#fiction story only

[denofbloodandlove]

Predator(s) and Prey

**Please note this is a complete work of fiction.  There are trigger warnings in this.  This particular story is 4 pages it is a bit long. Enjoy** Kate paced back and forth like a caged animal, her eyes constantly darting towards the giant three paneled frames that housed nothing but clear glass.  Beyond it: woods.  What the fuck had she been thinking when she signed up for this? She knew better! But fuck she needed the money.  Kate was beyond broke, so when she read the add that hung in the college square for the thirty somethings that were still lost as fuck in life, she jumped at the chance. The add simply read “You are the prey, we the predator” “Five thousand for the night, per predator. More details when vetted.”  Every single slip, every little column of paper stared at her as it swayed in the breeze.  Not a single person wanted in on this, but fuck, Kate hadn’t eaten is days, all her money going towards the ridiculously priced art supplies she needed for her one stupid class.   Kate had no one, unlike most of the people at the overpriced school, she was alone in this world, struggling to be an artist.  “Fuck it Kate do it.” Grabbing her phone, she texted the number that was neatly printed on the little slip of paper.  Within seconds she got directions to the place she was now at.  All it said was to be there promptly at 4 pm, so she could get ready.   Ready apparently meant that she would be pacing in this giant over expensive living room with giant glass panes overlooking the most forbidden forest she had ever seen.  But from her artists eye, it was beautiful.  Lush green trees grew thick together, so thick that it made the low light look black.  Kate could barely see through the branches, different shades of greens worked together creating a green waterfall of beauty.  Nerves ate as her, her fingertips in her mouth as she chewed down the quick of her nails.  She should just leave, right? What the fuck did that paper even mean?  Her red converse shoes would be wearing a hole in this nice hard floor soon.   “You already look perfect for the part Kate.” A deep voice echoed from a dark corner of the room, so farl she had to squint, her heart thumping in her throat.  Kate hand wrapped around her throat defensively as she stopped her pacing. “He….hello? Wh..wh..whose there?” She stammered over her words as fear ate at her, she could feel the pulse in her throat grow wild.  Her eyes hurt from being so wide, staring into the darkness.  And she watched in terror as a giant of a man stepped forth. Dressed in all black, the man was head to toe in tactical gear.  Pockets lined his pants, pants that ended in thick black combat boots, the kinds that hunters would wear.  His black tank hugged his rugged body, the skin that was visible was covered in vibrant tattoos.  Ink covered every inch, all the way down to his knuckles, the shirt he adorned was covered by some kind of black vest that held even more pockets.  In his ear hung some small piece of wire, it reminded her briefly of an earpiece.  But her mind was disjointed, not putting every detail together.  “Whadda mean” Kate stammered as she backed away instinctively, her ass hitting the glass she was just pacing in front of.   “You.  You answered the add.  The perfect little prey.  Already so scared.  I can see how the blood is flushed under your skin, giving you the perfect shade of pink. Your eyes wide, your breathing labored.  Did you know that panic makes the body feel dizzy, your muscles tense, tremble.  Your brain becomes too aware of possible threats and begins to become hyperactive. The midbrain, the amygdala become too overwhelmed.   You can feel it.  The fear. We can see it.  Taste it.  Savor it. Tonight, we will own it.  You answered, we called.  Predator.  Prey.” Kate began to hyperventilate, his words rattled around in her empty brain.  What the fuck did she do? What did he mean? Too much was going on, sucking in deep mouthfuls of air, spots began to dot her vision, she felt fuzzy all of a sudden. He was right, whoever he was. Panic, fear, terror coursed through her blood.  “It’s okay though Kate.  You texted, that initiated the contract.  Twenty thousand has already been funneled into the account you provided.  Four predators for the night.  Rules are, you run, we chase and we capture.  And when we do capture, we own.  There are no safe words. No limits.  No escape really.  Just primal urges and fear.”  The man held his hand up, showing a metal glint that shown off the lights, with a simple click, the panel that she was plastered against slid open, forcing Kate to fall flat on her ass on the massive deck outside. Scrambling backward, Kate almost crab walked backward only to fall off stairs that led to the soft grass.  Following her out the man smiled down at her, his grin more wolfish, predatory.  She was frozen in fear as he stood above her on the deck, his arms now crossed over his chest.  With another flick and click, lights that shown behind him went dark, immersing him in shadows that moved.  An inky blackness that moved and multiplied.  Blinking her fear filled eyes, her brain was playing tricks on her.  One suddenly became four. Four men, four giants, four horseman stared at her with hunger.  As one, they moved in sync, each reaching up and grabbing that wire to place it in their ear.   “It….it was an earpiece” Kate whispered to herself.   Shock flooded her already tight system.  Her nails dug into the soft ground as she tried in vain to calm herself.  “You have thirty minutes, it’s a head start to begin running little mouse.  The sun will begin setting in that thirty minutes, and then we hunt.” As one, the four men silently disappeared into the darkness, leaving her seemingly alone in the dying of the light. Tears sprang from her eyes, fat drops flowed like rivers down her cheeks as she bought her knees to her chest.  Kates arms wrapped around her knees to hold herself together as she cried in fear.  She could feel the hot sun on her bare shoulders, as if it was making fun if her. Slowly dying, allowing more of that dreaded darkness to consume everything.  Just like it did them, the Predators.  Her heart thumped hard in her chest.  Was she going to be hunted to die? No, they pai her.  Why would they pay her just to kill her? Plus they, whoever they were put a very public add out, one that could be traced.  Right?  Her mouth was so dry, her breath coming in too fast, she had lost semblance of breathing through her nose, her body taking over and panting out of her mouth. Swallowing she began to rock back and forth as she tried to think, to remember what he said.  They were going to taste? What did he say? Claim? What were they going to claim? She had nothing.  