#hale : ✭ : imagery

[orchidbreezefc]

it is cosmically massive in the face of your mortal insignificance, and it has only ever turned its gaze on an individual to destroy them. it doesn't know how to love you. it has never attempted such a thing before.

it does not know how to gentle its hands to hold you, for it has only ever needed claws. it never wanted to avoid breaking anyone before you. when it tries, it will fail. it will unintentionally leave gashes as deep as the ones that were deliberately carved into you.

does the intent make all the difference, or is a wound a wound? are there enough scraps of you left to survive the carnage of its learning curve?

[loumauve]

rules: make a poll with five of your all-time favorite characters and then tag five people to do the same. see which character is everyone's favorite.

tagged by: nobody, bc I'm a heathen who just steals poll setups and then ignores the rules. feel free to participate as well (tho I think a lot of my pals have already done this one, I have been living under a rock called dissociation from terrible circumstances)

I went with explicitly emotional support characters because otherwise the list would be even longer. I have too many faves. the more time you spend in fandom spaces the more the collection grows. I'm sure I'm forgetting some minor character faves from other books/shows/movies/games. rip I'll prob cry once I remember them and feel bad

[blackhholes]

Biblical Imagery in Teen Wolf

genesis 4:8 / genesis 6:7 / 2nd kings 4:30 / psalms 51:5 / luke 23:34 / john 11:44 / john 13:33-34 / john 20:11 / galatians 6:17 / revelations 19:20

[exhalereleased]

A Gathering of Masks by Robert Fitzgerald, featuring illustrations by James Dunk and Barry William Hale

[novlr]

Is there a process for writing a novel, or does everyone just figure out what works for them? I feel like I’m making it up as I go and wondering if that’s normal.

This is a question that writers, especially new writers, ask across the board. Is there a process, a right way of creating the story, and am I doing it the best way possible?

If you’re interested in efficiency, you might hate the idea of moving full steam ahead on a project without knowing whether you’re using the best process for writing. So many writers provide “helpful” tips like “write every day.” When you think about it, that’s rather a worthless bit of advice, isn’t it? So what if I write every day? Am I writing in the right order? Will it all flow together in the end? What if I write every day, but none of it makes sense?

Well……

I’ve read a lot of books about writing and tried a lot of different processes. I’ve come to the conclusion, based on both research and practice, that there is no specific process for writing a novel. The number of workable processes is as abundant as the number of novels that exist. 

But this is no reason to get discouraged!

We can still glean some wisdom from other writers who have finished novels and use their knowledge to help us finish our own. I love reviewing the details, however great or small, that other writers give to offer glimpses into their personal writing processes. These are some of the quotes that have helped me create my own personal process. I tend to operate in a more intuitive style than a direct, organised approach, feeling personally that a story must unfold naturally in order to flow in a way that makes sense to me. And I personally love the sandbox imagery! It makes the idea of a process seem more playful and far less serious and rigid.

What we can learn from other writers

The beauty of writing is that every author’s journey is unique, yet we can all learn from each other’s experiences. Some of the most insightful wisdom about the writing process comes from those who have walked this path before us. These writers don’t just tell us what to do, they share their personal relationships with the process, their struggles, and their moments of revelation.

What’s particularly striking about these perspectives is how they embrace the messiness and uncertainty of the creative process. Rather than prescribing rigid rules, they offer metaphors and frameworks that can help us understand our own approach to writing. Here are some particularly illuminating quotes that capture different ways of thinking about the writing process:

“I’m writing a first draft and reminding myself that I’m simply shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.” —Shannon Hale

“I long ago abandoned myself to a blind lust for the written word. Literature is my sandbox. In it I play, build my forts and castles, spend glorious time.” —Rabih Alameddine

“I write just about everything piecemeal…It’s effective because it works; I’m never held up stewing about What Comes Next— I don’t care what comes next, I just care about something I can see happening. The order of the happening has a logic to it (often, more than one), and that will become clear to me as I work.” —Diana Gabaldon

“I think there are two types of writers, the architects and the gardeners. The architects plan everything ahead of time, like an architect building a house. They know how many rooms are going to be in the house, what kind of roof they’re going to have, where the wires are going to run, what kind of plumbing there’s going to be. They have the whole thing designed and blueprinted out before they even nail the first board up. The gardeners dig a hole, drop in a seed and water it. They kind of know what seed it is, they know if planted a fantasy seed or mystery seed or whatever. But as the plant comes up and they water it, they don’t know how many branches it’s going to have, they find out as it grows. And I’m much more a gardener than an architect.” —George R. R. Martin

Common writing processes

While there’s no “right” way to write a novel, there are several common approaches that writers tend to gravitate toward. Understanding these can help you find or develop a process that works for you:

The Plotter

Creates detailed plot outlines before writing.

Develops character profiles and backstories.

Maps out story beats and major plot points.

Researches extensively before drafting.

Works from a structured chapter plan.

The Pantser

Starts with a basic premise or character.

Lets the story unfold organically.

Discovers the plot through writing.

Makes notes about story elements as they emerge.

Revises extensively after the first draft.

The Plantser

Combines planning and discovery writing.

Creates loose outlines that allow for flexibility.

Plans major plot points but discovers the connections as they write.

Develops some characters fully while letting others evolve organically.

Adjusts the outline as the story develops.

Finding your process

The key to developing your own writing process is experimentation. Try different approaches and take note of what works best for you:

Start small

Test different methods on short stories.

Try writing scenes both with and without outlines.

Experiment with different planning tools and software.

Practice different prewriting techniques.

Observe your natural tendencies

Notice when you feel most productive.

Pay attention to what blocks your progress.

Identify your preferred writing environment.

Recognise your natural storytelling style.

Adapt and combine methods

Take elements from different approaches.

Modify existing processes to suit your needs.

Be flexible and willing to change methods.

Create hybrid systems that work for you.

Remember, your writing process can and should evolve as you grow as a writer. What works for one project might not work for another, and that’s perfectly fine. The goal is to find methods that help you tell your stories effectively and enjoyably.

