Her fingers touched my chest, burning a hole in my shirt around her hand, and it felt like her hand was made of fire. I winced, gritting my teeth to keep myself from screaming for I assumed the pain would only worsen. Her fingers plunged into my chest as if it was nothing but air, and I grunted as I endured the pain. Was she burning a hole in my chest? What was she doing?! The pain worsened as the palm of her hand sunk into my chest... I cried in pain, clamping my teeth together to keep myself from screaming, tears streaming from my eyes. It hurt, so much! Every instinct in my body was telling me to try and get away from this, and I focused all my will to fight these instincts. She was a goddess and I was but her servant, I mustn’t resist her. I saw her wrist sink into my chest, my vision blurred by my tears. I couldn’t help but think... is this how I die? Then I suddenly felt her hand grab something inside my chest, causing an avalanche of pain. The pain was too much for me this time, and I was overwhelmed by it. My mouth opened, my instincts taking over, and I screamed loudly in pain. My whole body tensed up, pain being felt throughout my body. She yanked whatever she was grabbing inside my chest out, and I almost blacked out as the pain I felt made my mind go blank. My vision slowly returned to me, having going white when she yanked it out of me, and I was met with a strange sight. She was still in front of me, holding me by the shoulder, only now... she was holding a white glowing orb of light, that had red flames shooting from the top and coming to a point. It had a strange symbol on it, a symbol that looked like one of the ones I saw in my eyes when she marked me. What... is that? Was that... inside me?

29) Her: “You’ve managed to remain conscious, that’s quite impressive for a mortal such as yourself.” 30) Her: “You’re probably wondering what I’m holding... it’s your soul, the very essence of your life-force.” 31) Her: “Without this soul, you’re dead... even if your body still walks.” 32) Her: *spins my soul around in her hands & looking closely at it* “Life is such a fragile thing, weak souls within weak bodies, it so easy to end life... yet it’s much harder to make life.” 33) Her: “Souls of humans have grown increasingly weaker over the past 100 years, but your soul has not... it is still pure.” 34) Her: “It is clear by holding your soul that you are the one I seek... your goddess has a purpose for you, a destiny for you to fulfill.” 35) Her: “You must have many questions, but you’ll have to wait for me to answer them... you must come with me, to my realm.” 36) Her: “Come with me chosen one, your destiny awaits.”

She sunk her hand back into my chest, returning my soul to my body. I gained control of my body and awaited for her command. She pulled out a fancy looking paintbrush, seemingly out of thin air, and drew a doorway in front of her. The doorway she drew became real, leading into a place that was clearly not of this world. I looked at her paintbrush, fascinated by its’ mystical power to make drawings come to life. She looked back at me, grinning. She turned to me and painted my clothes with her brush, turning them black with her ink. She snapped her fingers, causing the paint to transform my clothes into traditional Japanese clothing. I looked around at my new clothes, in awe of her magic paintbrush.

37) Her: “There, those clothes suit you better.” 38) Her: “Besides... my realm, my rules.” 39) Her: “Now take my hand, chosen one, your goddess beckons you to her side.”

Well... who am I to refuse the call of a goddess? Her paintbrush disappeared into thin air, and she offered me her hand. I cautiously took a step forward, not sure if she would allow that, and reached for her hand. She allowed me to get closer, and I gently placed my hand in hers. She closed her hand around me, holding my hand with a firm grip. I looked up at her, the awe of her mystical powers clearly visible on my face. She noticed this, smiling at me as she held my hand. I had no idea what destiny she had planned for me, had no idea what purpose she was giving me... but, it didn’t really matter. She was my goddess, and I was her servant, her chosen one. She was giving me a purpose, defining my destiny... it was my duty to fulfill the destiny she has set before me. She reached out and gently grabbed my lower jaw, closing my open mouth. I couldn’t help but blush as I looked into her eyes, she... was truly beautiful, elegant like the goddess she is.

40) Her: “I must admit, you’re quite cute... a trait that’s rare among other human males.” 41) Her: “Come with me chosen one, your destiny awaits.”

Her hand slid off my lower jaw, and she held her hand at her side. She turned around, pulling me to stand at her side. I stood beside her, our hands locked together. I glanced over at her and she started walking, and I turned to face ahead and walked beside her. We walked thru the doorway she had just drawn, into her realm. The doorway disappeared behind us as we walked thru, leaving me in her realm with her. I looked around, taking in the wondrous sight that was her realm. I looked back over at her, and she greeted me with a warm smile. I smiled back at her, wonder still visible on my face. I was just a scientist... but I met a goddess, became her chosen one, and was brought to her realm of existence. She had taken me from my world, and... I didn’t really mind. She was my goddess, and I was her chosen one... and this, this was my destiny.

<End Chapter>

[kelleyschorn]

Kelley Reviews: Forever Fantasy Online

Honestly I’m behind still on my movie reviews but I finished this book last week (read by the talented Josh Hurley courtesy of Audible) and I could not stop thinking about it! This book is the first in a series and written by one of my current favorite authors, Rachel Aaron and her husband, Travis Bach. Can I just say, RELATIONSHIP GOALS. This story to me felt like Sword Art Online but different and better! It follows two siblings, Tina and James, as they play their favorite virtual reality game: Forever Fantasy Online, or FFO as they refer to it in the book.

Both siblings use the game to escape their not-so-ideal actual realities. Tina is a college student, working hard to stave off loans and James is the failure older brother who blew through both of their college funds and now works multiple jobs. The game makes them feel more alive, until they get stuck there. Here is where Rachel and Travis’ mastery of wielding a full cast of memorable characters really began to shine.

Tina is stuck in a hard side of the world filled with monsters to fight and surrounded by less than competent fighters with which to fight them, but that doesn’t stop her from being the in-game leader she’s been playing for the past few years. Tina is an amazing leader and, for me, it was really really cool to read about a strong female warrior leader who wasn’t annoyingly bossy, was competent, and above all strong. Though James’ timeline was my favorite to read, Tina was my favorite POV character because of all her amazing qualities.

James ended up on the opposite side of the world stuck in the savannah inhabited by cat-people. The reason James’ storyline was my favorite was because, though his situation was still dire, it was less immediate life or death like Tina’s and I got to see more of the world and learn more about the true nature of their situation through his eyes. Shout out slash special mention of my favorite side character: Arbati. (Forgive me if I spelled this wrong, I listened to the audiobook so I’m taking a guess here). The head warrior had such a strong personality and character arc in this book and I loved every minute of it.

When I first started reading this, I reached out to Rachel to ask if she and Travis had split up the writing by character—I asked this because, at first, James reminded me a lot of Rachel’s character, Julius from her Heartstikers series—however, Rachel informed me that they both wrote both characters. That shows the true talent of both of those people right there. I tore through this book. I tore through this book in two and a half days. And that CLIFF HANGER oh my gosh! All I can say is that I am so thankful they are fast writers! According to their websites the next one comes out Fall of 2018! Ya’ll rock!

Overall I would definitely recommend this book. I devoured it and the pace was nonstop, there were no lulls, no real “stopping points” which made it so hard to put down! Also for sure check out Rachel’s Heartstrikers series because it is also absolutely amazing and devourable.

WARNING: The rest of this review contains HELLA SPOILERS in which I discuss more in depth what did and didn’t work for me in this book so if you haven’t read this book PLEASE LEAVE.

WHAT WORKED

The concept. I have to say I was very worried when I first read the description of this book because it sounded like the exact plot of Sword Art Online (an anime), but it so isn’t. The concept that somehow this “virtual world” was a real world and that all of the NPC’s (Non Player Characters) were stuck in the game is so original and, when I figured that out in the book, so mind blowing! Because the concept was so strong the plot was even stronger. Both of them fighting for their lives and for a world that they don’t belong to and yet they feel like they do because they’ve spent a good portion of their lives in it. So good.

