#but just know that underneath i am thinking of a hundred year old childrens novel and all it's associated adaptations

[welcometogrouchland]

I am going to be dragged back, kicking and screaming, leaving claw marks in the floor, into my Oz hyperfix when the wicked movie drops, aren't I?

[guccifloralsuits]

hi we were talking about books yesterday and i was wondering if you have any good fiction recommendations? 😇😇😇

Yes, I have so many! I broke them down into relative categories, so there’s a little mix of everything. Please read the actual synopsis before diving in though, as some have major trigger warnings.

Books considered “classics”

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston: a book which I come back to in hard times of my life. There’s something so…necessary about this story. Prose style was great. I would rec this book to every person I know.

Mrs. Dalloway by Virgina Woolf: I read this when my life seemed to be changing faster than I could keep up. Beautifully written. Came at a time when I needed it.

Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys: written as a prequel to Jane Eyre and a modernist masterpiece honestly. THE original meditation on the ideal of a Manic Pixie Dream Girl

The Color Purple by Alice Walker: you’ve probably heard this name from the adaptation. Let me tell you. This book deserves all of its acclaim. I think I’m gonna re-read soon.

Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austin: this is super mainstream for The Literary Circles but it’s for good reason, this book is just? Fun? An honestly enjoyable read? plus when I was taking my SATs way back when they had an essay section, I could use this book for literally any prompt they gave

Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë: this book is wild. Everyone is a messy bitch who lives for drama & I love it. I just finished it and omg

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath: my emo teen- girl rebelling ass ate this shit up back in high school. Is this book overrated? I don’t care. I love it for nostalgic value anyways

The Handmaids Tale by Margaret Atwood: startling beautiful lines. I have almost half this book underlined. A popular read in recent times, with good reason.

A picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde: I fundamentally disagree with everything written in this book. That is exactly the point. About being gay & sinning. I would not recommend this as a ‘light’ read though. Easy to get swept up in Wilde’s sharp wit & not catch the intentional malice behind what he says, underneath.

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez: I just. Love this. That’s all I have to say. Yeah.gif

All The King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren: The nihilism of Oscar Wilde but set to a political backdrop in the 30’s with stylistic prose akin what you’d read from Hemingway. Probably not for everyone’s taste. But right up my alley in terms of political intrigue. If ur a stuffy English Major with who likes books about corruption, you’ll like this.

Popularized books that are worth the hype they had:

The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls: there’s something so…engaging about the way this is written. It’s pretty much about kids who have to act like adults for their shitty parents. I couldn’t put this down though.

Dark Places by Gillian Flynn: as with all her novels, this gets dark. This gets ugly. An absolute thriller, & I can’t recommend her books enough. (You might know her from Gone Girl & Sharp Objects. This story follows similar tone). Honestly I rec anything by Flynn.

The Princess Bride by William Goldman: you’ve probably heard of or seen this movie. Well guess what? the book is even better.

YOU by Caroline Kepnes: aka the adapted Netflix series where dan from gossip girl plays plays joe, who is basically Dan but Unhinged. But like, the books are great. “Hidden Bodies” which is the sequel to this is even better, in my opinion. Just plz don’t romance Joe cus you saw penn badgley in a Netflix poster & were thirsty 4 him

Lesser Known/underrated books which could use your love:

A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley: A reimagining of King Lear, set on an Iowa farm in the late 1970s. Powerful and disturbing

The Gold Bug Variations by Richard Powers: specifically for classical music lovers. Basically a long meditation on supernal mysteries of music, specifically Bach’s intricate Goldberg Variations (you’ll wanna have the Glenn Gould recording to hand), & those of the DNA molecule (especially as a code to be broken) It gradually dawns on you that the two couples listening to the music and studying the molecule are themselves engaged in something strangely molecular and musical. You won’t always understand this book, but it keeps taking your breath away.

Ella Minnow Pea by Mark Dunn: did I buy this book solely because of this tumblr post? Yeah. But it was easily one of the best decisions I’ve made. The way he manipulates letter-language is wild. Woah. Highly recommended.

The 100 Year Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window & Disappeared by Jonas Johnson: a 100 year old dude escapes his nursery home a steals a suitcase full of drug money then goes on a giant crime spree. HIGHLY entertaining. We stan a King

The Sellout by Paul Beatty: probably the greatest satirical comedy written within the last 50 years. I said what I said.

Children’s/teen/YA books you should absolutely read

The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster: wonderfully creative, beautifully told. Takes abstract constructs and turns them into concrete beings and landscapes in amazing, engaging ways. Please read this. One of my all-time favorite books. Takes the protagonist, Milo, on a fantastical adventure borne through boredom on what he though would be another average day. Seriously. I love this book. So much.

Coraline by Neil Gaiman: another beautifully creative foray into a parallel universe where something Not Quite Right lurks beneath a pretty surface. If you’ve seen the movie adaption - great. Still read the book. It’s absolutely worth it.

Love that Dog by Sharon Creech: technically free verse poetry from the perspective of a young boy dealing with the loss of his pet dog who has to write poetry for a class assignment from his teacher. This is…so good. Oh my god. Oh my god? Poetry for non-poetry people.

The Giver by Louis Lowery: Listen. I know you were forced 2 read this in primary English. I know you probably hated it on principle. But this shit was all that kept me going, when I was younger. It made me feel so understood, before I could define trauma or the meaning of depression. This book made me feel seen.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky: ya know what? Fuck 2013 tumblr for dumbing this book down into a basic ass Grunge Anthem. I have never seen a book so adequately grapple with how awful romanticizing trauma can be. This book goes into the horrible side of adolescence in a way that’s genuine, and in a way which doesn’t put trauma/mental illness on a pedestal. I needed that shit, when I read it. I still love this book today. The lines will stay with you forever, after you read some of them.

All the Bright Places, by Jennifer Niven: this was another one of those books that I read in an essential time, which lodged into me afterwards. About two teenagers who meet while standing on the bell tower of their school, both contemplating suicide. Highly recommend. Prepare to cry.

You didn’t ask for Poetry but I’m including some because I am poetry TRASH:

Rice by Nikky Finney

A Thousand Mornings by Mary Oliver

One Big Self by C.D. Wright

LOOK by Solmaz Sharif

Poetry for people who think poetry is inaccessible to them:

New American Best Friend by Olivia Gatwood

Our Numbered Days by Neil Hillborn

Depression & Other Magic Tricks by Sabrina Benaim

There are literally SO SO SO many books I could also add, but these are the ones that came to mind. Bolded ones are those I especially love. Happy reading!

[nova-enjane]

Many days and many nights I have been ever so frustrated with myself, that I allowed such a wonderful and creative drive be annihilated by such a spiritual malaise. To have the passion I that filled me with a light to deafen even the largest of stars in the Cosmos, be drained. For years all I could do is mope and mull over my lost soul, the thing that drove me to live, a thing that was apart of me as much as I was apart of it. It loved me, I knew, but the heart is a fickle thing; an ounce of resistance and it's ready to cave. Or maybe I just wasn't well equipped enough to forge a heart of pure diamond, one marvelous and indestructible. Certainly, my years of stagnation can attest to this. So rather than take the reigns of my life and charge forward to carve down any challenge that entered the fray, I put up my blade and armor and shield. Eventually, this became destructive and more times than I am comfortable sharing with no more than a handful of people, I attempted suicide. None could be said to be serious attempts. I mean, yes, I was serious about wanting to kill myself, but cowardice runs both ways it seems.

     And the years moved on by with their humorous stride, laughing at me all the while, I imagined, as my youth would surely be wasted, and those beautiful Summer nights in a home I bought for my family would never come. We had even gone to Amana and Heartfield, Michigan to see if that would set alight some creative flame within me. Alas, it had not. My passion was gone, and who would be to blame for that? Everyone has a different answer for that, either sugar-coated or given with a lead fist to the heart. Thinking of who or what to blame isn't what matters anymore though because Spring has come once again. I will bloom once more! And the first thing I want to write about is a dream I had one night as I slept in my ex's bed, him the little spoon, body warm against mine, after a night of bed tumbling, no doubt. His mother asleep in the room adjacent to ours. The world was dark and everything was alright despite what demons I had been fighting at that time. Right then and there I could not have been more content with my life, I will be forever grateful for that. I drifted off to sleep with his plump body in my arms, knowing my arm would be nearly dead when I awoke. The dream I had, although short, filled me with the sort of seeking spirit I had so longed for. One strongly vivid.

     The advent of another night's sleep is always an exciting thing, like beginning a new novel or film.  For me, dreams served as a great respite from the pains of my waking world. No matter how terrifying, I was always eager to see what each night's internal play would be. For any artist, I guess, dreams would be a great source of joy and inspiration. I was always fascinated by the brain's amazing ability to translate waking experiences into vivid films where we or someone else star in. They're a part of our inner selves, our deepest emotions, thoughts, hopes, and dreams; they are a reflection of how we perceive the world around us. A microcosm of our daily lives, should I say? And besides my philosophical feelings toward them, I am just mesmerized by how wacky they can be.

     One moment you're back in school on the day your teacher made you call your mother in front of the entire class after your friend's new haircut urged you to connect your hand with the back of his head. Only this time she's naked, her breasts and sex laid bare for the entire world to see, and your principal turns out to be Godzilla in a suit. Or maybe you're a part of your favorite horror film, only this time your dog is the villain, your grandmother their accomplice. Maybe you dream of promenading through a city with your lover, everyone looks on in envy, it's perfect. When suddenly a dragon swoops in and terrorizes the city and it is up to you and them to save everyone. Then there are those dreams so utterly mystifying that they stick with you for the rest of your life. Dreams so unbelievably beautiful you never want to wake up. You think this is the world that's meant for you, you'll stay here, and your waking body can rot for all you care. And your entire life you may be trying desperately to recall that one dream, that is so perfectly envisioned in your mind, every night you fall asleep.

     Some people subscribe to the notion that our dreams lay in the astral realm, where our highest selves reside, and dreaming is just one of the ways we can enter this state. Ever the skeptic, I usually scoffed at such ideas; how could one know this, how could one prove it? But as I stood there at the end of Juniper Rd. and Falcon dr., gawking at what was an ethereal version of the woods of the park in the waking world, I had begun to doubt my own skepticisms.

