#i love taking inanimate objects in my home and making them fleshed out characters !!!

[hershelwidget]

BEHOLDE. MASKS PEOPLE IN THEIR GLORY

That format up there is Name - Pronouns - Exact Division - Broader Magical Term - Species

Silly silly shenanigans! They are one of the trios ever I love their friendship so much

frankly I am obsessed

Woahhhh

and. lastly

I love how Rosemary and Charley actually have wings and fly accordingly but Philliam is naturally a floating disembodied skull. And the best part is that’s NOT what Charley is surprised about

I am going to be working on their official ref sheets complete with colours soon!! Might even throw in a photo of the actual irl mask on the sheet :0

Please expect more of these sillies!!

[writing-for-me-at-this-point]

𝖔𝖈𝖙𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖔𝖗𝖘 | 𝖗𝖞𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖓 𝖘𝖚𝖐𝖚𝖓𝖆 | 𝖎. 𝖈𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖛𝖊

A.N. welcome to the first installment of my horror series! i hope you enjoy it and look forward to the rest of the month! cant wait to hear yalls feedback and thoughts!

WORD COUNT. 1065 words

WARNINGS. cannibalism, obsessions, obsessive love, mentions of cooked human flesh, yandere themes, non-con, horror

Please remember my blog is 18+ only, and does not cater, nor encourage, minors to interact. Minors are NOT welcome to interact with my works or blogs, as they contain mature content.

[ OCTOBER HORRORS MASTERLIST ]

got any requests? want more horror? wanna see a prompt for a different character? feel free to check out my [ HORROR SENTENCE THEMES ]

i. cleave. ryomen sukuna. jujutsu kaisen.

Cleave (捌はち Hachi?): A slashing attack that adjusts itself depending on the target's toughness and cursed energy level to cut them down in one fell swoop.

Dismantle (解カイ Kai?): Default slashing attack that is normally used for inanimate objects, however it can also be used against cursed spirits and sorcerers to great effectiveness.

一cleave and dismantle, sukuna, powers and abilities, jjk wiki

The King of Curses is not a kind, or empathetic building, finding humanity to be nothing other than a resource he can take and consume as he pleases. He hungers for the flesh of women and children, smites men for the pleasure of his power and the cravings for a mere display, holds an authority of a near-god and yet there are still those who wish to challenge him, foolishly, is to be added.

He picks at his teeth with a bone, broken, small and curved. You can only infer it’s from a larger one, a rib, you gather. Sukuna has overtaken Yuji once again, speaking their vow into existence at the worst time, and he’s lost himself in the glee and pleasures of the human body and what it offers to him.

Bones are scattered around the area as he lounges on a bed, hidden in one of the larger buildings, his cups and plates overfilled by his devout followers from times long gone. The area is dark and lit with lanterns, the air is dry and leaves your mouth watering, the stench of death and charred pork allows the bile to rise.

It was not pork.

You curse to yourself silently, eyes meeting the dual set of your lost friend, and the tears start behind your eyes. His features changed, you noted. The soft angle of his jaw is sharper, thicker, making his face wider than the young man's slimmer look. Large eyes have narrowed, making room for his extra set of eyes, his brows thinned and his cheek bones have lowered.

“Young one, you’ve interrupted my time alone, and leave me wondering what exactly you want from me… would you care to explain yourself?” His tone is musical, he entertains himself as you shake ever so slightly, he is fond of the soul that your body hosts, the long forgotten original he yearns to experience once again.

“Sukuna, the others are coming soon, and your time with Yuji is almost up.” You attempt to remain steady, your finger twitching in anticipation as your heart races, loud and thundering in your ears. Sweat beads at your scalp, above your brow, the heat in your neck and chest cause your anxiety to rise against the chill of your back and legs. Your voice was strong and steady, but your body language spoke otherwise, even as you stood as straight as you could.

“You’ve come to warn me, why is that?” He muses, grinning as he takes in the scent of your fear into account, he was fond of you for many reasons, of the memory you ignited in his head, and the way you act now. Small, soft, and your smell-

The smell of the most delectable meal he could have,

Sukuna was unwanted, an unloved, and unbearable being for the entirety of his human life, only respected and wanted for his power and authority once he had rebuilt himself after his death.

He remembered your face, the foreigner who came such a long way from home, a traveler who wanted to master their power and energy. He remembered your face, your hair, your eyes, your body. Gods, the body he held for so long, the body he gripped at and took many times, the body he admired and cared for, that he broke and rebuilt over and over.

The soul that came with the body was even more tantalizing, he drooled as you spoke and commanded others, watched with captured eyes as you entertained the young ones and the elderly, listened intently to the stories and knowledge from your tales from afar. He wanted everything, he wanted you so much then, so much he wanted to hold you close and press him to his skin. 

He wanted you closer, to crawl inside your skin and lay inside you, to crack your chest open and curl up in the warmth and the wetness inside, to taste the innermost parts of you and merge your being into his. 

His stomach turns at the thought, and he realizes he's okay with making a sacrifice just this once- to give into his urges just this once. He yearns to be with you, again, forever. Until your soul incarnates and your body comes back again.

Again.

You’ll come back again, he can’t allow you to leave, into the arms of another, even if he possesses the body of the boy.

“Because you still have Yuji's body, and I can’t let anything happen to him, to… you.” You answered, his blood pressure rises, adrenaline rushes through his body at that answer, he doesn’t care for the damned brat, he actively ignores that part, he only hears how you care for him.

For him.

Sukuna. 

He’s seen once again, he groans, empties his hands and stands up. Your guard is down and you relax slightly, he grins behind his poker face, and as you go to turn, finished with your discussion, you do not have time to comprehend his words.

“I’ll have you, just this once.” He stares, a hand gesture later, and your body splits at the joints, cut cleanly and thinly. You fall to the floor, and the scent he’s yearned for fills the air, he wants more and sticks his tongue out to lick the air.

His strides are long, confident, yet quick. Almost like a child running to his parents for a treat, a malicious giggle escapes him, and he licks his lips before bending over to pick your head up from the pile of freshly cut flesh. Your eyes have rolled back, gone before you could realize what happened, and his hands are gentle against the warm skin of your cheeks.

“All to myself, yes, this’ll do.” He’s softer now, bringing your head to his, a small kiss to your lips before holding it closely to his chest. He takes a deep breath, eyes dilated, before he calls for his long time friend.

What a delectable meal.

[corruptedpoltergeist]

Solitude

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Reader, Bela, Random characters for plot purposes

Summary: Your father was nothing but a petty thief, stealing valuable items from everyday jewelry to cursed objects for the sake of his ‘collection’. But when a robbery gone wrong gets himself killed, you’re left with the aftermath of his problems.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Depressed!Suicidal!Reader

Word Count: 5457

Warning(s): minor swearing, depression, loneliness, suicidal thoughts, solitude, suffocation, gore, cutting, self-inflicted injuries, angst, panicking, excessive and vivid details of suicide attempt, DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE PRONE TO PANICKING OR ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH SUICIDAL SITUATIONS

Square Fill: Suffocation

Important A/N: Please if you are in a situation where you feel that all is lost and you have no other choice left, please contact someone. Call a suicide hotline, hit up a close friend. Don’t go through this alone. There are people who care!

A/N: This was written for @spnangstbingo and their Supernatural Angst Bingo Challenge. Many thanks to @sumara62 who beta’d this for me! Thanks so much, sweets! Hope you all like this because there might be a part two to this? Maybe, maybe not, we’ll see. Enjoy and please leave some feedback! Shoot me an ask if you wish to be tagged for the SPN Angst Bingo fics!

An angry sigh left your lips for the third time in the span of thirty minutes as you sat down on your bed, running one of your hands through your hair while your other hand was clenching around your phone against your ear.  Bela’s voice was starting to irritate you, especially since you’ve been hearing it every single day for the past week. She’s been trying to get you into the business your father was in, the one she had slipped into, but you knew better.

