#in the library short i wrote it was; at the end of every paragraph; '[and] the book was in its place.'

[talesofedo]

Edo period egoyomi (picture calendar) for Keio 4 (1868), showing the sho-no-tsuki (small or short months) as women and the dai-no-tsuki (large or long months) as men.

Edo Period Calendars

Disclaimer: The following information is from the National Diet Library, I didn't write this. I am sharing it for reference, both for myself and those of you who might be interested. Some slight editing for paragraphs.

...

Background / History

Japan's first calendar came from China via Korea. In the middle of the 6th century, the Yamato Imperial Court, which ruled Japan at the time, invited a priest from a country called Paekche (Kudara in Japanese), in what is now Korea, to learn from him how to draw up a calendar, as well as astronomy and geography.

Reportedly, Japan organized its first calendar in the 12th year of Suiko (604).

Back then, all matters relating to the calendar were determined by the Imperial Court. Under the Ritsuryosei system of centralized administration under the Ritsuryo legal code of the Taika Reformation, the Onmyoryo of Nakatsukasasho was in charge of the task.

An Onmyoryo was a government office that had jurisdiction over calendar preparation, astronomy, divination, etc. It was a time when calendars and divination were inseparable.

From the end of 10th century, the task of preparing the calendar was handed down in the Kamo family, while astronomy passed through generations of the Abe family, its patriarch being Abe Seimei (921-1005), noted as an Onmyo-shi, or specialist in the realm of calendars and divination.

The calendar used then was called "Tai-in-taiyo-reki," a lunisolar calendar, or "Onmyo-reki."

Each month was adjusted to the cycle of moon's waxing and waning. Since the moon orbits the earth in about 29.5 days, adjustment was required and this was done by making months with either 30 days or 29 days, the former, "dai-no-tsuki (long month)," the latter, "sho-no-tsuki (short month)."

Aside from the moon's orbit round the earth, the earth orbits the sun in 365.25 days, which, as we all know, causes the seasonal changes. Thus, merely repeating long and short months gradually produced a discrepancy between the actual season and the calendar. To compensate for this, a month called "uru-zuki," or intercalary month, was inserted every few years to produce a year with 13 months, with the order of longer and shorter months changing year by year.

Unlike our contemporary calendar in which there is no change in the order of months, back then the fixing of a calendar was deemed so important that it was placed under the control of the imperial court and, in the later Edo period, under the superimposed military shogunate.

The calendar established by Onmyo-ryo was called "Guchu-reki," one in which various words indicating seasons, annual events and daily good omens were written in Chinese characters and called "reki-chu (calendar notes)." The Guchu-reki derives its name from the fact that the notes were written in detail.

This Guchu-reki, which was in service until the Edo period, was used particularly by noblemen in ancient and medieval times, individuals based their everyday activities on the calendar. They often wrote a personal diary in the blank spaces or on the back of their personal calendar. These entries remain left valuable historical records of the era.

With the spread of kana, Japan's phonetic alphabet, "Kana-goyomi," a simplified edition of Guchu-reki written in kana, appeared. In the middle of the 14th century calendars started to be printed and soon reached a broader range of users.

As the Edo period wore on and knowledge of astronomy grew more sophisticated, the discrepancy between the calendar and actual astronomical events, such as eclipses of the sun and moon, became an issue, there arose a movement within the shogunate to amend the calendar.

Prior to then, the calendar was made each year based on the Senmyo-reki brought from China in the 4th year of Jogan (862), but as the same method had been used for more than eight centuries, it was deemed consistent with the situation prevailing at the time.

In the 2nd year of Jokyo (1685), a method of making the calendar was devised by Shibukawa Harumi, marking the first attempt by a Japanese, with the amended version known as the Jokyo calendar.

Later in the Edo period, the calendar was revised several times, the results respectively called the Horeki (1755), Kansei (1798) and Tenpo (1844) calendars.

Through these amendments, a more accurate lunisolar calendar was devised incorporating Occidental astronomy. Calendar calculation was made by the "Tenmongata" (officer in charge of astronomy) in the Edo shogunate, with notes added by the Kotokui family, descendants of the Kamo family, after which calendars were issued by publishers in various regions.

Calendars at first were exclusively for the use of the imperial court and noblemen, but after the dawn of printed calendars, more and more people came to use them.

Farmers and merchants found them essential to know the seasons and events. In particular, when using lunisolar calendars in which the order of long and short months changed year after year, learning them proved indispensable for merchants who made collections or payments at the end of each month.

Because of this, various types of calendars were devised and used.

Edo period egoyomi (picture calendar) for Tenmei 7 (1787), showing the sho-no-tsuki (small or short months) as women's parts and the dai-no-tsuki (large or long months) as men's parts in kabuki, beginning with the first month at top right.

According to the lunisolar calendar, there were long months with 30 days and short ones with 29 and their arrangement changed year by year. So knowing the arrangement of long and short months, with the inclusion of an intercalary month from time to time, was very important for the people who lived in those times.

Merchants, who made it a rule to effect payments or collections at the end of each month, would make signs to show a long or short month and erect them up in their shops according to the month in order to avoid mistakes.

While the calendar spread, the Daisho-reki calendar, which showed only the order of the long and short months, appeared during the Edo period (1603-1867). In those days it was called simply "Daisho". But instead of merely showing the length of month, it incorporated such devices as indicating long and short months with the use of pictures and sentences.

Various kinds of Daisho, including those using auspicious illustrations like the animal of the year and scenes from popular Kabuki plays, were produced and many were traded at "Daisho" New Year gatherings, while others were used for gifts. This custom began at the end of 17th century and was most popular in the latter half of the 18th century, in the Edo period.

Many noted artists produced Daisho illustrations. Later, in the Meiji era, when the solar calendar was officially adopted, Daisho calendars fell into disuse and were no longer produced.

[heartbreakfeelsogood]

📓 hi <3

HIIIII BESTIE THANK U <3 so fitting u send this actually because i started writing a zukka craft week fic! by “started writing” i mean i got really excited, wrote a few veryyyy short paragraphs, and never went back to it. i haven’t had a lot of motivation for writing lately 🥲🥲

anyway i was inspired by a craft week they hosted at my school’s library where every day there was a different craft you could do. the story would start with finding out that sokka is doing really awful in some lit class, i think i said shakespeare in those few paragraphs but it was subject to change. the professor meets with him and i guess the idea is he’d suggest a tutor? ends up matching him up with zuko or something, haven’t even gotten that far, but then they start meeting in the library so zuko can tutor sokka. it’s craft week… on the first day sokka is bored out of his mind and it’s been an hour or so and he’s like pleaseeeee let’s take a break. let’s make pet rocks or fortune tellers or friendship bracelets or whatever i decide day one is. i think i’d save friendship bracelets, that feels too good to have for the first day… it has to be the peak somehow yknow… (corey would like this huh) i think zuko would be opposed because he’d be more serious about the tutoring being the tutor and all but eventually he gives in and by the end of the week they are all googoo gaga for each other. i really need to write this i wanna see how it plays out

[nexus-nebulae]

i find it interesting that most of my most significant writing embodies mostly themes of either pure panic or desperation

[pepper-up-potion]

Starry nights (Remus Lupin x fem!reader)

Summary: Remus has a crush on reader but never directly admits it so reader grows impatient and fesses up before him.

Warnings: the mention of the word penis (not in a sexual way it’s a joke more specifically the penis game where u say the word lowered and lowered in a public place), nothing else, it’s just fluff

Word count: 1783 words

A/n: Once again a fic inspired by my relationship 🙈. I feel like Remus is one of those people that thinks you’re already dating and forgets to make it official (much like my bf) so I wrote a fic about that. Hope you like it :)

(Y/n) is scribbling away trying to finish her astronomy paper about Jupiter’s moons before the end of her free period. She’s gone up to the library where she expects no distractions and absolute silence.

This wish is met until she arrives at her concluding paragraph. Laughs erupt from the front entrance of the library and she suspects that is all the work she is going to get done before class. Three boys sit down in front of her while she finishes her sentence. She finally looks up at Sirius, James and Remus who have just started playing the penis game.

“Penis” James whispers.

“Penis” says Sirius with a normal register. The few students close by turn their heads and look in disapproval. To this the boys start howling with laughter.

Remus fills his lungs and gets ready to scream but she cuts him off.

“Shhhh. You’ll get us kicked out.” She whispers with her eyes narrowed.