[edenspoem]

before the flora.

knight!ellie x princess!reader teaser. beginning is essentially just lore. bonus excerpt with ellie and princess interaction below the sketch. wrote the intro in january. no warnings tbh. illustration by @trackinglessons :P READ THIS . PALESTINE MASTERPOST

When the universe was born, there was only fire; a slowly waning blaze. And so hence when death begins to unfurl its low, groaning bloom— there will only be ice.

Yet the heavens and earth are nay alike, as death— and life, are interwoven by the timeless nuptial that is humans, and Mother Nature. Cordial and tepid heartbeats meet with her frigid and frightening marrow this season. Flakes are falling, a howl swells in the wind, and hearths stay an undying tongue of flame in the province of Istenad. Isle of riches and hedonism gone rampant amongst those who proved meritful of a conversation spat over gilded chalices. Or those who wiped a famished tongue stroke over the sole of His Majesty— The King's tan leather boots in entreat, declaring the hide a tenfold more gullet–watering than their stale, daily spare of bread. Where high life reins, low life is there to scrub their steeds.

The wintry pearlescent tundra fringing around uncharted woodlands hums your name— it carries by gale, an airy reed of vowels pulled through your ears. 

Tut, tut, tut, the pecking of bark.

Everything seems to resound much heavier over the windows thick limestone sill. Woodwinds, the sough of pine boughs— a chorus wafted. Woodpeckers, they beat rigid timber with their sonnets of calling. The echoed tut starts to sound awfully kindred to a beckoning call of your name. And at daybreak, when the tangerine sun dips its head under the coast, you feel a magnetic lull to traverse your truest passions and slip away into the night, arctic chilled steel in hand. The quantity of hay sticking beneath your shoes collected by skittering across the night–doused thoroughfare was well enough to concern your maids on duty to dress you, brows fuddled at the streaming of straw near your door come morning.

Loop of your knuckles, bend of your wrist, a hand flexed on the hilt of a meticulously poached sword. A swing 'round your waist, a cold hale grip the air could taste, fighting off many mythic brutes of moonlight, however only conceived where dreams are airtight. The mind, it plays. The play it perceives, a viewing spread like tawny butter. Ghouls and ghastlies encircle a quaint pond, chanting away in cryptic grumbles and beastly bumbles, enraged with their slobber frothing at the fangs you tore from their sockets— deeper than artless, juxtaposed to the blinding ruby reds and dyed paper sunflowers of the theater. Your mind’s play felt real.

Unfortunate to your heart, dreams will stay dreams.

Nary a princess was meant to tune into melee, especially at your courting age. Nevertheless, your psyche has spurned from what a maiden is expected of and is completely in a haven of your own structure, your signature sanctuary. 

In the farmsteads, a forthcoming soldier harvests not just crop— but dexterity. Derived and nurtured in the faraway prairie village of Dunwich, where the fertile seasons prove flaxen of corn and the trickling sweat of every farmhand turns to gold. Any newborn granted to this quaint village is fated to form calloused hands with labor written in their palm lines as time unfolds. In their— well, her— adolescent years, the yearning for practices of gallantry in knighthood swiveled her sights to the colossal stone castle way.. way far away. Sprouting beyond the earth line, far as the eye can see.

So, she learned, she trained, she slept, partaking in a ranged cycle taught by her ruthlessly departed father: Sir Joel. Reprisal became her nemesis; never able to rend the barrier of hesitation and cleanse her shut eyes of revolting imagery. The horseman of death was not omitting the trauma of this hazel-haired soldier. A weight so burdensome, her speckled skin remembers the tales of every scar clawed into it. Like how the lips of a bard cling to an everlasting ballad.

Every knight knew well to exile any lingering ties to the past. It's been years since he passed, she understands that. Though, the heart never lies, and certainly never covets forgetting.

Ambitions stemming from legions of knights in waiting have fallen short, submerging within the moat of the castle and sinking deep into the catacombs with no elegy sung. An allegory for dreams long since vanished. A domain so valued longs for those biding life with rigid bones, such as she. Tempered by the hardships, endured like metal meeting the blacksmith's chisel. 

A vividness to her movements, flowing like a river. For it is water that soothes the most cosmic fires, carves veins into the earth's soil, descends from the heavens above and proves iron soluble. A knight so pinpoint and poised like a painter, yet so daring and baneful like a warrior of evenfall. An artisan of her craft, this knight-to-be is. Born to thrive in matters regarding protection of their kingdom and its nobility. By the sheer tenacity of her skill, she will excel. From the self–instructed lessons in a verdant pasture, basked by undying light in her hometown— to the ordained priming within the royal court. 

They were forged to be dutiful. 

You are a daughter of the illustrious King, Sagard, and swan–grace queen, Sagard— maiden name Adela, and sister of your highly revered and cherished kin, Prudence. Subsequent to her fabled rise, was your fall. A pratfall you plainly turned a serene ear from, for you foresaw its coming. Clandestine adventures and lollygagging in the marketplace earned you right in the clasp of consequences. You knew that, knowing it kept you on the balls of your toes before you'd be caught suiting into an act more repugnant— be it, no.. befogging yourself in a peasant boys' dire–in–muck rags, merely to play "boy" games as a young one? 

Sacrilege! 

Prudence was there, at every occasion, scolding with her youthful finger at the palace fore, sucking her fingertip wet of spit and dragging a stroke over your soot–strewn cheek, just before scuttling the halls in search of father, cawing, “Father, Father! My sisters become a boy again!” until it rang his fucking ears to a pulse. Hmph, father even countered his own remark of squawk, pouring through the walls, “Hah! The second son I wish I reared! Tell me, what peasants skin does she clad: butcher's boy, or of the farmer?”

Rebuking the role of royalty isn't your entire bastion of vengeance. You purely long for a world of your own color. Your self-brewn arcadia of art. In a concise phrase, desire for sovereignty. And your family chastised you curtly for every scant display of free will, short of the Queen, she is fair.