The life of thievery wasn’t what you wanted to do. You knew it was wrong, and that one day it was all going to come back and bite you in the ass, maybe quite literally. With the number of cursed objects in your home, who knew what those things could do, and you had no intention of finding out.

“I’ve said it before, Bela and I’m only going to say it once more. I don’t want to partner up with you. I’m not into that lifestyle.”

“Oh, but dea’ (Y/N), it would be so much fun. We could have a girls’ night out, go to a salon and get our hair done. Spend quality time togethe’ and gossip about boys,” she all but purred at you through the phone, probably hoping to persuade you with the bribery. But you were better than that.

“No thanks. I’d rather spend quality time with my reflection” you retorted while standing up and looking at your reflection in the full body wardrobe mirror. Though it wasn’t something you very proud of, it was still better than hanging out with a thief.

Bela’s British accent rolled out with her slightly pleading tone. “Come now, darlin’. We could have fun playin’ pranks on people again… You used to love doin’ that when you were younge’.”

She wasn’t lying. You and Bela had known each other since your early teen years. It was supposed to be a one-time friendship, but Bela had always been a persistent person. In her own way, that is.

With your father’s reputation as a renowned thief, the two of you were constantly moving around, your mother having divorced him a long time ago when she figured out why his ‘job’ paid him so well. You and Bela had met after school one day, a four-year gap between your ages, but that didn’t stop Bela from wanting to be your friend. Probably because she figured out your father was filthy rich and wanted to use you to get to him.

Sighing for the umpteenth time that day, you responded in a firm tone. “No, Bela. Maybe I thought it was funny when we were younger, but not when I know how serious the pranks really are. Don’t call me for these types of businesses again. Goodbye.”

Finally hanging up on the phone as you laid back on the bed with an agitated growl, you stared up at the ceiling of your room, simply contemplating your life, as usual. Numerous times, you’d find yourself staring up at the ceiling, finding no good reason to get up out of bed. For the past couple of years, your motivation for getting out of bed had waned tremendously.

Though your home was large, almost Victorian styled and there were a great many rooms to the house, you only use four of those rooms for yourself; the bathroom, the kitchen, this bedroom you were in, and the living room. There were two other rooms you used, but it was a simple walk in, get what you need, and walk out kind of usage. The rooms your father called the Treasury, which was where he stored all the stolen objects.

Recently, you’d been returning as many of the objects as you could to their rightful owners. Some of them were still alive and well, and you’d return the objects to them in person. Some were overseas, and you shipped them over with an apology letter. Others were deceased, and you had to search for the next person in their lineage to return it to.

But it wasn’t as easy as you thought. Some of the owners were armed, and wouldn’t listen to reason, requiring lengthy, and occasionally tense, dialogue just to convince them you were only here to return what was stolen from them. You always went home with some sort of flesh wound, bruise, or similar injury.

“As long as I get rid of em, I don’t care what people think of me.” You got up from the bed and walked out into the wide hallway, stopping in front of a room with a door made of metal, though it was cleverly disguised to make it look wooden. A doormat was placed in front of it, just like all the other rooms in this goddamn house you lived in. The doormats were made to blend in with the flooring, which was mostly soft carpet since marble was just a pain in the ass to clean. At least vacuuming didn’t take as long as mopping or dusting did.

Bending down, you picked up the carpet and flipped it over, revealing a small zipper underneath where the ‘L’ in ‘Welcome’ was. You unzipped it and dug two fingers into the compartment, pulling out a key, placing the mat back down and inserting the key into the lock, unlatching and opening the door with ease.

You headed into the room, grabbing the clipboard that was hung on the wall next to the door frame and looking down the list. For every stolen object that was encased in glass containers, protective boxes, or containers of their own, there was a sticky note placed on it, with a name and an address corresponding to the papers attached to your clipboard. There were nearly three dozen objects crossed out with a green highlighter on your list, while two of them were crossed out with a pink highlighter.

The ones highlighted in pink were ones with no recorded owners.  Or none that you could find alive, anyway. So, you had no choice but to keep them around, one being an old family photo of what looked like a royal family and the other… Well, you weren’t sure what exactly it was since it was completely encased in bindings wrapped tightly around it and covered with Latin words. Probably something cursed.

“Let’s see… The next thing is this dagger.” You muttered to yourself, using a handkerchief to pick it up out of the glass container. You didn’t want to touch any of the objects in this room with your bare hands since, for all you knew, they were all cursed. It had a rounded end and hilt. Along with the blade, the whole thing seemed to be made from pure silver. It had a good weight to it, and it seemed genuine. You had no idea what it was for, but whoever owned it must have paid a fortune for its creation.

“Eh. Guess it’s time to take you home, Shiny.” You laughed bitterly at yourself for talking to an inanimate object. “But then again… It’s not like I have anyone better to talk with, right?”

“Dean, for the last time, stop eating your burgers like that. It’s dripping with grease and you look like a pig.”

“Sammy, for the last time, don’t tell me how to eat my burgers, and lemme eat in peace.” Sam rolled his eyes as he huffed and leaned back in the booth he was seated in at a nearby diner, trying his best not to watch Dean eating his lunch like a slob while his older brother was giving him a shit-eating grin, mouth stuffed with whatever was in the burger.

“Fo? Waf da caf?” With his mouth full, Dean tried asking Sam about their case, but it was useless; with his mouth full, he sounded like he was saying a load of gibberish. Sam gave him a fabulous bitch face, raising an eyebrow at Dean, who took a moment to realize Sam had no fucking clue what he’d just said. He swallowed the food in his mouth then asked again. “So? What’s the case?”

“Well, it’s not much of a case really. At least… not a supernatural one.”

Dean didn’t seem the slightest bit interested as he continued to chow down on his burger. “Okay, no problem. I’ll just go and do some shoe shopping, see if there are any good bars around, have tea with Eddie Murphy, and then try finding you a girl so you can finally get laid.”

Yet another bitch face directed at Dean as Sam leaned forward with a serious look on his face. “I’m being serious, Dean. It’s not supernatural, but it’s really odd. Expensive, stolen objects all around the world are being returned to their owners in the exact same condition they were taken. Uhm, jewelry, paintings, cutlery, weaponry, anything you can think of that’s priceless.”

“Like this burger?”

“Dean, get serious-” Sam’s phone suddenly went off, buzzing in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the caller ID, then to Dean with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s Bela.” This seemed to pique Dean’s interest as he leaned forward, finishing up his sandwich while Sam answered the call.

“What is it this time, Bela?”

“Aw, Sammy. Baby, not even a ‘hello, Bela, darlin’! How’ve you been?’. Nothin’ sweet?”

Sam scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Come on, Bela. This is not the time to be messing around. If there’s nothing you need, then I’ll hang up.”

“Oh, wait!” Bela sighed through the phone line as her teasing tone died out. “I have a reason for callin’ you. There’s goin’ to be a theft tonight, but I have important business, so I can’t stop it.”

“... And how exactly does that concern us?”

“The object is an angel blade. Isn’t that somethin’ you hunters use?” Bela was quick to speak, noticing that Sam was about to question how she knew about angel blades. “This is all I can tell you, Sam. Tonight, after 10. I’ll send you the address.”

Just moments before the clock struck ten, you were already inside the home where the owner of the dagger lived. Apparently, the owner was away, an active hunter who was on a case in a couple cities over.

“Well,” you muttered aloud to yourself, pulling out the safely-wrapped blade from your pocket. “Seems like it’s my lucky day. I don’t have to deal with angry hunters.”

It was just when you were about to put the blade down on the table that you heard the faint sound of footsteps coming from the kitchen. You perked up, trying to gently place the knife down and make a run for it.

“Sorry, what was that about not dealing with angry hunters?”

Your (E/C) orbs flickered up, slowly looking over your shoulder as you released your hold on the knife, letting it hit the table with a soft thud. You said nothing, standing up straight and staring at the two men before you. One was extremely tall and had shaggy brown hair and the other, the one that spoke up, was shorter and had dark green eyes. Or maybe it was just the dim lighting in the room that made them seem dark. Both carried guns in their hands, both aimed in your general direction.