The characters and themes. I raved about them already above but, once again, I love TINA. She is so strong and such a good leader. I also love that she is a giant 800 pound rock lady. AKA a female main character who isn’t the societal definition of beauty—I don’t know if they did that on purpose but I appreciated that. I also really liked NicoBaby and SilentBlade. I love Nico’s personality a lot, again with the distinct characters and Rachel and Travis just knocking them out of the park! Seriously can’t gush enough about how much I love their characters. SB is such a little mystery ninja and I can’t wait to learn the answers to all the questions that were set up about him in this first book. Is he a forty year old man with as many cats? Is he a celebrity? Honestly I don’t know what they’re going to do here since we don’t really know anyone else important in Tina’s life from the outside (yet). So either he’ll be someone shocking, like a girl instead of a guy, or a forty year old cat-man, or he’ll be someone shocking from her real life that we find out about later, those are my predictions anyways. I loved every single character in James’ storyline. Every. Single. One. Arbati was so fun to watch change. One of my favorite moments with him was when James when to see him in the wagon on the way back to the clans and he broke down about how many times he had died. That was such a powerful moment and it made my heart ache for him. Speaking about theme, I loved how you can really tell what is important to these writers by the themes in this story (and in Heartstrikers).  They fight racism through James with Arbati and the Knolls (Nolls? Again, audiobook, I’m so sorry). They also show the power of diplomacy and the use of words to open understanding rather than violence. And with Tina they showed that if you use enough force, people can and will be motivated to save their own lives!

Honorable mentions that I won’t get into or else this review would be hella long: The intricate and creative settings. The fact that the villain has a (glimpse of a) heart. The super cool magic system. The super cool way that the rules of the game intertwined with reality once they were stuck.

WHAT DIDN’T WORK

The characters. Just some minor things because as I said before, these characters have captured my heart! James reminded me A LOT of Julius from the Heartstrikers series. His voice and the way he thought, the way he values diplomacy over violence, were very similar and even to the fact that he is considered to be a failure by his family. I will say though, he gives a lot less diplomatic speeches than Julius did which is the one thing I didn’t care for about Julius so that’s a plus. Don’t get me wrong, I still love James, it’s just that the similarities were there and I couldn’t help but make the connection.

The timeline. This threw me off. I’m not sure if it was because, in listening to most of this book while at work (hehe) I might have missed an explanation, or if it just wasn’t there but the game characters claim to have been stuck in this game for 80 years. The book never mentions how long FFO has been out in Tina and James’ world, or if it does, it’s at the beginning when we don’t know that that detail is important to remember, but I feel like it hasn’t been out for 80 years. Maybe it was 8 years and every one year in “our world” equals 10 years in the “game world”? Neither Tina nor James point out the strangeness of this and there isn’t a conversation about it. Again, I could have missed it because of the whole Audiobook at work thing so let me know if this is the case.

The SB Tina ship. This mostly works for me. Mostly. I think that a lot of it was told rather than shown and that more showing of their chemistry, especially maybe in some more reaction scenes (if we think of scenes as action/reaction) when there is less imminent death then that might help in the next book. Also I’m so worried about how the heck will they get together when they are no longer attracted to each other?? (This isn’t a part that didn’t work it’s just a worry that I have in general, I really liked that detail a lot actually.)

OVERALL: I loved this book! I can’t stop recommending both it and Heartstrikers to everyone I know and I can’t wait to see what happens next! Their writing inspires me to write more and write better. I know this review was a little long but I couldn’t help it!

Next up: Incredibles2 and maybe I’ll review It by Stephen King and maybe I’ll see Jurassic world even though I hated the last one and I know this one will be bad. We’ll see.

[fakesam]

Belated Black Panther Thoughts

Everything happening regarding Black Panther right now feels like a miracle. You can only congratulate a giant, increasingly powerful conglomerate so much for realizing black money runs the same as white money, but it is still a moment to be celebrated. Seeing a movie this proudly black in the limelight, with such a large budget and plenty of promotional backing, is delightfully paradoxical given the toxic whiteness infecting the national atmosphere from the top down. This movie dropped at the right time. The biggest individual piece of promo comes courtesy of Black Panther: The Album, curated by Kendrick Lamar and the rest of the Top Dawg Entertainment braintrust. Licensed movie soundtracks have experienced something like renaissance over the last couple years, a business maneuver congealing the interests of film studios looking for anything to boost social media traffic and musicians to get some extra exposure and a decent payday. The results of these partnerships has been mixed at best, even when the Best Rapper Alive is involved. Remember when Kendrick rapped over an overly macho remix of Tame Impala’s “Feels Like We Only Go Backwards”? Most people don’t.

Even with this project, it was easy to develop some cynicism about the final results. Kendrick has become more and more intransigent about being the voice of the voiceless, but he’s hasn't been above easy mainstream pop dollars in the past. Man gave verses to Taylor Swift and Maroon 5, and performed with Imagine Dragons. “All The Stars”, the most successful single off The Album, is a pleasant enough pop-rap hit that struts perfectly over the end credits of a blockbuster, but it lacks the depth of feeling that has made Lamar the current Poet Laureate of Black America. There’s also “Pray For Me”, a Weeknd and Kendrick collab that sounds like it was salvaged off the Starboy cutting room floor. These songs are fine, but eminently forgettable. Thankfully, these tracks are clear outliers, the lone examples of mainstream genuflecting across the entire project. The uniqueness and specificity that makes Black Panther so appealing as a film is also apparent in the sprawling sonic odyssey of its soundtrack. It’s better than anyone could've hoped for.

The playlist era of album design, gives credence to the worst impulses of people just trying to get paid, narrative coherence be damned. Migos’ Culture II was ruined by an engorged tracklist that led to a runtime comparable to most of the nominees for Best Picture at the Oscars. Twenty-four songs was at least ten too many, but who needs an editor when the penalty for choosing quantity over quality is so minimal? But it’s the perfect format for a movie soundtrack.

Kendrick’s ability as a tastemaker has never really been a thing to consider until now. His albums are hermetically-sealed portraits of his psyche, exploring his personal tensions and how they’re informed by his personal history and the lineage of black strife in America. This intricate exploration of his inner self doesn’t leave much room for other voices - the featured artists welcomed into his world are brought in for a very specific purpose. Kendrick is also very selective about the songs of other artists he’s willing to jump on. Combine that with his social media reticence, and the lists of contemporaries that Kendrick listens to are tantalizingly vague. There’s an undeniable intrigue to learning who a near-consensus superstar genius deems worthy of the aux cord. Consciously leeching on to the burgeoning movements of younger rappers is a tactic that Drake has perfected over the years. The two current titans of hip-hop have been acting out a musical cold war for the last couple years, so it’s tempting in a sense to think of Black Panther: The Album as Kendrick running with Drake’s idea of a “playlist project” that he tried to make happen with the release of More Life.

But it’s much more tempting to talk about the sumptuous quality of this music on hand. The litany of artists brought together to assemble this album, a mix of established stars, burgeoning upstarts and total unknowns, bring disparate genres and musical approaches to the table, all cohesively strung together under the diasporic flag of black excellence.

It’s obvious in hindsight to see why Kendrick was so attracted to the project that he asked to oversee the entire soundtrack after watching snippets of the film during its production. The divide between T’Challa and Killmonger’s views on progress mirrors the internal strife that has Kendrick has been ruminating on his entire career. TDE took their role as gatekeepers seriously, drawing delineations between the conflicts of the movie and the endless struggle that is sadly inherent with the black experience. Black Panther could never have the intimate complexity of a solo Kendrick record, but it details the black experience with more nuance than many albums told from one perspective. The strokes are broad, but the completed painting is still worthy of admiration.

Most of TDE shows up in some form. SZA provides the hook on the aforementioned “All the Stars”, Schoolboy Q reminds us of his undeniable charisma on “X”. Ab-Soul puts together his first good verse since his 2012 album Control System on “Bloody Waters”. We even get a glimpse of the lesser seen, frivolous Kendrick on “Big Shot”, a bouncy, “New Freezer” interpolating Travis Scott collab that doubles as the latest entry in the “Dope Rap Songs built around a Flute Sample” pantheon. from rap to pop to heavily indebted house music from South Africa. But it’s the newer faces that making their formal introduction to larger audiences that makes this album genuinely exciting. SOB x RBE have received most of the acclaim for their scene-stealing performance on “Paramedic”, and that praise is warranted, but they’re not the only up and comers who killed it. Jorja Smith makes a war march sound like heaven on “I Am”, and South African artists Yugen Blakrok and Babes Wodumo make their case for international renown on “Opps” and the South African house jam “Redemption”. Kendrick is present on every song - his contributions ranging from being the best rapper alive to windy background vocalist - but he’s very much a secondary figure in the works of others.