   Dreams will always, no matter what, evoke awe in me with each new experience, but it wasn't only what I saw that struck me, not really. It is only natural that one encounters the insane, the irrational, the ridiculous, for that is their nature. All of it just felt so unbelievably real; the surging euphoria; the racing of my heart; the sweat beads that emerged on my forehead; the clenching of my toes; the breeze against my skin; my rapid breathing; and I swore there was a sweet pang in my privates. And tears welled at the back of my eyes; it was like nothing I had ever felt before.

   All of this gave me a sense that I was there, that I had simply left my lover's home and traipsed right on down Juniper for a casual walk through the woods. But this

was nothing like the park in the real world. Where in reality it was any old

plain wood, right before me was something far grander, far more beautiful than that.

   It was suffused with a faint golden aura, as if the color itself lived in the very air, living just above every other color, trying to overtake them. And the trees! Cosmic lord, they must have scratched the sky itself, they were so tall, their leaves were an odd shade of twinkling purple. Two massive sentinels flanked the entrance to the wood, making me think of two guards standing aside, permitting me entry into a castle of a great legend. I could see milky white spots dotting their bark.

   There was a voice, loud and powerful. Was it a sort of sighing? No, it sounded more like the musical humming of a woman -multiple women, in fact- sounding off in perfect unison.

I thought that maybe I had just died. maybe I somehow died in my sleep next to my lover, and this is my place of eternal rest, I thought as I beheld this heavenwood. Had I? I had no real basis for that assumption, but I felt this is what it must feel like after death.  

     I stepped forward, seemingly tugged forward, as if the wood itself was eager for me to enter, like a lover guiding their significant other to their sweet place. I was elated to once again be able to explore another strange realm, though underneath this I remembered a faint sense of dread inching its way into my body, like a cursed worm burrowing its way into the soil of a lively garden. Despite this, I took a step forward, and another, another, smiling as I did. The pull becoming stronger with each step. I simply had to go, I had to know what secrets may lie within.

Dreams have a penchant for teasing us, waking us up before the moment of climax, to deny us that one amazing moment. That is what I expected here, to be instantly thrust from this dream by invisible hands into the waking world. But as I passed the two sentinel trees I was surprised, yet ever grateful, to still be standing there.

     Being inside of the wood was like passing through a veil of darkness. Where the outside world was harsh and spiritually bereft, here all was immediately set to rights. There was a feeling all was right with the Universe, though something in the core of my being trembled briefly, like some other unknown emotion was trying to surface. It gripped my throat, tightened my chest, and pushed at the back of my eyes. Why should any negative emotion be felt when surrounded by such beauty?

      I looked up, from what I could see between the trees, the sky was an odd hue of gold. The trees themselves were turning pale, flecks of gold stood out on their bark like HIV blisters. There were white flowers growing under each of them, hundreds of them huddled together like lost children in a harsh winter storm. They were bent in dejection, but there was a force within them, trying to resist this, I could feel it.

       As I walked through the trees a caring breeze blew through the trees. I sucked it in at once, feeling at once alive and so at home. The air was sweet with the familiar smells of apples and oranges, of strawberries and lemon and pineapple mixed in with the aroma of the flowers. There were strange and unfamiliar smells as well, all pleasant. I inhaled this cacophony of smells and was once again surprised by how real this all felt. How absolutely right it felt.

    I gasped as I saw animals suddenly emerge from the trees on either side of me. They traveled solemnly, soundlessly, through the trees ahead. I could see that not all of them were critters of Earth, some, I was sure, was the fantastical creations of this dream world. They just had to be.

    In my dazed astonishment, I moved with them as silently as I could, for fear of disturbing something so peaceful, so serene, so amazingly wonderful. A rosy, iridescent avian creature with two sets of wings flew ahead of me, another, blue this one, flew after it. I walked among them for a while minute before some movement to my left snatched my eye, so fast I wasn't sure I had seen anything at all. I moved over in that direction between two trees, where under them pale and purple flowers were blooming. Or at least attempting to. I kneeled to take took a closer look at these, wide-eyed to see planets shining brightly in their pistils, Slowly turning on their axis. The sight was so mesmerizing, seeing miniature worlds in such pretty flora. That feeling once more arose inside of me, this time threatening to burst from my body, but I held willed it away once more. What was odd was that as this was happening, every flower pointed in my direction and stretched toward my face, as if trying to plant a kiss.

   Suddenly there was this warm pressure on my back, then I felt something lick the nape of my neck. What the everlasting hell? I thought,  trying to feel whatever had landed there. Then it was gone like a ghost. I whirled trying to see what had thought to make my back its seat and my neck its licking post. But there was nothing. The animals solemnly on their way, ever so quiet, paid me no mind, so I couldn't have been them. I waited for a moment. Again, nothing. Finally, I decided to continue my walk among the flood of animals. I only took two steps before something descended before me, moving so fast it was a blur. It darted in the air from side to side like an especially prankish fly.

      A moment later it slowed, moving up and down in the air as if it were traveling on small waves. At first glance, one could mistake it for a salamander, but a closer look told otherwise. It had to be no bigger than a human head, its body was plump, its belly translucent, eyes burning green opals. Its skin, I could see, was white, pearlescent and covered in mesmerizing patterns. The head reminded me of the glans of a penis. I tried making out more of its features before it began a series of flips and turns. It twirled in the air once again, arcing around and around twice, then curled into a perfect ring, spinning like this twice vertically, horizontally, then shot all four its feet outward, it's belly facing me. Its long tail swayed from side to side like a pendulum, glowing a faint and murky green, like a dying candle. It looked as if it had just finished a show of acrobatics and was saying "Tada!", waiting for me to give it applause. I did so with a smile of delight, chuckling; the creature was adorable, how could I not? It fell on its back -in the air, mind you- and rolled back and forth, giving off what sounded like laughter, sounding just like the winding of a music box key.

    Finally, it ceased its laughter, then twirled around my body and kissed my cheek with a faintly radiant tongue. It left a tingly feeling that was surprisingly pleasant. Then it went off a little ways ahead. Stopped. Turned to notice I wasn't following and made a series of noises that only made it sound eerily similar to a child, but rather than unnerve me, I thought the sound made it cuter.                                                    

     So I followed it through the trees, wandering beside the flood on either side of us, through trees of remarkable size and shape. Their purple, nearly black leaves swaying morosely in the wind.            

       As I went along with this alien looking salamander,  I began to notice more of its species. They crawled and swam on every tree, some seemingly asleep, some flitting about, frantically secreting some kind of fluid onto the trees from their mouths. We crossed a rusty and dingy bridge, under which was a dying version of what must be the creek. Along its edge were more of these creatures, desperately supping from what was left of its waters. The one I was following made a sound of dejection at this depressing sight, slumping in the air. And again, that feeling came to me like a hot arrow to the heart. Guilt and shame mixed in with this as well. I wish I could help them somehow. If this is a dream, my dream, then I can do something about this, I thought. I could conjure this substance for them to drink. So I crossed the bridge, walked down a dirt slope to the creek. The alien salamanders watched me, some licked their lips, others laid where they were, watching in anticipation. I held out my hand to the creek and concentrated, focusing on trying to spring life in it once again, to give them what they so desperately needed. Though no matter how hard I focused, nothing would happen. All of them made a sound of deep disappointment, all sounding eerily human, and this did give me gooseflesh. I made an apology, my friend resting on my shoulder, made that same sound. Some drank from what was left of the creek, while others simply flew away. I wished there was something I could do for them, I felt it was my responsibility to do so.

   My salamander friend flew from my shoulder, and so we continued onward to the Cosmos knows where, the musical humming never stopping, becoming stronger even, as we ventured deeper. This wood, or what I was now thinking of as a forest, was mighty sad indeed. There was a sense of great loss of something essential. One could see it in the moping lean of some of the trees, the desperation of the flowers at their base that wanted to bloom vibrantly. Even these animals that walked through them appeared despondent. We went on and on amongst the universe of trees, and as we went the singing grew louder and louder. Coming from everywhere, the sky and the trees, the flowers, the air,  the ground beneath my feet. And that pulling sensation, becoming ever stronger.

   We eventually came to a wide clearing in the forest, where the trees were sparse, destitute, their bark shone a shocking shade of white that was almost blinding. Some lay on the forest floor, curse-rotted and withering away, while others leaned, ready to fall over on their neighbors. The field was covered in billions of withering white and purple flowers. This was opposed by the fabulous golden sky above, that shone like a sunset fire opal, the clouds looking like great flying kingdoms that wanted to escape from this destitute land. Far ahead of me were three figures, girls from the look of them, floating in the air. A dark figure stood below them. Behind them was a tall glass edifice, poking possibly a hundred feet into the sky, branch pointed in every direction. There, the land rose slightly and didn’t seem to continue on. The humming lowered to an almost mournful whisper. That pulling sensation intensified here, I could feel it reaching inside of me, moving past my flesh and bone, reaching for my core, then seizing it like someone who has dropped an important item in some dark hole and has finally got a grip on it.

      There were many more of those salamander creatures here in this field, some of them looked nearly as big as a house, their bellies nearly depleted of that strange fluid. These two large alien salamanders began to fly around and around a tree, gnarled like an ancient grandfather,  leaning on a friend (who seemed to be lifting from its roots as well), who seemed to swear to carry both their burdens. They did this slowly at first, but they soon picked up to a suicidal speed, creating a sound like the high-pitch drone of hoard wasps. As they did this, the tree began to rise off its friend and re-root to its original posture. Its friend feeling ever grateful and resuming its original position as well. The others were also trying desperately to heal whatever sickness was ailing this land, exerting every last ounce of energy they had.

      Something feeling of profound gratitude welled up within me at the sight of this; there was a rock in my throat; my sinuses felt blocked by cement; my eyes began to sting. I fell to my knees and began to sob, the pain I felt was enormous, my body was shaken, I could not control it. My salamander friend glided to me and laid against my body, its arms squeezing me gently. I hugged it gently against my belly. It looked at me, appeared to smile, made that child-like sound again, then began licking the tears from my eyes. My grieving quickly turned to bewilderment, and then laughter as my tears were sucked clean from my face. It laughed its strange laugh as well, when it stopped, it bid me follow once again, into the field of pale, withering flowers, brushing my hands against the alien flora as I did. I could see that the pilgrimage of animals was heading this way as well, emerging from the milky sea of trees and from the sky above.

