#he asks martin to handwrite some of his poems

[cult-of-the-eye]

Jon was definitely a terrible handwriting kid who would look at the other kids and wonder when his handwriting would magically be neat like theirs and Martin was a round neat little letters, first to get his pen license kid

[nat-20s]

for @jonmartinweek day 4 prompt- tape recorders! once again post canon, but this time babes? it’s pure sappiness

~*~

When Martin dumps the box in front of him, Jon can’t help the sardonic huff of a laugh that escapes him. “Really? I would’ve thought you’d had enough enough of these damn things for a lifetime.”

Martin beams at him, obviously expecting a less than thrilled response to the charity shop cassettes. “Oh, believe me, I have. Buuuut..”

It’s clear Martin wants him to bite, and, what the hell, Jon can’t deny he’s curious. He sets aside the paperback he’s been thumbing through and asks, “But?”

“But it’s been a year and a half since we got here, and you know that I’ve been writing again, and the poems really do sound better on tape.”

“Oh..kay? Is that all? Because, love, you do know you can replicate that sound digitally, right? No need to bring..to bring those things into our home.”

“Aha! I knew you would say that, but, no, Jon, that’s not all. Remember how our therapist said something about softening bad associations by re-contextualizing items with new, positive memories, or whatever? I thought these would be a good start, considering they’re not quite so visceral as lotion or, eugh, peaches. And, yes, there’s always the whole possibility of something listening on the other side, but I have actually accounted for that. I’ve had the recorder in my bag for the past week, and I’ve taken it to all sorts of locations that would be considered interesting or scary, and nothing. I brought it to a job interview, for Christ’s sake, and not a peep. I am almost certain that we have total control over when the recordings start and stop, and who gets to listen to them. You have full veto power here, obviously, and you don’t have to record anything yourself, but, I thought it might be nice, to record just notes and grocery lists or songs stuck in our heads or whatever. Maybe we could make tapes into something mundane and maybe even pleasant, if a bit outdated.”

Standing up for a better viewpoint, Jon eyes the box of cassettes and, crammed in the corner, the recorder itself. He’s not overly enthused at the sight, and if it comes on by itself at any moment, he’s tossing everything into an industrial shredder and never looking back. Yet, it would be preferable to not wince at the sound of static, to be able to use the tape deck in their beater car. He knows already that he won’t be using it himself, the imagined press of the recorder in his hand more than enough to make his skin crawl and throat tighten. Just Martin’s voice, however, might be tolerable. Perhaps even enjoyable, on those rare occasions that they have to spend more than a handful of hours apart. “All right.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I suppose it won’t hurt to try. Though I must admit my confidence in this experiment isn’t particularly high.”

Martin rewards his willingness to go along with this with a kiss to the temple, and informs him, “That’s fine. I can be optimistic for both of us on this one.”

~*~

The next morning, Jon rolls over to find an upsetting lack of warmth at his side. He opens his eyes to find his delightful boyfriend has been replaced with a cold, uncaring tape recorder. It’s apparently locked and loaded, as it has a sticky note in Martin’s loopy handwriting that says “Play me :-)”. With bated breath, he ever so carefully presses play.

Hello, love. Remember how we completely neglected to do our shopping on Tuesday? Turns out, we have zero breakfast food now. I’m grabbing some bagels from the cafe that’s too pricey for us to regularly justify, I’ll be back in 15. I love you.”

Huh. Not terrible. Maybe this is something Jon could get used to after all.

After that morning, and Jon’s lack of averse reaction to it, Martin keeps his word and begins to record all sorts of things. Little reminders for both of them, a spoken journal, affirmations for Jon, and, yes, grocery lists, despite Jon’s continued insistence that a whiteboard would be infinitely easier. Martin even manages to capture Jon on tape a few times, either singing or having a very earnest conversation with their incredibly chatty cat.

The wild thing is that it works. Jon doesn’t flinch at the sight of a cassette anymore. At worst, they’re mental background noise, nothing to take note of. At best, they’re audio treats, a physical token of something wonderful or peaceful or loving or all of the above.

This culminates six months later, when Jon finds a tape awaiting it. On it is a spoken clue from Martin, leading to another cassette. He follows the path, and he has to admit, he’s enjoying the playful puzzle. After being lead to a number of locations loaded with fond memories, he ends up in front of Martin, waiting on a bench in the park where they first woke up Here. He goes to sit next to him, and with a silent smile, he’s handed one final tape. Jon raises an eyebrow at him, questioning, but Martin doesn’t give away anything, just nodding at the recorder. Jon shrugs, and goes for it.

My dearest Jon,We’ve been through hell and back more times than I can count, and throughout it all, we’ve somehow managed to stick by each other. Right now, I’m the happiest that I’ve ever been, and I have an inkling that it’s much the same for you. While it’s largely a formality at this point, I would like to declare to the world that we’re going to spend the rest of our lives, and perhaps even beyond them, together. My love, my light, my anchor, will you marry me?

Okay. He can admit he’s glad to have that on tape.

[bag-chips]

(Apologies for the length, messy handwriting poor quality uwu)

I binged all the Mechanisms albums in one day and became utterly obsessed with the idea of them being Jon’s uni band. On top of this I got thinking about the theatre lines in MAG 172. Ergo, here’s a master post of various Mechanism!Jon and Theatre!Jon scenarios! (it’s mainly Jonmartin fluff I’m not going to lie to you). It took four days. Last night I stayed up till nearly four trying to get it done cos I hate myself ;)

1) My design for Mechanism Jon. He’s absolutely one of those guys who grow excessive facial hair to look older and more mature. And, oh look! Some JonGeorgie stuff. Rather than being a member of the band, I’d like to think she acts as the behind the scenes manager, helping out with bookings lighting and costumes. It will become apparent that Jon is like my fave and I’m soft for this stupid little man.

2) Depressed S3 Jon with the Admiral. Jon prefers to not talk about the band, especially since most of the Archival staff make fun of him for it anyway. However, he absolutely ends up quoting Mech songs when he’s on his own, especially when emotionally compromised. The aftermath of this little sketch would be Jon spitting out the whisky and nearly throwing up because he hates the taste and can only really stand very weak alcoholic drinks (hey hi hello I’m projecting).

Stupid sketch of him taking part in a Shakespeare production. Jon was and still is a theatre kid, taking part in any play or musical he could during his uni years. He’s a dramatic little bitch but damn does he have a fantastic stage pressence. Georgie proudly supports him from behind the curtain.

3) Martin finds out about the Mechanisms through Tim, who uses the material to expertly tease Jon. Martin finds pictures. Martin’s crush is cemented he is homosexual he is transfixed by the images. This leads to him listening to the albums, which outside of them being by his crush he genuially does love them. He often finds himself listening to them whilst working around the Archives, but takes great efforts to hide his love of the Mechs from a curious Jon.