It’s bears repeating how remarkable it is that this thing has been allowed to exist. That Future inhales a bunch of helium, interpolates Slick Rick, and asks for a blowjob with one absurdly entertaining turn of phrase. Someone at Marvel signed off on all of this. We should all be thankful for that man or woman or committee of persons. What could’ve been a simple cash grab for TDE becomes something much more stirring and exciting thanks to a commitment to take the source material seriously enough to use it as a launching point for work that is both evocative and entertaining. A perfect table setter for the main event.

As I sat in the chair of the theater waiting for the movie to start, I was slightly nervous about the quality of the movie. The hype cycle had spun into overdrive had built the movie to stratospheric heights. Black Panther stopped being a movie and became a religious communion. That’s a lot to live up to. Aside from the inescapable expectations created by fans, Marvel’s cinematic spell lost their power over me years ago, as the negative aspects of the “Movies as TV episodes” system became more glaring. Nothing of consequence ever happened and the action scenes were overwrought and anticlimactic, antiseptic, CGI-soaked action that put me to sleep. The last comic book movie I enjoyed without much reservation was the first Guardians of the Galaxy, way back in 2014, 87 years ago. Even Wonder Woman, one of the rare superhero films allowed to take some risks - as much as giving women the chance to be all-powerful warriors without the prompting of a man counts as a risk to some people - lost me during the third act when Gal Gadot fought a Bloodborne boss yelling corny “Give In To Evil and Join Me!!!!!!!” dialogue in the middle of a flaming airfield. When comic book movies go extremely comic book-y, I lose all interest. My expectations were middling despite the widespread adoration of the movie that compelled me to go see it in the first place. Not quite as cynical as I tend to be, but not wearing a T’Challa costume to the theater.

By the time the entire elite class of Wakanda was shimmying from on high while T’Challa fought for the throne of this Afro-futurist utopia (the first time this happens), I realized how wrong my assumptions were. I didn’t realize how much I needed this movie to exist. Just witnessing this much blackness - a proud, intelligent, secure version of blackness - actively enriched me while I was watching it. The power of representation isn’t lost on me, but I believed I was past the point where I would experience such gratification from a giant blockbuster. I underestimated how affirming it would be to see this much black prosperity on film. It’s amazing how impactful the casting of black actors in roles usually given to white people can be. I’m jealous of little kids who can look up to Shuri or T’Challa or Nakia and feel a little less ashamed of themselves at a young age. M’Baku’s capacity to be large and menacing and also capable of telling jokes about cannibalism is magical. I would watch all of these characters do anything for hours. Instant icons, all of them.  

Black Panther also solves the eternal villain problem that’s been flummoxing superhero films since Heath Ledger died. Killmonger is incredible. He is still a villain, since his endgame of choice is to start a literal race war, but his motivations and reasoning up to that point are totally understandable. From an outsider’s perspective, Wakanda is this hovel of selfish conservatism that does nothing to stop systemic oppression and kills anyone who whispers about their existence too loudly. Sitting pretty in their Vibranium-powered towers above the struggle. It’d be easy to resent Wakanda if you’ve never seen Shuri pranking T’Challa in her lab. The most logical emotion for him is anger. He went out like a G, too. That last line was perfect. I would have liked to see more of a conversation between Killmonger and T’Challa before he took over, but you can only hope for so much civil rights philosophizing in a blockbuster. It was enough to feel like the obligatory third act battle was had actual stakes. Black Panther finally made the Game of Thrones fandom sensible to me. Political maneuvering can be way more engaging than I realized. Blame George Lucas for that train of thought.

I find it hard to think about this movie in any critical sense because I’m so happy that it was allowed to exist in this form. After sleeping on it, I will concede that the South Korea sequence didn’t need to be that long. The “Andy Serkis is a Soundcloud rapper” goof was an airball. But anyone who would rather complain about about the scene’s usefulness as a plot device more so than celebrate the badassery of Chadwick Boseman and Danai Gurira is not to be trusted. Same goes for the fact that this movie has a sense of humor that can’t be reduced to just Tony Stark saying something snarky or tryhard quirkiness, Guardians of the Galaxy 2 style. They really let Ryan Coogler do that shit. Black Panther is the first Marvel movie that was clearly in the hands of an auteur, with a vision uncompromised by studio notes or the compulsion to tie itself to the rest of Marvel Cinematic Universe. This movie never feigns interest in the machinations of the Avengers or whatever wold-destroying portal they need to destroy, and thank god for that. The narrowness of the story lends itself to much more in-depth character development and a sense of place. It rarely feels or looks like other Marvel movies. Wakanda is too good for reality, but the open designs of the shopping areas and the impeccable fashion of the citizens tied into the history of African culture in a way that's easy to intuit. Shoutout to the Codeine Crazy-esque skyline in T’Challa’s first herb-induced vision. Shoutout to the guy with the giant disc in his mouth. Man had fits for days.

Even my mom loved it. I saw the movie with her and Danai Gurira’s performance was so good that she thought about shaving her own head in her honor. She also said she wanted braids like Angela Bassett’s character, but quickly decided against it because of the time commitment to getting such a hairstyle. But getting that level of inspiration from a Marvel movie spells out how special Black Panther is. I rarely watch movies with her anymore. Our tastes have mostly split as I’ve grown up. I haven’t seen her that giddy walking out of the theater since… ever? Her love of the movie really made it clear how special this moment is for the culture. I kinda hate that I said for the culture, but I don’t know how to end this.  Many thanks to Ryan Coogler and company for giving me that moment. Uhhhhhhhhhh bye.

[hedaswolf]

Ooh, ooh, can we get a sleepover chapter? Either El going to a friend's OR, a friend comes to stay at their house, or both.

part 20 of the clexa eleven au !

“Plaid pajama set or pink nightgown?” Clarke asks from her spot on your bedroom floor. She holds up both options as if you wouldn’t be able to make the decision without visual aids.

You smile, glad it goes without saying that you want to keep your Grounders tee safe at home. “Plaid.” She tosses them to you and you take your time folding the top and bottoms before placing them in your backpack.

The last time you and Clarke packed a bag together she was “anx-cited” about going to California to meet with one of her graphic design clients. This time you’re the one who’s anx-cited -- and the one who’s leaving.

“So,” Clarke says, “you gonna miss us?”

You shrug one shoulder and focus on smoothing out a crease in the plaid fabric in your lap. “It’s not far.”

“Mmmmhm.” Clarke arches an eyebrow and presses her lips together. “Well we’re gonna miss you, I’ll tell ya that.”

You roll your eyes and the two of you laugh and you try to sink into the comforting familiarity of the moment. But the truth is you will miss them, more than you’d like to admit.

***

Lexa walks you to Lily’s house. It’s kinda silly, because it’s just around the corner and you’ve walked there on your own plenty of times, but when Lexa offered you quickly agreed.

The plan has been in the works ever since you told Lily that your moms want to adopt you. You were standing in the schoolyard during recess, bouncing on your toes to keep warm. After Lily freed you from an extra-suffocating hug she told you, eyes shining with tears, that you have to tell her absolutely everything, but away from the busybodies at school. The only solution, of course, was a sleepover.

So Lily set to work concocting a detailed strategy to get her parents on-board and a few days later, when she gave you the all-clear, you simply asked your moms, who said ‘yes’ practically before you got the question out.

Lexa squeezes your hand as Lily’s house comes into view and you wonder if she can feel the quickening thrum of your pulse. You squeeze back and try to snap yourself out of it.

You’re a child of the system who’s slept in countless lumpy beds in homes run by some unsavory people. But Lily’s queen-sized bed is made of this magical material called “memory foam” and her parents are warm and cheerful, like their daughter, so you can’t fathom why the thought of sleeping over makes you feel a bit queasy inside. It bugs you.

When you reach the doorstep Lexa turns to you before ringing the bell. She cups your chin and waits for you to meet her eyes.

“You’re going to have a great time,” she says, like it’s a fact. “But if you ever want to come home just call. Even if it’s the middle of the night, okay? We won’t mind.”

You want to tell her you’re not a wuss, that you’ve stayed in far worse places without having anyone to call in the middle of the night -- you’ll survive one sleep in Lily’s fancy house. Lexa runs a finger over the crease that’s formed between your brows, and you remember that if anyone understands the kind of nights you once endured, it’s her.