Nothing to give.  But. Kates breathing stopped as her mind finally fucking clicked.  The fact that she was hungry from not eating, sleep deprived from school and fear coursing through every single fiber of her being, her brain was sluggish.  It took longer for her to realize what they were talking about.  They were going to claim her, claim her body as theirs.  In the most primal way.  They were going to fuck her, rape her, fill her with everything.  Her brain screamed for her to run, run away now and as fast as she could.  Her heart the muscle that stopped momentarily began pumping so fast in her rib cage it hurt. But her cunt was suddenly dripping. A flood of juice gushed down, coating her in thick honey.  She had only been with two people her entire boring life. And both were less than mediocre.  So boring she didn’t even remember their names.   Kate shook her head as her body began a war with itself.  Fight or flight.  Fight. Flight.  Fuck.   “Tick Tock Kate.  Thirty minutes in now twenty.  You not running will only make it worse.  We chase, releasing energy.  If we don’t chase, where do you think that energy will be directed?  The dark voice whispered from the darkness of the house that now stares at her like a menacing creature.  A nightmare that was sent to terrifier her.  Kates feet kicked out sliding against the grass, her hands moved, her ass slithered across the earth, scrambling for purchase, but fear made it hard for her to gain footing.  With a low groan she heaved herself over.  Her converse slipping, running in place slowly, then picking up speed.  Her arms pumped as she began to finally run. And she swore she could hear a low “Good girl little mouse” as she ran to the thick trees. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Licking his teeth, he grinned.  Fuck she was perfect.  Ass that was round, tits that were bigger then any of their hands, when he’ll get to grab them, they will spill out of his palms.  Thighs that were thick, legs that were long, and hair that fell in thick waves.  Waves that meant he could wrap his hands in and hold her in place as he shoved his fucking rock-hard dick down her throat.  Her other holes used by his team.  Ripped open and stretched to the fucking max as they fucked her senseless.  Tilting his head, he barely glanced left or right. He and his team had gone over this hundreds of times, making sure that whoever answered their add would not get away. Move right, left, and middle. Goggles on, the light will be gone soon. Her eyesight shit, Fear will make her sloppy.  First one gets her sweet pussy.  Remember the rules.  Knives not too deep, ropes and bondage tight enough but not to cut off circulation. She must feel the pain.  She signed up for this fellas.  Lets hunt.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Adrenaline rode Kate hard as she ran. Her muscles burned as she tried in vain to dodge branches and brambles that tore at her skin and clothes.  She could feel what must be a million tiny cuts along her flesh as she ran blindly through the thick foliage.  She could not hear anything, except the pounding of her own heart, the rush of her own breath.  The light was now miniscule, filtering through the thick trees, limiting her visibility.  Her legs felt like lead suddenly, her blood like molten lava she tripped over her own feet and began to fall.  Her hands hit first, debris embedding itself into her soft palms.  Her knees crunched against pebbled and detritus shooting pain up her spine.  Yelping she rolled, hitting broken shrubs from a life that grew too fast for little things.  Rolling, she finally came to an agonizing halt.  Fresh tears dotted her eyes, her poor addled brain confused.  Blinking rapidly, silence descended.  Not a single thing made a sound.  It was as if the forest itself was waiting for something to happen.  For her heart to explode, for her brain to leak from her ears.  For her to shove her hand down her pants and fuck herself into a screaming rage.  Gods this was so fucking weird.  But the night decided for her when a twig suddenly snapped from behind her. Rolling over she kicked her feet, her foot she realized was shoeless, lost in the tumble through leaves and dirt. Her toes dug into mud, giving her some form of grip but as she was just beginning to hurl herself forward, a tight hand gripped her ankle and yanked her down.   Loudly screaming, another set of hands wrapped around her throat, silencing her.   Kate kicked out, eliciting a heavy grunt and she fell forward, the hand at her throat loosening momentarily, giving her enough time to push and run. Laughter echoing behind her.   -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- He had her in his palm, felt her erratic pulse under his fingers, beating like a hummingbirds wings.  So fast it felt like she was flying under his palm.  The night vision goggles shown her pupils were blown, so large they enveloped any color she may have had.  The sun was completely gone now, she was running blind while they watched.  He knew like him all their cocks were hard, ready.  They couldn’t wait to capture her, string her up, cut the clothes from her body and fuck her raw and hard against the woods.  Sweat beaded his brow, his lips and down his spine. “Go around, track her and surprise her.  She’s headed towards the cabin.   -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kate was lost, dazed, terrified, tired. She had fallen too many times to count, her hands hurt, her knees bled and somehow, somewhere she twisted an ankle. Her hands clawed at the trees surrounding her.  She couldn’t see shit.  But she was not expecting a tight hand in her hair wrenching her head back hard enough she saw stars.  Screaming in horror, she tried to kick again but heard a tsk.  Each ankle was lifted, legs spread.  Her knees bent and bucked under the intense strength.  In her ear, she felt a puff of hot air, followed by the words “Found you little mouse.”   Hands gripped her roughly, keeping her immobile as they worked quickly.  Her other shoe was ripped off, something tight wrapped around her ankle, then the other and she was suddenly dropped.  Her bad ankle giving out. Her hands, arms though were still held tightly, her wrist burning suddenly with abrasiveness.  Screaming into the night her slow brain once again caught up too late she was being tied up, her back arched as her arms are wrenched up and back.  Her back slammed against the tree rough bark speared her thin shirt.  Tears flowed freely from her eyes as her heart exploded behind her sternum, but every single fucking sound stopped when her heard the sound of zipper teeth echo into the night. Part 2 coming soon.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