4) Everyone at the Archives knows about the band. Tim and Melanie are the lead culprits in mocking him about it, especially in the tense work environment of S3. (For context Mechanism shows had the tradition of Jonny De’Ville claiming he was the captain, with Gunpowder Tim and the audience then proclaiming that no he’s the first mate Jonny stop Jonny no. Go listen to the Death of the Mechanisms you’ll see).

5) Post-MAG172 argument. Who will win? The poetry nerd or the theatre kid?

6) (Read downwards until the next row the layouts weird cos I sketched it whilst sleep deprived at 2am ;) ). Jonmartin fluff!

TMA is a tragedy. Listening to the Mechanism albums has made that very clear. So the next couple of images would be set in a happy ending AU fuck u they’re going to get married let me dream.

7) (Apologies for the weird writing again sleep deprived). Jon wants to fulfill his side of the bargain and take Martin to the theatre. After many trips to Georgie’s and a lot of planning, Jon decides to take them on a date to see Cats at the West End, since it turns out Martin knows the original poems. Thing is, this is their first proper date. And it so happens to conicide with their first anniversary. And Jon wants to spoil Martin with an engagement present as an apology (Jon ruined the proposal with his eye powers). Jon wants to go big. And it just so happens that Elias left a lot of money. He decides to go ham and get them a private box. He gets Georgie to book it for them since he wants it to be a surprise and despite his Eldritch mind google he can’t figure out how to work a laptop.

Martin is told he’s going to the theatre. However it takes until they’re collecting the tickets at the front desk for Jon to reveal the seats and thus allude to the expenses. Martin has always worried about money given his upbringing, and panics, nearly having a full blown argument with Jon in front of the ticket man. Jon really should have listened to Georgie’s warnings.

8) (The Wikipedia text box thing was inspired by a brilliant TMA comic, once I find it again I’ll link it!) Jon is very much excited for the perfomance, and infodumps about it. Martin is still annoyed about the expense of the date but starts to relax and mellow out once he gets a glass of wine in his hand and a quiet moment to listen to his fiancée talk passionately about something.

9) The gays get ice cream and discuss who’s the prettiest actor in the interval. Martin is very much wired to how Jon works now, and uses the conversation to calm him down a bit (I think Jon was very much concerned that Martin might leave him over this bless that man).

10) The couple head home after a few quiet drinks at the bar. Jon is exchausted - mentally strained by the worry of perfecting the date, his emotional investment into the show and the two glasses of wine he had. Martin forgives him for the excessive nature of the trip, but would be lying is he said he didn’t enioy the show (even if it was mainly experiencing it through Jon’s expressive face, investment and him mouthing the lyrics quietly to himself). He’s going to ask if they can maybe listen to a different musical album whilst Jon recovers from his inevitable hangover tomorrow, but first he needs to gently carry his pissed and sleepy partner up to bed.

I wanted to draw soft things I’m sorry I love this podcast with all my heart have a nice day

[monabela]

no one told me it was femslash february before the month actually started, but I managed to throw something together! I present a series of AUs (loosely) based on Sonata Arctica songs bc I'm always a slut for Sonata Arctica (and femslash). there's ten of them, all different f/f Hetalia pairings. with canon female characters :D I hope I can actually finish all ten before the end of the month! we shall see.

a chapter starts anew

part I of the femslash Sonata Arctica AUs

Now when you think it's all over, you find love A flower stars to bloom, a chapter starts anew The greatest moment in life

- Larger Than Life

characters/pairings: Belgium (Manon)/Hungary (Erzsébet), Spain (Antonio), Netherlands (Martin), Luxembourg (Noah)

word count: 2114 summary: Manon Leclercq is a world famous actress who never had time to build a life between her roles. Until she meets Erzsébet Héderváry.

warning: character death (but not in a tragic way? just because the characters are old)

She had been one of the first of her kind. Some people would argue that she was the only of her kind, but she never believed that.

Her name had buzzed around theaters and smoke-filled bars, hummed to the tune of rock-n-roll hits, whispered reverently by young girls putting on bright red lipstick and young men trying to get to them.

She had wondered if it was all worth it, at that point.

Manon Leclercq. Was that her? Was she the person going on stage to collect award after award? Were those her arms heavy with flowers? Who was Manon Leclercq?

She flitted from role to role without pause, without consideration for much else. She always had been a hard worker; sometimes, she could feel the blisters on her fingers from the factory work she had done during the war still, as clear as she could see the scar on her elder brother’s face or the guarded closeness on her younger one’s.

She had only been 21 when she’d done her first movie, and sometimes Manon felt like she hadn’t sat down since. Like, maybe, she had forgotten to build something of her own in-between the lives of Lady Jane and Detective Michelle and her series of sequels.

Her brothers, bless them, spread out across the world, but wrote often of their amazing travels. Martin, the oldest of them, sent pictures and short poems. Noah sent souvenirs and foreign words. Manon read their scribbly handwritings on film sets in America, Iceland, Spain and Japan and had the feeling they were taking her more places than she was taking herself. She loved acting, didn’t doubt that she always would, but sometimes she thought that her entire life had become a movie, and not a particularly exciting one to watch.

In the late fifties, as her roles grew more prolific, she acquired a co-star in this strange movie. Well, Antonio liked to call himself her right-hand man. Or her friend. It took her a while to come around to that one.

The first full feature in color she did was with him, and the audience had been enamored with his bright green eyes. Manon liked him, and recognized that he was very handsome, but felt as though she was missing the real appeal.

People assumed they were together. They never were. It was strange even to them sometimes, that something that seemed so natural was not, in fact, the case, but they could laugh about it.

Manon was offered her first role as a mother in 1961, when she was 35. Antonio laughed at her. She accepted the part. Critics were loving. She stuck her tongue out at Antonio when she finished her Oscar acceptance speech. He swung her off the ground afterwards and probably started a whole slew of new rumors. She didn’t really care, even if Martin ranted in his letters that Antonio wasn’t good enough for her and she should watch her back.

Manon grew older, and her roles grew, but she wasn’t sure that she did so herself. Even on her fortieth birthday, she still felt like the country girl coming into the big city she’d been at 21, albeit with dyed hair and crow’s feet around her eyes. She watched Antonio and Martin snipe at each other affectionately, Noah trying to defend his beard by saying it was fashionable. There was still so much life stretched out before her, god willing, and she was happy but wanted something more.

Over the years, Manon had been with a few men. Because they were nice, and it was what was expected of her. It wasn’t until 1972 that everything fell into place.