“Okay.” The smile that seemed so far away just seconds ago spreads easily across your face. “I love you, Mum.”

“I love you too, El.” You sink into the warmth of Lexa’s hug, wrapping your arms around her middle. Then it hits you. “Oh no… I forgot! I got distracted by Waffles, and then the phone rang, and then it was time to go...”

You pull away and glance down the street, wondering how long it’ll take you to run back.

“You forgot something?” Lexa places a steadying hand on your shoulder. “What is it? I can go get it.”

You shake your head, that queasy feeling setting back in. “I forgot to tell Ma I love her.”

Just then the front door swings open and Lily’s mom appears behind it.

“I thought I heard voices out here,” she says, smiling at both of you. “Come on in, Eleven. Lily’s anxiously awaiting your arrival in her room.” She cups one hand beside her mouth and switches to a stage whisper. “I believe I heard rumblings about a blanket fort.”

Lexa must read the panic on your face because she pulls you in for another hug.

“Don’t worry,” she murmurs in your ear. “I’ll tell her.”

***

There are, indeed, the beginnings of a blanket fort in Lily’s spacious bedroom. Your friend sets you to work right away, and with each sheet you secure to a bedpost or light fixture you forget a bit more about your earlier misgivings.

The whole bedroom is practically covered in an intricate network of blankets and pillows by the time Lily’s dad calls you down for dinner. As you sit around the table with the family you can’t help but compare it to meals with your moms.

Lily’s dad made steak, which you don’t often have at home, but it’s tender and delicious. Lily dips her meat in ketchup, which her dad dubs “an outrage,” but he’s smiling when he says it.

Lily’s mom is more proper than either of yours. Throughout dinner she reminds Lily of her manners, instructing her to chew with her mouth closed and keep her elbows off the table. At first it makes you self conscious about your own eating habits, but eventually you catch on that Lily is mostly misbehaving on purpose, and that her mom winks at you each time she scolds her daughter.

All families have their weird little games, you think.

After dinner you head straight back to the blanket fort. Lily is one of the few kids in your class who has a TV in their room, and you purposefully built the fort around it so you can still see the screen from the bed. You lie on your stomachs on top of the covers, heads propped up on elbows, and watch cartoons on a cable channel you don’t get at home.

When Lily’s mom calls up that it’s time to get ready for bed a strange feeling settles in your gut. It makes you think of your first night in the group home -- an unshakeable notion that you don’t belong here.

But that makes no sense. You’ve been over Lily’s a million times. Your brain must be mixed up.

You and Lily change into PJs and take turns brushing your teeth, and something about going through the motions of the routine makes you feel better. Once you’re settled under the covers Lily’s dad comes in to tuck you in. He and Lily do an elaborate handshake that ends with kisses on both cheeks, and you hide a smile behind your hand.

It’s strange to see your bold and brassy friend in such a tender moment. When they’re done you think she might make you swear not to tell anyone what you’ve seen, but all she does is give you a toothy smile before sticking out her tongue. You grin back, happy that you have a friend who has never once doubted that she’s loved.

Lily’s dad leans over his daughter and holds up his hand, palm facing you. “Up top, kiddo.” You giggle as you give him a high-five, trying not to think about how the pet name makes reminds you of your Mama. (You definitely don’t wonder what your moms are doing at this very moment, or worry about where Waffles will sleep tonight. Absolutely not.)

After Lily’s dad leaves and turns off the bedroom light, you hear Lily throw off her covers and start rummaging for something under the bed.

“Ah ha!” she says, and then you’re blinking into a blinding light. “Oh, sorry.” She points the flashlight away from you as she climbs back into bed. “It’s just, I want to hear about your adoption proposal and I obviously need to see your face.”

***

In your and Lexa’s favorite show -- the one about a pawn shop that buys antiques -- the book expert often wears white gloves when handling priceless texts, to make sure she doesn’t damage them. You really wish you had a pair of those gloves right now as you balance “The Story of Us” on your lap.

Lily clamps a hand over her mouth as she squeals at the sight of it. Once she gets ahold of her excitement she balances the flashlight on a pillow and aims the light at the sketchbook. For a moment you worry she might try to turn the pages herself, but she wraps her arms around herself, like she’s trying to keep from bursting.

“Okay,” she says after taking a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

You take her through the story, letting her read each page before explaining what you were thinking the first time you saw it. At this point you practically have the words memorized, but reading it again through someone else’s eyes is thrilling. It doesn’t hurt that Lily squeaks and sighs at every little thing.

When you get to one of your favorite pages -- the one with “And now it’s time for them to live happily ever after…” -- Lily makes a hiccuping sort of sound. But you keep going, too caught up in your narration to stop.

“By this point my moms were a mess,” you whisper. “They were sitting on either side of me -- I think I mentioned that -- and I couldn’t look at them, but I could tell they were almost crying. My heart was beating so fast, Lil. I didn’t know what was coming next, but deep down I think maybe I did, you know?”

You turn to the page with the family portrait, explaining how you held your breath when it dawned on you that Clarke had drawn a glimpse of the future.

The muffled voices of Lily’s parents coming up the stairs make you realize you’re no longer whispering, and you pause in case they’re coming to tell you to go to sleep. A door somewhere down the hall clicks closed and their voices fade, but you keep quiet. That weird feeling has snuck up on you again and you can’t shake the thought that you’re not supposed to be here.

Lily cuddles in closer, resting her head on your shoulder, and pokes your hand that’s poised to turn the page. You scold yourself for getting too soft before continuing on.

You’ve read this story more times than you can count, but the last page still makes your eyes sting. It’s “the proposal,” as Lily puts it. When they ask if they can keep you forever.

“Well?” Lily’s voice sounds hoarse. “What did you say? What did you do??”

You let out a quiet laugh. “I burst into tears.”

You wait to feel embarrassed by the admission, but it never comes.

***

Lily’s out like a light the second her head hits the pillow, but you can’t sleep.

This house is too quiet -- it doesn’t have radiators that hiss or a cat whose purr rattles through the night. Your mind, on the other hand, is too loud -- you can’t stop imagining Waffles curled up alone at the foot of your bed, or mute the voice in your head that thinks maybe, just maybe, your moms are happy to have a night without you for once.

You know it’s not true. The evidence is there in the sketchbook tucked safely back in your backpack and in next week’s appointment with an adoption lawyer, written in block letters on the post-it stuck to the fridge. But you know two things can be true at once; your moms can love you and still want time to themselves. That’s what date night is, after all. But what if a whole night child-free -- Eleven-free -- makes your moms realize how much they missed being a family of two?

You squeeze your eyes shut, but all you see is a post-it note falling to the floor.

Dr. Kapoor once told you that when your mind starts going to a bad place you should try focusing on the present, so that’s what you do. You listen to the rhythm of Lily’s breathing, watch the clock on the bedside table turn from 12:27 to 12:28, note the scent of Clarke’s favorite fabric softener on your pajamas.

That last one makes you smile. Your moms got in one of their fake arguments over fabric softener once, before you knew them very well. It was one of the first times the three of you went to the grocery store together and you quickly picked up a pattern. Lexa was in charge of finding the items on her neatly written list, and Clarke was in charge of pushing the shopping cart and Lexa’s buttons.

Every so often, when Lexa was looking through the coupon catalog or scrutinizing a nutrition label, Clarke would wink at you and toss something unnecessary into the cart. When Lexa inevitably noticed the bag of Swedish fish or box of trick birthday candles, she’d roll her eyes and lecture Clarke about the importance of sticking to their budget and not straying from the list. Clarke would sigh and put a hand on her hip, but she gave up pretty easily, having already succeeded in her primary goal of annoying her wife.

It was in the detergent aisle that Clarke stood her ground.

She didn’t even wait for Lexa to become distracted before placing three boxes of Bounce “Outdoor Fresh” fabric softener in the cart. Lexa made a strong case -- they’d never used dryer sheets before and their clothes were soft enough, so there’s no need for the added expense. Clarke listened patiently before explaining her reasoning, which resulted in fabric softener being included on the grocery list from that day forward.

“My dad always used the same fabric softener and to this day when I catch that scent, it reminds me of home,” she said. “I want Eleven to have that, too.”