Daughter of the King, Princess of the thicket. You retain your fortunes. Modestly.

“Why don't you resemble your sister more?”

A ruby crested box designed by the best of goldsmiths is lodged at the margin of your beds footboard, safekeeping of your esteemed regalia. You possess a bedazzled amassing of circlets, veils, brocade and velvet tunics of long lengths within this box. But do any of them revel in the blessing of being worn on regal skin? Never. You opted for garbs of less gilding and jewels, so that you might taint it with whatever adventures mold under the ribbing of your foot. That shit offended your skin with its indelicacy of forgetting a human will don its fabric golds and woven jewels.

Even— court gatherings. You don the likeness of simplicity and temperate elegance. This morning's virginal aurora, a broach of light swoll from the windows arch, to the footing of your bed, made the wake of your eyes begin upon a lighting behind sheer skin. Your box of regalia shone in that incandescence momentarily. It danced, fleeter than you, irkingly so. You had to squint whilst flipping the clasps and hauling the heavy lid slanted against your bed, or else you may be heaven–blinded. “Every inch of Princess,” you intoned in quietude at the sight of glamored fabrics, “—whom I shant mirror.” and reached for the homelier fabrics, scratch of cobalt-blue linen delight brushing under your prints, you grasped your reserve tight.

“I was not made aware that there is a village wedding to be, dear sister— from what river does this dress of rags hail from?”

“It is not a brides dress, nor rags, leave me Prud—”

Prudence had blocked the shut of your chamber door with her hand flattened, pursuing, “You glum your gems. Rotting in that chest, tasting no light, no glory.”

You kept your lips thickly sown shut, casting dimly eyes to the ground.

“Shall I send for the steward so he may sell—”

“No need.”

“Hmm, most stubborn, are we? Then I—”

“I am least stubborn,” you wedged your fingers beneath her palm, prying the door loose, “—it is you, who strays your own counsel, unmoving as a mountain.” ending with the trudging shut of your door, ceasing in silence.

[++ bonus excerpt from act 2, scene 1]

“Uh–huh..” she draws out. Legato; a sarcastic reply, and wipes her tongue through the press of her lips together, “This far out? You must rebel quite often to have made a friend, I bet?” she tilts her head, a bit playful.

“You bet well— a lot, I assume?” 

Cannily, she winks, “Indeed I do.” and aligns her face onward. Gesturing to her horse's rump a second— third? Eh, whatever time— she jerks her brow with a head cock back, “Hop on, I'll take you there.”

Both brows fall, and you flinch bemused, “Wh– uh,” as you hem and haw for words, grating a stutter, “But not a moment ago you spoke of the roads recent perils—”

“Surely it's not far?” she spoke presumptuously, “I mean, you've come this far, My Lady. Nobody would travel the woods past sunset, besides you it seems.” now a matter–of–fact vocal barricade that shoves itself into your ears and winds the cogs to think cleverly.

You shan't know my transgressions, sweet Knight. You may talk.

Trust is sparse as a puddle marched in.

“‘Tis but a mile out. Bravo on your convincing, Williams.” you wry and scoff. 

“Can't fumble that name, huh?”

“I would not want to dishonor your knighthood.” 

“You honor me with your coincidental presence, Princess.”

“Honor in your mind.”

"Hmph," her breathy chuckle, a sweetness you luckily caught with ears even numbed by the snowsquall. Do not blush. Do not smile. Fuck. Guess you'll be visiting Malina after all, the gale of a displeased sigh icing your lips over as you approach that dangling stirrup.

[gege-wondering-around]

Summary:

They had always been this way.

Stiles was the only one to pull Derek ashore,

Guiding the sailor through the storm.

Derek was the only one Stiles looked for,

Searching for a boat to call his own.

So, what would happen if a ship was in need of an anchor all along?

(or Stiles makes his way through Derek, thick skin and scarred past)

Rating: Explicit Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Rape/Non-Con Category: M/M Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV) Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski Characters: Derek Hale Stiles Stilinski Scott McCall (Teen Wolf) Cora Hale Peter Hale Minor Characters Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence | Slow Burn | Minor Character Death | Angst and Hurt/Comfort | Omegaverse Omega Derek Hale | Bottom Derek Hale/Top Stiles Stilinski | Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con | Past Rape/Non-con | Getting Together | Excessive use of pet names | Blood and Injury | First Dates | Aftercare | Blow Jobs | Anal Fingering | Anal Sex | derek hale loses the alpha status | Religious Imagery & Symbolism | very minor tho | Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship | Bad Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf) | could or not get a redemption ark | Bathtub Sex | Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things | Time Skips | Violence| Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD | Explicit Sexual Content | Wolf Instincts | My First Fanfic | Stiles Stilinski Has Scars | Soulmates | Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Language: English Status: Ongoing

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

tags of people who made this possible: @jayjay55655 (the sweet reason we are here today) @dontcallpanic (you might not know it, but you did a lot) @aurymochi (my savior) @catniploverrrrrr (i wanna hear your thoughts on this so bad once its completed and thank you for your amazing support)

so! have a nice read and stick around to find out more (i'll post every 2 to 4 days) and thank y'all for the support i've already got from you even when this work wasn't even out yet. ( @seaweed-water @oldefashioned @hellameyers @fuji09 so many more that followed along or simply said something nice once). You made me sure enough to post this. thank you🫂✨

[hedwig221b]

Fic authors self rec!

When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤

I got tagged by @cozyrosykay, thank you, love!

This is gonna be interesting…

Predators

He was born for this. Nature itself whispered into his ear where he should put his hands, how to twirl his tongue just right and when to bite. Stiles knew well enough that his saliva was currently working its magic on this unfortunate man, making him hungry, lustful, and insatiable. Soon, all his thoughts would be consumed by Stiles.

And, just this once, Stiles would allow Derek to consume him.