    What do we say when we experience something beyond our comprehension, that makes us feel like no other experience has? That there were no words to describe such a thing, that no human language has even one word to ever come close to conveying how an event made you feel. Sometimes I just think some of us lack the vocabulary for such a thing, or maybe imagination. Certainly, I am a victim of this as well, as many amazing moments, I found myself pulling from great murky depths for that one apt descriptor. Though words never need come to mind. Why should they? When your face, your voice, and how you felt is far more than enough to convey what words never will. Sometimes, that's all one needs.

   When we reached the three girls the singing stopped with an echoing sigh. And then the world took on an eerily quiet texture, like you could feel the silence. I stood in awe at this woman that stood before me, naked and odd and beyond beautiful. Her body swam with colorful nebulae and stars and galaxies. It was absolutely mesmerizing. I thought if I touched her I would simply fall through her, and be lost in the depths of space. She spoke to me. Her voice was like a cool breeze on a warm Spring day; it set my heart to rights instantly. She said she was called Cosma. “Great All’s tits, you have returned to us, after so long. All of you, those above and below, you see this? They have come again. Nnar will be ecstatic!” I turned to a great garden of creatures of all kinds, waiting in attendance. All gazing at me. Off in the distance, the alien salamanders did their work, tending.

   The three girls descended from the air, each looked about ten years old. One girl was black, one Asian, the last girl, white. This one stood between the other two, messy golden hair covered in the lovely iridescent white flowers, eyes blazing in the sun like purple fire. She wrapped her arms around the two other girls, pulling them closer to her. My salamander friend wasn't taking too kindly to her, making a low, childish growling noise. I cared nothing for that sly regard like she was privy to something no one else was. They were all wearing gorgeous dresses that must have been spun from the Universe itself.

     “Please don’t ever make us wait like that ever again,” the blonde-haired girl says. “Mother and the other gods have had enough of it. I mean, what the hell is with you? Look at this. It’s rotting!” The reproach in her voice was almost palpable, a sharp knife in the ear. It was enough to fill me with profound guilt and shame. I lowered my head. She shook her head, star earrings twinkling. “Tsh, you’ve got some good nerve. You get a good look at the shit you left? That ain’t even half of it.” Her dress twinkled with the light of multiple constellations of which I have never seen or heard of, against the backdrop of a colorful cosmos. All twenty of her nails were painted a glowing white. Her lilac eyes beamed at me, though her smile never faded.

   All I could do was apologize, to tell them that what I have done was nothing short of cowardly, that I will fight to never let it happen again.

   The black girl walked over to me, her large amber eyes showing nothing but the deepest compassion. Her dress moving and pulsed with the light of myriad galaxies. She had the cutest afro puffs and a wavy line of hair down the side of her face, on which glowing tree had been painted. She wrapped an arm around one of mine, some of her fingers covered in ornate cuffs. She looked at her sister defiantly, said: “What is done is done, Nissia, dah; now we can focus on healing,”

   “Now we can focus on healing,” Nissia mocked in an eerily good imitation of the other girl’s voice. “Fuck that!” She began to growl something in an alien tongue, looked with narrow eyes at the Asian girl, “Amaterasu?”

   Amaterasu skipped merrily over to me. She looked like a mix of Japanese and Korean. Her hair was in two large plaits that hung from her shoulders, bouncing as she came. She looked up at me, eyes jade marbles, with nothing but respect and love. She wrapped an arm around mine and said, “You did leave this place poorly tended, but we know you were in such great pain; you couldn’t have taken on that responsibility, as despondent as you were.” she said. Looking at their dresses made me feel as though I could fall right into them if I had a mind to touch them. The salamander I had been following rested on her shoulder. “But we must get to work. You have many years of it ahead, but we’ll be there, right alongside you," she said, with a reassuring smile, her lovely choker of many jewels glinted in the sunlight.

   “Mother, permission to destroy both her and Dolomiah,” said Nissia, as she held out her both her hands, the palms glowing brightly, two small bright orbs emerged from this light. They looked like small stars. “I shall make it quick, for they are my sisters.”

   Cosma put a hand on the girl’s shoulder and said: “You’ve had enough time to grieve; now it is time to weave out the Great Nexus and tend to your garden, for us and for All. You understand, me? ” Those bright eyes regarded me intensely, and I knew the seriousness of what I had done, but I had returned and now I had a job to do, one I could not afford to fail at.

   “And it all starts through there.” She moved aside, her arm outstretched toward their glass edifice up the small slope. It went up-up-up into the golden sky above, so reflective the world may have lived inside it, the sun appearing to reflect from within, the trees in that reflection were tall and beautiful, their leaves a lovely azure, the flowers were a shocking hue of red. What I saw almost made me weep once again, but I held my composure, I could not grieve again, that was over with. There was an opening at the base, inside it was nothing but blackness. This is where the pull had been coming from.

   Dolomiah and the Asian girl lead me up to the opening, the golden-haired girl following behind. That pulling sensation was no longer eager, it was demanding. I thought my skin, my bones, my utter soul would be crushed beneath that pull.

    "It'll be okay. Okay? My Brightest star, tell them," said Dolomiah. She looked at Amaterasu.

       She closed her eyes and smiled, tilting her head to the side. "You'll see some frightening things, but you won't hurt. Promise." She nodded and looked at the Dolomiah.

     “Promise,” softly, warm and comforting.

     "Tch, yeah, you two know that ain't true. Stop fucking with them and let's do this," the golden-haired girl said impatiently. I felt two hands push against my back and that was it. I was sucked in immediately It didn't hurt. Not in the way I thought, but there was emotional distress nonetheless.

Chain of Existence

   Universes and galaxies and stars and nebulae and planets all twirled upward, our faces changing color as we spiraled upward. I saw entire Universes born and then die, I saw galaxies being consumed by serpentine creatures, worlds colliding, stars collapsing, a red nebula in the shape of a dragon, it’s maw open wide, ready eat us, and then blackness. And then the visions started. I was thrown to and fro from scene to scene, each emerging around me as if they were coming up from an ocean.

   Winter was nearing its leave in Amana, Michigan, the weather felt relaxingly cool, the sky was a pellucid blue. There was a girl, her jet black hair tied in a ponytail with white baubles, blue eyes looked up at the sky, pale skin bright in the sunlight. Her face was a display of grief and agony. She was deep within a wood, in great emotional turmoil, forehead starting to swell. A small eye began to protrude from the middle of her skull. They both peered at me. She said, “Why me? Why? I am just a teenager! It hurts! Do you hear me?! It. Hurts!”,  and then they were sucked back into that black sea.

   Two red-haired girls, one younger and with glasses, are traveling with a special forces group deep in the ranges of Heartfield. They have come to a large cave. The older one is ecstatic. She kisses the younger one on the side of her lip. The younger girl looks reluctant, dejected even. She kneels to pet their dog. What have they just found? They too were sucked into the sea.

   Heartfield Michigan appears once more, and here I see a task force, led by a black man with glowing blue eyes. They are transporting a large mysterious box that hums and thrums as the drive through the woods. They have sent a small group ahead to scout for enemies. A woman stands on a hill farther away. She knows what is ahead isn’t just enemy territory. She has to warn them, something large a terrible lurks as well. The black sea took them before I could see what.

  A little girl made contact with an exquisitely made doll, it's dress an intricate display of stars and planets, its hair is long and nearly starch colored. The doll's face showed it was delighted to find a new friend, her purple eyes twinkling, her children also wanted to play with their new friend. Then the black sea pulled them in.

      A young Chinese woman works in the tallest building in Amana, it is night time and most of the workers have gone home. A black-haired girl is walking toward her office, the woman has no idea what is about to happen. Somewhere on the other side of Amana is a black man in his early twenties… He was the first I abandoned. He is walking home with his friends. A black-haired girl is following him home. And then they were gone into the eternal blackness.

   I saw a world, one as large as our star, in great and utter turmoil. The beautiful alien species had just had the largest battle they'd ever had to fight, the architecture of their buildings grander than anything I'd ever seen before was destroyed. One of their moons had been annihilated, shards of which scratched the surface of their atmosphere, creating burning red sores, as they made their descent to the surface. A man is kneeling on a battlefield, so massive I was sure he towered over everyone else when he stood, he was wrapped in muscle, swollen beyond belief. He was shaken with grief, his long hair concealing his face from me. He was holding a girl in his arms, her hair blue, her white dress in tatters, revealing her pale skin. A woman sobs furiously in front of him, caressing the girl's hair. There was another girl behind him, her hair blonde, eyes two great blue seas. She kneels beside him and tries to comfort him. She says a name. Ark, I think. There are many more floating above them, all quiet and morose. Suddenly he looks up, and over. He is looking at me, and he is livid. His beautiful features not marred but made even more beautiful somehow by his fury. He yelled at me, blaming me for what just happened, blaming me for all of it. He said he was going to kill me. And then he was gone.

   A girl sat barefoot in a chair in a garden of flowers and fruit, the smell is amazingly strong, the air hot and not at all unpleasant. Her hair was silver, she wore a cute dark red polka dot dress with a fluffy white hem.  She had her legs crossed and was writing fiercely in a large book. Her pencil was black, its eraser was as well, though it looked more like a hole. Suddenly she stopped, looked up at me and smiled. She had gorgeous crimson eyes. She lifted her pencil, the tip of which was a star, closed the book, sat back in her chair, and closed her eyes. A dog comes over and she pets it. She seemed at peace with herself and the world. I wished to achieve this state of being as well. And then she was gone as well, like all the others.

   The Blackness Dissipates

   A great egg laid hatched like a geode, nestled in a place beyond space and time, in the outer reaches of all worlds, all existence, all that ever was and will be. Deathly pale, the large slit revealed a deep dark purple, fluid gushed from this like a Cosmic waterfall, and from it, many unspeakable things were borne. We heard a wailing, we turned to it and saw something, something as large as life itself… So many eyes, you could hardly make out what exactly those eyes belonged to. This thing, larger than life, scratched against billions upon billions of Universes, bending them, pulling them in to meld with its form. I watched, terrified and fascinated. Dolomiah and Amaterasu both keened at this, overcome with grief and terror. Nissia watched as if this were an everyday occurrence.