Lackadaisy Enrichment

[bookshelfdreams]

That is certainly - a statement.

What about Jim, who both metaphorically and literally discovers a path for themself beyond what they were raised to be? What about Pete, who learns to overcome his toxic masculinity, his posturing and self-importance? What about Ed, whose entire story is about deconstructing the performance that is expected of him?

What about, oh, idk, our main fucking character Stede Bonnet, whose arc starts with him literally breaking out from the hetero marriage he was forced into despite never fitting in? Who tries (and initially fails) to build a community where he can be himself? Whose entire story is about discovering his own queerness! He starts out not even able to put a finger on WHY his marriage made him feel so suffocated, and then journeys through s1 until he reaches the emotional climax - "His name is Ed"!

Contrast that with Izzy, who has to be dragged into a supportive community kicking and screaming. Who rejects care and compassion, even at his worst, who has to be forced to accept help. He receives the leg and calls the crew a homophobic slur for it, ffs. Only after that, only when people refuse to let him push them away, is he able to poke his nose into something approaching positive human connections. And that's a powerful narrative, sure, in it's own way; but it's hardly the Ultimate Queer Experience, and it's definitely not the "only queer arc".

And Izzy never lets go of the old ways. He never abandons the Blackbeard-era pirate lifestyle for something more positive, not fully. And that's okay, because ultimately, his arc isn't even about himself.

It's about Ed.

Ed keeps repeating toxic relationship patterns, and Izzy is a part of that. He's linked (on purpose, and I wish it had been done more explicitly) to Ed's father; because Izzy represents the poison that was instilled in Ed from a young age, and that has become so entrenched in his system that he can't imagine a life without it. He keeps Izzy around despite being hurt by him because Izzy is predictable, and in that, is safe, even though he hurts Ed; at least it's a hurt Ed is familiar with and can rely on.

When Izzy slowly changes it's to show that Ed is growing beyond the little voice in his head telling him to reject softness, that he can never be loved, that We're just not these kinds of people. If Izzy can evolve from someone spitting boyfriend at Ed like it's a slur to someone congratulating him on getting laid by that same person, Ed can overcome his inner demons telling him the same thing.

That's the point of Izzy's arc. And this is why he has to die, because Ed can never be truly free as long as Izzy is around. So Izzy goes, quietly, peacefully, and releases Ed of the poison; apologizes to him, tells him I was so wrong, and I am so sorry, because that's what Ed needs to hear to move forward.

And that's such a kind, positive way to end the story of Izzy Hands.

[hedgehog-moss]

My top 10 nonfiction reads of 2023 (the asterisked ones are in French with no translation as of yet) :

Belle Greene, Alexandra Lapierre

The Indomitable Marie-Antoinette, Simone Bertière

Reporter: A Memoir, Seymour Hersh

Red Carpet: Hollywood, China and the Global Battle for Cultural Supremacy, Erich Schwartzel

Empire of Pain: The Secret History of the Sackler Dynasty, Patrick Keefe

Servir les riches, Alizée Delpierre*

La Comtesse Greffulhe : L’ombre des Guermantes, Laure Hillerin*

Le Courage de la nuance, Jean Birnbaum*

The Book Collectors of Daraya, Delphine Minoui

Flowers of Fire: The Inside Story of South Korea's Feminist Movement, Hawon Jung

[jaynovz]

In discussions about the finale of Black Sails, one of the things I often see is folks hard-focusing on Flint's fate, in an either-or binary fashion, usually presented as "Which do you believe-- that Silver killed him? or sent him to the plantation?"

Now, for posterity's sake, gonna mention a few things-- first off, that's simply not thinking broadly enough. There are farrrr more than two options here and I've come up with my share of the reallyyyyy bad ones for sure. Whatever your mind chooses, none of those are happy endings anyway, there are bittersweet, bad, and worse endings all the way down. (They are paused, they are in a time loop, and also all endings and no endings are happening simultaneously)

But also, the more cogent point is that, it doesn't actually matter what happened *to Flint* The story is... not actually about him at that point. We have transitioned from Flint as protag to Silver as protag, setting up for (the fanfiction that Black Sails has ended up making of, ugh, king shit) Treasure Island.