The clock on the bedside table turns to 12:29 and you yawn. You roll onto your side, hoping you might finally fall asleep, and something kinda sharp presses against the outside of your thigh. You wedge your hand between your body and the mattress and find what seems to be a folded up piece of paper in the pocket of your pajama bottoms.

You unfold it and hold it in front of your face. You can tell there’s something written on it, but it’s too dark to make out. It only takes you a moment to find Lily’s flashlight.

“Sleep tight, kiddo,” the note reads, in Clarke’s handwriting. “Can’t wait to hear all about your sleepover. I love you.” At the bottom she’s drawn a tiny walkie-talkie that looks just like the one you hid in her suitcase all those months ago.

You read the note a few times over, a smile stretching your cheeks, before you turn the flashlight off. At some point you must drift off to sleep, and hours later when you wake up the sun is seeping through the blinds and the note is still in your hand.

***

It’s one of those early spring days where you can almost feel the sun on your skin. Lily’s mom hugs you goodbye and you and Lily do the handshake her dad helped you create after he made you heaping stacks of pancakes.

Once the door clicks closed behind you, you look down the street toward home, and it’s like no time has passed since the last time you were standing here with Lexa, wondering how long it would take you to run back to Clarke.

And that’s just what you do.

Holding tight to the straps of you backpack, you take off down the street. The fears you had last night are still present at the back of your mind, but in the light of day they’re just phantoms of their former selves. You’re not going to let them slow you down.

When you round the corner and your house comes into view you go into an all-out sprint. Your heart skips when you see that moms are sitting in kitchen chairs on the front porch with a blanket over their laps and steaming mugs in their hands.

“There she is!” Clarke calls when she spots you.

You’re panting and feeling a little silly when you bound up the steps, but your moms are beaming at you, so you don’t care. Clarke puts her coffee down and holds her arms out to you.

She’s warm and smells like sleep and you whisper an hours-late “I love you,” into the fabric of her sweatshirt.

Clarke pulls you into her lap and Lexa angles her chair so that you can rest your legs across her thighs. Then they cover you with the blanket and everything feels right once again.

“Did you have a good time?” Lexa asks.

“Yeah. I did.” You smile, remembering pancakes and blanket forts. “But... sometimes I got this weird feeling.”

“Weird feeling, huh?” Clarke kisses your cheek. “What was it like?”

Now that you’re cuddled up with your moms -- who were waiting for you -- it’s hard to remember, but you try your best.

“I don’t know. It just felt like everything was a little off. I got it when I had to take off my shoes to go inside and when I helped fold linen tablecloths for dinner and when Lily gargled with this bright green mouthwash.”

Lexa squeezes your ankle. “Sounds pretty different from home.”

“Yeah, exactly,” you say. “It was like I liked being there, but I wanted to be home, too.” You shrug and focus on your nails. “But that doesn’t make much sense.”

Clarke loops her arms around your waist and pulls you back until you’re reclining against her, with your head tucked into the crook of her neck.

“It makes sense to me,” she says. “I got that feeling when I was in California, away from you and Lex.”

“You did?”

“Yep.”

Since you can’t see Clarke’s face you look to Lexa, who nods. “Sounds like you were homesick, El.”

“Homesick,” you whisper, feeling color fill your cheeks. “Wait... I didn’t get that when we went away for Octavia and Lincoln’s wedding.”

“That’s because we were all together,” Clarke says. “It’s a bit of a misnomer -- a word that doesn’t always mean how it sounds. Sometimes you’re not homesick for a place -- you’re homesick for the people who are your home.”

You think of all the times you got that feeling in the past -- in the group home and old foster homes -- and wonder if it’s possible you were homesick for people you hadn’t even met yet. “Well, we’re happy you had fun with Lily,” Lexa says. “But we’re also glad you missed us, because we really missed you.”

“Really?”

“You have nooo idea,” Clarke says. “We didn’t know what to do with ourselves. And you should’ve seen Waffles -- we had to give him a bunch of extra treats because he was downright depressed.”

You giggle and pull the blanket up to your chin. “We should probably have a family day to make up for lost time.”

Lexa beams. “I like the way you think.”

“Pajamas all day?” Clarke says. “Movie marathon? Ice cream for lunch?”

Lexa sighs and rolls her eyes, but you know this is one of those arguments that Clarke will win.

***

After a day of pajamas and movies and ice cream and cuddles you’re beyond excited to go to sleep in your own bed. But after your moms tuck you in, you sneak back out.

There are a few blank pages at the end of “The Story of Us” and you tape Clarke’s note to the first one.

[find-your-rp-partner]

Calling all Villain Enthusiasts

Hello! I'm Autumn. I'm a 20-something woman currently located in PST, but this is subject to change once I decide on a grad school. I'm a working artist about to start graduate studies in the fall, and yes, art is a perk if we're a good fit! Ignore my oblique bribery.

What I'm Looking For: I won't roleplay with anyone below the age of 18. Sorry! 

I'm looking for a partner(s) who has an appreciation for villainous characters, both playing them and playing against them. Beyond that, I'm looking for someone who appreciates the necessity of conflict to move the roleplay forward, and who is both generally active but also understands that real life takes precedent! It would be great to find all of that wrapped up in someone who wants to also get to know one another OOC. I'm a chatty (and I hope entertaining) person, and I do my most dastardly brainstorming/idea bouncing in an informal setting where I feel comfortable.

Basically, I work hard, I play hard, and I'm down for some awesome wicked villainy. Let's do this.

Availability: It's very rare that I'm not online every day. I do have a disability that can take me offline for multiple days at a time, but these episodes are quite rare, and if I am experiencing one I'll do everything in my power to ensure you aren't left in the dark. Perhaps because of this, I am incredibly patient and understand that real life is more important than roleplay. Having said that, I'd like a partner whose default availability is one or more responses per day.

The Basics: I'm a para/multi-para roleplayer, though I do not give a flying fuck about word count. My metrics for determining quality are a response which 1) satisfyingly responds to what my partner has written and 2) introduces a new element for my partner to respond to. I'm "literate," but I care way more about your ideas than whether or not you use an Oxford comma. 

I play characters of all genders, and all pairings. In an ideal world, you would as well, but my bare minimum is that you are comfortable playing either gender in a M/F pairing. I am able to play as many characters as needed for the roleplay, depending on how ambitious it is, and ask that you are able to play at least two characters.

I only play OCs. I prefer if we make our own world, but I'm open to playing against canon characters/in established worlds, provided the fandom in question is aligned with my roleplay interests (see below).

Properties I have more than a passing familiarity with: A:TLA/LoK, Game of Thrones (show), OUAT, Harry Dresden, The Grishaverse, Vlad Taltos/Dragaera, John Dies at the End, Alien/Prometheus, Marvel (films), X-Men (films), Batman (films), True Blood, TVD, Hellsing (show and manga), Pokemon (first gen), SCP Foundation

Format: I have experience roleplaying via email, skype and tumblr. I may be open to trying a different format. For OOC/idea bouncing, I prefer you have access to skype but I'd also be down with making a chatzy or similar.

Interests: Genre-wise, I comfortably occupy the realm of speculative fiction, and everything within it. I've done space opera, steampunk, swords and sorcery, urban fantasy, post-apocalyptic, magical realism, parallel dimensions, horror, etc. I love it all, if I'm with the right partner. To that end, I love in-depth world building and all that entails.

As mentioned before, I adore a good villain. I write the kind of villains where "Lux Aeterna" may as well start playing when they enter the room, because you just know something awful (but epic) is about to happen. I'm looking for someone who brings the same enthusiasm to the table, who can both play the villain, and play well with them. Kinda like a quid pro quo "you ruin the lives of my characters and I'll ruin the lives of yours" deal.

Vampires. Unrepentant, bloodsucking vampires. Incomprehensible, ancient vampires. Did I mention vampires? Overpowered villains. Heroes triumphing based on smarts and hard work, rather than strength. Unresolved sexual tension (particularly between a virtuous character and an irredeemable one). Mindfuckery. Detailed world building. The slow corruption of the heroic types. Twisted fairy tales. Psychological horror. Intricate magical systems. Alien/fantasy species with non-western moral codes/values/culture. The absurd. Fatal flaws. Everything deliciously horrific and/or tragic.