Your posture gave away nothing of your true intentions as you gazed at them. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you two.”

“Oh no, pleasure’s all mine sweetheart,” the green-eyed devil said as you took a few steps backward. “Might not wanna move any further than that.”

“Or what? You’ll shoot me?” You challenged, spreading your arms out and shrugging your shoulders. “Go ahead. I’m open.” The nonchalant comment made Dean falter, his gun slightly angled down a bit, and without hesitation, you took this chance to escape, running to the conveniently opened window behind you and jumping right out of it.

Your car was parked right up ahead, and without so much as a glance over your shoulder to see if the boys were giving chase, you made a beeline for the vehicle. Quickly getting into the driver’s seat, you turned it on, pressing on the gas pedal hard, kicking dust and debris behind you as you disappeared down the road.

Hours later, when Sam and Dean were chilling in their motel room and searching for signs of the most recent supernatural activity, they couldn’t help but think back to the thief that they stopped.

Sam sighed softly under his breath, taking his eyes off his laptop and turning around on his chair to glance over at Dean, who was currently sprawled across the motel bed on his back, the built-in massage machine in the bed finally turned off. “Hey, Dean?”

Dean hummed in response, raising his eyebrows to let Sam know he heard him. “Don’t you feel there was something… strange about her?”

“You mean besides the fact that she didn’t take that angel blade, and she wasn’t clad in all black like most robbers?”

Sam pressed his lips together and shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. She… I don’t know, Dean. I just have a weird feeling that she’s not a petty thief.”

“Like Bela?”

“Exactly,” Sam ran his hand through his shaggy brown hair and exhaled again. “Her reaction was different, and she didn’t even look the least bit disappointed that she wasn’t able to take that angel blade with her.”

Dean was silent for a while, his mind racing while allowing Sam’s words to process. “I see what you mean. She looked like your average town girl. Though a nice-looking town girl. Sweet ass, that one.”

Sam gave Dean a bitch face. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. “Dude, I don’t need to hear your opinion on every single girl you see.”

“And I don’t need to see you drooling in your sleep. Who were you dreaming about last night, hmm Sammy?” Sam’s face stiffened as he puffed his chest out, his hands itching to smack that smug look off of Dean’s face.

“Anyways… Back to that girl. I think we should keep an eye on her. Just in case she’s not who we think she is.”

“Whatever you say, Sammy boy,” Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out two quarters, inserting them into the massage machine’s coin slot and making himself comfortable on the bed, a loose grin on his face while Sam’s thoughts continued to swirl around this mystery girl.

Once again, hours had passed, and your gaze had never once faltered from the ceiling of your room, lying in bed with one arm tucked under your head and the other one sprawled next to you, wrapped tightly in bandages. Your upper arm contained cuts, deep ones that came from stabs and shallow ones that were just from slicing your flesh open.

A glass of water rested on the bedside table next to your head; you didn’t need to get light headed, not just yet.

This wasn’t what you wanted; to resort to cutting or self-harm just for your mind and body to realize you were alive. But there was no one you could go to for aid, no one to share your pain and agony with.

Your father’s life never allowed for you to have permanent good friends, and you had no siblings. Though your father was a bad man in terms of reputation, he was still a good father. You could always count on him whenever you felt down or upset if you ever came home crying because you fell off your bike or someone insulted you. He was there no matter what. No matter how immoral he was for stealing, no matter how much it upset you that you could never stay in a school long enough to make some friends, you still loved him.

Whereas any other person would complain all the time about the constant moves, you remained quiet and accepted it as part of your life.

And tonight, after seeing the face of those boys when they assumed you were stealing that godforsaken knife, you realized just how badly your father’s reputation had stained you. No matter where you go, you’d be known as the girl whose father was killed in a robbery gone wrong. A robbery he caused.

You exhaled heavily. What good would it do to shed tears? They would only create a mess, just one more thing you’d need to clean up before your short life came to an end.

Raising your good arm up and draping it over your eyes, you couldn’t help the lump in your throat or the swelling of water in your eyes. “Why… What did I ever do to deserve this life?”

The next time the boys spotted you was nearly three months later, your father’s so-called treasury now almost completely empty, the only evidence of the stolen objects in your home now being the sticky notes you wrote names and addresses on, stuck to each glass case individually.

You were returning a pendant of sorts, a great load of small charms attached to a necklace chain. Your handkerchief made sure your fingerprints didn’t stain the piece of jewelry, slyly making your way through a local diner in Grand Island, Nebraska and without being noticed by the owner, a red-haired woman, you slipped it into her jacket’s pocket and made your way out of the greasy-smelling diner, tilting your hoodie over your eyes so none could recognize you.

But as soon as you had made your way out the door, a hand gripped your upper arm, thankfully not the arm you’d constantly abuse. It still made you jump, whipping your head around with a gasp as you stumbled forward a few steps, trying to pry the man’s fingers off your arm.

Your (E/C) orbs gazed up into a pair of narrowed, emerald green ones, a look of seriousness in them, taking a moment to recognize who it was. The sudden yearn for struggling suddenly started to diminish, though your fingers were still hell-bent on trying to get his grip to loosen. “It’s not very nice to scare a lady.”

“Oh, believe me, sweetheart, this is as unpleasant for me as it is for you,” at which point he then proceeded to drag you elsewhere while you grunted and struggled, trying to trip him, scratch him, even bite him, but his grip was like steel. You were pretty sure a bruise was starting to form on your upper arm.

“Let go! You’re hurting me!” You cried out, which caused his grip to loosen only slightly, but not enough for you to slip away. He proceeded to drag you down the parking lot towards an extremely old modeled black car. The other man from that night, the taller guy with shaggy brown hair, was leaning against the car.

As soon as you were dragged to the car, quite forcefully, the man with green eyes gazed at you. “Now we’re gonna do this the easy way, alright? We ask you questions and you answer them.”

“Like hell I will,” your brows crossed in anger, gazing sharply at him. “Especially after the treatment I just got.”

“Come on. It’s not like if I’d asked you nicely, you would have come prancing after me like a good little girl.” He mocked, giving you a challenging look.

“Alright, you two. That’s enough. Dean, let me handle this.” The taller man said to the shorter one, who you now knew was named Dean.

With a scoff and a roll of his eyes, Dean backed down, releasing your arm as you rubbed it with your hand. The taller man held his hands up placatingly. “Let’s start with introductions. I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean. We’re the ones you ran into a couple months ago.”

You nodded your head, avoiding direct eye contact momentarily. “I remember… You were in that hunter’s home.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at you. “So, you did know what you were stealing?”

“I wasn’t stealing!” You shouted at him, getting defensive as you responded almost immediately after.

He tilted his head to the side, shrugging his shoulders upwards. “Then... What were you doing in that hunter’s home? While he was away?” You chewed on the inside of your cheek, refusing to allow them to think you were a thief, but at the same time, this was something you were doing on your own. You couldn’t let anyone know about this.

“Why should I tell you? That’s my business, isn’t it?” With that said, you turned on your heel and walked away from them.

Dean wanted to go and chase you down, but Sam held him back. “Wait. You put the tracker on her right?”

“Yeah, it was almost too easy…” Dean’s eyes glanced over at your disappearing form, his gaze on your sleeve.

“Alright, we’ll follow her tonight and see where she’s going.”

“Fine. But if she does steal something, you owe me a night of drinks.”

Sam shook his head with a light-hearted laugh, a look of disbelief on his face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re hoping she steals something.”

“Hell yeah, man. Free beer!” Dean looked over at him with a goofy smirk, chuckling at Sam’s reaction.

The brothers gazed at the computer screen for a while, the tracker light flickering as your location changed every second. Dean focused his gaze back on the road, following your car without his headlights on so as not to be seen.

Sam and Dean watched as you turned right at a stop sign, heading into town where you pulled up into a driveway and got out of the car, glancing at your surroundings before flipping your hood up, an object in your hands. Though they couldn’t see what it was since it was wrapped in a white cloth.