Her name was Erzsébet Héderváry, but almost everyone called her Liz. She was from Hungary and told the most interesting stories about life on the other side of the Curtain, and even if some of them seemed completely unbelievable, Manon kept listening to the woman’s accented voice, enraptured. Familiar words took on new shapes on her tongue and smiling lips. She worked on the photography for Manon’s latest movie and didn’t seem to grasp how big Manon was around here.

It was refreshing.

Erzsébet had green eyes too, and Manon finally saw the appeal, though it wasn’t because of the color. It was because they crinkled and lit up with sparkles when she smiled, sometimes shone with repressed longing for her distant home country. They seemed to see Manon for who she was, which was as confusing as it was thrilling, because who was that, anyway?

Manon Leclercq, 47 years old, properly in love for the first time in her life. With a woman.

She wondered if Erzsébet saw that, too, and what she thought of it.

She told Antonio, because god knew Antonio was enjoying the sexual revolution as if he were 26 again and being proclaimed the country’s most eligible bachelor. He laughed, but quickly turned serious when he realized that Manon was.

He said, as he almost always did, to let everything flow its natural course, which sounded hippie-ish enough that Manon hung up on him in a huff.

Still, she took the advice.

It led to a friendship with Erzsébet, who was, so it turned out, two years older than Manon, and gladly taught her Hungarian words, had a habit of dropping by whenever she was around and calling at odd times when she wasn’t. She was as dedicated to her art as Manon was to hers, which Manon admired immensely.

And, as Antonio miraculously settled down and started doing musicals – playing a surprising amount of villain roles before moving on to directing –, Martin published his poems and Noah fell in love with a woman on a faraway island, Manon passed fifty and only fell deeper for Erzsébet with every laugh, every flick of brown hair and every word about her performances, positive or negative. Erzsébet was never afraid to tell Manon what she truly thought, which was just another good thing about her.

Manon’s roles slowly dwindled down, and she decided to take some time off – take some time off! – when she had been offered three witch parts in a row.

Erzsébet laughed, told her that she was far too beautiful to be a witch, and came with her without her having to ask. They went to see Antonio and Manon’s brothers and travelled through as much of Europe as they could.

When Manon came back home in 1980, she found that the press didn’t wonder en masse where she’d been like they once would have. Thing were coming to an end, apparently. There were new faces to wear the masks she’d donned, and even if red lipstick and petticoats had long since gone out of style and it was all jeans and neon now, she was certain much remained the same, and was happy to give advice to younger actors playing her children, or even her grandchildren, when she got back to her job.

Still, there was more free time now. Time to sit back and reflect on life. Time to drink wine with Erzsébet and Antonio and listen to them banter about the latest musicals or the cinematography of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, which Manon still hadn’t seen after eight years despite Antonio trying to drag her to special showings every year.

She finally watched it on VHS with running commentary from Erzsébet. The commentary was the best part – she wasn’t sure about the movie itself. It was strange. Erzsébet had a lot to say about the camera work but also sang along to all the songs, horribly.

When it was 1983, and Erzsébet had not stopped singing Africa in months, Manon won an Oscar for Best Actress. It wasn’t her first, but she knew with certainty it would be the last. She wasn’t old, but she was old enough, and that year off with Erzsébet had shown her what she wanted for the rest of her life.

Erzsébet followed her into retirement, no questions asked, and with a minimum of protests about Manon covering most of their expenses.

They saw the country together. Erzsébet followed the situation in Hungary with apparent anxiety. Manon learned to play the guitar and went to see a musical Antonio was directing that had songs written by Martin. Noah came back from his island with two daughters, and dressed in all black.

Erzsébet kissed Manon on her fifty-ninth birthday. It was so surreal that she forgot to kiss back, leading to Erzsébet pulling away, face stony but beautiful green eyes panicked. They flitted around the garden nervously. There was a smudge of Manon’s red lipstick on her lips.

Manon touched her own mouth, then pulled Erzsébet down when she tried to stand up.

Her hair was soft between Manon’s fingers, her lips dry beneath hers, and the soft sound she made when she kissed back would be seared into Manon’s memory for the rest of her life.

Antonio screamed at her in excitement when she told him. Martin just hummed as he tended to do, but he looked pleased. Noah and Manon’s nieces were quietly happy. It was more than she possibly could have hoped for.

The press staunchly refused to acknowledge the mere possibility of Manon and Erzsébet being anything beyond very good friends. While Manon scathingly thought they probably didn’t want their precious piece of movie history sullied by the fact that she happened to be in love with a woman, it also suited them quite well like that.

They traveled to Hungary in 1990, and Erzsébet cried for the first time in all those years Manon had known her. Her shoulders shook when she sank to her knees in the place where she had grown up, love and hate and sadness and bliss spilling out while her grey-streaked hair curtained her off from the rest of the world.

Yet, she had never been more beautiful to Manon. She loved this woman.

1995 marked the first time Manon’s relationship with Erzsébet was acknowledged without a hint of malice or underlying criticism.

Manon, who had by then earned the status of ‘icon’, which she loved and hated – it made her feel very old, but it was an honor – took her to a gala, and who said no to an icon of the film industry when she said the woman by her side was her life partner, right?

The press were mostly neutral on them. Manon attributed it to the fact that she really wasn’t that interesting anymore, no matter what Erzsébet told her with that gorgeous, familiar face of hers.

Manon was often told that she’d aged with grace, but she dyed her hair still, and her hands were quickly becoming alarmingly unsteady. Erzsébet, even with grey hair, looked every bit as youthful as the day Manon had first met her. And that wasn’t Manon’s prejudice talking, no matter what she said about that.

Noah disappeared in the spring of 1997, on one of his aimless trips around the world. His last postcard was sent from Slovenia, saying he was traveling east and sending much love to his grandchildren, and then there was nothing. Manon reckoned that was probably the way Noah preferred things. He’d always been fond of the mysterious.

Antonio forgot who Erzsébet was, but never Manon, not once. He recited a line from their first movie together with his last breath.

Martin did a surprisingly heartfelt poem at his memorial. Erzsébet held Manon’s hand, stroking the frail skin wordlessly. She didn’t cry. Erzsébet Héderváry didn’t cry, except for that one time in Hungary.

The second exception to that rule happened in December 2005. Manon told her to stop it, then. She didn’t want the last thing she saw to be her teary face. Erzsébet laughed through her tears and complained that Martin had taken way too long with her. Manon told her he’d been writing a poem as quickly as he could, which wasn’t very quick when his fingers never stopped shaking and the words could take minutes to find. Nevertheless, it was a wonderful poem.

Wasn’t it cruel, that Martin was the last one of them left, when he was the oldest?

Rather than telling her he wasn’t the last one left yet, Erzsébet told stories about her childhood and about their life together, some heavily embellished as always. It made Manon smile.