Content: I'm no stranger to roleplaying scenes of abuse, trauma, or physical or psychological torture. You don't need to be as open to this type of content as I am, but if all "dark" content is off the table, we aren't a good match.

Smut: For the most part, I'm ambivalent about smut. I'm far more interested in the foreplay and the psychology of the event, than the mechanics of it. If you're a fade to black type of person, excellent. If you enjoy indulging in the occasional smut scene, I am more than happy to accommodate. If smut is your priority, we aren't a good match.

Limits: Bodily fluids/excretions and explicit depictions of rape or gore are a pass. I'm not into the anthro/furry scene. As far as most fetishes are concerned, I can accommodate the tamer ones, but if you're looking for a partner for the primary purpose of fetish play, keep on lookin'.

Writing samples, if you're into that kinda thing. tw: murder, blood, mindfuckery, dissociation. These are actual roleplay responses, not self-paras or drabbles or excerpts from my novel, so you may have to infer context.

If you actually read all of this and it sounds like a grand ol' horrorshow to you, please contact me below:

skype: schmeddie. (with the period) 

email: winterroleplays@gmail.com

[survivingart]

IS THIS ART?

Countless figures throughout history have tried to explain this incredibly complex question: What is art? And more importantly, what isn’t art?

But still the institutions have no real answer, no common ground upon which they could define a normative of what defines art. Brut art is a problem, so are other outsider artists, and home schooled creatives that defy or just never become part of the institutional system. 

It’s the carpenters that put more than the usual love and attention to detail in building their “consumer objects”. It’s the iPhones and iPads and other designer products that always walk the thin line between art and function.

Then you have others that do not agree with the institutional idea that one needs to even be part of the system to be considered an artist. You only need to have ideas and communicate them with the world via your production.

And in the philosophy of aesthetics — the field that studies this question ontologically — there is even more confusion. A materialist philosopher that believes all reality is only material and no immaterial reality can ever exist, will tell you art is pure matter, pure reciprocity between the object and its perceiver.

But they might also say that art doesn’t even need spectators to exist — like the whole status of art is somehow imbued inside the object that it is representing. Almost comically, some believe art is a magical aura (but of course physical, never metaphysical or non-material) that lives in an object, a special part — almost like an extra organ of the body of that object — that pumps pure artistic energy through it and makes us instantly experience art, if we indeed are knowledgable and receptive enough to perceive it.

But it’s all a load of incoherent and over-theorised bull if you ask me.

For me, all of this began with Descartes, when he decided to divide reality into two connected but distinct realities: the material and immaterial world.

There are even jokes about how the common person in the street is always a cartesian — a follower of Descartes — even if they themselves don’t know it; all average people believe in a body and in a soul as two distinct entities.

Now, I won’t go into the fallacies of such beliefs too much as this is an art channel not a philosophy discussion, but just to give a bit of context, I’d like to present three interesting and extremely precise arguments for the contrary — that art is not an object, but an experience.

Because if art is an experience, we surely can come to understand that truly it is impossible to create a functional theory, a list of checkboxes that anything considered art has to tick to really become art, or even fine art.

The first is by Thomas Nagel, the author of the story titled What It Is Like To Be A Bat, who posed an interesting proposition: 

While humans can understand and imagine the behaviours of creatures, in this case a bat; merely being able to imagine how it would feel to be able to fly, navigate by sonar, hang upside down and eat insects, would never really be the same as a bat’s perspective. 

Nagel claims that even if we were able to gradually turn into bats (think Kafka, but more uplifting), our brains would not have been wired as a bat’s from birth; therefore, we would only be able to experience the life and behaviours of a bat, rather than their mindset.

To behave as something isn’t equal to being something, regardless of how much it looks, swims and quacks like a duck, the shocker is, it might just be a rubber ducky. 

And this goes for our language and communication problem too; I could paint a picture of an apple being picked by a woman somewhere in a forest. Some would see a nice lady picking apples, others would see the highly complex concept of Ancestral Sin. Same painting, same communication, immensely different results.

The next story, written by Frank Jackson is also about a woman who’s life is changed because of an apple — not because of eating it but merely by looking at it! Titled What Mary Didn’t Know, it describes a very curious lady who loved natural sciences — the field of colour theory especially. 

She knew everything there was to know about colours; their wavelengths, the numerous psychological effects colours have on us, the various types of receptors that are utilised in our bodies to see them … just about everything. But she had one issue. She had been educated about all of this in a black-and-white room.

Black-and-white books, TV screens, and furniture — for some weird reason even Mary herself is black-and-white, but it is a story and if it was OK for Little Red Riding Hood to be red, I guess Mary can be colourless too.

So Jackson argued: Even though Mary had all the same information about colours that we do, she had never really experienced them and was therefore missing one crucial piece of information; one important bit of quaila, as philosophers like to call these magical bits of subjective experience, namely actually seeing red.

Jackson proposed that when Mary stepped out of her room and saw a red, juicy apple, she not only saw colour for the first time, she in fact learned something new. Something that she couldn’t have learned through any text book or black-and-white YouTube video. 

She gained a new emotional and preceptorial experience — seeing red. (Remember all those people who told us that we can’t learn everything from books, well they were right in a way!)

And the last, and my personal favourite story curiously also evolves around red (philosophers love it for some reason). One of the greatest minds of the 21st century, John Searle wrote a wonderful tale about a talking room.

Titled The Chinese Room, this wonderful tale of speaking Asian walls stirred the lines of cognitive scientists when first presented in 1980. It describes a room, where one would input a piece of written-down information — be it a question, a statement or just a remark about the weather — and the room, after a period of time, would answer back. All in Chinese for some weird reason, probably because Searle himself said he’s awful at speaking Mandarin (The man speaks more than 6 languages fluently though!).

Well, the room wasn’t some magical artefact from a forgotten time, it was operated by one person. And the interesting fact was, that parson had no idea how to speak or write Mandarin. What he did have though was an assortment of instructions and guidelines on what to do and a giant library of cards with Chinese signs, decorating the walls of the room.

Whenever text was slid through the opening in the main wall, he would open the instruction books at the appropriate page depicting the combination of symbols (he was obviously really efficient at what he did and compensated generously for his job, probably owned a villa and a few Ferraris too).

After locating the right page in the manual, he would then find the appropriate cards on the shelves of the room, align them in the order depicted in the instructions and return the answer back though the slit in the wall. And the person on the outside would be absolutely amazed of how wonderful a computer this contraption was!

But the point of Searle’s work wasn’t to explain away computers by using miniature librarians living in our processors and memory units, he wanted to point out a simple yet profound truth about communication, computation and the mind. One that we have heard twice before, albeit in different iterations and with slightly different points.

Syntax (that is the assortment of signals; be it voice signals, written words or electric currents going to the processors of our computers) does not equal semantics (that is the name we give to meaning; the meaning of a word, a picture, a sign … anything that has some symbolical value to anyone).

The only true way to experience art is to, well, experience it. It’s impossible to not experience something if we wish to even try to comprehend it, let alone understand fully what it is about.

It’s like dreaming about something you have never experienced — I know, dreams almost never look like reality, but to be honest, our dreams don’t just appear as a beam of light from god or some bored alien on Mars that decided to give us a transcendental experience because we’re the chosen one to guide human kind into onto the next level of existence.

It’s all just pieced together by everything we experience during our waking days. Every bit of information was consciously or unconsciously experienced and internalised. It’s the same with art.

You need to be present, you are indeed the key to the question of: What art is? Without anyone to view the Mona Lisa, there is no art, just a peculiar object. 

Because to know what art is, we also need to know what art isn’t. 

But when does art stop to be? Or what if it never even become perceivable to us as art?

In the moment where there are no more men, no more women, and no more children.

And what happens to art then?

It is, like all that is created from an ego, bound to its creator. When he perishes, so does the essence of all his children, leaving behind a heap of empty material shells. But the intricate architectural dams of beavers, the beautiful patterns of various animals and the chirping and poems of all the beautifully performing singing birds. These don’t perish. 

Even if there is no man to hear the song, see the pattern and enjoy the complexity of animal life and their creations they still serve an immediate function. 

If there is a female Nightingale around, the song is heard, if there are beavers, they will enjoy and understand the dams and the tigers will comprehend their intricate skin patterns — each species forming its own personal language. 