As they observed you from afar, the Impala parked a good distance away, you braced yourself for whatever was to befall upon you. Swallowing your nerves and remembering those lines that you had memorized by heart, you rang the doorbell, waiting for the owner of the home to answer.

You didn’t wait for long, the door opening to reveal a burly man with a black side beard and freshly showered hair, a towel around his neck. He raised an eyebrow at you, leaning his weight against the door frame. “Can I help ya with anything?”

“The more likely question is … can I help you?” You brought your hands out on display, showing off the cloth-covered item in your hands. Slowly, you removed the top part of the handkerchief to reveal a long-barreled silver gun. Newly polished and without a smear, smudge or scratch on it. “This belongs to you.”

The man before you stood up straight as he gazed at the weapon without so much of a change in facial expression. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He reached forward and lifted the gun out of your hand and tested it, swirling it around his finger, tossing it up lightly to test the weight, even bringing it up to eye level and gazing straight down the barrel of the gun. “Now how in the world did you get ahold of this? I lost this years ago.”

Here it comes. You were either going to get smacked or insulted now. “My father stole it from you. And I’m here to return it.” His gaze swiftly shifted up to meet yours, his surprisingly clear blue eyes staring at you for a moment before he slowly tucked the gun into his belt then took a step back. He looked almost conflicted. “I appreciate you returning the gun…” He said before closing the door, and after a moment, you released the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“That went… better than I thought it would.” You tucked the handkerchief into your hoodie pocket, stepping away from the door and heading to your car, hopping into the driver’s seat and pulling out of the driveway, your last destination of the day being home.

“I’m done… Finally done.” You muttered softly to yourself, a melancholic tone replacing the cheerful one you should have used. Now that all the objects with owners were out of your home and in their rightful places, you no longer had a reason to get out of bed, to continue this harsh daily cycle you’d gotten so accustomed to.

Unbeknownst to you, the boys had continued to follow you after seeing the strange stunt you had just pulled.

Entering your large house, you stripped yourself of the oversized hoodie and tossed it away onto the ground, crossing the living room and heading to your main bathroom.

A box of blades was behind the mirrored cabinet, along with a couple of bottles of painkillers and pure caffeine crystals in a small vial. You’d made it yourself using an extraction method you learned back in organic chemistry. Though it was tedious, you’d been able to extract enough caffeine from tea bags to ultimately, but slowly, kill a person with just a sip.

Grabbing the nearby glass, you filled it up from the sink then got four of the painkillers and swallowed them, drinking the water immediately afterward to force the pills down. You waited five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

Once you were sure the dizziness you were feeling was from the pills, you grabbed the glass vial and dumped all the crystals into your glass of water, stirring it with your pinkie finger until the crystals were dissolved.

You took a couple of large sips of the drink, grimacing at the bitter taste, even dry heaving a bit. Nevertheless, you forced it down. Your hands were shaking and shivering so much, you dropped the glass cup in an attempt to place it on the sink, shards scattering across the floor, but your muddled mind was unable to process it, reaching for the box of small blades as you tottered out of the bathroom, hot tears rolling down your cheeks.

You weren’t even sure why you were crying. Out of pity for yourself, perhaps?

Not sparing a second glance at the noose hanging from the ceiling in your room, the one you prepared earlier that morning, you sat on the chair directly underneath it, your t-shirt exposing your arms up to your triceps. You used your index and middle finger to hit your arm, forcing the dark blue vein to bulge a little, forcing it to stand out from the bruised skin you’d just struck.

In one clean and swift motion, you’d brought the blade down and sliced your arm vertically, right along the vein. Blood poured and gushed out of your arm like a waterfall, creating a large puddle underneath you within seconds while gasping and sputtering from the pain, you did the same to your other arm. You cried out in a panic and jerked, the blade cutting into your arm quicker than intended.

The painkillers slowly started taking effect, numbing your sense of touch for the first couple minutes, just a numb ache in your arms now as you sat there, tears staining your face. Your skin was starting to become pale, your breathing speeding up slightly as well as your heartbeat. The quicker your pulse, the faster the blood would flow out of your arm.

“No more second chances…” You whispered to yourself, shakily standing up, your feet making a squelching sound as you stepped in the puddle of blood staining the carpet. You unsteadily climbed up onto the chair, untying a black blindfold from its edge. You looped the noose around your neck tightly before tying the blindfold around your eyes.

“I’m done…” And with a harsh kick, the chair tumbled away, leaving you suspended in the air, hanging from only the rope. Your neck became constricted, tightening your windpipe as your body struggled for air. The lump in your throat made it hard to do so, causing you to choke.

Lips turning blue, and body trembling from the effects of the drugs and blood loss, your lungs started to collapse. You wheezed and gasped, lips parted so you could try and inhale fresh air one more time. Arms too weak to lift up and help your struggling body, they lay limp against you, red ooze dripping down your fingers and your stomach starting to burn from the effects of painkillers and pure caffeine crystals.

One last time, you struggled for air before your already darkened world started to disappear from your grasp. Within seconds, your body was limp, hanging in the air as your heartbeat slowed down further until it was but a faint cry for help.

Dean approached your front door, clearing his throat before lifting his fist and knocking on the door since he didn’t see the doorbell that was right in front of his face. Sam stared at Dean for a moment, trying to figure out whether his brother was seriously unable to see the doorbell or if he just chose to ignore it. So, he reached over Dean’s shoulder, which wasn’t too hard to do, and rang the bell.

“Please tell me you were purposely ignoring that bell.” Dean slowly turned his upper body to face Sam as he rocked on his heels before slowly phrasing every syllable, “I was purposely ignoring the bell.”

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean’s smart mouth as they waited for the door to open. They waited for a couple of seconds, then a minute. When they heard no footsteps approaching the door from the other side after nearly two minutes of waiting, they gave each other a knowing look.

“Think we should…?”

“Yeah. She definitely should have heard the bell.” Sam then knelt as he pulled out two bobby pins from his pocket, working on trying to unlock the door while Dean looked around, one of his hands hovering over the gun attached to his belt.

It didn’t take much for Sam to pick the lock. “Got it,” Sam whispered as he slowly pushed the door open, leaning forward a little to peek inside. When he saw nothing, he motioned for Dean to follow, the two of them walking inside to see why you hadn’t answered the door.

The brothers split up when they entered the living room, Sam heading towards the spiral staircase to their left while Dean looked around the first floor. He saw the discarded hoodie on the ground and picked it up, noticing that it was still warm. “She’s gotta be in here somewhere,” he mumbled, straining his neck around to see into the kitchen.

When he approached the open bathroom door with the lights still on, he cautiously pushed the door open, his gaze immediately hardening as he spotted the broken glass on the ground. There was some sort of fluid around the glass, though he couldn’t tell what it was, along with an abandoned glass vial and a bottle of painkillers.

He raced out the bathroom and into the short hallway that displayed a couple of doors, one being wide open. His breath hitched in his throat as he ran forward, his deep voice shouting out loudly and echoing through the house. “Sammy! Get down here!!”

Without a moment to spare, he grabbed the chair then stepped up onto it and started untying the knot in the rope with shaky hands. “Come on, come on,” he whispered in a panic.

Sam had heard the shout and, in a frenzy, ran down the stairs and headed in the direction from which he heard Dean’s voice. Upon arriving in the room, his jaw clenched tightly, wrapping his arms around your body and lifting you slightly so Dean could remove the noose from your neck easily.

Once it was off, Sam lay you down on the ground gently, Dean rushing over and kneeling beside you as he quickly slipped the blindfold off your eyes and checked for a pulse. It was there, but just barely. “Sam, we’re losing her! Take the wheel!”

Dean shouted as he quickly lifted you, being careful of your blood-coated arms as Sam took the lead out the house and to the Impala. “Closest hospital is just a few miles away. We’ll make it,” Sam assured him as he practically dove into the car and revved the engine up before speeding off down the road to the hospital.

“Come on, just hang in there,” Dean whispered in a panic, situating himself in the back as he cradled your upper body in his arms.