   It saw us, it saw me. Hundreds of trillions of eyes large and small looked at me. I felt the essence of my very existence being analyzed and then stretched. I was being pulled closer and closer to its many eyes. One giant eye emerged, pushing against the others, its pupil expanded and then squeezed to a pinpoint. Lava raged in my head and I screamed, and I screamed, and I screamed. I was torn in two, my other self drifted into light that shined from its now widening pupil.

   And then I awoke.

   The light of early morning greeted me, the sunlight coming through the window a warm and caring parent, hugging my body as if it knew the terror I had just experienced. My lover still asleep beside me. I laid there for a while, contemplating what just happened. My body felt heavy, I was sweating all over, and there was this burning sensation in my forehead that quickly disappeared. And I couldn't be quite sure, but I swore I could smell the faint,  fleeting aroma of fruit.

   Years later and only now am I getting the courage to write this… I apologize, to those three girls especially. That weakness hadn’t yet left and I was mired in emotional turmoil. Now a book, intricately made book sits on my desk, a black pencil next to it. The tip where the lead should be glows with the light of Sol. Amana is quite warm this morning; it is perfect for the beginning of my journey.

[the-jennnster]

Novel Prep: Stars

I was tagged by @arynneva​!

First Look

1. Describe your novel in 1-2 sentences (elevator pitch)

A criminal and the mechanic she’s kidnapped start out on what seems to be a short adventure, but as they get to know each other, secrets are revealed and enemies are met, forcing them into a fight with their country in the balance.

2. How long do you plan for your novel to be? (Is it a novella, single book, book series, etc.)

This is (I hope) the first in a trilogy, with a couple stories expanding off of it because there are some side characters in here whom I think definitely deserve to have their stories told.

3. What is your novel’s aesthetic? 

Secrets admitted at midnight underneath the stars while avoiding all the shit of the world around you.

4. What other stories inspire your novel? 

@marielubooks​‘s Legend Trilogy was definitely a major inspiration. Cee, one of my main characters, is basically the Day/June lovechild lmao

ALSO HOW COOL IS IT THAT THERE’S GONNA BE A BOOK 4? AHHHH

5. Share 3+ images that give a feel for your novel 

(All of these images were stolen from Pinterest btw) 

6. Who is your protagonist? 

I have two!

Cee - A criminal who’s supposedly ruthless and cruel and has a dark past she hides from everything. 

Kyle - A mechanic who is working his ass off to support his family and isn’t used to doing things for himself

7. Who is their closest ally? 

Besides each other, Cee and Kyle rely a lot on the Specialists later on in the book. Among these Specialists, the most important people are: 

-Sixilia, a mischievous assassin whose past is dangerously intertwined with Cee’s

-Cat, a disgraced noble hardened by the struggles she’s gone through as both a trans woman and a mutate (my version of mutants lol)

-Blake, a hyperactive, happy-go-lucky disgraced soldier

-Hanna, a ex-gang member who’s lost everyone in her life, including her parents and girlfriend (who she was planning to marry)

8. Who is their enemy?

Daniela, a seventeen-year-old world-renowned genius, corrupted by an international organization hell-bent on destroying the American government.

9. What do they want more than anything?

Cee just wants to escape her past and be her own person, independent of the reputations she’s been forced to uphold in both the lives she’s led

Kyle just wants his family to be safe, to honor his mother’s memory, to let his sister live a life with choices, and to just be able to live.

10. Why can’t they have it?

Because Cee is burdened by the reputation of the infamous, cruel criminal she’s shaped herself out to be in her quest for respite and Kyle is struggling to work around the shitty governmental systems that make it difficult for a teenage boy to support his depressed, disabled father and toddler sister.

11. What do they wrongly believe about themselves?

Cee believes that she’s undeserving of love because of the things she’s gone through and the things she’s been forced to do in her life as a criminal and Kyle thinks his chance for a life outside of supporting his family is shot, seeing as he dropped out of school and has lost his chance at his own dreams.

12. Draw your protagonist! (Or share a description) 

Cee and Kyle were actually drawn by @hestray​, who I am very lucky to have! She’s my sounding board and listens to my ramble about this all the time!

Plot Points

13. What is the internal conflict?

The internal conflict revolves a lot about family, about what we owe to them and what we owe to ourselves. There’s also some classic morality about the value of life and death, and a sexuality crisis in there too for good measure.

14. What is the external conflict?

Daniela and her army, trying to dismantle the government, which would do the exact opposite of what she wants to do: put mutates on equal playing grounds with regular humans

15. What is the worst thing that could happen to your protagonist?

For Cee, if you told her that her brothers hated her, if you told her that her brothers had always hated her, if they told her they hated her... she’d be utterly wrecked she is utterly wrecked

Kyle would be a mess if somebody took his sister from him. Four years, he’s been fighting to keep her, to provide for her and give her a good life, giving up his own in the process. If she was taken from him, everything he’d done would be for nothing, and he’d be an absolute mess.

16. What secret will be revealed that changes the course of the story?

Cee’s real identity is a big one, because it’s a lot about her connections to Daniela and how big of a role she really plays in this whole “destroy the government” scheme.

17. Do you know how it ends?

Couple schemes, a few screaming matches, and a death that I hopes rocks people to their cores. I’d like to say I’ve got a decent idea, though things have changed.

Bits and Bobs

18. What is the theme?

I said this before for number 13, but it’s really about what we owe to our families and what we owe to ourselves. Cee and Kyle have very different approaches to their families, but both of them have made drastic decisions revolving around them. They each need to learn the balance between making decisions for their families and making decisions for themselves.

19. What is a reoccurring symbol?

The first one off the top of my head would be Cee’s hair, which in the beginning is long as a symbol to her freedom (because when she was young, it was kept short for practicality). At one point, she chops it off as a show that she’s given up that freedom and is back to working under someone’s thumb.

20. Where is the story set? (Share a description!)

The story is set in 2364, in a post-WWIII American Empire. The soldiers who fought in the war twenty years prior are traumatized and injured and their own children were genetically mutated thanks to the nuclear weaponry used during the fighting, causing them to grow up feared and discriminated against thanks to the deadly abilities that followed. 

21. Do you have any images or scenes in your mind already?

I have a ton of scenes in my mind and nearly a hundred pages written for just this iteration (which is the fourth so far). This isn’t even counting all the expansions I’ve scribbled down between drafts.

22. What excited you about this story?

I’m really excited to tell these characters’ stories, first and foremost! Each of them, the main characters and the Specialists, have a lot that they’ve gone through and a lot to tell the world about it.

It’s also a test of my abilities to write heavier topics. Cee in particular has gone through a lot of shit, so it’s new ground for me to be tackling some of this stuff, and I hope I do it justice and write it in a way that allows people to understand this kind of stuff.

23. Tell us about your usual writing method!

Usually writing for me starts with whatever idea’s in my head for the moment. If it’s a scene I’ve been bouncing around for a while, it might have a song on my playlist, which I’ll then play over and over and over until the scene’s written to my liking.

Props to anyone who actually read the whole post lmfao. It’s a lot of my own bullshit, but if you’re actually interested in my story and characters, I’m begging you to let me know! Always craving that validation

NOW FOR TAGS!

@thegirlfairytalesforgot​ is the only one I can think of at the moment, but if any of my lovely followers have a passion project they’re working on, feel free to do the challenge and tag me when you post it! I’m always looking to read other peoples’ ideas!

[thecycleista]

The Times In Between: Chapter Three

Notes: I reference Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818) and Mathilda (1820), as well as Bulfinch’s Age of Fables (1855). The publication dates of these novels do not mesh with the timeline (especially Bullfinch) in Frozen that I am working from. So artistic liberties have been taken. Basically just imagine that Iduna got a very early releases in 1816. 

And if you’re wondering if there’s any rhyme or reason to the time jumps, the answer is pretty much no. The Anna/Elsa/Kristoff timeline will remain the chronological constant, while flashbacks about anything before Frozen will appear out of order. 

Previous Chapter

Frozen: Canonverse

Rated: T

Pairing: Kristanna, Agduna, very Frohana

Word Count: 2,343

CHAPTER 3

The day that Iduna met Agdar was the worst day of her life. At least that was what Iduna was determined to believe when she woke up that morning. It was the day of her sister’s wedding, the day that she would loose Freya forever to a distant land. She was happy for her sister, but only as happy as one could be when they were devastated for themselves. 

Six years her senior, Freya had been like a second mother to Iduna. As a middle child in a flock as large as theirs, one was bound to be lost or forgotten. If it hadn’t been for Freya who was courageous and beautiful, the shy small younger sister would have been lost in the shuffle of life. It broke Iduna’s heart the day that Freya’s engagement was announced. In a way it shouldn’t have been such a shock for her to see her sister off and married was she was. They were from a large-powerful-family, and she knew that one day she too would be married to another large-powerful-family, as had been done for hundreds of years.

The Ehrensteg’s were one of the oldest families in Arendelle; old money, old blood, old land. Their home, Ehrensteg Valley was nestled in the valley of the East Mountains. She grew up instilled with the responsibility that came wth a family of her stature; and marrying strangers from a strange land was certainly a part of that. There was nothing she could do about that. So young Iduna spent her days doing as much of what she loved as she could: painting, playing piano, reading books, riding horses and making up stories with her siblings. It was a world she began cultivating at a young age, and one that she kept safe.

Agdar’s life, while it came with many luxuries, had few privileges. After the death of his brother, he was left an only child and the sole heir. His father, King Edvard was stalwart and immovable. Agdar was convinced that his father hated being a parent more than anything, and if it were possible to produce a fully grown heir to the throne, that it would have been more preferable to him. 

King Edvard was known as many things, but warm was not one of them. He was harsh with everyone. When it came to his relationship with Agdar, he focused on education, a military career, and preparation to one day be king. If it weren’t for Queen Maria, the young prince may have never had a proper social life. His mother was beautiful, charming, and the gregarious queen of society. And when Edvard was unable to attend the wedding of Freya and Frederic, she brought sixteen year old Agdar to the Ehrensteg Estate. 

“Iduna, there’s someone I want you to meet” Lady Ehrensteg said.

The forlorn fourteen year old girl had no desire to make friends that day. She was perfectly content to wallow in her misfortune.

“Your highness may I present my daughter, Lady Iduna.” her mother said, “Iduna, this is Prince Agdar” 

The shy girl instinctively knew to bow her head and curtsey.