Remus looks at her apologetically as he releases the air from his lungs. “Sorry” he mumbles, cheeks red.

“We’re bored y/n come hang out with us.” Says James with a whiny voice.

“Don’t you have work to do?” She whispers sharply. Maybe if Madam Pince sees her whispering she’ll only kick out the boys and let her stay and finish her paper.

“Ughh who caressss” groans Sirius.

“We were thinking of playing a short game of quidditch. Do you wanna come with us?” Remus whispers.

“It sounds fun but I really want to finish this paper before my next class.” His face falls when she declines but he quickly covers it with an acknowledging nod.

“nerd.” Coughs Sirius.

She sticks her tongue out at him making them chuckle.

They quickly realize she isn’t going to budge and before she knows it, they were gone. Grateful for the peace and quiet she focuses back to her paper and writes down another sentence. As she ponders on what to write next she looks up and notices a small bit of folded parchment that had not been there before the boys came to visit.

Looking around to make sure it couldn’t be someone else's, she reaches out and unfolds the paper. Maybe she will recognize one of the boys’ writing and give it back to them.

Meet me at the boathouse at 10:00 tonight. -Mooney

Her stomach fills with butterflies and a deep blush tints her cheeks. It’s been a month now they’ve been going on what feels like dates. It’s always just the two of them, the activity always more romantic than the last. Remus walks her back to her common room every time and there’s the occasional hand hold during these night excursions. Neither of them have addressed how they feel about each other. It’s like a secret they’re both trying to keep from each other. A belief that it’s better left unsaid. Sometimes she wonders what would happen if she told him how she felt.

~

Remus is standing at the edge of the harbor looking out at the still water.

“Should I have brought a bathing suit? Or maybe a life jacket? How good are you with boats?” She jokes with a quizzical brow.

Remus does a fast 180 and smiles wide as soon as he sees her face.

“Do you trust me (y/n)?” He asks, smirking.

I trust you more than anyone. I’ve never felt safer than when I’m with you. It’s what she wants to say. She looks in his soft eyes. It’s like he knows the answer already. She settles with a small nod instead.

He grabs her hand and guides her to one of the small boats. He steps in first, offering his hand to help her next. With the flick of his wand the boat moves forward.

“Where are we going?” She asks, already a few guesses in mind.

“You’ll see.” He smirks.

It’s mid-October and she can already feel the cold wind stinging her cheeks as the boat moves away from the castle and into the darkness. They mostly ride in silence. There’s the occasional question and anecdote about their day but they don’t really feel it’s necessary to fill the silence.

“Were here” he says after a while.

“What do you mean we're here? There’s nothing here but water!” She says in somewhat of a panic.

“No love, look behind you.” The surname makes her stomach knot on itself and she feels her cheeks turn that familiar pink. She still can’t believe how easily he can get her all flustered.

She turns at the same time as the boat docks onto an island.

“This is bowtruckle island.” Remus says as he climbs out of the boat and gives her a hand out. “I come here when I need some time away from the boys. This is the only place they don’t know I go to. I call it my safe haven.”

She laughs but after looking at the small island, she sort of understands what he means. “There’s something sort of serene about this place. I can see why you like it.”

“Exactly.” He looks at her in absolute admiration. He knew she would see it too, it’s like she understands him perfectly, she feels what he feels.

For a moment they both stand awkwardly on the shore before Remus pulls out a pack. He walks towards the large tree that almost takes up the whole surface of the island. He pulls a blanket and two small pillows from the pack and lays them out on the ground. He looks up at (y/n) and points to one of the pillows.

“I thought we could look at the stars together.” He suggests.

She smiles and nods in agreement. She never knew Remus could be such a romantic until they started these “dates”.

Their conversations flow smoothly as they talk about the stars and classes and funny memories, getting more and more familiar with one another. They eventually fall into a comfortable silence. The rhythmic sound of the water swishing onto the shore helps her drift away into her thoughts. She wishes she could stay there forever. She feels at her best when she’s with Remus. She thinks maybe she should tell him that. Maybe she should tell him everything she’s ever thought about him. How badly she wants to kiss him. How much she wishes they could be a couple and walk around the school hand in hand to rub in everyone’s face that they are together. How she’s had a crush on him ever since he smiled and shook her hand when they first met in second year.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a sudden warm feeling around her hand. Remus had intertwined his fingers with hers. She turns her head towards him and they lock eyes. There’s a hopeful glint in his eyes. He turns his body a bit to face her and leans forward. She closes her eyes in anticipation for their first kiss when a strong gust of wind swoops their way. It sends a strong shiver down her spine and immediately kills the moment as she curls into herself and unintentionally moves away from Remus.

“Cold?” He whispers. It’s soft but there’s a light growl indicating he’s bummed. He sits up and grabs another blanket from his bag and unfolds it.

“This should hel-“

“What is this Remus?” It comes off much harsher than she had anticipated but she hardly had time to think before she spat out the words. She thinks maybe it would have been better to say any of the things she had been thinking before he went in for a kiss but she’s quite flustered. She’s fallen for Remus years ago and her feelings grow stronger every time they see each other. She just wants more clarity on what is going on between them and she’s growing impatient about it.

“What?” A panicked look crosses his face. “It’s a blanket...?” He tries.

“No Remus, I mean this.” She sits up and gestures to her surroundings. He furrows his brows in confusion. “Well, you’ve been planning these elaborate and romantic nights where we hold hands and do couple things and I have so much fun every time and I feel like we get along really well and I really like you, like I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else because you’re so kind and caring and thoughtful and funny and you smell good and you have nice hair and you’re the only person I want to take home to meet my parents and then kiss in my room afterwards.” She rambles out in one breath. Remus chuckles with a look of pure delight on his face as (y/n) pants completely out of breath, cheeks tomato red from the blunt confession.

“Do I have to wait until I meet your parents to kiss you?” He asks. She can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

“Please don’t.”

He cups her cheek before leaning forwards and softly placing his lips to hers. It starts slow and tentative but quickly develops into a desperate kiss as they make up for years of lustful temptations. Remus places a hand behind her head and one on her waist and guides her down onto the blanket as she hums softly in encouragement.

“Woooooo!”

“Finally!”

“Yeah Mooney!”

The cheers echo on the lake as Remus and (y/n) jump apart in surprise. They spot another boat on the water with three boys in it. Remus shakes his head as Sirius jumps up in excitement which sways the boat so far that Peter falls in the water. Peter pulls on the boat until it capsizes and soon there are three heads bobbing in the water.

“Merlin, I can’t with those three.” Remus shakes his head but his adoring smile says otherwise. “This is your final chance to back out. I can’t even take you to my quiet place without them interrupting.” He points his thumb towards the three who are now bickering on how to turn the boat over.

She places her finger on her chin pretending to think about it. “Hmmm, I think the benefits out weigh the consequences” She concludes.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” he says as he fills the space between stopping before their lips meet and quickly jerking back. “Just to be clear, I like you too.” He blurts with a panicked face and hands out to stop her from leaning forward.

“I’m happy we got that cleared up.” She smiles wide. “Now get back here.” She whispers as she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him in for another kiss, the sound of the boys yelling fading out as the kiss deepens.

[dropofgoldensun]

omg hiiiii i am here from cat (@luvdsc) wondering if you could offer any advice about college apps 🙏 especially about the uc piqs? thank you so much i hope ur doing well!!!!!!!!

yes yes hello friend !! 💝 miss cat directed you to me because i did my college apps last year !!! (yikes one year passed already?? why does that feel ages ago 🤧)

first of all, congratulations on making the decision to apply to college !! i know it’s been hard for a lot of people our age to figure out the college situation recently, so i’m proud of you for choosing to take the extra step this summer to buckle up and write those essays 💞

i’ve compiled a few tips on answering the PIQs (i was actually in the middle of typing this up when i received your ask haha), but some of them can be applied to other essays, as well !! they’re all under the cut (because, unfortunately, being brief is not my forte) 😊

(and for reference, the prompts i chose were #2 (creativity), #6 (subject), #7 (community), and #8 (anything) !!)

tip #1: understand the prompt.

before you even begin writing, it’s important to understand what the question is really asking. for the UC PIQs, this will look different depending on which four prompts you decide to do.

in question one, for example, they want to know about your skills in leading others, but notice that they’re also curious about your resolution abilities and teamwork experience. or in question two, they don’t want to know that you paint and that you love painting—they could be asking how resourceful you are, how you think outside the box when you have an idea.