Tags:

@impalaimagining @bradygabrielle-blog @teamfreewill92 @chelsea072498 @not-moose-one-shots @percywinchester27 @sumara62

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

I'd love to hear opinions for Megamorphs 4

Short opinion: I giggle every time I read the line “President Clinton urged everyone to remain calm” but seriously this book is so scary specifically because it feels so realistic to canon.

Long opinion:

I’ve always felt like this book takes place in direct conversation with #1, fleshing out the existing personalities and relationships of the team as of the moment that they walk through the construction site.  The actual first book in the series sweeps the characters along so quickly toward their destiny (by necessity, because anything else would be bad writing) that we get extremely few details about what these kids are actually like before the war ruins their lives except in the retrospective.  Back to Before feels like a chance to go back and find out who exactly these kids were before they all became homicidal cinnamon rolls.  Of course I’m a sucker for the details about Tom (He has a driver’s license!  He wears a denim jacket over blue jeans like a true 90s fashion victim!  Temrash 114 keeps at least two separate dracon beams in his room!  His parents think he should pay more attention in school!) but there are also a ton of rich characterization moments for all six Animorphs.  

This book really shows us for the first time why Tobias is so desperate for his life to change that he throws himself into a war (and maybe-maybenot gets himself trapped in morph) just to have friends and a purpose.  He belongs nowhere—not at home with his alcoholic uncle, not at school where he’s constantly under threat of physical violence, not at the mall where Jake listens to him out of pity while Marco’s openly hostile—which means that he grabs the first chance he can to fly away from it all.  Maybe he’s being short-sighted, since by #3 he already knows he had no idea what he was getting himself into, but he’s so desperate to get out that one can hardly blame him even when he resorts to becoming a controller in order to have someone to talk to and something to give him meaning.  

It’s also striking that Tobias is the one who ends up recruited by the Sharing, while Jake attends one meeting and leaves.  Most of the series has this implicit assumption that if any of them will be the first one taken, it’ll be Jake, since he’s the one with a controller already living in the house.  (For instance, #41 and #7 both feature variations on the theme of everyone getting caught because Tom saw something he shouldn’t, and in #49 everyone is shocked when the yeerks’ DNA match isn’t between Jake and Tom.)  However, here Jake sees everything the Sharing has to offer… and tells Tom “I’m not really a joiner,” because he’s really really not (MM4).  The unfortunate flip side of the coin of Jake’s leadership ability is that he makes a fairly terrible follower.  In this book it saves his life, but there are other instances (when dealing with the andalites in #18 and #38, during the negotiations with the Arn in #34) where everyone would probably be better off if Jake could find it in himself to sit down, shut up, and do as he’s told.  Non-Animorph Jake is probably at risk of becoming a useless washout (between the crappy academic performance, the mediocre athletic performance, and the lack of motivation to do anything, he’s probably destined to spend the rest of his life as a failed artist living in a studio apartment in downtown LA paid for by his parents’ money), but he’s also not at risk of becoming a voluntary controller, because he’s perfectly content with his mediocre life.  

Rachel, by contrast, is incredibly restless in her normal life.  Cassie describes her as “hunting” with “laser focus” when looking for bargains at the mall (MM4).  It takes her about ten seconds to get on board with chasing down and attempting to tackle some random stranger because Marco thinks said stranger looks like his dead mom.  She snaps into action the second that Ax broadcasts the news that aliens are attacking the planet, and keeps fighting with whatever tools come to hand (including a severed hork-bajir head, because this girl is hardcore) until she gets killed.  For all that she loves it, this book implies that the war might be the worst thing that could have possibly happened to Rachel.  After all, she’s quite good at channeling all that pent-up aggression into verbal sparring the way her mom does (notice how much she enjoys arguing with Marco in the planetarium) and also releasing that extra energy through athletics the way her dad does (unlike Jake, she’s not deterred in her sports ambitions by a mere hiccup like utter lack of talent).  She also has a lot of friends and admirers, a track record of being one of the highest performers in her class, and a casual self-confidence that is rare enough for a girl her age to win her a lot of favors with a lot of people.  Non-Animorph Rachel (in a world that also had no yeerks) would probably thrive in whatever career she chose for decades before dying at a ripe old age surrounded by her highly attractive husband and seven fat grandchildren.  

Maybe my favorite piece of Marco characterization from this book is the way it establishes there is actually a lot more to his crush on Rachel than thinking she has beautiful hair and looks cute in a leotard.  He’s considerably less comfortable in his own skin than either of the Berensons, but he also practices what he preaches by appreciating a joke at his own expense just as much as one he uses to mock another person.  This book makes it obvious that he looks up to Rachel (not just literally, although Marco’s jokes about his own height are also amazing) because he recognizes how intelligent and ruthless she is, and those are the qualities he values the most in himself and others.  Cates pointed out that it’s interesting almost all of Marco’s role models are female (Xena, Alanis Morissette, Carmen Electra, Eva for that matter) and in a lot of ways he doesn’t just like Rachel; he admires her.  

And then there’s the portrayal of Ax when no one comes to rescue him.  #4 and #8 only hint at what it must have been like for him to spend weeks stuck in a tiny dome at the bottom of the ocean, not knowing whether anyone was coming for him, suspecting more and more every day that his whole crew was dead, but here we get a much deeper look at those long days of solitude.  He comes off almost like a prisoner in solitary confinement in the scenes before he manages to use the shark morph to escape: compulsively addicted to routines, talking to inanimate objects, starting to hallucinate when left alone for long enough… Ax is a survivor, tough enough to live through years of loneliness and grief while fighting a war on a foreign planet.  This book shows just how much of that strength comes from within, fire-forged by his traumatic introduction to Earth.  

Oh, and Cassie is sub-temporally grounded, apparently.  I have nothing nice to say about that concept so I’ll settle for saying nothing at all.

Anyway, I love both the opening and closing of this book.  The first scene has one of those UTTERLY HORRIFYING banality-of-violence beginnings, where we open on the aftermath of a battle that may or may not have accomplished anything other than giving the kids involved a few more nightmares.  Jake is disturbingly casual about the fact that he has lost an entire leg and is slowly bleeding to death, making wry jokes about how he and the three-legged table match each other. We can tell why: this isn’t the first (or even the thirtieth) time he’s been fatally maimed and then forced to shrug it off in order to keep fighting.  The kids try—and fail—to save the host of a fatally injured yeerk a few minutes of pain, and end up watching both beings bleed to death.  And then Jake goes home, and he once again plays the game of Lying For His Life with his parents and Tom, and he goes to bed ready to do it all again the next day, wondering what dreams of Sauron Crayak will come.  This poor schmuck literally never catches a break.  No wonder his little deal with the devil seems so tempting for the millisecond that it takes for Crayak to pounce.  (By contrast, the TV episode features Jake asking the Little Blue Ellimist to make him a Real Boy because he doesn’t want to do his math homework and plan a battle at the same time. What a whiner.)

Ugh, and then the ten little soldiers go out to dine, and they drop off one by one so fast that most barely get the chance to fight back.  Rachel and Ax especially do their best to battle the oncoming horde, but they’re largely unarmed and clueless against the yeerks. Tobias becomes the living puppet of a living puppet of Visser One, and then there were five.  Marco stands a little too close to a Bug fighter, and then there were four.  Rachel runs straight into turret fire because Rachel is still Rachel even without unleashing her inner grizzly bear, and then there were three. Cassie is in the wrong shopping mall at the wrong time, and then there were two.  Jake faces down an army of hork-bajir as just his little human self, and then there was one.  Ax might be able to survive—but he isn’t looking to go home and be safe, he’s looking to save the world.  And then there were none.  