Manon Leclercq, iconic movie star, passed away aged 79, in the company of her life partner, Erzsébet Héderváry.

No one but them ever knew that she opened her eyes a last time, felt time slipping away as Erzsébet grasped her fingers, and whispered to her.

“I love you.”

[mvsicinthedvrk]

hw task 04: the one with the letter writing!! (from this post on the main 1 year ago)

i’m aware that this is so old, but as i didn’t join the rp until october, i missed out on this task before! so i’m doing it now, late. and to be fair, it DOES say there’s “no set time limit” 😂

not everyone would have taken the opportunity to do this, so my characters NOT writing letters and why: 

wei wuxian has no memories of anyone outside of D.C., so he wouldn’t write to anyone. same with kaz brekker. everyone patroclus knows is dead, so... he wouldn’t write a letter, either. pippin thinks it’s probably be better if he explains everything to his family in person whenever he gets back, and he’s got terrible handwriting anyway, so he’d skip out on the opportunity. peter pettigrew would rather not anyone know he was here in the first place, so no letter from him. and the only person yu ri cares about is rang, and he’s here, so no letter needed there. 

and then below are my other characters’ letters! i should have put these alphabetically but i started writing them in order of when i picked up the characters and it’s too much work to copy/paste everything around at this point.

martin blackwood: letter to jon sims (the only people left at the Institute martin could have talked to are: jon, basira, and daisy. he doesn’t much like daisy and between jon & basira he’s known jon for longer, so that’s why he’d choose him as letter-recipient.)

Jon, It’s Martin. It’s been a while since you’ve heard from me, by now! Nearly a year. I hope you’re well. I promise I didn’t mean to abandon the Institute, and if I knew of a way to leave, I swear I would have told you so you could leave too. But-- I ended up here in America accidentally, severed from the Eye (as far as I can tell). I REALLY mean accidentally. I don’t even know how I got here, honestly. Anyway. Melanie’s here! And from a few years ago! (Yeah, time travel’s a thing.) The good news is that she’s got her eyes and everything, so that’s a definite benefit. She never even worked for the Institute, where she came from, still doing her YouTube thing. We don’t talk much, since she doesn’t remember me. I should tell you-- I was working with Peter Lukas on purpose, at the end there, before I ended up here. It’s too complicated to put in a letter but do know that I was trying to help, although I realize now that I approached it all wrong. We should have communicated better, all of us, especially after the thing with the Unknowing. Speaking of communicating, this might be the only time you hear from me. But rest assured, I’m okay! Not devoured by worms, or stalked by fears. I’ve got a normal desk job now, and I’m doing alright. I don’t think the Extinction’s much of an immediate threat, so I hope you’re not worried about that too much. I think about Sasha and Tim every so often, and you as well. Please be safe, and get out when you can, but not by doing anything drastic. You’re so clever, you always have been, and I know you’ll be alright. Don’t trust Peter. Sincerely, Martin Blackwood. 

holland vosijk: a letter to kell in red london (kell is the only other known Antari, and although holland has an antagonistic relationship with him and they’re from two parallel realities, he’s the only one he would trust with this information)

Kell-- I hope this letter finds you, though you know me better than to think I’d wish it finds you “well.” Regardless, I must admit that even your face would be a welcome one. I’ve found myself in the world below yours, the one sans-magic, a few hundred years in the future and on the other side of the sea. I am aware that sounds impossible, but I assure you that it’s true. My magic works as usual except for Travelling, which is what keeps me from returning. Should you find yourself once again in the world you always referred to as “Grey London,” do ask around about rumors of a capital city in America called Washington, D.C. I would appreciate any information you might find out regarding it’s magical status, though I’ve no idea if you’ll have a way to return this correspondence. I will also take the liberty of warning you that I have been here for months and the Danes are surely sore about my absence from their command. Should you find yourself in Makt, you would do well to avoid them, as they may be looking for a new pet by now. I tell you this not out of kindness or concern for your well-being but because I fear what they may do if they have control over a new Antari’s power in their disgruntled state. Do both of our worlds a favor and avoid travelling for the time being. Holland. 

yuri plisetsky: a letter to his coach (even if he’d want to write to his family, his skating comes first. this letter would be written in russian, but I don’t actually know russian, so.)

It’s Yuri. I have been trying to call you but my phone does not go through. I can’t leave this place in America. It’s partway your fault since you sent me here. Tell my sponsors I am NOT DEAD, only stuck in a weird magic town. Have you heard of a skater named Victor Nikiforov? He says he knows me but I do NOT remember him. He promised to choreograph a program for me. Don’t get mad, he’s very good. I will try to get out of this city by the next round of prelim competitions for the grand prix. I’m still practicing every day and I will definitely WIN!

orpheus: a letter to eurydice (he loves & misses her so much; his letter would be short but sweet and would include pressed flowers, just in case there aren’t flowers down there and she needs to remember what they look like)

Eurydice: I hope letters can travel to where you are. It’s me! The wind may have changed on us, but you’re still my sun and my north. I’m coming after you, it’s only that I got caught up on the way. I’ve never wanted anything more than to hold your hand and bring you back to the world above, and I swear that I'll be there as soon as I can. Wherever you go, I go. I love you now and forever. Your Orpheus~

melanie king: a letter to andy caine (her former youtube channel co-host; her parents are both gone or she’d write to them, so she figures-- why not at least let one person know where she is, even if they’d fought the last time they spoke in person)

Hey Andy, I know we’re not on the best of terms but I thought I’d let you know I’m in America for the foreseeable. I’ve been publishing videos on my channel-- though no idea if they show up anywhere other than here-- it’s a long story. I’m still alive, and if any of my extended relatives come looking for me just let them know I’m “abroad.” One of my cameras is still at your place. Don’t sell it-- I’ll be back for it at some point or you’ll owe me £800. -Mels

henry strauss: a letter to his parents (he packed up and left NYC without really telling anyone where he was going, so. time to rectify that poor decision)

Mom and Dad, I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye. I can’t face goodbyes without getting emotional, you both know that. (If it helps, I didn’t tell any of my friends goodbye either, so I hope you didn’t give them a hard time when you realized I’d gone.) I’ve had to keep secrets from you that I genuinely regret, but please know that I never wanted to hurt you. My whole life I always tried to be a good son, and I’m trying to the kind of person here that you always taught me to be. You might not hear from me again, and that’s alright. I hope you can accept that, and know that wherever I am, I love you. Henry

wen kexing: a letter to gu xiang (wen kexing has trust issues. he wouldn’t want any correspondence to get intercepted by the five lakes alliance or with reference to his status in ghost valley, so this isn’t technically a letter with any specific information: it’s a classical Du Fu poem about travelling. he’s super pretentious about quoting literature, so he would have picked something fancy like this to code his message in to prove that it’s actually him. and to code it, he’d have written certain characters in dark purple ink instead of black to send to a’xiang, his maid who’s essentially his younger sister/adopted daughter, to try and explain where he is. even if someone noticed the change in coloring, the message wouldn’t mean much to anyone but a’xiang. he’d also include a brief coda at the end in his own words. and each line would be written in a vertical column but that’s too annoying to format for tumblr)