once you know the question you’re going to be answering, you can move on to brainstorming!

tip #2: write down three (3) key takeaways.

these are like the most basic, not-even-a-sentence answers you would give to each question. so for me, in response to question eight (“what do you believe makes you stand out as a strong candidate for the UCs?”), my answers were perseverance, courage, and character. i had a story about that, so i wrote about my experience with martial arts.

i recommend you do something similar. decide on three things that you want to communicate to your audience, and write them in the footnote of your document. your goal is to cover all three points so that, if anyone were to read your essay, they would walk away understanding those three things about you.

i found this strategy really helpful for keeping my essay streamlined while writing—if a sentence didn’t relate to any of those main points, i would cut it since those words would take up valuable space in the word count. stay focused on what needs to be in this essay, and if you have extra words left in the word count later, you can add those details back in.

and once you’re done with your essay, make sure to refer back to your takeaways and check that you covered all of them sufficiently!

tip #3: highlight your stories.

i sent cat an ask a couple days ago with a few pictures of my response to an end-of-year college counseling survey that referenced this tip (you can find it here). basically i said that, when choosing what topics to write about, pick things that interest you! if you get excited talking about it, your audience should get excited about reading it, because they’ll pick up on the passions you have and then everyone’s excited !!! :D

i’ll tell you a secret: everyone you meet, everyone you see, has countless unique experiences that few others may have. me? i spend hours making mashups out of kpop songs. i earned my black belt years after a traumatizing experience during training. i get russian harry potter and spanish dr. seuss books from the library. and i created a collaborative online google photos album for my classmates that now has thousands of entries. although these aren’t necessarily unique to only me, they’re still special enough to the point where, when you put them all together, you get a better image of the person i am, and what i value.

so find a story, a habit, a hobby that makes you different, because i believe that everyone has them. give them some food for thought, or that one-liner that sticks in their brain and won’t go away. and remember: these stories don’t all have to be extraordinary—they should be about people or moments of special value to you, because that’s what matters.

personal tip: when i was brainstorming ideas, i decided that the best way to get ideas out there was to go on a rant (because sometimes it helps to just have a conversation with yourself !!) and i recorded myself, so i could replay what i said !! this was so so crucial to me finding my own voice for writing essays. notice the way you word things when you talk—a good line or two may make it into the final draft :)

i found it helpful to read sample essays as well! they give a lot of great ideas on the kinds of topics people write about. (also, it’s kind of fun, because who doesn’t love a good story?)

but the people reading your essay won’t be there to just enjoy your story; what they really want you to do is to tell them what you learned from your experience. they want to know whether you’re teachable and willing to grow both as a student and as a young adult. so make sure to take note of the life lessons you learned, experience you gained, character you built, etc.

minor tip on ending your essay: if you’re telling a story that happened in the past, then close with what you learned and how you can apply that to your life moving forward. if you’re telling a story that has no definite end yet (like a passion or dream you have), you probably don’t have everything figured out (and you can say that in your essay!), so it might be better to close with your hopes for the future.

tip #4: ask your family for help.

peer-editing is one of the most effective ways to detect errors and inconsistencies in your writing, because, after staring at your essay for so long, you might gloss over glaring contradictions. for all of my essays, i printed them out and asked my parents to help me revise them. we’d meet every other night (or every night, depending on how much time was left) to review and discuss improvements.

i actually kept some of those printed drafts (only the first and the final ones for comparison), and let me tell you from experience—you’re probably going to have a lot of drafts (i think the most i did was seven? but you don’t need to go that far!). this part of the process does take some time, so remember to be patient and kind to yourself :) these essays won’t happen overnight!

enlisting the help of others also helps keep you accountable. one of the struggles many seniors face while writing essays is just... setting aside time to do them. and even though the constant reminders from your parents will definitely get repetitive and a bit stress-inducing, i can tell you from personal experience that i’m so glad they did; otherwise, i don’t think i’d have my essays done in time :’)

while writing college essays is challenging, your family will be there supporting you each step of the way. chances are that they’ll have their own pointers to pass on to you, since they probably remember doing this process themselves! and, out of everyone in your life, they probably remember the most about you (because you probably don’t remember much when you were four or five), so they might have a couple starter ideas for topics when brainstorming. you can rely on them for their advice and their experience.

tip #5: self-editing.

here’s the part that takes the longest time.

use action words. this is probably something you’ve heard all throughout elementary school where they didn’t like you to say “said” because it was “boring”… but honestly, the difference between “doing my own version” and “infusing it with my personality” could go a long way. also, use words that you would actually use in an essay—then it’ll have your own special flair, and not sound like it’s taken from some stuffy 80s textbook!

here are some of the words i used (once again, you shouldn’t use these words if they don’t sound like something you’d write/say): potential, overlay, wrestle, launch, analogous, weave, infuse, experiment, outlet, revel, fascinate, satisfaction, pursue, expand, distinction, capture, range, archive, engage, beyond, build, adversity, cultivate, preserve, commit, explore, convey, naturally

also, be on the lookout for repeated words. i once wrote an essay without noticing that i used “hope” three times in the same paragraph. don’t do that! use synonyms :) personally, i tended to run short on synonyms, so i always kept a tab or two open on my computer reserved for searching up new words.

side note: unfortunately, during my search for synonyms, i discovered that thesaurus.com just didn’t give me what i was looking for. i highly recommend using wordhippo instead; it has so many more options and they’re grouped by the different definitions of your word! i found the synonyms i needed really quickly and it was very satisfying!

avoid the passive voice! my teacher gave me this tip for theses or any other college-level writing. here’s an example of the passive voice: “there was a large part of me that wanted to turn back.” that’s twelve words taking up precious space in your word count! instead, say something like, “i considered turning back.” you’ve just freed up eight words :)

tip #6: final revisions.

this is the step where you fine-tune your essays. meet that word count.

read your writing out loud. does it sound like you? it should. every writer has a different voice, and you need to ensure that yours is pervasive throughout your essay. feel free to use contractions—not only do they reduce your word count (this was a good thing for me, since i had a problem with getting under 350 words), but they also give a more casual tone to your essay, as if you’re telling a story to someone in the room.

next, pretend to be an admissions officer and have someone else read your essay to you. do you get excited hearing about this student who shares your name? if you do, there’s a good chance the real admissions officers will love your essays, too. this also gives you a chance to review to your essay as a whole. pay attention to the overall flow. is there a clear beginning and end? do you resolve the issues and overcome the trials you brought up? listen to it as if it’s a story, and take this time to enjoy what you’ve written. you worked hard!

final thoughts / encouragements.

oh my goodness, did we make it to the end? honestly if you did, thank you so much 🥺

okay but despite my relatively optimistic tone throughout this post, i’m still going to be honest with you—the college essay writing process is difficult. it requires you to look inside yourself and analyze the “why” behind some of the things that you love, and that isn’t easy to do at all. it’s intellectually and emotionally challenging, because not only do you need to use so much energy writing, but you also have to dig deeper to understand yourself, and that’s not easy, either.

but i wanted to encourage you, too. no matter what you may think of yourself at 12am, 2am, 4am writing these essays, believe you have a personality that others love and will love when they meet you. you are an interesting person with unique experiences who deserves to share your thoughts with others. you have so many people behind you, supporting you during these next few months. and when you find that you can’t write any more, remember to take time to care for yourself. have a warm shower. go to bed early. i could go on and on about why sleep is good for your brain but i’ll spare you the details in this post 😉

one last thing: keep the bigger picture in focus. remember, by december or january, you will be finished with most of the application process. that’s no small accomplishment. you can do it. 💝

i really hope you found tips that you were looking for, and that they’re applicable to your own PIQs and other essays !! if you have any other questions, feel free to send in another ask (i promise my response won’t be this lengthy LOL) 💘💓

oh, and if you feel comfortable enough reaching out about anything in particular, i’m only a DM away 💕 i wish you the best of luck on writing your essays and i hope you enjoy your final year of high school !! 💗🌸💟💖

[thestraggletag]

Silver Tongue, a Rumbelle fic

Summary: Based on this prompt. Royce Gold is determined to confess his secret feelings towards the librarian. Unable to do it in person he sits down to write a letter but a combination of liquid courage and a determination to truly unburden himself made him perhaps a bit too ardently honest. And a bit careless.

This might have a sequel.