I still consider this my best work (yet! bc I'm writing something currently and y'all… it's a contender). But it's so fucking good, I'm sorry, but it is! Each time I finished writing another piece, I closed the doc and told myself that this is the best thing ever. I love how gentle Derek is with Stiles, I love how persistent he is with his love, almost arrogant with his confidence. He's like oh well, Stiles is confused but it'll pass. I'll be here anyway. Forever. !!!!!! I love Stiles as a creature, and I love him embracing the darkness and being unapologetic about it. I love this fic so much.

Eros Mania Amor

“I am just reminding you that Stiles is married. To me. All you can do is imagine, and I get to do all of those things you’re dreaming of to him. Yes, I know. I know everything you and others think,” Hale opened his eyes and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His smile was despicable in its selfishness. “I know what you dream of when you look at his lips—”

“Stop it.” Jordan shook his head.

“— because I am the same as you,” the wolf ignored him. “I imagined everything you did, it’s just happened that my dream became the life that I get to live. He is here,” he tapped his own temple, “and here,” he tapped his chest. “And you would have to kill me to get us separated.”

This fucking fic… I was high on reading Dracula, and I love classics, and I definitely put all my love for it here. I love the language in this, the intrigue, the misleading. I also love when sterek's love is so overwhelming and unbreakable. I also kinda ate with the imagery in last sentences... I ate in general with this fic lmao

Torn Apart and Set Anew

“Someone’s here,” Stiles whispered, feeling weirdly numb.

The metal latch clicked. With ice filling his lungs and his fingers shaking terribly, Stiles swiveled his head in the direction of a window and froze for a beat of a second.

There was a face behind the glass.

Forgettable and plain, but at the same time familiar face.

This deserves more attention, and it's probably my fault for putting a weird summary resulting in it not getting a lot. Anyway, I love the suspence. I love Stiles' stubborness and I love the plot twist. About that: I like how I make it obvious who's the villain and (I hope) the reader thinks they already got the plot twist... But then the real plot twist comes and it's like... FUCK. Also Derek in this is soo…. ugh... and the ending!!! Asffgghjjkhgrjsskr

Treasure

“I know you don’t trust me,” Derek grunted. When Stiles inhaled to retort, Derek caught his chin and pressed a finger against his lips, making the boy freeze in place, eyes impossibly wide. “Don’t argue. I expected it. Wolves don’t trust easily, too. I just wanted you to know that… I’m sorry. I was selfish and didn’t see what was in front of me. You don’t need to worry. I’ll take care of everything.”

It was a thought that grew in his mind, spread to his heart and took root there, reincorporating into a deep desire and a vital need. Derek will take care of him and his little pup, he’ll bring the hearts of his enemies and put them at the boy’s feet. He’ll court and he’ll conquer.

I have my issues with this fic but ELI!!!! KIRA!!! DEREK!!! iykyk lol but yeah I often go back to this fic just to reread Eli parts, I loved writing baby Eli, he's gonna come back in Jane Eyre au for sure. I also never cried this hard during writing a fic, not before and not since. That scene... One of the best scenes I've written, the grief is so raw and scolding... shit I might reread this...

your fangs against my skin (the sound of your bones)

This was it, then, huh? It was that easy for Derek to invite someone to his den. Someone other than Stiles.

He healed the wolf. Stiles killed his tormentor, mended his blood and bones, and let him sleep beside him. But none of it was enough.

He wasn’t a spark, after all, but a witch — evil and alone, locked up in his tower.

Witches didn’t get happy endings.

One of my recent gems, I would even call it mild in terms of darkness and angst. It's a comfort fic for me. I love how relaxed Derek is around Stiles, how both of them crave each other's comfort and give it so easily. I also loved Stiles' witchiness, he's so weird and fun lmao, also LYDIA

.

Tagging gently in case y'all already did this: @dear-massacre @renmackree @endwersed @nerdherderette @thotpuppy @invisible-storyteller @eevylynn

[takaraphoenix]

Oh, it is very rare for me to actually have a character song. A ship song? Maybe. Generally songs that remind me of a fandom? Yeah. But that I have a song that fully goes to a character? I don't think I've ever had that.

When I was on my walk last night, Imagine Dragon's Believer came on and I nearly ran into a tree with the realization that this is a Stiles song, down to the very last detail.

Genuinely, every single line. But here's the ones that scream it the most to me.

First things first I'ma say all the words inside my head

What is more Stiles than getting all the words inside his head out, I mean, have you met that rambling mess?

I was broken from a young age

Claudia trauma anyone? Having to raise his father?

Pain! You made me a, you made me a Believer, believer Pain! You break me down, you build me up Believer, believer Pain! Oh, let the bullets fly, oh, let them rain My life, my love, my drive, it came from… Pain! You made me a, you made me a Believer, believer

A SPARK COMES FROM BELIEF HE IS A BELIEVER AND HE IS FORGED BY PAIN I AM VIBRATING IN MY SEAT OKAY.

And the life, love and drive rooting in pain? Hnnng.

I was chokin' in the crowd Building my rain up in the cloud Falling like ashes to the ground Hoping my feelings, they would drown But they never did, ever lived, ebbin' and flowin' Inhibited, limited 'til it broke open and rained down It rained down, like…

Again, pain shaping him. But also the rain and storm imagery. Maybe that one is more on me, because I associate Stiles' Spark with lightning and storms. Meanwhile, the ashes just make me think of the Hales and the loss - and, again, to me, Stiles' Spark is linked to the Hales.

Last things last By the grace of the fire and the flames You're the face of the future The blood in my veins, oh-ooh The blood in my veins, oh-ooh

Again, the Hales. The grace of the fire and the flames? The fact that Stiles' Hales lived through the fire, by its grace. The face of the future? The only Hales left, to shape the future of the Hale Pack.

Tell me this song isn't about Spark Stiles, Emissary of the Hale Pack.

[hyacinthusmemorial]

To the people who want Hyacinthus and Apollo content and to the people who enjoyed my Hyacinthus/Apollo fanfic from last year. This is a plug-in to go read Of Lion and Larkspur again. The reason why is that I intend to release a sequel sometime next week, and it super helps reading that one if you're fresh on the events of Of Lion and Larkspur.