And so, I just, don't find it to be of particular interest exploring what we think Flint is actually doing or if he's alive for real. What is EXTREMELY interesting to explore though is how Silver's speech at the end to Madi is sort of giving Thomas back to Flint as a pacifier/comfort object, but how... Silver is giving Flint that thing in his own mind as his own type of pacifier/comfort object.

That's the REALLY chewy bit. What actually happens to Flint is not the purpose of that scene for me, of Silver's recounting of events to Madi. It's more about... projection. It's about how Silver is dealing with whatever happened to Flint/whatever he did.

And I just feel like it's missing the point to focus so hard on if Flint is alive or not.

He is the ghost of the story regardless, that's what's important. He's going to haunt the narrative for the rest of everyone's lives. No one has been untouched or unscarred by coming into contact with Captain Flint; he has a forever legacy. I'm not the first to call him this, but he's Schrödinger's Flint and he's staying that way.

But this?

"No. I did not kill Captain Flint. I unmade him. The man you know could never let go of his war. For if he were to exclude it from himself, he would not be able to understand himself. So I had to return him to an earlier state of being. One in which he could function without the war. Without the violence. Without us. Captain Flint was born out of great tragedy. I found a way to reach into the past... and undo it. There is a place near Savannah... where men unjustly imprisoned in England are sent in secret. An internment far more humane, but no less secure. Men who enter these gates never leave them. To the rest of the world, they simply cease to be. He resisted... at first. But then I told him what else I had heard about this place. I was told prominent families amongst London society made use of it. I was told the governor in Carolina made use of it. So I sent a man to find out if they'd used it to hide away one particular prisoner. He returned with news. Thomas Hamilton was there. He disbelieved me. He continued to resist. And corralling him took great effort. But the closer we got to Savannah, his resistance began to diminish. I couldn't say why. I wasn't expecting it. Perhaps he'd finally reached the limits of his physical ability to fight. Or perhaps as the promise of seeing Thomas got closer... he grew more comfortable letting go of this man he created in response to his loss. The man whose mind I had come to know so well... whose mind I'd in some ways incorporated into my own. It was a strange experience to see something from it... so unexpected. I choose to believe it... because it wasn't the man I had come to know at all... but one who existed beforehand... waking from a long... and terrible nightmare. Reorienting to the daylight... and the world as it existed before he first closed his eyes... letting the memory of the nightmare fade away. You may think what you want of me. I will draw comfort in the knowledge that you're alive to think it. But I'm not the villain you fear I am. I'm not him."

This is the speech of a man who is self-soothing, who is spinning himself a tale, who is projecting, who is coping.

and THAT is just, way chewier, innit?

[starbuck]

the thing is, i love The Narrative, but i also absolutely adore a truly character-focused tragedy where everyone’s downfall is caused not by larger narrative forces, but by hundreds of tiny decisions made by characters who, despite their best efforts, just suck.

[dycefic]

Isekai

The story this world was created for didn’t pan out, but I still love it. So I sent a visitor from our world to this one, who is not delighted to find that instead of a clear conflict between good and evil, she is confronted with something very different.

#

The priest led the way into the great hall. “It is strange to me,” he said chattily, “that you do not know the gods. Surely there is no place so far that the gods do not hold sway there.”

The stranger cleared her throat. “I do not… know that I do not,” she said carefully. “By other names, or seemings, perhaps… but I would know them as you know them.”

“Ah, I see. Yes, that I can understand.” The priest smiled. With his long grey hair and beard flowing over a white robe, he looked like a small, spare saint himself, genial and contented. “Then I will tell it to you from the beginning.” He walked up the length of the hall, and gestured to the two statues that stood on either side of the great altar, with the gold-leaf sun and hammered silver moon on the wall above it.

“There are eight gods,” he said, and his voice settled into the cadence of one repeating an old teaching. “And no one of the eight stands alone, but always as one of a pair. First among the gods stand Elu and Surm, whose aspects are those of Life and Death. There are those who say that they are the parents of the other gods, and others who say that they are only the oldest, but all that the others are springs ultimately from them.”

“I see.” The stranger looked up at the statue on the left, who stood by the golden sun. “Elu… life… is perhaps the one I know as the Mother.”

“Yes, for all life comes from a mother.” The priest nodded, also gazing up at the statue. It was beautifully crafted, perhaps twice as tall as the stranger, a vivid portrayal of a woman of middle years, with the rounded belly and hips of children borne, the plump limbs of health and plenty, lines of wisdom and of humour on her face. She wore a loose robe, and a crown of leaves and flowers on her long hair, and fruit and grain filled the basket in her hands. “Elu brings life, and all that lives, from the greatest beast to the smallest, from the richest fruit to the smallest seed, from humankind to a flower that blooms and dies in a single day.”

He turned to the other statue, Surm. This was a man, also of middle years, but he wore armour, and carried a bow in his hand. “And Surm, her opposite and equal, who closes the circle. Where there is life, there must also be death, and Surm rules over all forms of death. He is a warrior, and a hunter, and also a healer, as is Elu, for the healer stands between life and death. Surm is the ending, as Elu is the beginning, but in truth they are the two halves of a circle, for from death life comes again, and from life death is born.” He gestured up at the sun and moon. “Elu is the first of what we name the sunward four, and Surm of the moonward, for the sun and the moon, like the gods, are a pair, opposite and yet united.”