Rating: NC-17 

It had taken a long time to arrive at this point, but now that he’d made the decision Royce Gold was oddly calm, as if having made the decision had magically ended the slow-burning agony he’d been in since the library had opened three years ago. He hadn’t much thought he would be affected by the event, and had privately thought it wouldn’t last. He could not see there being any need for a library in Storybrooke, a town where most people had last held a book in high school, if even then. He had thought it would not last long, one of Regina’s many pet projects that was abandoned when it did not justify its constant spending of town funds.

He had been wrong, in the end, because he hadn’t factored in the librarian. Belle French swept into town with her high-end, short-skirted fashion and noticeable Australian accent and he thought the moment he saw her that she wouldn’t last. Too foreign for a small town like Storybrooke. He had been wrong, though. She had soon made friends with the miners, and Granny and Ruby, and even a few of the teachers from the local school. She also made sure to make the library indispensable, organising book clubs and other after-school activities for the children, offering computer literacy courses for adults and a place for the knitting club to meet, as well as regular table-game nights that surprisingly became wildly popular with certain crowds. And had made Granny an unbearably-cocky backgammon champion, two years running.

So she had stayed, and soon he had begun to notice the danger in it. The way he could not stop staring at her in the diner, or as she walked down the street. They way he got tongue-tied when in her presence, and turned softer, kinder. The way his smirks turned to smiles around her, and he laughed easier. She was smart, and learned, and had a delightful sense of humor. Dark, like his. And yet she was a being of light. Kind, always ready to help, and willing to see beyond the surface. Beyond the drunken escapades of Leroy, or the scandal surrounding Miss Blanchard and Mr Nolan, or his own sordid reputation. And it was that thing that made her so dangerous, how unafraid she was of him, and how determined she seemed to be in getting to know him.

He had been half in love with her before he realised it. The attraction he could deal with- after all, she was a gorgeous woman, and he a man with eyes- but the feelings scared the fuck out of him. It was too late to stop himself, however, so he resigned himself to being a besotted fool… from a safe distance. Only the more they interacted the less he seemed reconciled with the idea until it felt like he was choking on his unexpressed feelings. 

That’s why he had decided, in a fit of uncharacteristic emotional bravery, to unburden himself. Confess his feelings, likely be politely refused, and put an end to the madness. Or perhaps, if fate smiled upon him, be rewarded with a tentative acceptance to a dinner date, and perhaps more. It was always a possibility, albeit a small one, but enough to give him the push he needed.

He had decided it would be best to write her a letter. He got stupidly tongue-tied in her presence, after all, and there was something whimsically old-fashioned about a written letter, which he was sure she would appreciate. So on Friday night, after dinner, he locked himself in his study, fished out his Waldmann Tango and his best stationary, and…

Drew a resounding blank.

It was difficult to start writing with a blank page, he reasoned, so he tried at first simply to write the opening line, immediately falling into a ten-minute debate on whether to address the letter to “Miss French” or “Belle” and what to put in front of it “Dear Miss French”, on one end of the spectrum, seemed too dry and cold, and “Dearest Belle” on the other, too forward and presumptuous.

In the end he decided on “My dear Belle”. There was no point in writing a letter declaring his feelings if he could not even bring himself to call her by her given name and the slightly possessive edge to his greeting might come off as ardent rather than off-putting.

The opening paragraph seemed easy at first: “I am writing to you in order to express certain feelings I am sure have gone unnoticed so far, given the pains I’ve taken to ensure they remained hidden, in part due to our mutual circumstances and standing in town…” yet after a few times reading and re-reading it he had the odd, sinking feeling he might be writing the slightly-more-modern version of Mr Darcy’s ‘In vain I have struggled’ speech and that hadn’t gone over well the first time around. Luckily for him, at least, Belle had no sister he could insult while he was at it. So he scraped it and tried again, but soon felt everything he wrote sounded too formal, stilted and lacking in emotion. He was laying it all down like it was a contract to seal one of his deals, and it was hardly conducive to romance, or reflective of his true feelings.

He stood up, going for the wet bar he kept in the corner of the office. He selected a half-full bottle of Lagavulin and poured himself a generous three fingers into his favourite tumbler, deciding to forgo ice altogether. He needed to loosen up and good Scotch always helped in that. He sat down again, downed the drink in one go, and took another shot at it. He wanted to sound… Passionate, he supposed. It was the whole point of the letter, after all, to confess his true feelings. And his feelings were… ardent. Powerful. All-consuming, at times. Like a small, flickering flame that had slowly built into a veritable inferno. Though he did not wish to frighten her, he did wish to unburden himself and leave her with no doubt regarding his feelings.

“There hasn’t been a day since you arrived in Storybrooke that I haven’t felt your presence in some small way. You’ve taken a permanent residence in my mind and my heart, and there are days when I can scarcely think of anything else. All it takes is a small conversation or even a passing smile and I’m rendered useless.”

He fetched the Scotch from the bar and poured himself another drink, deciding it would be best to leave the bottle nearby. He felt he was finally getting into the groove of things, building up to something that sounded less like a legal clause. He downed his second Scotch, feeling the pleasant burn as it travelled down his throat, and took his pen again.

“You need not be concerned if you do not share my feelings. I will respect whatever decision you make. I simply wanted to tell you of the warmth you inspire in me, the way you’ve torn through all the walls I’ve built between myself and the rest of the world. And yet I know you to be, above all things, kind. More beautiful on the inside that you are on the outside, if that’s at all possible. I know that I am safe in your hands, whether you choose to give me a chance or not. Thank you for treating an old beast with kindness and humanity and know that, no matter what the outcome is, you have a friend and an ally across the street from the library, if there is ever anything you need.”

He signed it simply “Yours” because it felt apt. He certainly felt hers, in any case. Below he signed his name, trying to make his signature a bit more whimsical, give it a tad more flourish. Afterwards he stretched, poured himself another drink, and read it. It was… Good. Not too dry, not too passionate. Solid. Respectful but a good representation of his feelings at the same time.

Well… to an extent. He gulped down his third glass of Scotch and poured himself another, ruefully acknowledging that the letter was not quite honest. It was a bit restrained. Or a lot restrained. It felt like the gentlemanly thing to do, to tone down some of the more unbecoming feelings, keep those more intimate urges locked up for the time being. But perhaps, he mused, he could let loose a bit, to try and see if a more emotionally-honest letter would actually be preferable.

He could tell her, perhaps, a bit more about how it was hard for him to keep his eyes off her when they were in the same room. How utterly beautiful she was, small enough to make him wanna crowd her in, whisk her away somewhere and lean over her, feeling her breath on his neck. How he adored her high heels and flirty skirts and wished nothing more than to-

He removed his tie, and scratched out that last sentence, automatically fishing for his drink to try and cool himself down. He was beginning to get inappropriate and, anyway, he did not wish to come across as if he was solely enamoured with her physical appearance. Though he very much was enraptured by it, it was her personality that had made him fall for her. Things like her kindness, her understanding, her insatiable curiosity. He wished to share everything with her. Wanted to teach her all the secrets of his trade, have deep discussions on books they mutually liked, bare his soul to her inquisitive eyes.

“In my dreams, over and over, I am a willing slave to your curiosity, your insatiable need to explore and experience. When I close my eyes I see us in every way two people can be together, entwined till it’s impossible to decipher where I end and you begin. You let me press my mouth against every inch of you, drink from your cunt till I’m satiated, but it’s never enough. I wish to vainly attempt to quench your curiosity anywhere and everywhere you’ll let me, at any time of day. Over and over till neither of us can walk and I cannot remove your scent from my fingers, my mouth, my cock.”

He stared at the paragraph, head tilted to the side. The paper looked a bit blurry, so he checked to make sure he was wearing his glasses. He was. Odd. He reached out for his glass of Scotch, surprised that it was empty. He refilled it, noticing the bottle felt surprisingly light. He re-read the paragraph, trying to figure out if it was a bit too risqué. But, he reasoned, Belle was risqué, in her attire, in her reading choices. Sure she would appreciate him being the same, going out of his comfort sort in order to convey the depth of his affection.

“I dream of fucking you for hours on end. Slowly, with the care and thoroughness you deserve, till we’re both numb and spent. I want to make you ache in places where the pain bleeds into pleasure, and convince you that only I am worthy of making you come. That none of the boys you might have had between your lovely legs were worth a second look. I want to become your favourite toy, there for whenever you might need me, eager to please, to make you sigh and moan and keen till you are hoarse.”