The story being released is called Of Stone and Clay, and where Of Lion and Larkspur was from Apollo's POV, this is from Hyacinthus's POV. It also features the POV of another character, who tells the story of Apollo & Asclepius through someone else's perspective. Again, it fits into my series as a whole, but if you aren't interested in reading all of that, these two stories could sort of stand-alone.

Below is an excerpt:

They were entering a rocky area, mountainous as they made their way south to Amyclae—there would be many rocky paths ahead until they reached their home. A few days of walking if they faced no issue, and according to Hermes, their way was guarded. 

“Are you sure you have no need for sandals?” Hyacinthus asked, turning to Apollo, who was walking on the rocks with no apparent qualms.

“I am sure,” Apollo said, looking up at him. 

He looked more hale than he had for several years, Hyacinthus reckoned. There was tissue on his flesh, there was some weight to him that mysteriously added after the Fates had turned him into a god again.

“Alright,” Hyacinthus said, still doubting his lover’s decision to go without footwear. 

Then again, most statuary of him was barefooted—maybe the imagery was more accurate than Hyacinthus previously thought, thinking of the image of the god in Amyclae and the god walking next to him. There were similarities, but then, there were the obvious differences. The statue gave the god more musculature—not that Apollo was not fit and strong, but he seemed more slender. He was still masculine, but there was an almost feminine curve to him. His shoulders were not as broad, but they were straight, and he liked to be clothed as much as the statue was nude. 

That was a curiosity to Hyacinthus, who looked at his lover closely, trying to divine his thoughts. 

“Are you quite alright?” Apollo asked, turning to look at Hyacinthus.

“I am just thinking of your statue in Amyclae,” Hyacinthus said to him, "They really missed the best parts of you, I think.”

Apollo raised an eyebrow at him, and cocked his head to the side, “And what, pray tell, are the best parts of me?”

Hyacinthus smirked, looking at his lover’s pretty form all the way down. He was wearing a white chiton, shouldered on both sides, his clavicular notch an angle shape that cut a sharp edge, his eyes blue, gleaming like a cloudless sky, then they flashed green in odd intervals, and his full lips, ready for kissing.

“I could kiss the statue,” Hyacinthus contemplated, "But it would have none of your warmth.”

“Yes,” Apollo said. "Statues tend to be quite cold—it is fortuitous then that you have its very model right here before you.”

Hyacinthus chuckled and he grabbed Apollo’s hand to kiss it, pressing his lips to it. 

“We should find a place to rest for the evening,” Hyacinthus said. 

“Oh yes,” Apollo said, "Excellent idea.”

It was said with irony, and Apollo trailed along at his side as he searched for a flat spot with enough trees around for firewood. They were not in a forest, but there was brush and bush around. Hyacinthus contemplated it as he looked for a good spot to rest—the day still had enough time for that at least.

[mariacallous]

Every generation gets the King Lear it deserves. Kenneth Branagh, who stars in a precipitate production that recently opened at the Shed, has given us an Ozempic-thin rendition of Shakespeare’s sprawling tragedy, one that privileges aerodynamic efficiency over depth. At the heart of this staging—directed by Branagh, Rob Ashford, and Lucy Skilbeck—is the strikingly hale actor, who struggles to embody “a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less.” In a recent interview, Branagh said that “the starting point for this new version was to have an emotional immediacy, to have youth and the impatience of youth at the center of things.” He could have been describing the buzzy new Broadway run of Romeo + Juliet, which boasts a clubby aesthetic and features a constellation of spirited stars. To underscore youth in Lear, though, is to look through the wrong end of the telescope. Its last lines, as spoken by Edgar, are a paean to “the oldest,” who “hath borne most.”

The current show, presented by the Shed, KBTC, and Fiery Angel, transports us to a Neolithic Britain sparsely populated by fur-clad characters wielding spears. Designed by Jon Bausor, the set features massive slabs of stone that link up in a semicircle and calve apart, while a circular screen (or is it a lidless eye?) hovers above the stage, displaying swirling galaxies, star systems, and planets. Ironically for a play presided over by a vaguely celestial donut, the script’s commerce with the supernatural is downplayed: in his fury, Lear does not call upon “Hecate and the night” or invoke “the operation of the orbs.” The Game of Thrones–like costumes may be period-appropriate but are something of a liability: on the day I was in the audience, the actors’ fur coats seemed to occasionally muffle their microphones, resulting in uneven sound quality. So much for Dolby Atmos’s immersive audio technology.

The greatest handicap, however, is not the youth-centric vision or the spotty sound but the cuts to the text. A director who makes drastic reductions to a Shakespeare play should be prepared to compensate for the elisions through gestural or subverbal means. Unfortunately, that never happens in this production, which is reduced to two intermission-less, complexity-killing hours. The opening scene bypasses the original prologue—which helpfully adumbrates many of the play’s central themes—and leaps directly to Lear commanding his three daughters to take turns professing their love for him. Regan’s (Saffron Coomber) overture is reduced by half, rendering her protestations of adoration less fulsome, more Cordelia-like in their brevity. Gone too are the youngest daughter’s asides: in the original, Cordelia ruminates that “I am sure my love’s more ponderous than my tongue.” Absent such internal quibbles, here she verges on mere tactlessness. Any sympathy one may feel for Lear’s favored child is bullied into us by prior acquaintance with the story—not by Jessica Revell’s by-the-book performance. Omissions accrue apace. Where lines are not redacted, they are, in many cases, reordered, misappropriated by different speakers, or unwisely edited so they are leached of Shakespeare’s unusual imagery. Thus—in a subplot about a nobleman in Lear’s court and his two sons, Edgar and the bastard Edmund—instead of lamenting that Edmund “did bewray [Edgar’s] practice,” the Earl of Gloucester (Joseph Kloska) tonelessly utters, “He did expose the evil.” The result is a kind of poetic vitiligo.