寺忆曾游处 (purple last two characters for ”travel” and “place”) 桥伶再渡时 (purple last two characters for “crossing” and “time”) 江山如有待 (purple last character that means “stay”/“await” so she knows to wait for him to return) 花柳更无私 野润烟光薄 (purple second-to-last character for “light” to indicate he’s not in the ghosts’ world anymore; she’ll know what that means) 沙暄日色迟 客愁全为减 (purple last four characters of this line-- in the context of the poem, this phrase basically means “sorrow fades away” but read on their own it’s just, like, “don’t worry so much”) 舍此复何之

当好姑娘 (“be a good girl”)

給阿舒我的爱 (”give my love to A’Xu”)

哥 (just “ge” for brother)

noah czerny: a letter to gansey (gansey’s the leader, after all, so it makes sense to send him the letter.)

Dear Gansey: surprise! Blue & I are stuck in Washington D.C. She’s been here for much longer than I have, she said. Time’s weird here. I hope you & Adam & Ronan are alright. I don’t know if you will have noticed that I’m gone, but if you do, don’t worry: we’ll both come back when we can. Tell the others hello from me, keep looking for Glendower (good luck!) and don’t crash the Pig! :P -Noah

[ecec333]

Konrad Kujau - rich on forgeries ....: Konrad Paul Kujau (27 June 1938 – 12 September 2000) was a German illustrator and forger. He became famous in 1983 as the creator of the so-called Hitler Diaries, for which he received DM 2.5 million from a person who in turn sold it for DM 9.3 million to the magazine Stern. The forgery resulted in a four-and-half year prison sentence. "Konny" Kujau was born in Löbau, Nazi Germany, one of five children of Richard Kujau, a cobbler, and his wife, both of who had joined the Nazi Party in 1933. Kujau's early life was of unremitting poverty and his mother was obliged to send her children into orphanages for periods of time. The boy grew up believing in the Nazi ideals and idolising Adolf Hitler; the defeat to the Allies in 1945 and Hitler's suicide did not temper his enthusiasm for the Nazi cause. He held a series of menial jobs until 1957, when he was working as a waiter at the Löbau Youth Club and a warrant was issued for his arrest in connection with the theft of a microphone. In June he fled to Stuttgart, West Germany where he soon drifted into temporary menial work and petty crime.[1][2] In 1959 he was fined 80 Marks (DM) for stealing tobacco; in 1960 he was sent to prison for nine months after being caught breaking into a storeroom to steal cognac; in 1961 he spent more time in prison after stealing five crates of fruit; six months later he was arrested after getting into a fight with his employer while employed as a cook in a bar.[3]

In 1961 he began a relationship with Edith Lieblang, one of the waitresses at the bar where he was working. The couple moved to Plochingen and opened a dance bar, which was a modest success. Kujau began to create a fictional background for himself, telling people his real name was Peter Fischer, changing his date of birth by two years, and altering the history of his time in East Germany.[4] by 1963 the bar began suffering financial difficulties, and the couple moved back to Stuttgart, where Kujau found work as a waiter. He also started his career as a counterfeiter, forging DM 27 worth of luncheon vouchers; he was caught and sentenced to five days in prison. On his release he and his wife formed the Lieblang Cleaning Company, although the company provided little income for them. In March 1968, at a routine check at Kujau's lodgings, the police established he was living under a false identity, after the name, address and date of birth details Kujau provided for the police were different to those on the papers he was carrying at the time. At the police station he offered a third set of details and a false explanation as to why he was masquerading under an assumed identity, but the subsequent fingerprint check confirmed he was Kujau. He was sent to Stuttgart's Stammheim Prison.[5][6]

On his release in the late 1960s the cleaning business was profitable enough for the couple to buy a flat in Schmieden[clarification needed], near Stuttgart.[7] In 1970 Kujau visited his family in East Germany and found out that many of the locals held Nazi memorabilia, contrary to the laws of the Communist government. Kujau saw an opportunity to buy the materiel cheaply on the black market, and make a profit in the West, where there was an increasing demand, the prices among Stuttgart collectors being up to ten times the prices paid by Kujau.[8] The trade was illegal in East Germany, and the export of what were deemed items of cultural heritage was banned. Both the Kujaus were stopped, although only once each, and with no penalty but the confiscation of the contraband.[7][9]

Among the items smuggled out of East Germany were weapons, and Kujau would occasionally wear a pistol, sometimes firing it in a nearby field, or shooting empty bottles in his local bar. One night in February 1973, while drunk, he took a loaded machine gun to confront a man he thought had been slashing the tyres of the cleaning company van. The man ran off and Kujau chased him into the wrong doorway, where he terrified a prostitute; her screams brought the police who arrested Kujau. When they searched his flat they found five pistols, a machine gun, a shotgun and three rifles. Kujau apologised and was given a fine.[10]

In 1974 Kujau rented a shop into which he placed his Nazi memorabilia; the outlet also became the venue for late-night drinking sessions with friends and fellow collectors, including Wolfgang Schulze, a resident of the US, who became Kujau's American agent.[11] Kujau soon began to raise the value of items in his shop by forging additional authentication details, including for a genuine First World War helmet, worth a few marks, for which Kujau forged a note saying it had been Hitler's, worn in Ypres in late October 1914, to radically raise its value. In addition to notes by Hitler, he produced documents in the handwriting of Martin Bormann, Rudolf Hess, Heinrich Himmler, Hermann Göring and Joseph Goebbels. Although the handwriting was a passable imitation of the owners, the rest of the work was crude: Kujau used modern stationery, which he aged with tea, and created letterheads by using Letraset.[12][13] In many cases the spelling and grammar was inaccurate, particularly when he forged in English, such as a copy of the Munich Agreement between Hitler and Neville Chamberlain, which read:

    "We regard the areement signet last night and the Anglo-German Naval Agreement as symbolic of the desire of our two peoples never to go to war with one another againe."[13]

In the mid- to late-1970s Kujau, an able amateur artist, turned to producing paintings which he claimed were by Hitler, who had also been an amateur artist in his younger days.[a] Having found a market for his forged works, Kujau painted subjects his buyers professed an interest in, such as cartoons, nudes and men in action—all subjects that Hitler never painted, or would want to paint. Often these paintings were accompanied by small notes purportedly from Hitler but forged by Kujau; the paintings were profitable for the forger. To explain his access to the memorabilia he invented several sources in East Germany, including a former Nazi general, the bribable director of a museum and his brother, a general in the East German army.[15]