He was hard, he noticed, but it was hardly a surprise, though he thought he might have drunk a bit too much for his body to rise to the occasion. He thought about touching himself for the briefest second, but quickly dismissed the idea. He was on a writing roll, it wouldn’t do to jeopardise that. Instead he poured himself another glass of Scotch, surprised when he had to tip the bottle all the way. He didn’t remember drinking enough to empty it, but he must have. Shrugging, he turned his attention back to the letter.

“I want to take you against the stacks of the library, amidst the books you love so much. I want to fuck you in the backroom of my shop so your smell lingers there. I want to go down on you in my bed for ours, till the silk sheets are ruined beyond repair. I want to consume you anywhere, everywhere, knowing that I will never be truly satiated, that it will never be enough. Have you splayed across my dining room table so I could eat you out as many times as I wanted, as much as you needed. I want to do everything to you, and have you do everything to me, till I can’t scrub you from my skin, the same way I cannot seem to be able to erase you from my heart and my mind.”

It was a bit of a sappy ending, but he supposed it balanced the more physical emotions out. He signed his name at the bottom with a flourish, smiled in satisfaction and staggered to his feet, determined to make it to his bedroom. He would get a good night’s sleep, wake up refreshed, and deliver the letter personally first thing in the morning.

In the morning, once he was done throwing up and had managed to shower, he shook his head at the idea he could’ve ever thought he would wake up anything other than terribly hungover. He popped a couple of aspirin, forced himself to swallow a few bites of dry toast, and dressed himself for the day. Before going out the door he remembered the letter, wincing when he recalled specifically the second draft he had made, clearly in a state of drunken foolishness. He picked up the sheets of paper, thinking for a second about ripping them up. He stopped himself at the last minute, though. The letter might not be fit to ever be seen by Belle, but he fancied the idea of rereading it later. He folded it neatly into an envelope and fetched a second one for the original, much more suitable letter. He would slip that one underneath the library’s door on his way to the shop. 

He was startled by his home phone ringing, picking up to see it was the tip on the estate sale he had been waiting for. He jotted down the necessary information, went back to his desk to retrieve the letter and was out the door a few seconds later. He hurried to the library and, before he could convince himself otherwise, slipped the envelope with the letter underneath the doors, feeling a mixture of relief and anxiety afterwards. He had done it, and though he felt unbearably nervous about the whole thing, he was proud of himself for following through.

Or he was, until he opened what he thought was the unsuitable letter and realised it was the original first draft. He had switched them up by mistake. Ice flooded his veins, and he felt like someone had punched him in the gut, leaving him gasping for breath. This couldn’t be happening. Not to him, not with Belle. The more he thought about it the more his mind recalled fragments of the letter, lingering in its uncouth language and vivid imagery. He was fucked, totally and completely.

Unless…

Maybe she hadn’t opened the letter yet. Or she had, but hadn’t gotten around to read it all. The first page or so was quite reserved. Perhaps he could sneak into the library and retrieve the rest, or swap it for the correct letter. He had the keys to the library, as it was his property, rented by the town. It would feel and likely be a terrible violation of the librarian’s private space, even though he did not intend to go beyond the library, but it would be worse to allow her to be submitted to such basic thoughts as the ones he had written down the other night. 

With that in mind he took the library keys from his safe and went out into the night. Storybrooke, being a small town, was deserted at that time, which was a blessing. Less people to see him slip inside the library using the back door, or hear him as he rummaged around inside, trying to be quiet and not use his phone flashlight, lest that alert Belle upstairs in her apartment somehow. Tentatively he made his way to her office, sure she would have surely put the letter, hopefully unsealed. But when he got close he noticed light coming through the windows of the office, where the blinds were partially-lowered. It seemed that, given his fucking luck, Miss French was still diligently toiling away doing something or the other for the library. Nevermind. He would take a discrete peek, to see if he at least spotted his letter atop her desk, and if he did he would hide in some shadowy corner of the library and wait her out. If he didn’t he would cut his losses and go back home, to try and figure out how he was ever going to face Belle again. 

He approached silently, drawing one of the slats down to peer inside. He spotted Belle right away, leaning back on her office chair with an ottoman propping her feet up. She was reading something and for a moment he appreciated her face, eyes focused on the page, cheeks slightly flushed and lips parted. Then he registered the rest, the shirt tossed above the desk along with her bra, the black silk camisole making her hardened nipples visible and her left hand, which disappeared somewhere beneath her rucked-up skirt. She sighed, head rolling back as she whispered something.

He didn’t know what registered first, whether it was the fact that she was saying his name or that it was his letter she was reading, clutched tightly to her right hand. There was no doubt as to what she was doing, and yet he could hardly believe that Belle fucking French was bringing herself to orgasm in her office while reading his letter. He pinched himself, unwilling to believe he was seeing what he was seeing, but the sting felt all too real. It wasn’t a dream, it was, somehow, reality. Sweet, sweet reality.

He needed to get out. As much as he burned to just burst into the office and let his mouth do what Belle’s fingers were attempting, it wouldn’t do. By some miracle she was not offended or otherwise put off by his risqué letter, but she sure would be by him breaking into the library. Offended and perhaps scared, unsafe, which was the last thing he wanted her to feel, especially in his presence. He would sneak out, quietly, and swing by the library tomorrow afternoon, right after closing time. As much as it would embarrass him to bring up his letter he would know she reciprocated his feelings, or that at least she was open to them, and that would give him the courage needed to ask her out. 

It was a solid plan, a great plan. And it would’ve worked, he was sure, if he hadn’t knocked over a banker lamp as he backed away from her office. The  antique bronze made a horrible noise as it collided with the floor, and the green shade shattered upon impact, making a mess.

“Who’s there?”

Fuck.

[sunkissed-mogai]

Yes!! It's a journal, with pens of so many colors throughout it. The older colors are faded, but still there. The binding Is beautiful colors and curls and loops in places. In the beginning the writing is small, and solitary. One handwriting scrawled across the pages, and than the handwriting gets bigger, and slowly more is added to the mix. Now there are colors and doodles and jokes! It's the beginning of a long lasting tale, one that has not yet ended. Than, the first anons arrive. They give themselves sign offs, and gradually there is more and more writing. But even then, the writing was just between those with sign offs and the people who wrote the very first pages. Than, there are more! More beings with new handwriting and different pens. One starts formal, punctuation and paragraphs written carefully in tightly packed paragraphs, trying not to take up to much of the page. Than, an anon decided to write to another. And now, the beings with sign-offs were talking to each other. Than, an anon gives a single opinion on mint, in slightly scrawled handwriting, and the pages are filled with the scrawled handwriting of anons, some aggressive. And now, the otherwise quiet library was filled with laughter as one by one more beings added their scrawling handwriting to the pages, no longer afraid of taking up space. Than, 2 people, who have barely written to each other and never seen each other in person make a pact, a fight. So, through the pages of this books events take place, and people laugh and cry and bond. The handwriting is colorful and safe, sometimes short sentences and other times full stories. Every day someone visits the book tucked carefully in shelves, and they write. But now there are pictures and sticky notes of smiley faces sticking out of the pages, and every day the writing grows. Beings brush their hand fondlt over the dog eared pages of the mint debate, and dog ear more and more, setting up ways to remember the things they've done before. And the book gains more and more writing, and it's dog eared and the ribbon is warm but it's loved. It feels like smiles and sunshine and laughing with friends hundreds of miles away, because through this book now you know each other. The book is love and happiness and comfort from the bad things. The book feels like safety for some, star anon remarks in a rambling comment, and the anons (who they now refer to with names and inside jokes) keep coming back to the book, even as some leave. -⭐

help this is so sweet i am crying at the idea of my blog as this sweet lil book T-T /pos

this makes me really want to make that book. like go out and find an acceptable journal with a ribbon and thick pages and write out all our stories inside :]

[dragonflymage]

Oh wow. Yeah.

I’m going to share something that went on with me when I was younger. It’s sort of embarrassing and sort of not. I don’t know. This is me hesitating because… eh, whatever. It’s my history. So here it goes…

I was 20 years old. After I graduated high school, I spent a year or so trying to figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, since I had no idea. I whiled away my time reading at the library. Then I decided maybe I’ll give school another chance. So I enrolled and took a few courses like Literature and Creative Writing.

That’s when it began.

It started with the guy at the library. There was a guy who worked at the library who I saw nearly every time I went there. One day he asked me if I wanted to go out sometime.

Then there was the guy at the bus stop. I saw him every morning when I waited for the bus that took me to college. He asked me if I’d like to maybe go for dinner.