And when they’re gone, so are all their features, all their creations.

And you know why? 

Because even if today the thought of a non-sociocentric universe is impossible for most, some things in the world actually weren’t made by us. Neither to amuse or to teach. And because of that, they can last quite a bit longer than our concept of art ever will.

Art is an experience, not an object. But it isn’t only a material experience — and no, I’m not saying it’s magic that makes us live and die, because the last time I checked nobody wrote Emet on my head and magically made me a real boy the way the golem becomes alive in Jewish folklore.

But the point to take home is, the more you know, the more you understand about the world around you, the more things will give you the same experience of art, of the sublime.

Because while surely not any object can produce the same power of artistic pleasure — for me it’s a mid-late Rothko painting, for you it might be a conceptual piece with hay and neon or a realistic portrait of Loui XV or just a nice handmade drawing of your child about how much they love you.

The object is only as important as our understanding of it. That’s why learning is paramount. To be a good artist, and even a good spectator we need to constantly expand our horizons. Because the day we stop learning is the day we create a canon in our life.

And as with every determinate belief that only so and so is an artist and the others are imposters, we inevitably become blind to the ineffable vastness of what art really is. 

Art is everything. But to the inexperienced and blind, it is less than nothing, because even nothing takes something form us, whereas a foreign object to a closed mind doesn’t even register. It is like it never even existed.

So to truly experience reality — at least a much of it as we possibly can — we need to stay humble, open and childlike in our awe towards the world. If nothing else, we owe it to either God or our parents or ourselves or just to the lovely abyss that the nihilists of us enjoy staring down.

We owe it to whatever makes us stand-up in the morning to give everything the world has to offer a chance. Maybe we will find a new thing we like, but it’s much more likely we’ll discover a previously completely hidden part of reality that was really just hiding in plain sight.

What is art then?

Everything for those of us that aren’t afraid to look.   

from Surviving Art http://bit.ly/2WJW4tG via IFTTT

[seekerandthewizard88-blog]

Show Up As You Are

On the topic of service:

 When I think about what it means to serve people, I get this deep sense of soul satisfaction. Everytime I help someone, I feel a great sense of joy and power fill me up from inside - a sense that my existence matters and is meaningful because I can help change the world for the better... and that is something that lasts forever. When I think about actually giving up my time, that's when the fears come up.... particularly the fear of not having enough... I barely have time for myself, how can I make time to serve the world?! Also, I don't know enough yet to have an impact. I have many reasonable justifications for why it's not a good time. It just seems unattainable to me right now. Or is it? Perhaps I am not widening my definition of service enough. Maybe I will not be the person distributing food at the local shelter or marching in a parade for awareness anytime soon. So what does service really look like for me? Because I feel like it's important, I need to ask myself that question or else parts of me are being left unfulfilled due to a sheer lack of willingness to spend time answering that question...

 I woke up this morning and took Ash's advice to listen to an inspirational podcast first thing, which just so happened to be season 1 episode 1 of Magic Lessons, 'Do what ignites your soul.' LG (Elizabeth Gilbert) says if your mother modeled creativity growing up, you become creative. If she modeled martyrdom, you become a martyr. I have seen this firsthand in subverting my creative, collaborative mission with spirit into many tasks that COME CLOSE, but are not the thing... 

 LG talks about her mother sending her and her sister away when she was working on a project. Both Liz and her sister are now writers. My mother never sent me away while she worked on something just for her. My mother constantly gave her time away. Everything she did she did for others. Watching this, I learned that service meant sacrifice, in this instance, to the point that I often wondered about what ignited my mother's soul. There were beautiful clay pots of intricate designs strewn about the house, and an old kiln lived in the garage where every night, my mother would pull the car in after coming home from work and park just up against it to fit into the space. Kilns I later found out were pretty expensive! One wouldn't buy it just for the hell of it. But she never turned it on, and my dad said it probably was no longer functional. She never sold it either.... and over the years it became a collection table for trinkets and dust. My mother made me her mission work and made no secrets about explicitly telling me this, but I wonder what it would have been like to walk downstairs and watch her in her element, lost in a spinning wheel, her hands glistening with wet clay. It brings tears to my eyes for her and for me. 

 I want to see my mother in her creative joy. I NEED to see it and know it as much as I want to remind her that it still exists. I want her to teach me her skills because they are also in my veins asking to be shown. I need to know how to access it, especially now. This talent suits her because my mother would be the person who can take an inanimate lump of clay and turn it into something intricate and exquisite with her eye for beauty and her attention to detail. She has always made something from nothing. I caught glimpses of it over the years, and I suspect my mother is one of the most creative people this world has never known. I'm afraid of what it will feel like to ask myself too late - what would that have been like if I put it into the world? If I can figure out how to crack open and pour the contents of my soul art into the universe, maybe I can show her how too. 

 LG goes on to say that serving others is great, but it should not be our REASON to do a thing. She says ultimately, service is collaborating with inspiration, because that thing that's gnawing at you... it's an idea that's coming out of the cosmos and has chosen YOU and is asking you to work with it...

 When I look at the archive of notes in my phone, peppered throughout my endless lists going back to 2014 is the phrase 'start a blog.' I have ALWAYS loved books, writing, words themselves, and creative expression. Somewhere along the line, I simply stopped. I had no time for creativity when I was trying to get ahead in life. It was time to become an adult. I needed to focus on a career and gain the technical skills to execute. I needed to focus on the 'important stuff.' So why did it often feel as if something was missing? Don't get me wrong, I'm so happy to finally be in a place in my life where I have a solid direction! I go to school full time to learn a craft that I believe in and am proud of. I have a wonderful mentor that I shadow who takes the time to explain and show me the ropes. My plate is so full! And I'm happy about that. But still... there's that gnawing. And in quiet moments, in inspirational moments, or in moments of despair, I would find myself writing something down here or there. It would just come out of me. And then I would go back to the grind.

 So when Ash asked me to start this blog project, I said yes immediately because I knew that working with someone else would make me more accountable to show up consistently. And it sure has. At that time, I had been spending a lot of hours reading about current research surrounding autoimmune disease, therapies, and even possible CURES (which I was told did not exist). My mind buzzed in clinic, poring over peoples' unique cases, discussing them with my supervisor, connecting all the dots in my head and then going home with more questions and names of researchers to read up on. At first I had all these ideas about how to heal myself, and I was consuming information round the clock barely sleeping. I read about herbs and scientific discoveries about the human microbiome, everything down to endocrinology textbooks to be able to decode some of the more technical scientific research papers... I was determined to get to the bottom of this once and for all and debunk all the misinformation myself! I would share the things that actually WORKED and offer hope to others.... and myself. I made myself a guinea pig. I would start to feel hopeful that I was on the right track, but then I would try to employ some of the techniques I was reading about only to have a resurgence of symptoms, and sometimes I was left feeling even more run down and exhausted. Mostly I just wanted to share breakthroughs and victories with everyone, but I was still dealing with a lot of frustration and confusion over which direction to go.

 Yesterday was the first day in the past 2 weeks that I slowed down. I received the suggestion that I was being too hard on myself and even 'militant.' I needed to hear that, and my mind quieted as I simply listened to another human being tell me her perception of how I was going about things. I was making all these BIG changes and giving myself NO ROOM for error. How stressful indeed.....

 I began to realize I never even gave myself a chance to simply BEGIN this new journey. New journeys always take time and patience, and I forgot that I cannot skip over parts of my process. Here is the rub now that I've calmed down and closed the books for the time being- Ive been in a space of really coming to terms with my diagnosis, what it means, and where its going from here. Simply deciding to do this blog and putting my truth out into the world had more implications for me than I realized. Most people in my life do not know that I have an autoimmune diagnosis. This is because I never told anyone. Especially not like this. I had been living my life as if the news I received that day simply did not exist. And for a while, I was mostly symptom free and didn't need to deal with it... so I didn't. I put it away in a hall closet and shut the door. I feel like as I'm bringing this out for the world to look at, I am also simultaneously looking at it alongside all of you, for the very first time.

 [insert deep sigh here]

 Since accepting this out loud, I have been flooded with emotions both pleasant and not so pleasant... 