“I see. Who comes next?”

“Of the other three pairs, the order in which they stand varies. They are all of equal status and importance, as gods, but in different times and places some may take a greater hand than others.” The priest moved back a few paces. “Here, the second pair are those we call Kord, the sunward, who represents order and creation, and Kaos, the moonward, who represents chaos and destruction.”

The stranger looked from Kord, a statue of a man holding a chisel and a measuring rod, his robes perfect, his braids as straight as the rod, to Kaos, a woman all disorder, from her wild curls to her ragged motley to her very pose – while Kord stood erect, Kaos was dancing, one foot raised, ribbons flying about her. “Good and evil?” the stranger asked, frowning.

“No, order and chaos.” The priest frowned too. “All the gods have their aspects of both good and evil, of course. Elu creates life, and she is the mother of the devouring wolf or bear just as she is of the lamb or the kid. Surm brings death on the battlefield, but also peace after long life and ease after suffering. Kord is the god of order, of precision, of law and of rule, of measurement and of numbers. But Kord is a sterile god, and life does not thrive under his governance.” He turned to wild, laughing Kaos. “Kaos reigns over destruction, it is true, but not all forms of disorder are destructive. She is the song of the bird and the frisking of a foal as well as the destruction of the earthquake or the tidal wave, and she rules over weather both good and bad. She also rules the human heart, its loves and hates, and she brings both joy and sorrow.”

“I see.” The stranger did not sound as if she saw, but she looked thoughtfully at Kord and Kaos before they moved on to the next pair.

“On the sunward side, Sugulahna, the neighbour, the kinswoman, the ally, the friend, the loyal one.” This statue was young and vigorous, with a cheerful smile. She wore a simple tunic, and held out an open hand. “Sugulahna is the goddess of unity, of trust, of loyalty. When she stands with her brother Kord, they watch over cities and towns, and places where many people must live together in order and harmony. With Kaos, she signifies love and friendship, the ties of family and the bonds of loyalty. In her benign aspect, she is generosity and faith. But turned aside, she is the selfish partner, the treacherous lover, the ungrateful child, the usurper and betrayer. She is all that is best and worst in those around us.”

“One who can give great pain and great joy,” the stranger commented.

“None can give greater.” The priest nodded solemnly. “And on the moonward side stands Vu’uras, who is often called ‘the Stranger’.” The statue could hardly be called a statue, exactly, for no face or clear form could be discerned under the enveloping robes that might as easily have covered a clothing-stand as a human figure. The only sign of the body underneath was a single slender hand extending from a sleeve to clasp a traveller’s staff. “The Stranger is the Other, the traveller, the foreigner. The Stranger, when standing with Kord, is the diplomat, the envoy, the spy. With Kaos, the chance-met helper or kindly passer-by… or the bandit. The Stranger is sexless and unknowable, and yet the Stranger delights in the sharing of knowledge.”

The stranger smiled slightly. “Like me. A stranger chance-come, who knows nothing but wishes to learn?”

“Indeed, just like.” The priest moved on to the last pair of statues. “Here you see, on the sunward side, Teadmised, who is the god of knowledge and learning. Teachers, scholars, and the wise are all in his domain, and he is said to have created all means of record-keeping, from wall paintings and lore songs and tally marks to the written word.” He beamed up at the statue. Like the priest, Teadmised was an old man, long-bearded and a little stooped, with a lean, kindly face. He was wrapped in a long robe with a stole, and carried in his hands a scroll and a brush. “Teadmised is the god of wisdom. His benign aspect brings invention, and art, and joy, but his reverse is deception, and error, and lies.”

He turned to gesture at the moonward goddess. “This is his sister Salahdused, who rules over mystery, and secrets, and the unknown. Vu’uras and Surm’s realms both overlap with hers, for death and the stranger both partake of the unknown. Salahdused is the hardest of all the gods to understand, by her very nature, and thus is most often the one distrusted, or considered ‘evil’ as you put it.” He patted the base of the statue. It portrayed another hooded figure, but unlike the Stranger’s, this hood did not conceal a slyly smiling face, and the sleeves of the robe fell back to show slender arms, one hand raising a lighted lamp, the other cradling a wrapped bundle against her hip. “Certainly the unknown can be dangerous, and secrets can wound. Her domain is darkness and the sea, hidden caves and deep water and secret places, all dangerous to humankind. And yet she is also the goddess of luck, which is its own kind of mystery. She can bring ruin and betrayal and death, but she is also the unknown friend, good fortune unlooked for, and aid when all hope is lost.” His voice softened. “It is Salahdused who brings misfortune, and hope, and to whom we all turn at last, with curse or with plea. And when her father Surm comes, to guide the dead onward, it is Salahdused who holds up the lamp to light the way.”

“A goddess we all need, though we may not always be grateful.” The stranger looked up and down the lines again. “They are *all* the known and the unknown, are they not? On the sunward side, in the light of day, stand Life, Order, Family and Knowledge. On the moonward side, Death, Chaos, the Stranger, and Mystery.”