My creative writing professor. He had been helping me work on a short story I wrote about a house fire I experienced when I was 8. He asked me if I’d like to go with him to a play and dinner. And that we didn’t have to even sit near each other at the play if that made me feel more comfortable.

And there were two fellow students I had classes with who asked me for a date.

…………. So, okay…………

I’m just going to jump right to it. Do you know what I did?

I began sneaking around the library so I wouldn’t see the library guy. I started catching my morning bus at a different bus stop. I withdrew from my creative writing class. And the two fellow students… I let one drive me home a couple of times and the other I had pizza with once at a place not far from the campus. Then I drifted away from them.

In other words, I fled for my life! I wasn’t afraid of them, exactly. I just had no idea what to do about it all. I think they were potentially decent people, but I hadn’t any interest in dating. My mind was focused on school and I couldn’t figure out where in the world dating would fit into that.

Here is a secret… A secret I learned about myself as I got older. If I had a crush on someone, it was easier for me to feel confident and potentially open to a possible relationship with someone. If that person had an interest in me first, I suddenly had no idea what I was supposed to do with myself. 😅 And I think that is what happened with “the year of the 5 guys”. They were interested in something about me during a time I wasn’t looking.

I mean, you date so you can learn more about a person and then decide whether or not you like them. Right? Isn’t that what dating is about? I think I’m backward with that. Where I have to like someone before I went any further. And if this “twang” or “crush” started happening, that meant something about them caught my interest. Intelligent. Made me laugh. Lots of wonderful ideas. Something. So I had more confidence. The downside to that is, I may be interested in them but there was never any guarantee that the feeling was mutual. So I usually kept my “crush” thoughts to myself. Which got me nowhere….

See?!?!? Did you see all the confusion in that last paragraph? That is why this INFP sucked at dating!! LOL OMG I need to get out of this answer before I embarrass myself so much I end up orbiting Jupiter……….. 💗 *flees*

Thanks for the question. 😊

image from unsplash

[pundergrad]

Guys I. I've had a revelation tonight.

All my group essay team members put their work in the google doc and I had a read through most of it. And I. I don't know the emotion that I'm feeling. It's somewhere between humour and sadness.

The revelation is that I can just. Not care so much about school, apparently.

I'm in my fourth year of uni and I wish I was as carefree as my team members seem to be. Maybe this is a class they don't mind bludging, and they're only doing it to complete course requirements. But this essay is worth 40% of our grade so I thought maybe they'd bring some kinda Big Game to the table, y'know?

The quality of half of their paragraphs was... Not what I expected of third-year uni students. One person, who I will refer to as Shakespeare, had around 30% of their work written as direct quotes, and I couldn't tell where the description of research ended and analytic thought began. Another person, henceforth Bart Simpson, has basically written the same sentence about 25 times, all in slightly different ways, extremely vague, had missed so many citations, and hadn't connected the majority of points made across their paragraphs. The introduction could have easily been written last, because the person responsible for it, hereto-forth known as Skimp, was the last to upload their sections, and there were no references in the intro, so it would have been easy to make a bunch of vague statements about what would be mentioned in the body of the essay. But no. Instead Skimp wrote an intro that contradicts many of the points made in other sections of the essay, a lot of which is not followed up on in the body, and they haven't given even a single source for the definition they were tasked with.

I swear I must have collected 30 sources for my sections, dug deep into the digital libraries for original sources wherever possible, and tried so many variations of how to arrange my statements to create the smoothest flow - which is difficult when my sections would be so far apart in the final draft, but I tried. I tried to cover a broad range of topics as concisely as possible. I at least made an effort to use synonyms.

Shakespeare said at least 4 different things were crucial to understanding the topic. I get that it's easy to reuse words when the goal is to write 1700-ish, but William. Buddy. Thesaurus.com is right there. I'm pretty sure Shakespeare didn't fill their part of the word count, they must've been about 250 words short.

Meanwhile there was Bart Simpson, beginning and ending all their paragraphs with basically the same phrase, and filling out the paragraphs with 'the studies say this... But this isn't always true' and then not providing evidence for this contradiction, all the while leaving out citations and forgetting to finish half of their sentences. They got almost 1200 words out of this technique, with maybe 13 sources in total, one of which was the textbook for the class which is. Not a primary source. And they cited the author of the textbook as a researcher for the ideas that were mentioned, instead of the three very specific theorists these ideas came from during the second week of class. There's no way that'll fly when it comes to judging the extent of our research!

Finally, after the three of us have tried checking over each other's paragraphs, making edits, desperately trying to find clarity and extra words because we're still under even after I exceeded my word count goal, Skimp rolls into the doc. By this point, Shakespeare and I have finalised our sections, and proofread/edited each others work because that's what was agreed. Bart Simpson and Skimp were meant to proofread and edit for each other. If we had time, we'd go over the whole thing and try to make it coherent.

Skimp struts into the group document and starts reading from the beginning. Keep in mind, I had to take on the role of editing and proofreading Bart Simpson's work. So as the realisation dawns on me that, when Bart Simpson reported to the professor that our group was doing Really Well and we were On Track for the Deadline - filling me with dread because I felt like I hadn't written a thing of worth - they were really saying I Don't Care If This Essay Flops, 'at least we wrote words', etc. But then.

Then Skimp starts editing from the beginning of the essay. Making edits to Shakespeare and my sections, which had been finalised. Filling up our email boxes with tens of Suggestions, instead of leaving Comments. Following up on comments that I had already made with further Suggestions that repeated what I'd commented about. My phone is buzzing every five minutes with Suggestions. Anyone who's used Google Docs knows that Suggestions clog up the body of text with incoherent blue text. I am drowning in a sea of blue Suggestions.

By now I've finished editing Bart Simpson's work for Skimp. The comments I left asking for citations are half followed up on, half ignored. I still don't know whether they edited the unfinished sentences, but a promise was made to do so. Bart Simpson has decided to collate everyone's work even though they won't be available tomorrow for final revision, so I left it up to them to fulfil their part of the editing.

Skimp finally finishes giving Suggestions on the whole essay. Despite the chat history for this group, Skimp only now realises that my and Shakespeare's sections had been finalised, and that their Suggestions probably won't be involved in the final draft. Skimp approves their own work for the final draft and sends their sections to Bart Simpson, who - if their responses I'm the group chat are anything to go by - I can only assume is fed up from my relatively excessive editing and comments, and also from the delay in the finalisation process. Bart makes a promise that they'll be at work for all of Submission Day, so the three of us will be responsible for the final product. Sure. Work is a commitment. We were behind schedule. That's a reasonable outcome. But this was coming from someone who copied a dot-pointed list from the source into the essay and forgot to cite it as a direct quote, which would have put us all at risk of plagiarism.

I haven't read the rest of Skimp's sections. Frankly, I dread the potential plagiarism charges that we'll get from directly quoting so much content. We are barely scraping the minimum word count. This essay doesn't make a lick of sense.

Maybe there's reasons for this. I don't know what my team members' lives are like. They could be Going Through It right now.

But they gave me the impression they were 100% on board, in sync, and on task for this essay. I thought I was the one falling off the horse, with how badly my executive dysfunction hit when faced with such a massive assignment. I thought I was a Science Student in a group of Social Studies Geniuses. I haven't felt this responsible for a group project since seventh grade.

I can't believe I put off two other projects for this, and got an extension for another. I'm tired.

[secretadventuresociety]

Episode 29 Recap

Hi, hey, hello SASholes! I’m Bren, resident SAStorian and your best friend. Welcome to Episode 29: Mother, She Wrote.

Treehouse of Horror

We catch back up with the Nobodies as Kess exits her greenhouse, letting Detective Brienne collect her thoughts after the trio’s separate testimonies. The first thing she sees is Pearce anxiously pacing with Kü trailing behind, mimicking his every step. Cutting off their questioning glances, Kess tells them to grab their coats and leads them to a treehouse in the backyard of the manor. Now, if you’re picturing something simple, made out of wood, maybe even for children-- you must be a new listener! Hi, and welcome to Mardosta’s Thieving Veterans’ (or, more simply, MTV) Cribs: Kess Edition. This ‘treehouse’ is an extravagant (albeit rundown) tower, secluded from the rest of the house. Kü immediately takes off to scramble to the highest point, and his companions climb after him-- winding up in a circular level with a small fireplace; because lest we forget-- Mardosta is fucking COLD.