“Your highness” she said.

Agdar was lanky, fair haired, and appeared to be just as mortified as her. He was awkwardly tall for his age, as if he boyhood body wasn’t prepared for a rapid growth spurt. He would find himself tripping over his feet, and clumsily knocking things over because he was unused to taking up so much space. 

Iduna’s mother felt that she could be a great beauty when she came of age. Pale skin, blue eyes, and rich brown hair, she was very pretty for her age. Despite her striking features, Iduna did everything she could to appear ordinary and invisible. She wore her long hair in a simple plait, and shied away from any adornment.  

“There aren’t many children your age here, so I thought Iduna could keep you company while you’re with us. My dear, why don’t you show his highness the library.”

“The library?” 

“Yes dear, you both love to read. It should make for plenty of conversation.” 

“Of course mother” Iduna conceded, “Right this way your highness.” 

Iduna had no skill at concealing her emotions. The best she could offer was not to be visibly upset at having to play hostess to a complete stranger, no less a stranger who she was obliged to pay homage to. If their guest liked to read, well that was one thing she supposed. But Lady Ehrenstag wasn’t telling the whole truth, there were other children, and surely one of Iduna’s brothers would have been a better fit to entertain the prince. Why would she saddle her with the future king of Arendelle, and at such an inconvenient time?

Agdar was happy to simply be out of his father’s earshot for the weekend. Apart from the actually wedding ceremony that had taken place earlier in the day, there was little for him to do. It was clear that her new companion wanted nothing to do with him. It was just as well. He relished the idea of finding a good book and hiding away for a few hours.

Iduna broke the silence, “How are you enjoying your stay your highness?” 

“It’s very pleasant here” he remarked with a shy smile, “And please call me Agdar, or Ag is fine too.” 

Iduna was able to manage a small smile in return. “Agdar then. The library is here, father keeps all the fancy books out for show, but I have all my favorites here.” 

She moved towards a cupboard hidden underneath a nearby windowsill. The shelves of which were tightly crammed with stacks of books. 

“Are these all yours?” he asked

“Most of them, yes. A few are borrowed.”

Agdar reached for one of the volumes. “I can’t believe that you have this” he remarked.

“You’ve read Frankenstein?”

“And Mathilda. Against my father’s wishes of course. He hates anything sensational or romantic. Can’t stand poetry or mythology, so of course those are my favorites.” 

“Mine too. Mother doesn’t care for them either, which is why I keep them out of way.” she clarified. 

“You have an an impressive collection” he remarked as he filed through the books “Clarissa, Mysteries of Udolpho, Zastrozzi, and ah… my old favorite Arabian Nights.” 

“I’ve have that forever, I think it was father’s, then Freya’s and now mine.” she observed

Agdar’s hands fingered through the familiar pages of the stories. “You know it’s funny” he remarked, “I’ve actually never met anyone else who liked the same things I did.”

“No one?”

“My brother died when I was ten. And after him there was no one to talk to.”

“That sounds very lonely.” she observed

“I don’t mean to make it sound all bad. I have some friends, all sons of my father’s council members.” Agdar said, “But what about you? I supposed it’s hard to feel lonely in a place like this.”

“I could do with a little more loneliness. There’s always people around, but that’s just normal. If I want to be by myself can just go outside, ride my horse, or go sit in the valley and draw.” 

Iduna felt more at ease moment by moment. She moved across the room to a drawing table near a large window, “Here, these are mine, I do them in pencil and water color. It’s too hard to sketch them outside, all the little birds and rabbits. They move too quickly thorough the meadow. So I like to practice drawing them from my books.”

“They’re lovely.” he said

“Thank you”

“I mean it though, sincerely. They all have a liveliness about them. They all look so innocent, so happy.” His hand lingered over a drawing of a mother duck and her two ducklings. 

“Do you draw? Or paint?”

“Not very well I’m afraid. I like to write music though.” 

“Piano?” she asked

“Yes, and the violin as well.” 

“I must show you the music room later” Iduna said smiling, as she realized she was looking forward to it. 

Before meeting Iduna, Agdar had never known anyone who like the same things he did. She was just as surprised as he was that they could spend hours talking. How she had wanted to resent him for being thrust upon her, for invading her space and taking her away from her self pity. Agdar was delightful and she couldn’t stop smiling and laughing with him. 

The next day she took him to the stables. In the valley where they lived, one could wake up and see the mountains all around her painted in green, blue and grey. The family was famous for the Fjord horses they bred. A keen rider, Iduna would ride daily through the lush valley and up to the blue fjord that jutted against the landscape.

Once the horses were saddled Agdar reach forward and offered to assist her onto her mount

“Here, allow me to help you” he said. 

Iduna was unprepared, both for the gesture and for her heart to skip a beat. Agdar kept a firm hold on her hand and waist. It was a sensation that she had never experienced before. She anticipated the end of their ride, only so she could feel his touch again. 

That night, on their last evening together they sat side by side at the piano. Agdar’s long fingers swept across the keys at an impressive pace. His brow was set and his eyes focused on the sheets of music. Yet, somehow in his tension he was able to create the most beautiful sounds. 

“Do you know any duets?” he asked

Iduna couldn’t help but smile. Duets were her favorite to play with Freya who had taught her. They switched sides so that she could play the high part. 

“Ready?” he asked 

She nodded and counted them off. And somehow it was no surprise to Agdar that Iduna matched him measure for measure. He was however overcome at the sound of her sweet soprano voice carrying over the melody. His father would have scolded him if he saw the blush that flooded his face. They laughed when both of their hands reached to turn the page of the music. 

“No keep going, don’t stop” she insisted with a laugh. 

“You’re so fast” he remarked 

“What can i say, I’ve had a lot of practice.” 

Agdar felt his smile growing. It was easy to be with Iduna, he was impressed with how clever and kind she was, but most of all she didn’t expect anything from him. Seeing a glimpse into her life gave him hope. As for Iduna, she expected the young prince to boring at best or arrogant at worst, but he was as far from both as one could possibly be. In fact, to Iduna, Agdar seemed the least arrogant person she had ever met. 

“We’ll be leaving early tomorrow, for home” he said after the music ended.

She found the words hard to form in her throat, “I wish you could stay longer, or come back and visit again.” 

“I hope I can, it’s not really up me. After I finish my studies this year, father is sending me to start my officer training with the Royal Navy. Maybe I can come back and visit before I leave.”

Iduna nodded her head with earnest, “Yes, you’re always welcome here. And not just because you’re the prince, but because you are a friend. A true friend.” 

It was the first time she saw Agdar blush. “That means a great deal to me Iduna. You’re a true friend as well, probably the first real friend I’ve ever had.” 

They both smiled. Iduna broke the silence when she got up to walk toward her cupboard. 

“I have something for you.” she said, “Since you love mythology, you must take this.”

She handed him a book titled, Age of Fables. 

“Your Bulfinch? I wouldn’t want to take from your private library.” 

“No, it’s for you to start your own. Surely there’s some secret place in that palace of yours. I want you to have it Ag.” 

Agdar was touched, “Thank you. I wish I had something to give you in return.” 

Iduna never had any expectation of him owing her anything at all. 

“You’ve given me a great comfort in the past two days. My sister is leaving us, and yesterday I was devastated. But, now feel better, thanks to you. 

Her heart stopped again when he reached out and gently took her hand in his. 

“May I write to you?” he asked

Her breath caught in her throat. “Yes, of course” she said. She could swear that he saw every pore on her face turn red.  

It was late now. Agdar offered to escort Iduna to the family quarters where her room was. It felt very grown up when he offered her his arm, and even more so when he raised her hand to his lips when they reached her door. 

“Goodnight Iduna” he said.

“Goodnight Agdar.” 

Iduna closed the door to her room, but falling asleep was the furthest thing from her mind. 

… 

Elsa and Anna held hands as they stood outside the doors. Anna hadn’t seen the inside of this room in years. After the news of the shipwreck came, she held herself up in their bedroom for days leading up to the funeral. Nothing had been moved in the years since, except for items that were owned by the state. 

“Are you ready?” Elsa asked

“I’m always ready.” Anna replied with a reassuring smile

They pushed the doors open to the vacant room. The bed and all the furniture were covered in dust cloth. Stacks of trunks were piled at the far end of the room. The windows were locked, shuttered, and covered in heavy drapes. 

Elsa felt a crunch underneath her foot. A stray mothball. 

Anna sneezed against the dust in the air. 

The silence was underwhelming. The emptiness was palpable. 

“Where do we start?” Elsa asked

[easttale]

R: Easttale Sans. Multi-Universal Nickname: East. Sans, alongside Frisk (nickname being North), is the main character of the Easttale AU. Easttale is a combination of Undertale by Toby “Radiation” Fox and Edith Pattou, creator of the book East.

Interact with the links below to learn more!  East (also known as North Child in the UK and Australia) is a 2003 novel by the author Edith Pattou. It is an adaptation of an old Norwegian folk tale entitled “East of the Sun and West of the Moon”. -Wikipedia.

Undertale is a role-playing video game created by American indie developer and composer Toby Fox. In the game, players control a human child who has fallen into the Underground, a large, secluded region underneath the surface of the Earth, separated by a magic barrier. -Wikipedia.

– Easttale is a story combination of both East and Undertale. The story is as follows: Monsterkind, after a great war, was trapped in the far North, damned by Humankind to be forgotten in the unforgiving cold of the arctic. Sans, a young but powerful Monster, is sent out of the North to find a Human to save them from their prison in the chilly mists. Forced through the Barrier and separated from his brother Papyrus, Sans was forcefully transformed into a polar bear incapable of speaking English (think of Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, when Link is turned into a wolf by force upon entering the Twilight Realm).

He embarks on a quest to find a Human born facing North, as North-Born children have a natural taste for adventure. But unable to communicate, Humans are naturally afraid of the skeleton-turned-bear. Hundreds of years pass, and Sans gains the reputation of the “Spirit of the North”, a spirit that comes regularly to the village to “kidnap” North-facing children and take them to the Spirit World. Enter Frisk, a North-born child. For years, Frisk’s mother fought to convince both herself and Frisk that they were an East-facing child, in hopes of not having her child taken by the Spirit of the North. However, Sans would not be fooled–and Frisk, young and unafraid of the non-threatening, almost desperate creature, follows him.