“Yes, exactly!” The priest sounded pleased. “Not many people see that, without being told. That is why they are ordered so. Some people think it is because the sunward are kindlier, but it is not so. It is only that they stand for what we understand. And under the moon, which waxes and wanes, stand the gods who rule over the unpredictable and unknown.”

“Most people… where I come from… equate light with good, and darkness with evil.” The stranger tugged absently on her braid. “But your gods are… more complicated than that.”

“Good and evil are not real things,” the priest said simply. The stranger looked at him, and he smiled gently. “I do not mean that they do not exist, but they are not… of the world. Birth, life, is real. Death is real. They exist, they have substance. A measuring rod or the wildly rolling debris of an avalanche are real. Family is real. Strangers are real. A story or a written word are real things, as are the sea and caves and deep water, be they understood or not. And all of those things may bring about good or evil, depending on circumstances. They can be used for good or evil. But good and evil are not, in themselves, real things.”

She nodded slowly, looking at the gods. “So to you… good and evil are in the effects. The aspects. The intent. Not… powers, in themselves.”

“Yes, you understand.” The Priest bent to pick up a dead leaf from the ground, which might have fallen from a shawl, or blown in through one of the high windows. “Take this leaf. If it fell on a stony street, it might grow wet, and slip under a foot, and cause injury or death. If it fell on barren ground, in its decay it would render the ground a little less barren. Here on the floor of the temple, it might cause additional trouble to a sweeper… or provide a priest with a timely example, thus doing me, and you, good.” He smiled. “But the leaf’s nature does not change. It is just a leaf. How, in its falling, it affects others… that depends entirely on circumstance.”

“I see.” This time, she sounded as if she did understand, and she took the leaf and held it gently. “And what of people, priest? Are they not good or evil?”

“Of course they are. Mostly one, or mostly the other, or more often a mixture of both in some degree.” The priest shrugged. “But that a matter of choice, and of intention, and even then it is very rare that an action does not have effects both good and bad, whatever the intention. To come upon a man robbing another man, and to intervene – well, from the point of view of the man who was being robbed, that is a good action. From the point of view of the robber, it is a bad one.” He smiled serenely. “As the proverb says, the storm that sinks a ship may bring rain to the fields.”

The stranger was silent for a time, seeming to consider, and the priest waited patiently. When at last she spoke, there was a note of frustration in her voice. “I have never known a faith, or gods, so adamantly to set their faces against certainty.”

The priest laughed. “Oh, if it is certainty you want, Kord is in accord with you. He loves certainty. One will always be one, and a square will always be a square. An arch correctly made will not fall, and a law followed will bring order. There’s great comfort in certainty! But certainty is the enemy of growth, and invention, and change, and so Kaos dances through Kord’s order, bringing destruction and growth and change.” He folded his hands over his belly and looked up at the sun and moon on the wall, his voice gentling. “I think that what you are seeking is not certainty but simplicity. An easy answer. The good and the evil. But what is real is never simple, and the gods least of all. All we mere mortals can do is the best we can, with what we have.”

The stranger sighed. “I know that you are right,” she said. “But the other would be easier.”

“It is not the responsibility of the gods to make your life easy,” the priest said, a little tartly. “It is the responsibility of the gods to make life possible. The rest is your own affair.”

[echoofawind]

Nothing makes me hit the block button faster than seeing an "DNI proshipper" in a tumblr bio. Thank you for telling me up front that you're a child who cannot separate fiction from reality and that you can't handle when things don't fit into your little box of what is considered "acceptable".

[captain-astors]

Creature. (The rendered ones are referenced from manga panels)

[lieutenantselnia]

Reminder that in your personal version of canon, you are your f/o's only true love <3

[enden-k]

i HATE when people say it’s wrong to like a morally screwed up character. like dottore for example, i will punt him into a wall bc of what he did to our lil cauliflower, but i’m still a little intrigued to know why he’s the way he is.

it’s not like people are condoning it in irl situations (and if you are, we need to talk 😭) anyways, i digress and shall end off on a positive note:

youn = best bbg artist on all of tumblr, yall can fight me - 🍁 (think this was mine?)

ajhsbcjhsa anon 😭💙

[nightgoodomens]

Love Thy Monster (snippet)

They always said he had no life. It was the type of a place where a man without a wife and children appeared suspicious, so he was probably lucky that he was a policeman and gained trust over the years of his hard work. He could move to a big city where nobody would bat an eye, but even with all its frustrations, he loved this place. Quirky little cottages and shops, market with fresh fruit, vegetables and flowers, that lovely lady who always knew everything and sold him her homemade dinners, and always left one for him on the side when he did not show up, knowing he was too busy with work and will come back home starving. That gentleman who always knew how to fix his crap car, the young woman who scared her kids with the policeman who would get them if they did not stop misbehaving, but they just stuck their tongues out at him, even the drunk who was known to everyone not so much for always being drunk but for calling everyone Kings and Queens, especially when asking for change.

Mademoiselle, any pennies?  

And then there was him.

David.