Kü casts a magical bonfire into the fireplace, fixing his gaze on the blaze (come for the recaps, stay for the mad rhymes, amirite?) as Kess makes a perimeter check to ensure they were not followed, nor being listened to. Once she is satisfied, she turns her attention to the group, curious about how their interviews went. Pearce tells her he had been relatively candid-- only leaving out the part where her parents are criminals, which Kess is thankful for. Kü remains silent, and Kess worriedly attempts to get his attention. Kü answers her while still staring at the flames-- asking if someone will throw a log in so that he can stop ‘concentrating’ on the spell. As soon as the requested wood catches, Kü drops his spell, and relaxes just enough to tell Kess that it must have gone well because Mother told him Brienne didn’t suspect a thing. 

Even Pearce’s outraged cries regarding the fact that Kü outed the gunslinger as the most violent man he’s ever met (come on, Pearce, the boy has met all of THREE men in his short life) go quiet in this aftermath. The group can’t fathom why she would say such a thing if they hadn’t done anything to Xarus. Kess asks if they can talk to Mother-- but responding to Kü’s panicked face, she recorrects and implores him to try to talk to her. Kü worries she may not answer, but calls out a tentative “Mom?” regardless. Moments pass before Kü’s mind echoes with a full-bodied voice asking what he wants. The transition from Mother’s whispered tones to this powerful resonance does not escape our kobold, and it shakes him just as badly as if he had stepped into the emerald-drenched quarters of a mighty wizard, but Kü presses on.

“You’re Better Than I Am.”

With difficulty, Kü manages to inquire if Mother had anything to do with the death of Xarus. When she goes momentarily silent, Kü continues nervously on, reassuring her he won’t be mad, no matter her answer. Mother’s response drips with disbelief. She thought he had been with her that night, but he only remembers sleeping off his ass-kicking. Mother mutters a pleased ‘Interesting.” and talks down to Kü; telling him that since she is growing in strength she needs time to stretch her legs-- and as such-- she did indeed murder the loathesome dickbag. With an air of gloating, Mother croons that as Kü gains power, so does she. Now. You know I love for you all to read my recaps. However, I need you to go to the SAS Youtube (link at the end of my ramblings) and scrub to 45:30. You can literally watch Kü’s mind backfiring as pieces of this puzzle refuse to line up. He can’t understand why Mother killed something (BARELY someone) that they didn’t even eat, and you know, he’s not wrong. It’s wasteful.

Mother can only say that the slaughter sustained her in ways he couldn’t even imagine, and her enthusiastic lilt grows angry and gritty as she scolds Kü. She tells him he hadn’t complained when she used her talents to protect him in the fighting pit. The kobold physically recoils-- immediately ducking his head and begging her forgiveness for being ungrateful. He thanks her for taking care of him, and she spits a venom-laced acknowledgement before taking her leave from the conversation. Kü looks up at his friends, afraid to divulge what he’s learned. Pearce pinkie promises him he won’t be angry-- and once Kü reveals Mother DID in fact murder Xarus (possibly to consume his power?)-- the gunslinger points his weapon into the air and fires it, dust and rubble raining down on him while he screams in irritation, “I’m so happy you were honest with me!” and subsequently mumbles about their imminent doom. 

I need to give a trigger/content/hard-hitting roleplay warning before this paragraph. If mental and physical abuse is something you’re uncomfortable reading about, please feel free to skip to the next heading. Cool? All right. Pearce and Kess begin to question Kü about Mother, and he gets increasingly more uncomfortable after each question. Has Mother ever fought with him? Hurt him? How does he feel when Mother gets upset? Kü goes mostly silent, replying with no’s where appropriate and ending on his view that his feelings don’t matter-- and that he’s never considered himself his own person. Kess reminds him of things that separate him from Mother; his love of shiny things, his fashion choices, and his friendship with them. As the kobold reaches up to wipe a tear away, Mother’s skull shifts ever so slightly to display a sizable, healed scar on his nose. Kess gets down on his level and tells him she believes him to be Good (™, ™, ™), and Mother has nothing to do with that. Pearce even brings the kobold into a hug and whispers the same sentiment into his ear. Kü’s confidence is bolstered, but tampered down by the fear of Mother overhearing and punishing him.

Kü, Interrupted

Pearce, having calmed down, admits to Kü that he’s not angry about what Mother did, but instead HOW she went about it. Her carelessness (I mean, what did we expect from a disembodied voice wreaking havoc in our terrible little angel’s mind) has put them in a precarious position. The gunslinger does, however, chime in with Kess to console Kü that none of it is his fault. Dear Reader, once Kü started in with, “If I had just stayed on the island none of this would have happened.”, I was absolutely hyperventilating from sobbing so hard. I could barely hear between my wheezing cries, but the new SAS captions made sure I knew that mention of the island caused Kü to realize Mother’s body is still there-- and he shuddered to think what might happen if it was destroyed. At this point, my eyes were swollen and my nose was running, yet I made out the abject fear rolling off of Kü when Kess suggested maybe it wasn’t his actual mom he’s been talking to, and offered to help him take off the skull to be sure.

I held my breath (or was my throat just closing up from emotion?) as I waited for Kü to answer. He ducked his head and shook it in refusal, having been pushed too far. So, the group did the only thing they could think of. Redirected the thoughts of the kobold to temptation of-- you guessed it-- meat. They had all slept past breakfast, and in all the commotion, had not realized the grinding emptiness of their guts. Kess promises the party fish, so they climb down from the ‘treehouse’ and make their way inside. As they enter, however, they are waylaid by an unfamiliar figure on the ground floor of the house. Well, unfamiliar to all but Kess. She brightens and calls out to him. It’s Vendreth, resplendent in his enchanted wheelchair. They catch up for a moment, Kess makes introductions, then the baron confesses he’s making a house call to talk to her mother.

Kess jumps at the chance to escort him to her parents’ floor-- he glides along in his chair as Kü chatters about fish while ascending the stairs, but before they can take Vendreth any further, Norse comes from around the corner on the second floor and intercepts them. Norse steals him away as he calls for some tea, and maybe a light snack of fish. Seems Kü rubbed off on him. Our heroes slink away; Kess wishing to be in the room where… well, whatever is happening. I tried, Lin. I tried. Anyway, Pearce encourages her to ‘go be a Shadowmore’ and he and Kü will try their hand at waitstaffing. So, Kess races to catch up with the pair of Adulty Adults (™, ™, ™), only to be turned away. Her mother tells her she needn’t worry herself with the discussion, and tells her to rejoin her friends.

Li’l Butler

Surprisingly, Pearce leads Kü without incident around the maze of a mansion to the kitchen, wherein the gunslinger immediately begins rifling through the cabinets. He finds two crystal chalices, and prides himself on his excellent glassware taste. Kü, feeling left out, climbs his way to one of the top shelves and tosses a claw out to grip a similar cup-- almost falling and bringing fragile glass down on top of him. However, he smoothly recovers, climbing down just in time to see Kess leading Pearce in making a pot of tea. Our gruff friend throws a tea towel over his arm and places the chalices and teapot on a tray; hellbent on playing butler for their important visitor. The trio walks carefully back up to the room Norse and Vendreth have claimed. Pearce hands the baron one of the fancy glasses and begins to pour the boiling water into it. Everything is going well, Pearce is making a stunning impression-- and then the chalice shatters from the unyielding temperature of the tea. The room goes silent as Pearce screams an expletive, apologizes, and bows himself out of the room. 

Kess is unfazed; using this opportunity as an excuse to escape the house. She once again orders the boys to grab their overcoats and proudly announces they’re going to the library of Mardosta. On the way there, the party stops by a food stand and procures buckets of fish sticks. Yes, you read that right. Fish sticks, the way Mother used to bake. Kü goes somewhat silent, enjoying his long-awaited meal, and Kess uses his distraction to divulge to Pearce what it is they’re going to be looking for. She hopes that there will be some sort of clue to not only Mother’s identity, but also that of Ashe. The changeling notices as they walk that people seem to be recognizing Kü from his epic showdown in the Underfrost. She smiles and keeps it to herself as she is pulled from her reverie by Pearce voicing a need for ammo. She agrees to take him to the Night Market once they finish researching. Kü, coming up for air from his bucket of grease, feels that good good food coma coming on. Pearce tells the kobold they are basically going to ‘The Napping Place’.