 I stumbled upon a podcast yesterday called Invisible Warrior Radio by Adrienne Clements, which is all about living with chronic illness and how that affects your nervous system and stress levels. Addressing the anxiety piece, and RECOGNIZING it, has been super helpful to me. It was extremely validating to hear how anxiety is more a PHYSIOLOGICAL event than an emotional one. This echoes my experience of feeling as if I'm panicking for NO REASON. My nervous system starts firing and then I need to deal with that flood of hormones telling my body there is a threat to my survival that is imminent, which then lingers for some hours after. She addresses the fact that when we have a chronic illness going on, our bodies are AWARE that something is wrong and so we are constantly already in battle mode. This means even small stressors can have a more exaggerated effect on those of us dealing with chronic illness...

 One of the things I admittedly do is gauge myself against how others do things. I know better but it seems to be subtle and instinctual. I think I need to forgive myself for beating myself up for wanting to stay home and rest a lot of the time when I'm not working or going to school. I think about all the invitations I get that I end up turning down- invitations that I WANT to say yes to! The truth is, my body is constantly fighting a battle that other people are not. I am tired, and I need more rest than the average person. Especially because my plate is so full these days with everything I am trying to accomplish. I need to avoid bad foods and bad substances because the aftermath of those decisions is magnified for me. Most of all, I need to stop feeling guilty or like I'm not enough as I am... this is who I am, and these are my needs. And I'm allowed to give them to myself. I'm lucky that I still CAN. So Adrienne talks about soothing your BODY when you have anxiety, because of that crucial physiological piece. 

 Now that I was aware I needed to soothe my body, I was primed to resort to my bag of tricks when dealing with stress. I follow Doreen Virtue on facebook, and oftentimes it reminds me that I have a spiritual realm of friends and guides willing to help me if I just ASK. I have been going it so alone and forgetting to simply ask for help and guidance. She posted about the importance of self care (so fitting), and the accompanying graphic was a portrayal of Archangel Raphael, who is the Archangel of healing. I quickly looked up Archangel Raphael meditations on youtube and clicked the first one that caught my eye and laid down on my bed.

 As I listened to the meditation going from chakra to chakra, it made me realize and become aware of the energies I was carrying there. When I got to my heart chakra, and as the voice gave me permission to let go of anything I was holding onto that no longer served me, a deep sense of sadness materialized and I was suddenly overcome with tears. I cried very deeply for about a few minutes, and then I became aware of how much I have been feeling deeply afraid. Afraid that I would never be well again and there really is no cure. Afraid of the terror of these panic attack symptoms... afraid that maybe it isn't anxiety, and something more sinister might be dismissed as anxiety when it's really something more physical, like a heart problem.

 Then something magical happened that I cannot explain, except that I could FEEL that I was no longer alone. As I opened myself more to the experience and immersed myself in the energetic space being created, a thought came to me (some people call this clairsentience as I do not ever hear an audible voice) to pick up one of the crystals I have sitting on my nightstand. It was a piece of malachite, which incidentally is a vibrant green, and the color green is associated with Archangel Raphael's healing energy. I placed it on my solar plexus as that was the chakra we were now on, and then instinctively readjusted it over my liver where I sometimes feel pain. I kept feeling like it was somehow working on my blood. I felt compelled to continue working with this stone after the meditation. When I finally got up, I looked up the properties of the stone in a wonderful book called, 'Stone Medicine: A Chinese Medical Guide to Healing With Gems and Minerals' by Leslie J. Franks. Malachite energy works with the liver/gallbladder and stomach/spleen meridians. Also, the stone is used for purifying the blood and purging pathology from the body. The page number for this crystal was 333. 333 in Doreen Virtue's numerology system means that ascended masters are surrounding you and supporting you in this moment. All of my signs had showed up. I noticed that the feeling of constriction in my chest had let up, and I was able to take a full, deep, glorious breath. 

 (Sidenote here about religion: Doreen Virtue belongs to the Christian faith, and while I practice Nichiren Buddhism, I still think that spirituality is a deeply personal path and can oftentimes include overlap. I do believe in angels because of my own personal experiences, and I think that 'God' is whatever it means to you. Sometimes it is more important to work with the energetics or the theme of what someone is saying without getting too caught up in the dogma and religious aspects of it. If meditating on the healing energy of Mother Earth works better for you than angels, go with that instead!)

 Last night before bed I again did that beautiful Archangel Raphael healing meditation which I promised I would share with you, so here it is! Also I want to share with you the Invisible Warrior Radio Podcast I started listening to, and I intend on checking out her blog this afternoon as well. It's important to find people who are going through similar struggles for support. I am the person who isolates when I don't feel well, so I am going to give myself this gift of connection so that I have an outlet; a platform of understanding to land on when I'm feeling weighed down by my burdens. An unforeseen bonus, which I suspect will be one of many, of this blogging journey is that it has also opened up a new world for me to follow others who are putting light out into the world, and for that I am supremely grateful! I never really explored podcasts before yesterday... yay for expansion!

 I got the first good night's sleep I've gotten in the past couple weeks last night. I'm now aware that I have been working through some anxiety and probably PTSD surrounding my physical symptoms... waking up in the middle of the night with extreme palpitations and having to call 911 to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance is EXTREMELY STRESSFUL. Especially when it comes seemingly out of nowhere. And I only took two days off to recover from that before beginning my usual grind once again. I was pushing through each day on high alert that this could happen again at anytime. It caused me to feel more high strung, frustrated, and tired in a way that isn't necessarily outwardly visisble because of how I carry myself through the world. (This is why I love Adrienne's concept of an invisible warrior!)

 I have also been dealing with feelings of selfishness since I have been spending A LOT of time on myself lately. My mission is so tied to helping others, and when I feel down and blah, I think to myself- don't write anything right now in this state because it's not very inspiring for people to read. Hide yourself until you feel better. Hide your pain. Don't talk about your struggle. If you can't lift other people up, at least don't bring anyone down with your doubts and your fears.

 I want to dare to challenge that thought in my life. I think sharing our burdens, especially as women, is one of the bravest choices we can make. It helps us to connect to our authenticity, it brings out the authenticity in others, and ultimately it helps us to feel not so alone. THIS IS REAL LIFE. Own your experience because it is yours, it is valid, and it has a place and a purpose. Things happen to people and we should be able to talk about all of it. Service. How am I serving others today? It could be as simple as showing up fully and saying HERE I AM, and it's ok for you to also show up as you are. 

 Because I grew up the way I did, I value hard work. I value self sufficiency. Because of this I am often too independent and stubborn. But sometimes we need to take it easy and sometimes we need help. And neither of these things should mean we are failing, weak, or that somehow our value is now less since we didn't do it all on our own. When we feel isolated and alone is exactly when we need to reach out, because that light- that support is THERE. 

 I think the biggest takeaway from this past week for me is to listen to your own body. IT KNOWS WHAT IT NEEDS. It is so patient with us considering we don't usually listen until it's been asking for quite some time. Everyone is walking a different path. There is no one size fits all solution. We need to validate ourselves because no one else will ever know our journey as intimately as we do. We are the only ones who can give ourselves what we need. Listen to that voice that says we need to cancel plans in order to rest tonight. Listen to that voice saying we need more fruits and vegetables. Take a salt bath with some lavender essential oil if you've been dealing with a lot of stress lately. Love your body for all it does for you. You never need an excuse to care for yourself! 

 On that note, I am going to make myself a nice warm breakfast of gluten free grains, blueberries and cinnamon. I am not going to freak out that I spent the morning writing and I haven't had my morning celery juice on an empty stomach yet and I have to do that before I eat! No... breathe. My body is saying that we need to eat, because going through my morning stressing about juice is no longer part of my healing journey. Going through my days dizzy and tired because I'm strictly trying to eat only raw vegetables and not getting enough calories is no longer part of my healing journey. I need to feel energized and stress free, and that starts with my attitude and my intention. I can have my juice later this afternoon and all will be OK. I need to learn how to 'dance on the shifting carpet.' Life happens, and we need to be able to adjust and be flexible. Writing this morning was a priority. All we can do is to take things as they come and stay true to ourselves, showing up just as we are. 

 Thanks guys for all your support and for taking time out of your day to share this experience with me. I appreciate having a platform to share myself so openly as it helps me to grow and become more self aware with each passing day! I feel extremely lucky, I love you all, and I wish you a wonderful, healthy, blessed day!

 The Wizard