A lot of the point of this book is that of course the Ellimist “stacked the deck,” because these kids in particular are the the only ones who have the necessary combination of idealism and grittiness to take on an entire army and win (MM4).  Marco says it best in #54: “We beat an empire, my friend, the six of us, and we did it in large part because you didn’t know any better than to trust your own instincts.”  Ax has the tech savvy and determination to engage in total war, but he can’t survive on Earth without human friends.  Rachel has the ferocity to be a one-woman army, but without her friends to ground her she’d get herself killed a lot sooner.  Jake might be a natural leader, but he’s also naive enough not to know how to balance ethics in times of atrocity without Marco’s ruthlessness and Cassie’s pragmatism to guide him.  Without Marco, the team would never succeed in taking down Visser One.  Without Cassie, they would never get in contact with the Yeerk Peace Movement.  Without Tobias, they’d never succeed at freeing the hork-bajir.  These six form a constellation of skills and needs and strengths and neuroses that balances the fate of the entire galaxy on the shoulders of a bunch of middle schoolers.  They don’t need morphing power to be badass—but they do need it to win.  

[thesassybooskter]

THE JACKAL by J.R. Ward: Spotlight and Excerpt

NOW AVAILABLE / GALLERY BOOKS

The #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Sinner brings another hot adventure of true love and ultimate sacrifice in the Black Dagger Brotherhood world.

The location of the glymera’s notorious prison camp was lost after the raids. When a freak accident provides Nyx clues to where her sister may still be doing time, she becomes determined to find the secret subterranean labyrinth. Embarking on a journey under the earth, she learns a terrible truth—and meets a male who changes everything forever.

The Jackal has been in the camp for so long he cannot recall anything of the freedom he once knew. Trapped by circumstances out of his control, he helps Nyx because he cannot help himself. After she discovers what happened to her sister, getting her back out becomes a deadly mission for them both.

United by a passion they can’t deny, they work together on an escape plan for Nyx—even though their destiny is to be forever apart. And as the Black Dagger Brotherhood is called upon for help, and Rhage discovers he has a half-brother who’s falsely imprisoned, a devious warden plots the deaths of them all…even the Brothers.

  Buy Online: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Apple Books

Add to Goodreads

  Excerpt

Western New York State, Present Day

 The whole “life is a highway” metaphor was so ubiquitous, so overused, so threadbare and torn-patched, that as Nyx sat in the passenger side of a ten-year-old station wagon, and stared at the moonlit asphalt trail cutting through brush and bramble in west-ern New York State, she wasn’t thinking a damn thing about how sim-ilar the course of roads and lives could be: You could get sweet-sailing easy declines of coasting. Bad, bumpy, rough patches that rattled your teeth. Uphill hauls that you thought would never end. Bored stretches between far-apart exits.

And then there were the obstacles, the ones that came from out of nowhere and carried you so far off your planned trip that you ended up in a completely different place.

Some of these, both in the analogy and in fact, had four legs and a kid named Bambi.

“Watch out!” she yelled as she clapped a hand on the steering wheel and took control.

Too late. Over the screeching of tires, the impact was sickeningly soft, the kind of thing that happened when steel hit flesh, and her sister’s response was to cover her eyes and tuck in her knees.

Not helpful considering Posie was the one with the access to the brake pedal. But also completely in character.

The station wagon, being an inanimate object set into motion, had no brain of its own, but plenty of motivation from the sixty-two miles an hour they’d been going. As such, the old Volvo went bucking bronco as they left the rural byway, its stiff, cumbersome body heaving into a series of hill-and-dale dance moves that had Nyx hitting her head on the padded roof even though she was belted in.

The headlights strobed what was in front of the car, the beams point-and-shooting in whatever direction and angle the front grille hap-pened to be thrown in. For the most part, there was just a leafy morass of bushes, the green, spongy territory a far better outcome than she would have predicted.

That all changed.

Like a creature rising out of the depths of a lake, something brown, thick, and vertical was teased in the verdant light show, disappearing and reappearing as the shafts of illumination willy’d-their-nilly around.

Oh, shit. It was a tree. And not only was the arboreal hard-stop an immovable object, it was as if a steel crank-chain ran between its thick trunk and the undercarriage of the station wagon.

If you’d steered for a collision course, you couldn’t have done a better job.

Inevitable covered it.

Nyx’s only thought was for her sister. Posie was braced in the driv-er’s seat, her arms straight out, fingers splayed, like she was going to try to push the tree away—

The impact was like being punched all over the body, and there must have been a crunch of metal meeting wood, but with the airbags deploy-ing and the ringing in Nyx’s ears, she couldn’t hear much. Couldn’t breathe well. Couldn’t seem to see.

Hissing. Dripping. Burned rubber and something chemical.

Someone was coughing. Her? She couldn’t be sure.

“Posie?”

“I’m okay, I’m okay . . .”

Nyx rubbed her stinging eyes and coughed. Fumbling for the door, she popped the release and shoved hard against some kind of resistance. “I’m coming around to help you.”

Assuming she could get out of the damn car.

Putting her shoulder into the effort, she forced the door through something fluffy and green, and the payback was that the bush barged in, expanding into the car like a dog that wanted to sniff around.

She fell out of her seat and rolled onto the scruff. All-four’ing it for a spell, she managed to get up on to her feet and steady herself on the roof as she went around to the driver’s side. Peeling open Posie’s door, she released the seat belt.

“I got you,” she grunted as she dragged her sister out.

Propping Posie against the car, she cleared the blond hair back from those soft features. No blood. No glass in the perfect skin. Nose was still straight as a pin.

“You’re okay,” Nyx announced.

“What about the deer?”

Nyx kept the curses to herself. They were about ten miles from home, and what mattered was whether the car was drivable. No offense to Mother Nature and animal-lovers anywhere, but that four-legged scourge of the interstate was low on her list of priorities.

Stumbling to the front, she shook her head at the damage. A good two feet of the hood—and, therefore, engine—was compressed around a trunk that had all the flexibility of an I beam, and she was hardly an automotive expert, but that had to be incompatible with vroom-vroom, home safe.

“Shit,” she breathed.

“What about the deer?”

Closing her eyes, she reminded herself about the birth order. She was the older, responsible one, black-haired and brusque like their father had been. Posie was the blond, good-hearted youngest, who had all the warmth and sunny nature that their mahmen had possessed.

And the middle?

She couldn’t go down the Janelle rabbit hole right now.

Back over at her open door, Nyx leaned in and moved the deflated airbag out of the way. Where was her phone? She’d put it in a cupholder after she’d texted their grandfather as they’d left Hannaford. Great. Nowhere to be found—

“Thank God.”

Bracing her hand on the seat, she went down into the wheel well. And got a palm full of bad news.

The screen was cracked and the unit dark. When she tried to fire the thing up, it was a no go. Straightening, she looked over the ruined hood. “Posie, where is your—”

“What?” Her sister was focused on the road that was a good fifty yards away, her stick-straight hair tangled down her back. “Huh?”

“Your phone. Where is it?”

Posie glanced over her shoulder. “I left it at home. You had yours, so I just, you know.”

“You need to dematerialize back to the farmhouse. Tell grandfather to bring the tow truck and-”

“I’m not leaving here until we take care of that deer.”

“Posie, there are too many humans around here and—”

“It’s suffering!” Tears glistened. “And just because it’s an animal doesn’t mean its life doesn’t matter.”

“Fuck the deer.” Nyx glared across the steaming mess. “We need to solve this problem now—”

“I’m not leaving until—”

“—because we have two hundred dollars of groceries melting in the back. We can’t afford to lose a week’s worth of—”

“—we take care of that poor animal.”

Nyx swung her eyes away from her sister, the crash, the crap she had to fix so goddamn Posie could continue to give her heart out to the world and worry about things other than how to pay the rent, keep food on the table, and make sure they had such exotic luxuries as electricity and running water.

When she trusted herself to look back without hurling a bunch of be-practical f-bombs at her fricking sister, she saw absolutely no change in Posie’s resolve. And this was the problem. A sweet nature, yes. That annoying, bleeding-heart, emphatic bullcrap, yes. Iron will? When it came it down to it, boatloads.

That female was not budging on the deer thing.

Nyx threw up her hands and cursed—loudly.

Back in the car. Opening the glove box. Taking out the nine milli-meter handgun she kept there for emergencies.