A treasonous letter, allegedly written by Edgar (Doug Colling), in which he plots to overthrow his father, is read silently rather than aloud, depriving the audience of a greater sense of Edmund’s villainy. The “bastard” (Dylan Corbett-Bader) is more of a brute than an Iago-like schemer; he doesn’t offer his father the chance to obtain “auricular assurance” of Edgar’s disloyalty and is overly hasty in assenting to Gloucester’s negative impression of his brother. Lear’s eldest daughter, Goneril (Deborah Alli), and his second, Regan, are even less realized and fatally fungible in their lust for Edmund.

With other productions of Lear, it has often crossed my mind that the tragedy of the tale is raveled up in the notion that one’s children are biological prostheses of oneself. When Lear deputizes Regan and Goneril as his “guardians” and “depositaries,” he scarcely expects them to defy his requests for superfluities. Whether out of benignant paternalism or not-so-benign blindness, he anticipates that they will gladly countenance all his desires, no matter how reasonable. What accounts for the harshness of his subsequent pronouncements—Lear calls upon Nature to dry up Goneril’s “organs of increase” and “into her womb convey sterility”—has partly to do with the terrible realization that his daughters have their own spheres of existence. The interpretation only tenuously applies to this British import.

Throughout, Branagh and his codirectors have prioritized action over interiority, and the pacing intensifies the feeling of hollowness at the show’s core. When Branagh’s Lear curses Regan and Goneril for having the temerity to ask him to reduce his retinue by fifty men, then seventy-five men, his feelings come not from the marrow of his bones but from pique. “Reason not the need,” the king chastises his daughters, yet his need, especially in the context of this austere production (Lear’s train of rowdy men is as notional as the play’s deluges and “hurricanoes”), comes across more as greed. The scene on the stormy heath—which ought to be a showcase for Lear’s headlong descent into lunacy—fails to strike the right note of pathos. A platform at the center of the stage tilts up at an acute angle for Lear’s meltdown in the maelstrom (the same platform is later used for the Dover cliff episode), but rather than evoking an “extreme verge,” the awkwardly inclined surface recalls a utilitarian loading dock. Equally prosaic, this Lear never calls on thunderbolts to “singe my white head,” but does suffer from some ill-timed aneurysms.

An excellent comedic actor, Branagh is fitfully compelling in his declamations. A lighthearted tone too often prevails where gravity should; the moment when Lear meets a raving Poor Tom and asks him, “Didst thou give all to thy daughters?” should not elicit a big laugh from the audience. On more than one occasion, Branagh’s Lear is fogged by a forgetfulness redolent of Lockhart, the milk-livered professor the actor played in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Even in his final moments, as he cradles Cordelia’s lifeless body, his presentation feels frustratingly recitational, a mere quotation of more lived-in performances. To quote a line originally spoken by Regan and excised from this mutilated play, this Lear “hath ever but slenderly known himself.”

[taylortruther]

no one asked, but here are my thoughts on the short stories in that poll, because i re-read all of them:

the lottery by shirley jackson - a classic. brutal and effective.

lamb to the slaughter by roald dahl - a satisfying little story just like a nice supper. i didn't find it super creepy, even though the act of e***** the m***** w***** is pretty creepy in itself. love roald dahl, not his best work.

the veldt by ray bradbury - the screams! i love the almost dark willy wonka-esque conflict, with this magical machine that has terrible consequences if misused (and the game is a bit rigged.) love how timeless it is.

the yellow wallpaper by charlotte perkins gilman - classic for a reason. it's incredible how the writing makes you feel sick, as if you too are stuck in this hideous yellow wallpaper.

the monsters are due on maple street by rod serling - i don't want to spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen or read it (also, is this even a "short story"? all i found was the episode and a script) but i love how this and the veldt describe the thin line between civilization and barbarity.

a jury of her peers by susan glaspell - probably my favorite of this particular set of stories. the small details, the shared glances between women. the way mrs. hale asks, "why do we know--what we know? and they don't?"... is there any stronger question to ask about misogyny?

where are you going, where have you been by joyce carol oates - unbelievably creepy, made my blood run cold when i read it. oates is a master at eerie understatement. it's like you can feel something terrible is going to happen long before it happens, and you are stuck between wanting to save her, and wanting it to be over with.

the cask of amontillado by edgar allen poe - other poe stories are creepier, but i DID enjoy the background where this was a response to a literary rival. also, the imagery of his coat of arms! this made me miss english class.

i have no mouth and i must scream by harlan ellison - okay, obviously creepy and unsettling as hell. i always thought the writing, from the narrator's pov, felt a little too "normal" considering everything that has happened to them. also hate how ellen is described. but a very good, extremely creepy story regardless. also an interesting old video game to watch on youtube.

in the penal colony by franz kafka - i hadn't read this one before, and it's funny, i saw the ending coming but in an entirely different way. the religious allegory felt obvious, but i'm still chewing on it.

the jaunt by stephen king - this has inspired many a classic creepypasta. i love how king can just reel you in and bounces back and forth between present and past, in dialogue and in narration. and this is like the perfect amount of "science" in a sci-fi story, imo. it feels legitimate, but not overwhelming in detail (they're all great at it, but king feels more technical, probably due to being the most modern writer on here.) the twist got me!

also interesting to see how many classic short stories play with the distinction between civility and barbarity (honorable mention to the most dangerous game here, especially) and the mundane cruelty of humanity (hm to all summer in a day, which was mentioned A LOT in the tags.)

[sterek-ao3feed]

The Sinful Prey

Read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/63564322

by Nightowl_22

The church was a sanctuary of silence that afternoon, the faint hum of hymns lingering like a ghost of virtue. Derek Hale lounged in the back pew, his sharp green eyes glinting with predatory lust as he watched Father Stiles Stilinski fumble with his vestments in the sacristy. The door was cracked open—just enough for Derek to catch the sight that would fuel his next depraved conquest.