Sans just wants his brother back. Frisk plans on doing whatever they can to help. They are Determined to do so.

–

Sans’ polar-bear form coming soon!

No genocide timelines!

Frisk is about 15 in this AU. Sans is seen wearing sandals prior to being sent as Monsterkind’s Emissary, and red sneakers after being SAVEd by Frisk. Yes, I know the shoes look a bit strange. But it was also 2 AM when I drew this, and I really wasn’t nit-picky at that hour.

[brigdh]

Reading Wednesday

Rusty Puppy by Joe Lansdale. The twelfth book in the thriller/mystery/action series Hap & Leonard, this one picks up immediately where the previous one left off – which is good, since that previous one ended on a hell of a cliffhanger, with Hap seemingly in the middle of dying. Well, he's all better now and while I didn't particularly expect the series to kill off its narrator and co-protagonist, I really could have used some more resolution to that particular plot development. Ah, well. I don't read these books for their subtle plotting, I read them because the banter between Hap and Leonard never fails to make me laugh. For example: "You do look cool in that fedora.” [Hap said to Leonard] “Like I value your opinion.” “But you do.” “Do not.” “Do.” “So you like it?” he said. “Stylish, brother. You found something that works for you. I know how hard that must be for you.” “You’re still searching, though,” Leonard said. “Your daughter doing okay?” “Yep.” “That’s working out?” “Except she and Brett [Hap's girlfriend] have the colds from hell. I think it might be flu. Brett actually asked that I stay at the office tonight. They are seriously infectious. And I don’t want that shit they got.” “But you don’t mind sharing their germs with me?” “I don’t have a single symptom,” I said. “And I’m keeping it that way. I’m actually kind of enjoying being on my own at the office. Well, there’s Buffy [the dog]. It’s nice for a change of pace. Me and Buffy can play checkers until late at night. She hasn’t quite got chess down yet.” “You can stay at my place, asshole.” “I’m fine at the office. John and you might get back together, and I’d rather not hear you fucking behind the wall. I can’t enjoy that. I keep thinking something is in the wrong hole.” “Long as I’ve known you, you are still bothered by it?” “Not the gay, just the act. I don’t want to hear it going on.” “That’s the same.” “How do you feel about heterosexuality?” “Nothing against it, but it makes me kind of go eeew.” “Now you get it.” “I’m going to tell Brett you referred to her equipment as a hole.” “I was just speaking in a general way.” “Uh-huh.” “Please don’t,” I said. “I’ll consider on it,” he said. In this book, they investigate the murder of Jamar, a young man supposedly beaten to death in a drug deal gone wrong, but whose mother swears that something more is going on. The plot expands to include a conspiracy of crooked cops, the sexual harassment of Jamar's sister, an illegal boxing ring, an abandoned sawmill, a bunch of incompetent hitmen, Leonard's new boyfriend, a sleazy lawyer, and a deliciously creepy explanation for the phrase 'rusty puppy'. There's a slender feel to all of it, like much of it is only there to provide a setup for the fanservice-y climax wherein Hap and Leonard are forced to publically fight each other to the death. But since I quite enjoy a bit of well-done fanservice, that's not really a criticism. Speaking of, I also loved the new character of an eight-year-old girl who becomes involved in the mystery (warning for various language issues): The little girl came over. “You think you’re bad, don’t you?” She said this to Leonard. “Baby girl, I don’t think, I know I’m bad.” “Them boys hold grudges,” she said. “Do they now? Well, that’s going to worry me for days. Who the hell are you? ” “Reba. I was named after a white lady that sings.” “Yeah?” Leonard said. “Mama liked that cracker shit. I don’t. I like me some real music. I mainly go by Little Woman.” “You just made that up,” Leonard said. “Startin’ now, then.” “I like Reba,” Leonard said. “I mean the singer, if that’s who you’re talking about. You I don’t like at all, you little snot-nosed pile of rat shit.” “Leonard,” I said. “Kid.” “This ain’t no kid. That there is a fucking four-hundred-year-old midget vampire.” “Fuck you,” Reba said. “Fuck you too,” Leonard said. “You ain’t black at all?” “What the fuck color am I? This look like shoe polish to you?” “Uncle Tom is your color.” “Yeah, well, you want to stay in the goddamn projects and wear your own shower cap and house shoes and whine about the Man keeping you down, you go on and do it. Me, I spit in the Man’s fucking face, tell him it’s face wash, and he’s got to like it.” “I hope you get et up by a tiger,” she said, walking away. “Not likely,” Leonard said. “Leonard, really? You’re going to pick a fight with a kid?” “She started it. Ancient midget-ass motherfucking vampire.” He yelled out to her then. “I hope your fucking tricycle has a flat.” She kept walking away, and without looking back, she stuck her hand up in a fist, extended her middle finger. I suspect (and sincerely hope) that she will become a recurring character, which makes me very happy. Though really I want Leonard to adopt her so they become a mean angry kick-ass family of crime solvers. It's not a deep book, but sometimes deep is not what I want. For funny, light-hearted entertainment, you could hardly do better. I read this as an ARC via NetGalley. Mr. Potter by Jamaica Kincaid. A hard book to review, mainly because it doesn't really have a plot and barely has characters and it isn't even entirely clear as to which genre it belongs – memoir or novel – though the one thing it is closer to than anything else is poetry. Let me demonstrate with the opening paragraph: And that day, the sun was in its usual place, up above and in the middle of the sky, and it shone in its usual way so harshly bright, making even the shadows pale, making even the shadows seek shelter; that day the sun was in its usual place, up above and in the middle of the sky, but Mr. Potter did not note this, so accustomed was he to this, the sun in its usual place, up above and in the middle of the sky; if the sun had not been in its usual place, that would have made a great big change in Mr. Potter's day, it would have meant rain, however briefly such a thing, rain, might fall, but it would have changed Mr. Potter's day, so used was he to the sun in its usual place, way up above and in the middle of the sky. Mr. Potter breathed in his normal way, his heart was beating in its normal way, up and down underneath the covering of his black skin, up and down underneath his white knitted cotton vest next to his very black skin, up and down underneath his plainly woven white cotton shirt that was on top of the knitted cotton vest which lay next to his skin; so his heart breathed in its normal way. And he put on his trousers and in the pocket of his trousers he placed a white handkerchief; and all this was as normal as the way his heart beat; all this, his putting on his clothes in just that way, as normal as the way his heart beat, the heart beating normally and the clothes reassuring to Mr. Potter and to things beyond Mr. Potter, things that did not know they needed such reassurance. The entire book goes on this way, full of repetitions and a focus on oddly specific little details while the larger picture is left vague, only gestured at rather than depicted. Certain phrases occur over and over again throughout the book until they take on the feeling of a chorus or chant: a line drawn through him; Mr. Potter was my father, my father's name was Mr. Potter; Mr. Potter was born in nineteen hundred and twenty-two and he died in nineteen hundred and ninety-two; Mr. Potter could not read and Mr. Potter could not write. The story, such as it is, is about Roderick Potter, a poor chauffeur on Antigua: his parents (his father who never acknowledged him and his mother who committed suicide when he was young), the man who owns the car Mr. Potter drives (from Lebanon, with his own tragic history of exile), one of his customers (Dr. Weizenger, about whose past we never learn more than that he is fleeing Prague in the 1940s, but really, what more is there to say than that? – to say someone is fleeing Prague in the 1940s is to say exactly what they're fleeing from), Mr. Potter's own many illegitimate children, one of whom grows up to be a writer and becomes the narrator of this book. More than a story, it's a lyrical observation of colonialism, racism, poverty, sexism and broken families, tragedies carried down the generations, all the general global and individual ills of every life, and the ability – or the lack of it – to recognize and articulate such problems. And, most of all, whose voice will be heard doing so. I think I liked it, overall, though it's a weird book to grapple with. It's a very good example of a very particular thing, but if a 150 page prose poem about the narrator's unknown harsh-but-suffering father doesn't sound appealing, I don't think the actual experience of Mr. Potter will change your mind. Mount TBR update: 14!

(DW link for easier commenting)

[celepom]

Trollhunters Book Review

I did not like this thing. I can see the parts that remained in the animated show, but they improved on so much and for that I am grateful. Because if the show had been anything remotely like the book it would have been vile but even more tragically - BORING.

It goes without saying that everything under the cut will have spoilers.

The Writing Style

First of all, it’s written in first person and it really shouldn’t be. Like most YA novels written in FP it is done incredibly poorly and cheats that narrative several times. This is Third Person Perspective with First Person Pronouns and it’s really REALLY bad at times. The style itself is inconsistent and its hard to follow what’s going on sometimes because characters just drop out of existence/the scene when the author doesn’t have anything for them to contribute.

It is also gross for the sake of being gross. In the show the “Biology” of the trolls is at least consistent. They’re stone creatures. In this? They’re sacs of puss and goo that vomit up their own internal organs in order to be more sneaky. There’s shit, vomit, blood and guts everywhere in this book.

There were several points in this book where I could tell that it was both written by a man and for a male audience. It was very distracting, but that may just be personal preference. I prefer a more neutral narrative voice, I guess. (Think of it like a movie where the camera suddenly pans across the female character’s ass. It’s like that male gaze, in written form, but toned down because it’s YA)

The Characters

Man, you know all those characters in the show and how you love them and want to keep seeing them grow or have redemptive arcs? *bitter laughter* There is none of that here. Absolutely none, and it’s both frustrating and depressing

Jim

This guy has nothing on Jim Lake. He has no hobbies, no interests, he labels himself as a loser and is quite content to remain that way up until he finds his Magical Calling and suddenly for the first time something is easy and so he loves it. He’s a Gary-Stu, essentially. He is a blank slate for the reader to project themselves onto.

AND HE DOES NOTHING BUT WHINGE!! There is a difference between a character having a realistic reaction to dark circumstances and Whinging. Jim reaches Bad Batman Angst Fic levels about how NOBODY Understands him and he has NOBODY and he must GIVE HIMSELF UP TO THE NIGHT!

That is up until 3/4 of the way through the book when he suddenly starts deciding that being a Trollhunter is amazing (They start winning - that’s what causes his attitude shift), but even then he continues to WHIIIIIINE.