As she came around the rear of the station wagon, she eyed the re-usable grocery bags. They were crammed up against the bench seat as a result of the crash, and it was a good news/bad news situation. Any-thing breakable was done for, but at least the cold items were clois-tered together, united in a fight against the eighty-degree August night.

“Oh, thank you, Nyx.” Posie clasped her hands under her chin like she was doing a devotional. “We’ll help the—wait, what are you doing with the gun?”

Nyx didn’t stop as she passed by, so Posie grabbed her arm. “Why do you have the gun?”

“What do you think I’m going to do to the damn thing? Give it CPR?”

“No! We need to help it—”

Nyx put her face into her sister’s and spoke in a dead tone. “If it’s suffering, I’m going to put it down. It’s the right thing to do. That is the way I will help that animal.”

Posie’s hands went to her face, pressing into cheeks that had gone pale. “It’s my fault. I hit the deer.”

“It was an accident.” Nyx turned her sister around to face the station wagon. “Stay here and don’t look. I’ll take care of it.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt the—”

“You’re the last person on the planet who’d intentionally hurt any-thing. Now stay the hell here.”

The sound of Posie softly crying escorted Nyx back toward the road. Following the tire gouges in the dirt and the ruined foliage, she found the deer about fifteen feet away from where they’d veered off—

Nyx stopped dead in her tracks. Blinked a couple of times. Considered vomiting.

It wasn’t a deer.

Those were arms. And legs. Thin ones, granted, and covered with mud-colored clothes that were in rags. But nothing about what had been struck was animal in nature. Worse? The scent of the blood that had been spilled was not human.

It was a vampire.

They’d hit one of their own.

Nyx ran over to the body, put the gun away, and knelt down. “Are you okay?”

Dumbass question. But the sound of her voice roused the injured, a horrific and horrified face turning up to her.

It was a male. A pretrans male. And oh, God, the whites of both his eyes had gone red, although she couldn’t tell whether it was because of the blood running down his face or some kind of internal brain injury. What was clear? He was dying.

“Help . . . me . . .” The thin reedy voice was, interrupted by weak coughing. “Out of . . . prison . . . hide me . . .”

“Nyx?” Posie called out. “What’s happening?”

For a split second, Nyx couldn’t think. No, that was a lie. She was thinking, just not about the car, the groceries, the kid who was dying, or her hysterical sister.

“Where,” Nyx said urgently. “Where’s the camp?”

Maybe after all these years . . . she could find out where Janelle had been taken.

This had to be Fate.

  THE JACKAL by J.R. Ward: Spotlight and Excerpt was originally published on The Sassy Bookster

[english2121]

Discussion Leader 9/26

Class Discussion: Frankenstein: Chapters: 13-19

Introduction: Regarding chapters 13-19 of Shelley’s novel; the monster continues his tale to Victor, referring back to the appearance of a young and beautiful stranger who made her way to the cottage on horseback asking for the young man Felix.  She is a woman of middle-eastern origin named Safie, who Felix is more than pleased to bring into his family’s home.  From his hovel, the Monster realizes that Safie does not speak the same language as the cottagers, and unknown to her, she has a secret peer in her lessons taught by Felix.  From Felix’s teachings, the Monster learns how to read, while also learning the history of both the world and the cottagers themselves.  His learning takes on a new level when one night rummaging through the woods for food, the Monster stumbles upon a lost satchel containing particular works: Goethe’s Sorrows of Werter, a volume of Plutarch’s Lives, and Milton’s Paradise Lost, which he takes as actual history, and comparing it to his creator’s own notes that he discovered while rummaging through the pockets of clothes he had taken from Victor’s apartment, contemplates his own existence.  

After some time, the Monster takes the chance to reveal himself to the cottagers, though due to his horrid appearance, he ends up being rejected, attacked, and forced to flee.  Sometime passes, and the Monster has made his way toward Geneva.  Here, he encounters and murders Victor’s young brother William and frames Justin for the crime.  This is where he concludes his story and makes an appeal- to create him a companion.  Victor finally agrees to the Monster’s request; and while holding off his marriage to Elizabeth, he takes on a two-year journey- accompanied by Henry –to England, to get started on his reluctant compromise to his creation.

Quote, (Matt): “But I thought Werter himself a more divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined; his character contained no pretension, but it sank deep.  The disquisitions upon death and suicide were calculated to fill me with wonder.  I did not pretend to enter into the merits of the case, yet I inclined towards the opinions of the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely understanding it.”- The Monster. (Chapter 15)

1. How do you think the monster’s conjecture of Werter fits in with our discourse of the text?

Quote, (Anika):

“It was your journal of the four months that preceded my creation.  You minutely described in these papers every step you took in the progress of your work; this history was mingled with accounts of domestic occurrences.  You doubtless recollect these papers.  Here they are.  Everything is related in them which bears reference to my accursed origin; the whole detail of that series of disgusting circumstances which produced it is set in view; the minutest description of my odious and loathsome person is given, in language which painted your own horrors and rendered mine indelible.  I sickened as I read ‘Hateful day when I received life!’ I exclaimed in agony. ‘Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust?  God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance.  Satan had his companions, fellow devils, to admire and encourage him, but I am solitary and abhorred’ (Shelley, Chapter 15).

2. Regarding the creature’s meditations on Paradise Lost, which character is actually more a kin to him?  Adam or Satan?

Quote, (Anika): “I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a state of utter and stupid despair.  My protectors had departed and had broken the only link that held me to the world.  For the first time the feelings of revenge and hatred filled my bosom, and I did not strive to control them, but allowing myself to be borne away by the stream, I bent my mind towards injury and death.  When I thought of my friends, of the mild voice of De Lacey, the gentle eyes of Agatha, and the exquisite beauty of the Arabian, these thoughts vanished and a gush of tears somewhat soothed me.  But again when I reflected that they had spurned and deserted me, anger returned, a rage of anger, and unable to injure anything human, I turned my fury towards inanimate objects.  As night advanced, I placed a variety of combustibles around the cottage, and after having destroyed every vestige of cultivation in the garden, I waited with forced impatience until the moon had sunk to commence my operation” (Shelley, Chapter 15).

3. Regarding the burning of the cottage, what was the Monster’s interpretation of his action?

Quote, (Matt): “I generally rested during the day and traveled only when I was secured by night from the view of man.  One morning, however, finding that my path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to continue my journey after the sun had risen; the day, which was one of the first of spring, cheered even me by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of the air.  I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within me.  Half surprised by the novelty of these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy.  Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks, and I even raised my humid eyes with thankfulness towards the blessed sun, which bestowed such joy upon me.”- The Monster. (Chapter 16)

Quote, (Anika): “This was then the reward of my benevolence! I had saved a human being from destruction, and as a recompense I now writhed under the miserable pain of a wound which shattered the flesh and bone.  The feelings of kindness and gentleness which I had entertained but a few moments before gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth.  Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind.  But the agony of my wound overcame me; my pulses paused, and I fainted” (Shelley, Chapter 16).

4. Is there any justification in the Monster’s vow of “eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind,” or does his wrathful intent just prove his abominable existence?

Quote, (Matt): “Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed through many beautiful and majestic scenes, but my eyes were fixed and unobserving.  I could only think of the bourne of my travels and the work which was to occupy me whilst they endured. After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I traversed many leagues, I arrived at Strasburgh, where I waited two days for Clerval.  He came.  Alas, how great was the contrast between us!  He was alive to every new scene, joyful when he saw the beauties of the setting sun, and more happy when he beheld it rise and recommence a new day.  He pointed out to me the shifting colours of the landscape and the appearances of the sky.”- Victor Frankenstein. (Chapter 18)

5. With regard to the characters of Victor, Henry, and the Monster; what might their disposition to nature reveal about them?