Words: 1615, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Teen Wolf (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin

Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Lydia Martin

Additional Tags: Top Stiles Stilinski, Bottom Derek Hale, Cock Slut Derek Hale, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Priest Kink, Blasphemy, Priest Stiles Stilinski, Cheating Derek Hale, Closeted Derek Hale, Dirty Talking Derek Hale, Horny Derek Hale, Accidental Voyeurism, Stiles Stilinski Has a Big Dick, Rimming, Rough Sex, Hair-pulling, Alternate Universe, Size Queen Derek Hale, Oblivious Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Has a Nice Butt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63564322

[tilbageidanmark]

MOVIES I WATCHED THIS WEEK # 229:

"Goodu Luck!"

I've seen all of Miyazaki's movies multiple times, and SPIRITED AWAY had always been my favorite. It's the Mount Rushmore of Japanese animation, a modern Odyssey for children, The Alice of Wonderland of the Spirits, an endless fountain of inventiveness and beauty. Isn't its main theme that of transformation? How a frightened, ordinary 10 year old girl is thrust into scary adventures, and in the process becomes a resourceful heroine, while everything around her changes too. Poor Chihiro! The set up opening with her and her family driving into their new town is so captivating. 10/10 - One of the best movies of all time. Re-watch♻️.

The superb imagery was unsurpassed. I don't watch sequels, but I could envision another world, where ol' man Miyazaki is using Artificial Intelligence to create 'Spirited Away 2'.

My comment on r/moviedetails from 5 years ago about Miyazaki's usage of the concept of 'Ma' was one of my most popular posts on Reddit.

🍿

More from 2001:

8,984 films were released in 2001. On Letterboxd, 'Spirited Away' was rated second-highest for the year with 4.45/5.00.

The eerie DISINTEGRATION LOOP 1.1. was the 9th highest film there, with 4.21/5.00. This hour-long powerful recording was filmed by avant-garde composer william Basinski on the evening of September 11, from his roof in Williamsburg Brooklyn. It consists of a single, static shot of the black smoke billowing over Manhattan, and is set to a decaying tape loop of an ambient sound project that Basinski finished editing just that morning. Dust to dust.

🍿

First watch: Orson Welles 1947 confusing Noir THE LADY FROM SHANGHAI. An excuse to show off his then-wife Rita Hayworth, the impossibly glamorous femme fatale Elsa Bannister. Lucky him.

The film was chopped and brutally edited by the studio after completion, so much of Welles ambitious visions made what's left of the convoluted plot incomprehensible. The Boy Wonder was a theatrical genius, a misunderstood highbrow "Artisté" who created stylish masterpieces at a young age. But here he wrote himself as a wannabe Hemingway, a tragic anti-hero with an atrocious fake Irish accent, that was irritating to listen to. I'm sure that had he lived today, he would be an insufferable pompous ass who thinks very highly of himself. He would probably use a pretentious third-person voice-over in telling the incredible story of his life - just like in here.

Many of the visuals and especially the Hall of Mirror ending at the Funhouse were very cool though.

🍿

"Korbyn was buried in the early afternoon."

RaMell Ross directed one of 2024 best movies 'Nickel Boys'. Also 'Easter Snap' about hog butchering. His first film, the only other one he made, HALE COUNTY THIS MORNING, THIS EVENING (2018) was also nominated for an Oscar. It too takes place at a similar community in Alabama's Black Belt, rural, poor, backward county, but full of people with dreams on their mind. A moving non-fiction work, with impressionist details and meditative style. (Screenshot Above).

🍿

STÉPHANE AUDRAN X 2:

🍿 “Cognac?…”

THE THIRD LOVER, my 14th love triangle noir by Claude Chabrol. An early (1962) modern interpretation of Othello: A young, mediocre writer, a Tom Ripley-type, befriends a successful German couple, and in jealousy decides to destroy their happy life. It is told with an irritating voice-over by the un-charismatic actor. With one unusual Oktoberfest scene.

🍿 PRESENTATION, OR CHARLOTTE AND HER STEAK (1951) is a curious early New Wave short by Éric Rohmer. Unrecognizably young Jean-Luc Godard plays a young man, and Stéphane Audran in her very first film credit voices the young woman who cooks the steak. 1/10.

🍿

DOCUMENTEUR: AN EMOTION PICTURE, my 22nd film by Agnès Varda. It's a companion piece to her other Los Angeles feature from the same year, 'Mur Murs', and one of my least engaging of her experimental works. A single mom is trying to put her life together again after separating from the French man whom she followed to America. Together with her 8 year old boy (played by Mathieu Demy, Varda's own son) she's drifting in pre-gentrified Venice, among the poor working class Latinos who used to still live there in 1981. [*Female Director*]

🍿

SALT FOR SVENATIA (1930), my third soviet-propaganda film by Bolshevik Mikhail Kalatozov [After 'I am Cuba' and 'The Cranes are flying']. A (pseudo-)ethnographic study of a remote community which barely exists in isolation in the Georgian Caucasus. A backward country and poor, unfortunate people. I saw it on recommendation from HootsMcguire.

(The Scottish klezmer band Moishe's Bagel plays a theme song from the film.)

🍿

"Fuck my tits! That's fire!"

Because I've watched so very little television in my life, the showbiz comedy 'The Studio' is one of the funniest TV-series I've ever seen. It's also the first time since that 70's where I saw each episode separately and had to wait a whole week for the next one.

THE STUDIO, EP. 10, "THE PRESENTATION" wraps up the Season 1 in perfect hilarity. 82-yo Bryan Cranston is terrific, and so is everybody else. For its constant barrage of insider references about the movie business, it's as insightful as 'The Player' and even 'Sunset Blvd.'. 10/10 for the whole series! I think that this Seth Rogan has a promising future in Hollywood.

🍿

4 DIRTY ROTTEN SCOUNDRELS:

🍿 "But... For the children!..."