Having found success in passing off his forged notes as those of Hitler, Kujau grew more ambitious and copied, by hand, the text from both volumes of Mein Kampf, even though the originals were completed by typewriter. Kujau also produced an introduction to a third volume of the work. He sold these "manuscripts" to one of his regular clients, Fritz Stiefel, a collector of Nazi memorabilia.[16][b] Kujau also began forging a series of war poems by Hitler, which were so amateurish that Kujau later admitted that "a fourteen-year-old collector would have recognized it as a forgery".[17] When some of those poems were published in 1980, one historian pointed out that one of the poems could not have been produced by Hitler as it had been written by Herybert Menzel.[18] Hitler diaries

It is unclear when Kujau produced his first Hitler diary. Stiefel says Kujau gave him a diary on loan in 1975. Schulze puts the date in 1976, while Kujau says he began in 1978. He used one of a pile of notebooks he had bought cheaply in East Berlin, and put the letters AH in gold on the front, although these letters were purchased in a department store, made of plastic in Hong Kong, and he used FH, rather than AH. To add a further look of authentication, he took the black ribbon from a real SS document, and attached it to the cover using a German army wax seal. For the ink he purchased two bottles of Pelikan ink, one black and one blue, and mixed the two together with water so it flowed more easily from the cheap modern pen he used. Kujau had spent a month practicing to write in the old German gothic script in which Hitler used to write. Kujau showed it to Stiefel who was impressed by the work, and wanted to buy it, but when the forger refused to sell it, he asked to borrow it instead, which was agreed upon.[19][20]

In 1978 Kujau sold his first "Hitler Diary" to a collector. In 1980 he was contacted by the journalist Gerd Heidemann who had learned of the diary. Kujau told Heidemann that the diaries were in the possession of his brother, who was a general in the East German Army. Heidemann made a deal with Kujau for "the rest" of the diaries.[21] Over the next two years Kujau faked a further 61 volumes and sold them to Heidemann for DM 2.5 million. Heidemann in turn received DM 9 million from his employers at Stern.[21] On their publication in 1983, the diaries were soon proved to be fabrications and Heidemann and Kujau were arrested.[21] In August 1984 Kujau was sentenced to four and a half years for forgery and Lieblang to one year as an accomplice. Heidemann was convicted of fraud and also received a four-and-half year prison sentence the following year.[22]

On his release from prison after three years, Kujau became something of a minor celebrity appearing on TV as a "forgery expert" and set up a business selling "genuine Kujau fakes" in the style of various major artists.[23] He stood for election as Mayor of Stuttgart in 1996, receiving 901 votes.[24] Kujau died of cancer in 2000.

In 2006, someone claiming to be his grandniece Petra Kujau was charged with selling "fake forgeries", cheap Asian-made copies of famous paintings with forged signatures of Konrad Kujau.[25] Kujau was portrayed in the 1991 miniseries Selling Hitler by Liverpool-born actor Alexei Sayle. The series also featured Jonathan Pryce as Gerd Heidemann and Tom Baker as Stern executive Manfred Fischer.[26] He was also portrayed in the German film Schtonk! (1991) by Uwe Ochsenknecht.

(Wikipedia)

[atombooks]

Anonymous

The Big Bad Blog ~ Monday 26 September

There’s an empty chair in Form 4, Year 13 today.

The news has spread like wildfire: Eva Pieachowski is missing.

Our school is in shock.

Eva. The star girl at St Martin’s. She’s taking five A levels in English, Economics, History, Geography and Art, and she’s top in every subject, yet Eva’s no square – anyone who has ever partied with her knows that. With her long blonde hair and bewitching brown eyes, it’s no wonder that she was scouted by a modelling agency on a trip to Paris. She only did one contract – for Topshop – before dropping it in favour of her studies. She’s captain of the netball and tennis teams, tipped to be voted head girl in our elections next week, and at the end of Year 12 she was awarded the trophy for Star Pupil. The prom is still nine months away but it’s pretty obvious who will be chosen as queen.

She was last seen on Friday night at a party held at Rob Pennington’s house. Rob’s parties are notorious. So what happened? Did Eva run away? Is she lost? Is she playing a game? Or has something terrible happened to her? We all know that Eva’s recently started to hang out with the wrong crowd . . .

Hopefully all is well and Eva’s gone to stay with a friend and forgotten to tell her parents. Let’s hope that tomorrow her empty chair is filled.

COMMENTS (2) Lisa – ‘with her blonde hair and bewitching eyes’ – what is this, a Mills & Boon? *cringe*. Tristan – hey, I like this blog. I want to know what’s happened to Eva. Thnx for keeping us up to date.