Toby

Toby at least had some redeeming qualities in the show. And you bought that he and Jim were friends in the show. Here? They’re friends because they’re both losers and Jim really isn’t that great a friend to Toby. And since this book is written in Fake First Person, he often gets ignored. Out of Sight, Out of Mind and all that.

Blinky

Oh Fraser Book Troll Dad you certainly came a long way. Blinky in the books is a (mostly) blind Troll that is a tentacle monster. When he starts talking it’s similar to how he does in the show - intellectual - but instead of being gentle, supportive, protective and instructive he....well he’s a condescending asshat. He also drones on and on and on (usually about himself/his dissertation) and there is no sense of companionship between him and Jim, because, well, he doesn’t know him! He’s also more of a fighter than just a scholar in this.

AAARRRGH!!!

AAARRRGH!! is actually female in this. Actually, it mentions that most Troll Warriors are female because they’re more built for it than males.She also has brain damage which was interesting until the book shat itself at the end (Her Brain Damage was caused in her fight with Gunmar when he slammed a boulder into her skull and the remnant remains. And then at the end the remnant is removed and suddenly she can talk “intelligently” again - to quote the book). In place of moments where AAARRRGH!! goes berserk we have her being possessed by Gunmar’s eye, which she ripped out of his head during their battle 45 years ago. Oh, and she eats several of Toby’s cats. Like at least 15 of them (”Three square meals of cat”). And it’s treated as a joke both times it comes up (FUCK YOU BOOK)

Claire

Claire was barely in this except as a love interest (and one other very stupid “surprise” at the end, but we’ll get to that). In this she is Scottish (Not British, as Jim assumed at the beginning of the book). She has wild hair, isn’t stick-thin, is “weird” but still makes friends and is fairly popular. But it turns out she’s living a double life - pretending to be a different person for her parents who want her to be an upstanding, rich, ideal young lady. But her true calling is to be a Trollhunter because like Jim she is from a magical human family of Trollhunters!!! (At least she had training in swordplay/fencing. Unlike Jim who pulled the skills out of his hobbyless and inathletic ass)

Jack

Jack should have been the main character of this book. Period. This story should have nixed Jim in it’s entirety because he was ultimately pointless. Jack meanwhile actually had stakes in the war going on, especially after being involved in it for 45 years. He unwillingly gave up his life as a normal kid to help in putting an end to the murders of nearly two hundred children. He’s frozen in time - a 68 year old man trapped in a 13 year old body - because living with the trolls stopped his aging (It was never properly explained why - it’s just what happened). It’s also his fault for Gunmar being back since instead of striking the killing blow 45 years ago Jack sealed him away. That’s why he stuck around for 45 years, out of a sense of responsibility.

The Major Differences

Jim isn’t the first Human Trollhunter. In fact Human Trollhunters have been around since ancient times and always have been the PRIMARY Trollhunters because up until around 300 years ago ALL Trolls were Gumm-Gumms. No joke. In fact, all of the Trolls in Europe and Asia are STILL Gumm-Gumms and only a group of separatist Trolls and their descendants (Trolls live a long time - 300 years is nothing) who traveled to the Americas are “Good Trolls” who think eating people is bad. And yet they relapse into eating people sometimes too.

Trollhunters are mythical lines of humans whom always historically heeded the call to protect people from Trolls who consider them a nice snack or meal if they take several at a go. One of these families is the Sturges, but since Trollhunting was basically non-existent in America they didn’t uphold any of the history, training, anything. So after tracking down one of the legendary families Blinky and AAARRRGH!! kidnap one kid (they tried for two, but the second one got away) in order to help them fight off Gunmar since the pacifist trolls had forgotten how to fight....Except they had an army and FWHFLIEHGF- IT’S STUPID, MOVING ON!!

And for anybody who likes the Changelings, they are completely different in this and not sympathetic, tragic, or interesting at all. How are they made in the book? By Nullhullers vomiting on the target to create a cast of them which then develops into a copy of that person (Baby) from the vomit and viscera. And then they carry the baby off...to be eaten. Yeah, I hold no notions that those babies weren’t tortured then devoured after being fattened up. Not in this book.

Jim isn’t living with his single mother, he’s living with his single dad. His dad who is a paranoid control-freak who turned their house into a bunker basically. There is a reason for this, his brother - Jack - disappeared when he was young, but it’s spiraled so far out of control it’s really NOT. OKAY. He also only starts coming around after a troll parasite makes him “feel better.” And after all these years when he discovers his brother is still alive he gets very creepy about it. Jim Sr. is no Barbara Lake that’s for sure.

There is no training, not really. Training consists of Jack demonstrating sword moves to Jim Once. ONCE. But that’s enough because magic inherent Trollhunter genes means he memorizes and knows how to perform all of those moves after being shown by someone else doing them once. THAT’S HOW INSTINCT WORKS!!

The Annoying Shit AKA The stuff that made me lose my suspension of disbelief

The Milk Carton Epidemic.

Troll Market is not accessed by magic (except when it is) and it is literally underneath the city. HOW HAS IT NOT BEEN FOUND WHEN IT IS LITERALLY CONNECTED TO THE SEWERS AND YOU CAN HEAR CARS DRIVING OVERHEAD??!! WE DO GO INTO SEWERS! WE MAINTAIN THEM! AS WELL AS ROADS WHICH SOMETIMES REQUIRE CONSTRUCTION!!

Trolls can fully regenerate within a day if their gall bladder is not destroyed (Thank you for getting rid of this, Dreamworks/ Del Toro/ Whoever)

There’s no Magic Armour or Weapons. The only armour anyone wears is by the character Jack and it’s made of scraps like tacs, boom box speakers, book coils, etc. And the “Medallion” is just a trinket that allows the wearer to understand what the Trolls are saying. Because, yeah, they don’t speak a Human sounding language. (That doesn’t get annoying with how it alienates Toby or anything. No siree)

Gunmar the Black was sealed away and Killaheed Bridge will release him....Except how, like I said, Troll Territories are literally underground and they walk through the sewers and old mines(???) to get to where he’s “Stuck.” (Again, THANK YOU for changing this to the Darklands because another dimension I can understand not being able to WALK OUT OF for 45 years)

Steve. STEEEEEEEEVE!!! I hate generic bully characters, but this one takes the cake. He abuses other students in front of teachers and they accommodate him to the point where he is disruptive to other students IN CLASS but they do nothing. He has even less personality here than in the show. And Jim doesn’t stand up to him until near the end because he’s a self-admitted coward, but even THEN He isn’t the one who gives him a verbal smack-down - IT’S CLAIRE. Oh, and turns out he’s a Changeling. So they can kill him at the end. *cough* Male Revenge Fantasy *cough*

THAT ENDING THO

I mean it when I say the ending was a fusion of Chekov’s Guns and Ass Pulls. You remember this thing that was mentioned back at the beginning? How about seventeen different things??? WELL SEE! THEY’RE ALL IMPORTANT TO THE FINALE!! But, Oh, WAIT that isn’t fun enough so here’s a bunch of stuff that wasn’t forshadowed at all (Pulled straight from my ass) but I’m gonna act like makes perfect sense!!!

And then they kiss while covered in and surrounded by blood and gore while Steve is casually killed in the background because I’M Special and SHE’S SPECIAL and that means we’re PERFECT for each other.

Oh what’s that? Did we actually save the day? What happened to the weird guy? AH WELL WHO CARES KISSING DREAM GIRL

No seriously was that half-asses sequel bait because it was just dumb

[aflyingcontradiction]

My scribblings: Qaetera’s blind spot - A report

Summary: We all have heard about the Blind Sisters of Ydea, but who really knows what these mysterious women are all about? Valia Eldren investigates. (Or: a little exercise in trying to write a story in the style of a news magazine)

Content warnings: Mentions of violence, underage pregnancy

Comments appreciated

Qaetera’s blind spot - A report on the Sisters of Ydea

by Valia Eldren

As the largest of its kind in our quadrant, the spaceport of Qaetera at rush hour is a sight to behold: Between the gleaming ships well-dressed office workers rush to meetings, ship mechanics covered in oil go about their work and dozens upon dozens of souvenir sellers try to peddle their wares to the countless tourists passing by.

A few times a day, a black shadow glides past the colourful masses, making both locals and tourists stop in their tracks, either to bow their head in silent worship or to take a quick pic for the folks at home.

This is the home of the mysterious Sisters of Ydea, also known as the Blind Sisters. Myths and rumours abound about the true nature of this order. A brief interview with a random sampling of tourists at the spaceport reveals both the horror and the fascination these women have left in our collective consciousness.

“They actually poke out their own eyes when they join the order, don’t they? I heard they do all kinds of weird rituals. Even human sacrifices. It’s creepy!” says a young woman while rifling through souvenirs.

“I always wanted to join them when I was younger,” says an older lady, “It’s the mystery, you know. It makes them very interesting. The way they walk about in those veils, you just know they know something you don’t. I’d nick my mum’s mourning dress to play dress up until my parents told me that only holy girls could become a Sister and I was nothing but a holy terror.”

The locals, however, have a very different perspective. When the topic of the Blind Sisters is broached, most of them respond with nothing but a respectful bow and a muttered “Blessed be Ydea”. After some searching, however, I come across Sylas Brindon* a mechanic who has been working at the spaceport for fifty years and who has a lot more to say on the topic:

“Without the Blind Sisters, blessed be Ydea, people would be dying in the streets. But you off-worlders are just obsessed with what is going on in their temple and you write your trashy romance novels about them.”

Sylas is, of course, referring to Renette Smila’s controversial bestseller “The Kiss of the Black Rose” which depicts the Blind Sisters engaging in ritualised orgies.

“Well, I don’t know what they do in their temple, either and I don’t care,” Sylas continues. “But I know what they do in the streets and that’s what matters! Let me tell you, without the Blind Sisters, Qaetera wouldn’t be a tourist destination. It would be a war zone.”

Having heard the opinions of worshippers and detractors alike, I want to get right to the source. This is not a straightforward task, as the Sisters are notoriously closed-mouthed. Some of those who have written about them in the past even claim that it is against the order’s dogma to communicate with the uninitiated about what happens in the Temple of Ydea.

However, if this is the case, not every Sister holds to it. After some weeks of searching, I find a member of the Temple of Ydea willing to be interviewed.