1988 was a good year for some comedies classics: Midnight Run, The naked gun, Big top Pee-Wee, Who framed Roger Rabbit?, A fish called Wanda. And then, there was DIRTY ROTTEN SCOUNDRELS. It would have been interesting with Mick Jagger and David Bowie as originally intended, but it was perfect with odd couple Michael Caine and Steve Martin. "It is better to be truthful and good… than to not." And Beaulieu-sur-Mer looks peachy. Re-watch♻️.

🍿 'Dirty Rotten Scoundrels' was a faithful remake - in big parts, verbatim - of the 1964 BEDTIME STORY. But, and I don't know how to say it diplomatically, smarmy Marlon Brando couldn't hold a candle to Steve Martin's comedic Ruprecht, and Michael Caine's charmed sophistication seems to come more naturally than David Niven's. This Freddy Benson swindles women just for sex, and the money he extracted from them was secondary. Also, Janet Colgate's final end-twist was replaced with a wedding (?). 2/10.

🍿

So every time I recommend my all-time favorite rom-com PALM SPRINGS to somebody, I have to watch it again [to make sure it's still perfect], and it is. 10/10 for the Nth time.

🍿

2 MORE WITH BRITISH AMIT SHAH:

🍿 I only watched THE INFIDEL (2010) because of its potentially-original, semi-controversial concept: A Muslim taxi-driver in London discovers that he was adopted as a baby and that his birth parents were Jewish. But the bigoted director was awful, and the ethnic comedy had definitely zero laughs in it. ⬇️ Could Not Finish. ⬇️

🍿 MY FIRST DICK (2022). Two actresses talk and act as if they are 11 yo, and they want to see their first picture of a penis. Terrible. 1/10. [*Female Director*]

🍿

"You're going to get chara on your trousers..."

A similar comedy that is just a tad more palatable [at least I finished it], Sacha Baron Cohen’s 2012 THE DICTATOR. I saw it only because of this prophetic clip, a love letter to all Dear Leaders everywhere, but the rest of the movie was garbage. Dedicated "in loving memory" to Kim Jong Il, it's a cliche-filled parody of Middle Eastern strongmen, Gaddafi, Saddam, the current Kim, and is blatantly incorrect politically about everything Arab. So there are goats, golden Range Rovers, antisemitism, female bodyguards with enormous chests, rape jokes. It has Fred Armisen and Chris Parnell, so it's on 'that' level of humor. 2/10.

🍿

THE SHORTS:

🍿 THE COLORLESS MAN, a new A.I.-assisted 13 minute short, that was created by Yemeni biologist Hashem Al-Ghaili. Took 2 weeks part-time to complete at the cost of $600. A step by step guide on r/ChatGTP. Some of these projects will become indistinguishable from "real" movies before the end of the year!

🍿 HAPPY AND GLORIOUS is an excellent action clip starring Daniel Craig and Queen Elizabeth herself, which was made by Danny Boyle for the 2012 Summer Olympic Games in London. Lots of operatic Handel fanfare to accompany the patriotic sentiment.

I don't care for any sports, and never followed the news of the day, so I wasn't even aware of the games. But Boyle directed the spectacular 4-hour ceremony, which apparently was very-well received. There were other terrific segments: MR. BEAN performing the 'Chariots of fire' theme with the orchestra, ERIC IDLE singing 'Always look at the bright side', and Paul McCartney closing with HEY JUDE.

🍿 Robert Altman's 1964 POT AU FEU is basically just a montage of many people smoking weed, with a lovely score of French chansons.

🍿 THE BED was made by counterculture poet James Broughton, a member of the 'San Francisco Renaissance', in 1967. It's is an experimental hippy trip showing a bunch of naked people frolic on a bed in a meadow. 2/10.

🍿 PEANUTS IN SPACE: SECRETS OF APOLLO 10 (2019) is a mock-documentary by Morgan Neville, celebrating the 50 anniversary of the moon landing. Jeff Goldblum and Ron Howard play-act the conspiracy theory of Snoopy on board.

🍿 Spike Jonze created some visual magic through the years, but mostly he's a prostitute for music videos and consumer brands that pay him top dollars. SOMEDAY is a new 5-min. ad with Pedro Pascal shilling for Apple AirPods with Active Noise Cancellation. Reminiscent of the old Sony Bravia color television commercials from 20 years ago. Not too bad.

🍿

(ALL MY FILM REVIEWS - HERE).

[illustraction]

MAHLER (1974) - MAESTRI: COMPOSERS IN MOVIES (Part 10/10)

We conclude this brief overview of movies based on music composer' biopics as we started, i.e. with another Ken Russell's fantasy Musical biography this time devoted to Gustav Mahler encompassing his romantic affairs, conversion from Judaism to Christianity and failed marriage all shown in a succession of flashbacks

Above are the two different original Italian posters with heavy imagery linked to Nazisploitation!!! as well as the Japanese poster for the first release there in 1987 (Click on each image for details).

Director: Ken Russell Actors: Robert Powell, Glenda Hale

ALL OUR MUSICAL MOVIE POSTERS ARE HERE

If you like this entry, check the other 9 parts of this week’s Blog as well as our Blog Archives

All our NEW POSTERS are here All our ON SALE posters are here

The posters above courtesy of ILLUSTRACTION GALLERY

[pontevoix]

there is simply not one thing i can pick!!!!!!! u weave a certain cadence into ur prose that sings to me. the way u so easily straddle the line between silly and serious with ur muses and OF COURSE the level of care and craft you bring to every character you try out. u know this. we know this. but i will say it again: i am enamoured!!!! i would be blessed to read anything u write from now until we are old. if hale has no fans i am dead

roCKET i know i just sent you a love letter but anyway this is my coming in to say thanK you and you know that sdfg my purpose in life is to be a quiznos sign guy sdfg redirecting the world to appreciating you omg sdfg i love so much how you match my freak sdfg and also just put so much... soul into the imagery and voice of your characters. yOU are a blessing sdfg sdfg lbr we're just the two spidermen pointing at each other meme