Perhaps he was the reason the people finally accepted Michael, because David came in standing out from the place like a black peacock in a desert, and he apparently did not give a single fuck and somehow everyone fell for it which Michael still could not comprehend how.

Nobody looked twice at Michael anymore or cared to talk about his ‘mysterious’ life. 

The mystery being that he was simply single in his fifties which was weird enough for this place. He was not sure why David was getting away with it.   

About a year ago someone bought the gorgeous old mansion surrounded by the forest, that was left to rot for years. Within a year it was brought to its former glory, with the amount of money Michael could not even imagine to have. The legends were writing themselves during that time, and everyone decided that royalty was going to move in. Lords and Ladies who will bring the village back to its former glory, which Michael was still not sure what that was because he dug deep enough to know that the village had always been the same. The only things he found were the shiver inducing religious stories he hoped would help him understand what was going on with the recent murders. He hoped that religious insanity was not what people wanted to bring back. 

And then instead David moved in to the mansion. Arrived at night in a beautiful car and nobody ever joined him. 

Michael looked at him leaning towards the old lady who was currently touching his cheeks telling him he was too thin. She adored the guy and Michael saw him a few times helping carry her bags and chatting like they knew each other for a long time. 

Michael did not know how old the man was. Standing there now, in a black fluffy jumper, dark skinny jeans and trainers, hair short on the sides and longer on top, curling a little, obviously ruffled by the lady, he looked in his thirties if not younger. But Michael saw him dressed in the most fashionable suit, probably costing as much as Michael’s yearly wage, hair smoothed back, face serious as he was speaking on the phone, and he looked handsome but definitely closer to his forties. 

He could not ask around because everyone would know within minutes that he did. Especially him.

[ancientegyptdaily]

For a book I’m writing, I am wondering if Hemet-Nisut is the correct title/last name for an ancient Egyptian handmaiden?

Hi there, thanks for the ask! ḥmt nswt means king's wife so it would not be an appropriate name for a handmaiden. It's a title, not a name. The ancient Egyptian's didn't have last names, it was a case of "[Name], son/daughter of [Name]". Here is a list of given names: [X] and another one [X], many names included the name of a god/goddess and they all have a meaning e.g. Ahmose = born of the god Iah (the moon god). If you need any more help, please let me know!

[foundfamilynonsense]

Can I just say this really quick? I read the Percy Jackson series as a 12 year old blonde girl.

(A 12 year old blonde girl with dyslexia and ADHD, no less.)

Blonde Annabeth means nothing to me. I have never felt disrespected by some sort of dumb blonde stereotype… i have been blonde (with dyslexia and ADHD) my entire life and never called a dumb blonde. In fact, I think the struggles I’ve had with My learning disabilities have been softened because I was a little blonde girl and people were patient with me. The stereotype just doesn’t exist anymore if it ever did. I do not need Annabeth to be blonde, I do not want Annabeth to be blonde. No one needs Annabeth to be blonde.

Now Black Annabeth. Now that’s the good shit. That enriches her arc. That makes so much sense. What a good idea. I honestly can’t think of a single black character with learning disabilities. If they do it right? I can’t fucking wait.

So anyone saying that Annabeth was important to little blonde girls hurt by the dumb blonde stereotype? Do not believe them. I was the little girl they are trying to use as a scapegoat and I could have cared less, even back then. When I was 11 I did not need a blonde role model. You know what I needed? A black protagonist I could relate to. I needed to be exposed to the racism little black girls face. I was ignorant as fuck back then, probably still am. Black Annabeth would have helped me. And it will help black girls who are still looking for positive, smart representation.

So anyway anyone who’s against Black Annabeth can stay away from me please thank you goodnight.

[dycefic]

The Strange Case Of The Amateur Detective

At some point, surely someone must notice the pattern... right? Note: Beginning slightly edited for clarity.

##

It took a while, but I’ve convinced Maggie to tell me when she goes out of town. I’ll feel better, I say, if I know for sure where she is when a body makes the news.

Which is true, of course. The sheer frequency with which that little lunatic does it keeps me awake at nights. But it also enables me to take certain precautions.

Like this one.

“Hello, Branford County Police Station, Constable Ford speaking.”

“Hello, Constable Ford, this is Detective Inspector Winsbury. I’m going to need to speak to whoever is in charge there about a possible murder.”

As usual, there was some back and forth at that point, but eventually I got through to an Inspector. “What do you mean, a possible murder?!” he asked, irritated.

“Just what I said. Tell me, Inspector, have you ever had dealings with an amateur detective? The real thing, I mean. The genuine Carrion Crow.”

His tone went from hostile to guarded. “I’ve… heard some things. Never met one.”

“You’re about to. Mine’s visiting Branford, ostensibly to see an old school friend, and I wouldn’t bet you the price of a beer that she’s not going to show up to report a murder within a few days.”

“You can’t possibly - “

“Her count’s at fourteen, to my certain knowledge.”

“And you’re sure she’s not just a very clever serial killer?”

They usually ask that. It’s understandable, if a bit annoying. “Not only have I been physically with her at the time three of the murders were committed, two were committed before she was born. That’d be pretty damned clever, don’t you think?”

“Oh, hell.”