Chapter 3

Luke

‘Tell me about you and Eva,’ DI Jackson says. ‘She’s your girlfriend?’ We’re sitting in a cramped interview room. A videocam squats in the corner, recording us. Jackson has the most intimidating stare. My hands itch for a pencil. If I was going to draw him, I’d capture his lizard eyes, which laser me for minutes at a time without blinking. Drawing always makes me feel better when I’m tense. ‘What’s happened to her?’ I ask. ‘Or maybe Eva was just a friend,’ he goes on, ignoring me. ‘A friend you have a crush on?’ ‘Yes, she is my girlfriend,’ I assert, my cheeks warming. Why do people always assume a girl like her wouldn’t go for a guy like me? ‘It’s serious between us, we’ve been dating nearly nine months. We’re in love.’ ‘Really?’ He looks surprised and I swear there’s a sarcastic flicker in his eyes, as if all teens ever do is play Spin the Bottle and snog and lack the depth to ever feel anything deeper than that. At least my anger smoothes away my stutter. ‘We have something really special.’ More surprise. His pen hovers above the page for about a minute, until I’m ready to grab it and fling it across the room. Then he writes something down. He’s left- handed and his handwriting is loopy and slanted; impossible to read. ‘Are you writing a greetings card?’ I ask. ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘You’re writing down that we have something really special?’ Once I say the words, I know they sound bad. I have such a big mouth. Mum’s always warning me: ‘You always speak and then think and it’s too late once you’ve said it!’ ‘Sorry,’ I say quickly. Detective Jackson folds his arms. ‘You think this is funny?’ ‘No! I don’t!’ My voice is too loud and I try to turn down the volume. My fists are clenched in my lap. ‘I just don’t get what’s going on. Where’s Eva?’ ‘You tell me,’ he says. ‘I haven’t seen her all weekend,’ I say. ‘I last saw her on Friday night at a party and then I was helping my mum with family stuff on Saturday and on Sunday I went over to see Rob.’ ‘Rob?’ His pen scratches another note. ‘The guy you were beating up in the toilets?’ ‘We were play- fighting,’ I correct him. ‘We were just messing around! We were pretending to be superheroes. I was Batman and Rob was the Green Lantern – well, he wanted to be Spider- Man, but you know.’ ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘You know, the Green Lantern. He’s the lame hero nobody likes.’ I figure that Jackson isn’t the type to ever go to the movies; it would be far too much fun for him. ‘I see.’ Jackson makes another enigmatic note and I swallow. I wish I could be like Rob. He’d know just what to say. If he was here, he’d already know what Eva’s been up to, and would be shaking the policeman’s hand and arranging a game of bloody golf or something. I’m no good at dealing with adults, especially ones in positions of authority. ‘And you’ve had no contact with Miss Pieachowski since Friday?’ ‘Well, I did call her but she didn’t pick up, so I figured she was mad at me.’ His eyes flicker. Oh. I shouldn’t have said that. ‘Can I have a drink of water?’ My tongue feels thick in my mouth. ‘In a minute. First, tell me why Eva would be angry with you.’ ‘I . . . She . . . it was just . . . ’ ‘Let’s begin with Friday. Did something happen that might make her angry with you?’ ‘Well, a bit. Kind of. I mean, we were getting on really well to begin with. We went to Rob’s house as he was giving a party. He wanted me there cos we’re good friends.’ ‘Except when you’re attempting to break his nose,’ DI Jackson says drily. Before I can defend myself, he goes on: ‘So, did Rob’s parents know about this soirée?’ ‘They were away for the weekend, so . . . ’ ‘What time did you get to the party?’ Time? I don’t own a watch. I use my mobile sometimes tocheck the time – and usually find that wherever I’m meant to be, I’m late.

‘I think I picked her up around eight- thirty.’ I don’t add that I had to collect Eva at the bottom of her road, so that her parents didn’t see me. That might sound odd. ‘So it would’ve been soon after that.’ ‘Did you drink at the party?’ ‘Ah, just a bit. I had a beer, maybe. I know you got me for reckless driving earlier this year, so of course, I was being careful. Eva drank more.’ ‘I haven’t forgotten the reckless driving. So, you and Eva fell out? She got upset?’ ‘I don’t know about that . . . anyhow, I left the party at, I don’t know, eleven – no, maybe ten thirty. I’m not sure about the time. I left before she did.’ ‘You didn’t drive her home?’ ‘No – she wanted to stay and I didn’t.’ ‘And you weren’t worried about her?’ I stare at the desk, chewing on my lip, when there’s a knock at the door. The female sergeant is standing there. She gives me the strangest of looks – a kind of moon- eyed double take. Then she beckons Jackson over and whispers in his ear. Jackson nods. He turns to the camera, announces the time and says that the interview has been suspended, before switching it off. Then he tells me to wait here and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him so hard that the vibrations shiver and echo through my plastic chair. ‘Fuck,’ I say out loud. I’m starting to worry that this is more serious than a silly Dare or one of Eva’s wind- ups. I wonder if I need a lawyer. Then I remind myself that me and the detective are basically on the same side, right? We both want to make sure that Eva is okay. I resist the urge to fold my arms over the desk, bury my head in their nest and nap. I’m scared I’m still being watched through that glass window, even secretly recorded; I try to force an expression of calm neutrality. It’s hard to think straight because I’m so bloody hungry. This morning I opened the bread bin to find a loaf so green with mould that I couldn’t face scraping it off. Matt and Freya, who are three and eight, started to cry for their breakfast. Mum was already at work, cleaning down at the church, so it was my turn to sort them out. I said they could have Coco Pops, but when I opened the packet, there was nothing but brown crumbs. They cried all the way to school, until I went into the newsagents and bought a Twix, making them swear to share. That was the last of my paper- round money, so I had nothing left to buy my own breakfast. Fighting Rob took the last of my energy. Breakfast seems like it happened days ago, not hours. I should be in English right now, discussing Robert Frost’s poem about the silent woods. But here I am, in a police station, wondering what my girlfriend is playing at. Maybe it’s Eva’s idea of revenge. Recently her games have started getting more and more out of control, even cruel. The door swings open. DI Jackson comes striding back in and sets my Nokia mobile down on the table. ‘On Friday night, you have ten missed calls from Eva, between eleven- thirty and one- thirty,’ he says sternly. ‘Ten? I didn’t think it was that many.’ ‘She also left some messages which you haven’t listened to. I think you should listen to them now.’ What? How the hell has he got access to my messages? I know all you have to do on a Nokia is press 121, but surely that’s not even legal without a warrant? I forget everything when I hear Eva’s voice, tinny on the loudspeaker, raw with rage: ‘I hope you’re happy now Luke. Thanks to you, I’m out here in the cold, again – not the first bloody time, is it? I need your help, please, please, help me, please . . . ’ I freeze in horror. And then DI Jackson plays the next. Eva’s voice is a shrill scream and it goes right through me: ‘Luke – you can’t do this to me! I have to get out of here! Please, please, stop hurting me, stop . . . Help, help me!’ Silence. ‘Oh my God! Did someone hurt her?’ I cry. ‘I don’t know, Luke, that’s why you’re here. Were you the one who hurt her? It’s not clear who she’s referring to. It sounds as though you’re the one she’s mad at.’ ‘God no, it must’ve been someone else.’ ‘Are you sure about that? Why didn’t you listen to these messages? Why didn’t you call her back?’ ‘Like I said, I did call her!’ I protest. ‘You haven’t checked properly. I did call her – it was Saturday, or maybe Sunday morning. I – I felt bad and I called at some point. I can’t remember when. But it just went to voicemail and I – I didn’t want to listen to her messages because I couldn’t face them. She wanted to break up, okay? I thought she was just leaving them to tell me to f—, I mean, to go away.’ I stare at the phone again, Eva’s voice echoing inside me: Please, please, please . . . ‘I’m really worried,’ I say. ‘She sounds terrible – is she okay?’ But DI Jackson just looks at me as though I have all the answers.

Chapter 4

Rob

I stand outside the police station, listening to Mozart’s

Symphony No. 40 on my iPhone, wondering why the hell

Luke is taking so long. In the last period before lunch, I was

disturbed to find Luke still hadn’t been released from questioning,

so I decided to come and find him. He’s been in there

a good three hours . . .

Finally, he emerges, hurrying down the steps. I’m unnerved

by the expression on his face: he looks as though he’s just sat

three exams in a row.