Argument, (Matt): Given his sin against nature (creating the creature) and the accuracy of his guilt (his responsibility regarding the deaths of William and Justine), Frankenstein ends up emotionally severed from his loved ones and numbed to the sublimity of the world.  In contrast, his “abomination” had found joy and admiration for existence more than once being affected by the spring season.  This impression is echoed in Henry who was consistently captivated by the wonders of nature during his travels with Victor.  Mary Shelley’s articulate inclusion of these characters and their relation to the world demonstrates their moral placement.  Due to Frankenstein’s crimes against the natural order he will forever be segregated from the realm of life, while the Monster’s temperament for nature proves his potential for good even if it is never actualized.  In addition to their opposition, the character of Henry sustains as the prime example of world citizen.

Argument, (Anika): Mary Shelley’s tackles the question of responsibility in her novel.  She addresses the question that should a parent of a child be held responsible for their inappropriate behavior, or is the child fully responsible for their actions?  In this narrative, Victor, who the reader identifies as the parent, created life, a child/monster from various corpses.  Shelley immediately attacks the question of who is at fault for the innocent murders: is it Victor (the parent) or the monster (the child).  Although some may argue that the creature is at complete fault because he learned right from wrong, I argue that it is Victor who is at fault because he is the one who created a being that had the capacity to destroy the lives of innocent people based on how he was treated, abandoned, and isolated.  Therefore, it is Victor Frankenstein’s neglect as a parent and creator that turned a peaceful loving creation into a merciless and revengeful killer.

[sorceressofsass]

3 , 7, 8, 9, 17, 18, 23, 25, 32, 36, 41 -- good luCK

42 character development questions >> accepting!

I have no regrets 8)

3. How do they position themselves in a group? Do they like to be the center of attention, or do they hang back at the edges of a crowd? 

Kaitlyn is an in the center of attention type person. She’s extroverted and loves talking with people, making them laugh, and feels best when she’s around others. 

7. How do they physically engage with other people, inanimate objects, and their environment? What causes the differences between these?

People: If she knows them, she has a tendency to be touchy-feely and likes to give hugs, put her arm around their shoulders/elbow on their head (depending on height), and generally be in close proximity.

Inanimate Objects: Well, she doesn’t pick up anything that isn’t her own, but she will idly play with a deck or card hand or trace along her cup. At least when she’s not gesturing as she talks. Often they’re used as props to do something silly.

Environment: It depends, but she doesn’t really interact much with her environment besides the occasional stretching or repositioning her stance. 

With people, it boils down to wanting to be close and accepted by others. Inanimate objects are distractions or ways to get attention by doing something silly. Her environment has always been something she needs to be on edge about so I feel like there’s contrast in how she behaves sometimes and how still she can be otherwise ? I don’t know if I’m expressing that properly.

8. Where and when do they seem most and least at ease? Why? How can you tell? 

I think Kaitlyn always appears to be at ease. If you don’t know her well enough, she’ll be joking up until she takes her dying breath and you might be like, wow she took nothing seriously. She might seem most at ease at a bar with a drink in her hand. While she is, it’s probably not in a good way, and I think she’s more peaceful when she’s using healing magic and has Shadow near her. 

9. How do they manifest energy, exhaustion, tension, or other strong emotions?

It manifests more in her actions than any body language. She’s schooled her body language to be very specific. Growing up an apostate, she’s had to blend in while also being hyper aware of those around her and for any sign of Templars. When in Kirkwall, there are very few places she’ll let her guard down, and even then it’s minimal because it’s just that ingrained. So her strong emotions tend to manifest in bad jokes, drinking, gambling, and throwing herself at a task completely. 

17. Are they more shaped by nature or nurture — who they are, or what has happened to them? How have these shaped who they’ve become as a person?

I think Kaitlyn is much more strongly a product of her environment than her genes. It’s like, she was meant to be this funny, outgoing person who enjoys life. That has been twisted by her environment in how she was forced to grow up, such as being constantly on edge and vigilant for anything that might tear her family apart.

18. What kind of person could they become in the future? What are some developmental paths that they could take, (best, worst, most likely?) what would cause them to come to pass, and what consequences might they have? What paths would you especially like to see, and why?

Kaitlyn has the potential to do a lot of things, but based on my farthest canon point time for her…. umm, well it ends in her in the Fade and dead so…

Best: She recognizes her issues with alcohol dependency, starts a slow recovery, focuses on herself, moves back to Kirkwall and helps with the rebuilding in a place that accepts her. This is the one I want to see lol I can’t think of many consequences to this as it’s more a road to recovery and that’s the point.

Worst and Likely are the same cause, IMO, it’d the worst for her to sacrifice herself at Adamant and stay behind in the Fade, but it’s the most likely. She’s on a self-driven suicide mission. 

23. How do they respond to difficult social moments? What makes them consider a social situation difficult?

She responds with jokes, sarcasm, and occasionally impassioned pleas to not kill anyone. She responds to pretty much everything with jokes unless the situation calls serious words. She doesnt try to read people and do what she thinks will appeal to them most if it’s a serious moment. It becomes difficult for her when she comes to situations where she’s forced to not be her soft-hearted self who wants to save and help everyone, even to the determent of herself and those around her. 

25. What do they need and want out of relationships, and how do they go about getting it?

What Kaitlyn wants are people to help. She’s done this ever since she was little and started helping her mom, who was stressed from working, worrying her apostate family might be found, taking care of twins, and dealing with the death of her parents as well as the alienation from her brother. I think Leandra loves her kids unconditionally, but for little Kait she could see how upset she was but could not understand why or what was going on and internalized some of it on accident. It created this need to be acknowledged by her mom and she started taking care of things that fell through the cracks. She fulfills her want for recognition and love by going out of her way, bending until her back breaks, to help people. 

What she needs out of a relationship is someone to tell her no, stop doing this to yourself, it’s not healthy. Recognizes all she’s doing and makes her stop and take care of herself. But she doesn’t want to stop so she tries to never bring it up/never bring attention to it.

And if you’ll permit me to gush about vaitlyn real quick, that’s what I love about them because Varric, I think, would recognize it and is in a unique position to do so. He reads people and, as a younger brother, catches what falls through the cracks, and he’s very good at reading people. Also, he wouldn’t stand for her weak excuses. 

32. Do they have any “props” that are a significant part of their life, identity, activities, or self-presentation somehow? What are they, how are they used, and why are they so significant? How would these props’ absence impact them, how would they compensate, and why?

Her father’s old staff, a golden metal staff with Andraste carved out at the top, is very significant to her and she keeps it close religiously even though she’s really not all that religious herself. But she uses it as a reminder, as a guiding post, as something to remember her father by. He taught her magic, taught her how to shoot with a bow, cared for her and their family deeply. Even after what happens at the Vinmarks., she doesn’t think less of him. Not having it with her doesn’t necessarily make her upset as long as she knows it’s safe, but if it’s in danger or lost she gets extremely upset. It’s one of the few things she has left of her family. There would be no way to compensate it.

36. How much do they rely on their minds and intellect, versus other approaches like relying on instinct, intuition, faith and spirituality, or emotions? What is their opinion on this? 

With very little hobbies to do as a girl (they could go outside but only when watched and sometimes that wasn’t always an option because her parents were busy. unsupervised wasn’t encouraged/allowed, imo, because she was still an untrained mage at that point) so she grew up reading a lot of books. Her mother didn’t bring anything from home, but as a noble Leandra was well-educated and wanted her children to be so too. Her father was deeply religious and I imagine Leandra was too, but Kaitlyn never took to it strongly due to how the Chantry and the world perceived mages like her and her family, the very reason she had to grow up in hiding and why for a year they were on the road running so their family wouldn’t be torn apart.

So, when it comes to relying on things, she’s more likely to go with intellect and intuition and her emotions. Definitely, definitely her emotions. She thinks this is all a good way to process the world.

41. What associations do they bring to mind? Words or phrases, images, metaphors or motifs? Why? 

Cold, dying embers, herbs peeking through soil, flesh curling like burned paper, feathers falling, open books, fresh ink on parchment, flour, dough sticking to hands, smell of wet dog, hair in your mouth, dog slobber, piled up books, puns

It would take a while to go through all of these but a lot of them have to do with activities, skills she’s picked up, traumatic events, what she values, things like that.