“Yes. If you’ve got any old missing persons cases, or unsolved murders, get the files out and refresh your memory. I’d go back at least fifty years, if I were you. Focus on anything mysterious or that got covered up.”

“She’s likely to find a fifty-year-old corpse?!”

“I was standing right there when she found a hundred-and-nine year old set of remains in the walls of an old church she was helping to renovate, less than five minutes into the renovations.”

He let out a heartfelt groan. “Oh no.”

“It’s not so bad,” I said encouragingly. “Maggie’s better than a cadaver dog for finding remains, although even she doesn’t know how she does it, and even better at putting together evidence. She’s got a knack for seeing patterns where nobody else does. Whatever case she turns up, she’ll help you solve it within… oh, probably a few days, a week at most.”

“Really?” The Inspector sounded like he was wavering between skepticism and hope. “I’ve heard stories about Carrion Crows and their closure rate, but I can’t say I ever believed them.”

“Believe them. The longest it’s ever taken her was a month, and that was because she spent two weeks in hospital in the middle of it, and there was a delay on some of the evidence.” I leaned back in my chair, putting my feet up on my desk. “She’s pretty cooperative, as a rule. Not one of those ones who wants to beat the police - she’ll work with you if you let her. If you don’t, she’ll solve it anyway and make you look like a real chump, so let her. Stay on her, though, because she’s got a bit of an impulse control problem when she’s on a scent.”

“She’s likely to run into danger?”

“Mmm, no, not often - she’s just turned fifty, she’s slowing down a bit - but keeping her from touching the evidence can be a problem. She knows not to, but sometimes in the heat of the moment she forgets.”

“Ah. Yes, I see.”

“If you’ve got any strapping young lads or lasses who show some promise, assign one to her. She’s usually pretty nice to anyone under thirty if they make a mistake, but she gets snippy at someone she thinks is old enough to know better. They’ll learn a lot.”

“And she won’t ditch them?”

“Almost never if they’re polite, especially if you ask her to keep an eye on them. Just make sure they don’t argue with her too much, or scoff at her deductions, or she will absolutely ditch them and they will never know how she did it. Even I don’t know, and we’ve been working together for years.”

“I see.” He sighed, and the faint rasping was probably a hand rubbing over his chin. “A real Carrion Crow. Does she know… why?”

“What made her Death’s favourite girl? No. They usually don’t. I know there’s always stories about the murder of a loved one setting them on the path, but that’s actually pretty rare.” I’d done a lot of research, after I realized what Maggie was. “Most Carrion Crows have no idea why they start finding bodies. There’s no consistent trigger for it.”

“No kind of pattern at all?”

“Well, no, I didn’t say that. There’s no consistency about trigger events, but Carrion Crows themselves do tend to conform to a certain type. They’re usually very detail-oriented, and good at analyzing patterns. They’re always curious. If presented with half a story, they can’t resist finding the other half. They’re usually self-employed, or retired on a moderate income, or in a job that allows them a lot of snooping time, like a reporter or researcher.”

“That makes sense,” he said slowly. “The… gift, or whatever it is, comes to people who have the time and ability to use it.”

“Almost invariably.” I examined the scuffed toe of one of my boots. “And they care about people. They’re compassionate. I’ve never encountered or heard of a real Carrion Crow who was selfish.”

“Carrion Crows are always good people?” Now he just sounded confused.

“That depends on your definition of good. Criminals have been Crows in the past. One of the earliest confirmed cases of a Carrion Crow was a young pickpocket in London in the 1820s. But they’re people who care about other people. It’s one of the reasons they find out so much more than we do - people under pressure respond to kindness and compassion. It makes them want to confide.”

“Ahhhh.” He sounded enlightened. “That I understand. I have a sergeant like that. Got a face like a gargoyle, but everyone loves him because he’s just… kind, to everyone. People tell him all sorts of things.”

“Maybe don’t pair him up with Maggie, or they might achieve some sort of critical mass. A tea-party could spontaneously form around them.” I laughed at that mental image. “Anyway, if a tiny little middle-aged lady with big brown eyes and a horrible cardigan shows up and tells you there’s been a murder, take her seriously.”

“Will do. Thanks for the warning.”

I left my name and number, in case they needed more help, then hung up.

Nobody knows what causes a person to become a Carrion Crow. They’re not common, and you can spend a whole career in law enforcement without meeting one. But sometimes, for reasons nobody’s ever been able to explain, a hitherto perfectly ordinary person turns into a magnet for murder. It’s as if Death itself just taps them on the shoulder and says ‘you’. As if Death itself wants murders to be solved, the lost dead found, the unknown dead named, and their killers brought to justice.

Who knows? Maybe it does. All I know is, they need a close eye kept on them. A lot of Crows wind up murdered themselves, by someone desperate not to be caught. That’s why I call ahead every time Maggie leaves town. Why I’ll even follow her, if I can’t get the local police to listen to me.

Maggie cares about people, living and dead. And I care about Maggie. Anyone trying to kill her is going to have to get past me.

[fictionadventurer]

The worst part about reading in a genre where you have low expectations (in this case, Christian historical fiction) is that when a book impresses you, you have no idea if it's actually good or if you're just overly impressed because it was a fraction of a degree better than the usual garbage.