When he spots me, he jumps in surprise. He looks so

touched that I feel a flash of guilt: Luke thinks I’m here just

for moral support.

He gives me a huge hug. I can feel him trembling and I pull

away sharply. Just what the hell went on in there?

‘Luke,’ I say, ‘we need to talk.’

We spot a Starbucks down the road and head towards it.

Luke’s silent for about a minute and then he spills everything.

As I hear him describing Eva’s messages, my stomach clenches.

I don’t have a good feeling about this.

‘I’m pretty freaked that she might have been kidnapped or

something,’ Luke concludes. He’s blinking hard, and surreptitiously

rubs a tear from his eye.

We sit down with our lattes and Luke makes a flippant

remark that it’s unlike me to cut class. I can tell he’s trying to

lighten the atmosphere, but I have to tell him that this is no

laughing matter.

This is serious.

Luke’s right: I’m a grade- A student. I never skip school.

Next month I have an interview at Trinity College,

Cambridge to read History. After that, I’m going to work in

the banking industry for ten years. I’ll stand as a Tory MP at

the age of thirty for the Wimbledon constituency. By the age

of forty, I’ll be prime minister. I’ve got it all mapped out, and

if you think I’m crazy to decide all this at the age of seventeen,

then remember: Maggie Thatcher went to Oxford knowing

that she was destined to be PM, and look how far she went.

Luke’s biting his nails savagely and I gently swat his hand.

So then he takes a napkin, spreads it over his knee and starts

sketching caricatures of people in the café. For a moment I’m

distracted, marvelling at his talent. Most of the time, Luke

looks awkward in his body, but when he starts drawing, his

whole physique changes, becomes fluid and serene.

‘Luke,’ I say, swallowing. ‘We have to think ahead. If they’re

seriously worried about Eva, then the questions are going to

start. She’s been missing three days – if she just wanted to

scare her parents or do a Dare, she would have been gone a

day, max. So this is serious. They’re going to come after us

and they’re going to want to know what happened at my party.’

Luke’s pen pauses. He looks peevish, as though I’m being

selfish to worry about us at a time like this. I feel sorry for

him. He still hasn’t figured out how life works. Once when

I was a kid, my dad took me to the park and showed me the

ducks on the pond. ‘See how those ducks over there are

pushing the sick duck away? They don’t want to be held back

by him, so he has to leave the group. That’s nature. Survival

of the fittest.’

In some ways, Luke’s such an old soul, with his dad in

jail and the way he’s had to father his siblings, but in many

respects he’s terribly naïve. He doesn’t know how to handle

adults; that’s why he’s in so much trouble at school. And when

he’s in an intense situation, instead of playing it cool, he tends

to blow his top. He once joked to me that he’s never quite got

the hang of ‘how to bullshit like a bourgeois’. To be honest,

that’s what always drew me to Luke. St Martin’s is full of posh

toffs; I find his down- to- earth manner refreshing. But now it

could screw us both.

‘Look,’ I say, ‘what about what we all did at the party in

the – bathroom? And when we . . . you know . . . ’

‘You should be a spin doctor, not an MP.’

‘Luke, I’m serious! Don’t you get how bad this looks for us?

I still have that video on my phone.’

Luke pales. ‘Can’t you delete it?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’ His pen digs into his napkin, ink spreading, ruining

his sketch.

‘I’ll delete it if you just agree to work with me on this. We

have to make up a story about my party, we have to rehearse,

and we have to get that story straight.’

Chapter 5 Eva’s Diary: 1 June 2016

It’s weird – I would never have thought of writing a

diary before. It always seemed a bit last- century to

me, the sort of thing you expect girls in a Jane Austen

novel to do because they’ve got all those hours to fill

scratching out their heartfelt emotions about the latest

guy with a big *house*. But a famous writer gave a talk

at our school where he said it was good to write every

day, even if you just keep a diary. He said that writing

is like a muscle and you have to keep exercising it. And

since I want to be a famous writer, I figured I should

follow his advice.

I’m not sure where to begin. I’ve started all jokey

because laughter is sometimes the only way I get by

these days. I’m flippant all the time. I’ve made such a

mess of everything, got myself in such a tangle. I know that sooner or later I’m going to fall off this tightrope

I’m walking. In the meantime, I just keep going to

school every day and getting my ‘A’s and keeping my

dad happy and smiling at everyone.

I guess all the trouble began at the start of 2016.

That’s when I first noticed Luke.

I was walking across the playground with my best

friend, Siobhan. We were on our way to Economics and

there was all this shouting and noise. Well, I love a

good drama, so I dragged Siobhan over to the crowd.

Everyone was chanting, ‘FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!’

That’s when I saw him. Luke Jones. I’d never really

noticed before how handsome he is. He’s very tall and

well built – not in a fake, steroid, too- many- trips- tothe-

gym kind of way – he’s naturally fit and strong.

He was messing around with another guy; they’d

both pierced holes in their Evian bottles and were

shooting thin sprays of water at each other, howling

with laughter. I stood there, hugging my books to my

chest, and he looked up with his amazing blue eyes and

grinned at me. It was such a wild, dangerous, sexy grin,

like a big cat daring me to play with him. He swept his

dripping hair from his forehead. Then he blew me a kiss.

‘In your dreams, Luke,’ jeered Mark, the guy he was

play- fighting.

Siobhan put her palm to my cheek and made a

sizzling noise.

‘Don’t tell me you like Luke,’ she said. ‘He’s a bad

boy, Eva. Don’t go there.’

I’d started to get bored of going on dates with guys.

It always followed the same pattern – he’d send me a

flirty text, we’d go to see a movie, he’d make me hold

his sweaty hand, he’d try to kiss me in the last half,

and it would carry on like this for a few more dates

before I got restless. None of them had any character.

They were all so nice. Maybe a bad boy was just

what I needed.

When I started telling my girlfriends that I had

a crush on Luke I got a secret thrill from seeing the

surprise on their faces. By choosing Luke, I was finally

saying to the world, I’m not the angel you think I

am, there’s more to me than that. Because that’s the

trouble with being me. Everyone sees me but nobody

*sees me*. They only see sparkle and glitter. They can

never perceive the shades in me, because I can only be

one colour, and it’s some kind of sickly, bright pink.

Several of my friends were convinced it was some

kind of philanthropic gesture. As though I felt sorry

for Luke, that he was my project and I’d be the one to

change him.

I think I did change Luke, but not in the way

everyone thought. I knew he was a bad boy but

I underestimated him just the same as everyone

underestimated me. When I got to know him, he wasn’t what I expected at all. And by then it was too late––

I want to write more but Dad’s calling me for

dinner. Oh God. I have to go down there and pretend

everything’s fine. For once my surface glitter is handy.

OK. Deep breath. Down I go . . .