The Sister’s appearance is striking indeed. She is draped in a thick black cloth from head to toe. It seems to float around her rather than cling to her form, giving her a distinctly inhuman appearance. Her face is entirely invisible. It is not until she lifts her arms to fold her hands in the traditional greeting that I can make out the shape of a human being beneath the cloth.

It is unsurprising that the order of Ydea has been given the name of ‘Blind Sisters’, as it seems impossible for human eyes to penetrate the thick veil.

However, when I ask her about the rumours, she laughs and tells me that the Sisters can see just as well as I can. Despite their outward appearance, their veils are made of the fabled Qaeteran silk, a sophisticated material containing visual fibres, which works somewhat like a one-way mirror: It is perfectly translucent to the person on one side while giving the person on the other side the impression of solid impenetrable blackness.

“We have no identity of our own once we leave the temple walls,” she tells me. “We are but messengers of Ydea, here to do our duty to the goddess and her people. Our faces would only distract.”

It is for the same reason that the Sisters never use each other’s names while outside of the temple. I am, therefore, unsurprised that she is unwilling to give me her name and simply tells me to make up one that sounds nice.

Maeva* admits that not using names was difficult for her when she first joined the order.

“During the first few years, initiates do not leave the temple. It was hard to get used to addressing all my teachers as Sister when I was finally allowed outside. I slipped up a few times and got chided quite harshly once we returned to the temple.”

I ask Maeva how she came to join the order, somehow expecting a romantic tale of unwavering devotion to Ydea from early childhood. Her answer surprises me.

“I was in an orphanage. One day, a couple of Sisters visited. They interviewed all the girls and then took about a dozen of us. I was nine years old at the time.”

She tells me that the temple of Ydea picks its novices according to very specific criteria.

“Contrary to popular belief, piety has nothing to do with it. We look for girls who have lived through hardship, so they can understand the hardship of the people of Qaetera. And, more importantly I’d say, we look for girls who will be strong enough to withstand the years and years of studying. It’s no walk in the park.”

Maeva tells me she was fully inducted into the order at sixteen after seven years of training as a novice. She gives me some details: Novices read the Book of Ydea and learn all her rituals and prayers, of course, but they also study history, geography, mathematics, the sciences, they read and discuss the Greats and are encouraged to keep a close eye on current events both on and outside of Qaetera. They also spend a lot of time in rhetorics lessons and learn about psychology and conflict management. They even study basic medicine.

The list goes on and on. My head is already spinning when Maeva tells me that they also spend a significant number of hours every week in dance, gymnastics and self defence classes to learn how to move gracefully underneath their heavy veils. The mysterious floating gait that makes locals and tourists alike stop where they stand is actually the result of years of hard training.

“We don’t sleep very much,” Maeva says and her voice suddenly sounds very tired. She tells me that not all the girls make it. Some crumble under the stress and have to leave the temple.

“I suppose it isn’t the worst fate. Ydea has still granted them a better education than they would have had otherwise. They can make their way in life on that foundation and hopefully can live according to Ydea’s laws as laypeople.”

Maeva is the only one of the girls taken from her orphanage who ever actually became a Sister. I ask her about the initiation ceremony. She laughs a little.

“Everyone always asks about that these days. It’s that silly novel. People think we get up to scandalous things in the temple.”

“You don’t?” I ask.

“The initiation is a simple matter. The temple mother spends about half an hour blessing all new initiates and reminding them of their duty to Ydea and her people. Then we are sent out of the temple with the others. Orgies take a lot of time, you see,” she jokes. “And we don’t have time.”

Maeva allows me to accompany her on her daily trip through the city after I promise not to interfere and to keep the identities of any petitioners private. To get the most accurate picture of the Blind Sisters’ daily duties, I stay back and observe the events through a camera on a microdrone.

Our first stop is a nearby school. One look at the children is enough to know that every single one of them is dirt poor. Many of them arrive dressed in rags. Their faces are tired and their hands and bodies dirty from working to provide for their families. Nevertheless, they sit attentively as Maeva and her fellow Sisters teach them the basics of reading, writing and arithmetic. They also distribute food and provide the children with any other help they can give. I watch as Maeva hands a bare-chested little girl a new shirt and changes the dirty bandages on the arm of a young boy.

Classes finish in the early afternoon. As we walk to Maeva’s next stop, she tells me about the school.

“We teach somewhere between one hundred and two hundred children every day. It is hard to keep track, because they don’t all turn up every day. Sometimes they can’t take the time off for a few hours of learning, sometimes they are just too tired from work. Or,” here she pauses for a moment, “they fall sick. Some of the girls get pregnant. We try to help where we can, but there is only so much we can do with our limited resources. Sometimes they disappear and we never see them again.”

Our next stop is a soup kitchen. The food distributed here is all self-grown.

“I know it doesn’t fit the off-worlders’ idea of us, but when we’re not out here, we actually spend most of our time tending to or garden or our animals. Not quite the image people have of us, is it?”

Indeed, it is hard to imagine these graceful, featureless, practically ghost-like women hunkering down to dig in the dirt.

I ask how the temple farm is financed.

“Donations. A lot of the money is actually from poor folk, donating out of gratitude. We don’t ask for it, but we cannot reject it either. We do not want them thinking Ydea has rejected them. They give as much as they can afford, which isn’t a lot, but it accumulates. There are many poor people in this city. The rich Qaeterans mostly donate around the holidays.”

Maeva explains that this is a big problem for their charity effort.

“The Birth of Ydea and the Days of Blessing are both just a couple of weeks before our planet’s rain seasons start.”

And with them comes disease and homelessness, not to mention masses of starving construction workers laid off from one of the few jobs available to the uneducated. By the time the rain season is over, very little of the money donated for the holidays remains for the rest of the year.

The soup kitchen is so much more than just a place to get food for the poor of Qaetera. In a backroom, the Sisters give advice to those who need it.

“We get pretty much everything here,” says Maeva. “People wanting to discuss Ydea’s teachings and spirituality in general. People wanting help with their vegetable gardens because they don’t have money for guidebooks or can’t read. People wanting advice on debt, on love and marriage, on health problems and child-raising and really anything you could imagine. The other week someone wanted to discuss a mathematical theorem with us. That’s when all the education we get really comes in handy!”

It is odd to think that the members of this religious order are probably more - or at least more widely - educated than most university professors I have met in my life.

However, the next petitioner entering the dingy backroom requires much more practical advice. The woman tries to hide her face as she enters the room but the bruises on her face are clearly visible.

“We get a lot of abused people here. We ask them if they want to leave. If they don’t, we give them tips to keep themselves safe. If they do, we help them with their exit plan. We run a couple of small shelters throughout the city where they can stay for a while. Sometimes we escort people - even among the worst abusers, there are very few who would attack a Sister. Still, it would help if we had the authorities on our side, but they don’t really care what happens to these people. If a well-dressed person walked into their office looking like that woman over there, they’d be out there arresting the abuser in a second. But these people here get ignored. They only have us. And we can’t be everywhere, so abusers think they can get away with it. And they can. It never ends. … Would you mind not putting that in, please, I don’t want people to think Ydea’s sick of helping them.”

By the time the soup kitchen closes, it is late at night. I assume Maeva will be returning to the temple now but she laughs: “Oh no, we don’t get to rest that much.”

At night, the Sisters patrol the streets of the slums to prevent gang violence. They carry large red lanterns to make them visible even from afar. The light of the lanterns spreads a peculiar warmth through the dark streets, a warmth that spreads much further than the light of the lanterns should allow.

Maeva tells me that usually the Sisters’ presence alone is enough to discourage violence. Apparently I’m not the only one who appreciates the homey glow of the lanterns. Throughout the night, various shifty-looking figures sidle up to Maeva, but before I can even begin to worry about her safety, the figures greet her with the traditional bow and start chatting with her quite amicably about life, about their families, even about the weather. It is hard to believe that some of these people are hardened criminals.

“The world has given them up as a lost cause. We give them a chance and they appreciate that.”

It is a lovely sentiment, but sometimes it is not enough. As we walk through the streets, we suddenly hear shouting and gunshots. I hide, but Maeva immediately runs to enter the fray. Invoking the name of Ydea she throws herself between the enemies. And indeed, the shooting stops, as the gangs listen to Maeva. She does not have to say much, a reminder of Ydea’s teachings and an offer to arbitrate seems to be enough for this crowd. A single one of the gangsters lets his emotions overwhelm him and tries to jump a member of the enemy gang, but before he can, two other Sisters appear out of the darkness and wrestle him down.

The battle disperses. The other Sisters disappear, Maeva returns to my hiding spot. Despite the veil she is now visibly tired. She is no longer gliding, but limping.

I ask her if she got hurt.

“No, it just grazed me. I’ll get it patched up at the temple.”

Suddenly she breaks down sobbing.

“There’s always so many people who need help and there’s so few of us. We’re forced to do everything around here because nobody else gives a shit. Do you know how much I’ve slept this past week? I get about three hours every night! There’s just not enough time to help everyone. You do what you can and the next day it all looks the same. It never, ever ends! Sometimes I want to curse Ydea for bringing me into this life!”

I briefly feel tempted to pat her on the back, but she quickly recovers.

“Would you do me a favour and not mention this in your report? I’ve already told you far more than I should have anyway and if anyone from Qaetera figures out we’re stretched so thin, they might lose faith in Ydea and then we may well have a civil war on our hands. If they figure out it was me who talked to you, I’ll be in so much trouble either way.”

“So why is it that you decided to talk to me?”

“I have to talk to someone or I will go insane. You are the only one who will listen. Please.”

“Okay.”

I express my admiration.

“You need a lot of knowledge of the gang dynamics in the city and a lot of training. It isn’t as easy as it looks,” says Maeva. “But Ydea gives us the strength to proceed.”

The sun rises and Maeva finally gets to return to the temple to rest.

A day in the company of one of the Blind Sisters has made me understand what Mister Brindon meant when he said Qaetera would be a war zone without them. They are doing the work of Ydea, not by praying in their temple and performing mysterious rituals, but by going out in the streets every day and fixing the problems caused by the disregard of those who profess to care for this city. Mysterious as they might be, these admirable women deserve so much more than novels exoticising their order for cheap thrills. They deserve our appreciation of the work they do. They deserve our help in fighting the evil that is poverty. And more, they deserve our voices to hold those accountable who selfishly hide behind the Sisters’ endless work to avoid doing their own job.

* Names have been changed to protect the identities of our sources