Entering the gargantuan (FIVE floors, guys. Who has that many books?!) marble building, Kü seeks out a warm cubby near a fireplace to curl up and sleep off those yummy processed seafood spears. Pearce and Kess split off, one headed to search for fallen gods and the other to hone in on beings that are known for their close relation to shadows. The gunslinger finds three novels of note; skimming them and cramming them under his arm to have Kess read into further. However, our Druid has much more luck. A book dedicated to ‘ancient evils’ catches her eye, and as she flips through it, her gaze lands on an illustration of snaking shadows squeezing a humanoid as they appear to howl in pain. Reading the section, she learns about ‘The Shadowmother’, also known as Skugamor-- a being of unknown origin who has the power to contort and control shadows. Her focus dims after this section, brain buzzing with terror, and so her search into Ashe is less satisfying. However, she does hit on an interesting piece as she focuses on fire itself-- learning that there are beings (Titans and Quasigods) who are made of the remnants of slain victims of gods or dead gods themselves. WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?!

Pearce’s Parable

Pearce and Kess find each other and share their pertinent findings. Kess decides to check out the three books Pearce brought to her, but steals a second pass at the tome with the information on Mother. She soundlessly rips the informational page from its binding and slips it into her bag. I mean-- I knew her family was made up of criminals but…. DEFACING A BOOK, KESS? What kind of MONSTER are you?! So, Book-Ruiner Shadowmore heads to the librarian to get at least SOME knowledge legally, and at the same time, Pearce comes across Kü still sleeping soundly. The gunslinger attempts to scoop up the kobold without waking him, but as soon as Kü is in Pearce’s arms-- he startles. Pearce assures him everything is okay, they found what they needed and are about to leave. Kü, without missing a beat, brings a small hand up to Pearce’s cheek and asks the gunslinger to tell him a story. Remember how I told you to WATCH that sad moment? Well here’s a palate cleanser! Go to 2:39:39 and hear the entirety of ‘The Hungry, Hungry Kobold’. 

The fairytale is good enough that it lulls Kü back into sleep, and Daddy Pearce carries him outside and waits for Kess. When she leaves the library, they fall into step together and make their way to the Night Market. It is an impressive, overpowering bazaar-- stalls snuggled up to each other with a glass roof overhead, the calls of merchants hyping up their wares ringing out, and the faint smell of animal feed permeating the air. Despite its sprawling floor plan, it doesn’t take long for Pearce to sniff out the gun show. The proprietors he finds do not have anything that will work for Iris, and so the gunslinger requests the components to make the ammo himself. As the shopkeeper mills around to fulfill his request, Pearce notices that all of the guns being sold in this part of the market are branded with the curlique GG insignia of his father’s weaponry business. He pays the shopkeep extra to give him the name of the supplier of her guns-- and she warily imparts that a contact in Nevyra keeps them stocked. This is, apparently, where Pearce’s deadbeat dad hails from. Can we REALLY tackle mommy AND daddy issues in one episode?!

As the group leaves the market, Kess wakes Kü up to have a midnight snack of… more fish sticks. Between bites, all three discuss their wild dreams at sea, and how they mostly revolved around people they care about dying, aside from Pearce-- who was completely alone. As Kü admits that he dreamed of killing both of his companions while Mother cheered him on, Kess has a brain blast. She turns and makes a beeline straight back to the Night Market-- seeking out Greg’s Wonderful Magic. There, a charming southern gentleman asks how he can help, and Kess requests a Speak With Dead spell scroll. The scroll is there, however after some debate, the Druid realizes she is unable to cast it. Thus her plan of speaking with Mother’s skull is momentarily foiled, and so the three of them return to the manor to close out the longest day of their collective lives.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

TL;DR

Listen, I’m curious to see what would happen if they tried to talk to Kü’s helmet-- but I can only handle so much trauma in one episode! Please let me BREATHE!

Apparently you shouldn’t pour boiling water into glass. Thank you for this lesson, DM.

If you are a victim of abuse, know that it is not your fault and you are not alone. And thank you to the SAS crew for telling this important story. https://www.crisistextline.org/

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Pearce be with you and catch the next session over at twitch.tv/lochness on August 25th at 7:30CST/8:30EST! If you’d like to watch THIS episode, follow the link below:

Secret Adventure Society | Session 29: Mother, She Wrote | CW: familial trauma and mental abuse

[crimeronan]

ik youre not a therapist and i dont want like therapy or anything but im 17 and ive known i was bipolar for 3 years now and i dont know how im supposed to live the rest of my life like this. im so fucking tired. how do you stay alive

you sent this a couple days ago & i’m posting at a weird time so i’m not sure if you’ll see it but.  

i’ve been looking at this message trying to decide how to respond

because i don’t know your situation, your symptoms, how you’re feeling, whether you’ve had positive or negative experiences with medication, psychiatrists, therapists, hospitals, all that related shit

the bipolar life advice i give to people is vastly different depending on the individual. it’s not a one size fits all thing.  and there’s never even a guarantee that my advice will be the right choice

so since i don’t know about your situation or experiences or what you want, i’m not gonna tell you what to do.  i’m gonna focus on the “how do you stay alive” question and try to pen down some personal feelings. and if they help then great, and if they don’t then... this is the most honest i can be

(you can always ask another question to get a better answer. my inbox is a coin slot and i am a vending machine of varied-degrees-of-helpfulness replies offered at varied-inconvenient-too-long-intervals)

-

how do i stay alive

it’s a 2-parter, actually.  i pondered how to condense my thoughts/feelings, and it came down to these two things

1. love 2. spite

-

1. love

the spite is easier to write about than the love.  love is hard to reach when i feel like shit.

spite is where i go when i want to die.  love is where i go when i want to want to live.

maybe i don’t want to be alive.  but maybe i wish i did.  spite doesn’t help me much there.  spite keeps me afloat, but it doesn’t make the floating pleasurable.  there’s more to life than outlasting everything that ever hurt me.  i need a reason to continue when there’s no enemy to fight

so. love

i almost wrote about the spite alone because that’s rawer, realer, more visceral.  that’s the shit that CONNECTS when everything feels hopeless.  but it would be a lie of omission.  spite is only one of the major food groups, you’ll waste away from malnutrition if you eat it for every meal. or at least, i will.

“so you’ve got a bunch of people you love,” you say, “and you stick around for them.  cry on them.  support each other.  like each other.  fine.”  you’ve heard this story before

nah.

i mean - yes.  i have people i love.  i live with two partners, i’ve got a third girlfriend, i’ve got a long-distance platonic life partner.  i have a support net, i have a family i’ve forged, i have confidence that i’m not alone.  i have, in a bare-bones checklist sort of way, fulfilled my physiological human need for connection

but i could live without every single one of them.  i’m not dependent upon any of them for my survival.  i’m not dependent upon them for love, given or received.  (this isn’t a callous cruelty, it won’t hurt them if/when they read this.  i’ve told them all this, they know.  they’re glad of it.)

so.  what the fuck does “love” mean, then?

the short explanation is that it’s my love of life, of things in the world.  it’s all the little connections i’ve made.  every time i love something, a hook tethers to the universe.  hook enough tethers, and i no longer feel the need to float away.  no dissolution of self today, sir

the rest of this section is some of the things i love. partially it’s to show how i connect to little things and ascribe magic to the mundane.  partially it’s because i like thinking about things i love, i like typing them out, and i like that i could keep going for thousands and thousands of words.

i am laying in bed at 7:30 AM with the lights off and the shades drawn.  blue  light comes through the slats because it’s the better time of year, the one where i finally get vitamin D, the one where the birds chirp at 4AM, the one where the sky isn’t impenetrably black til 10PM.

there’s a weighted blanket tucked around my legs.  my partner rafi bought it for us to share because it’s soothing and heavy and comforting and helps with my physical pain.  right now it’s soft on my skin and if i get too emotional as i write, i can pull it over me like a cloak until i’m settled.

the apartment’s walls are blank because we’ve spent eight months intending to put art up and keep forgetting.  but there’s a newly-unearthed dining area in the kitchen because i finally shifted around the unpacked boxes that were dominating the space.  it’s new and it surprises me every time i walk out there.  it’s open and inviting and bright and it’s a sign that we’re making this place home.

we’ll put a cheap IKEA table by the window and we’ll probably never eat family dinners there - why would we sit in hard chairs and make stiff conversation when we could all cuddle on the couch - but my partner dev will create a place to do their art and the surface will be constantly littered with drying watercolor experiments.

we’ll hang our art one of these days, too, when our collective adhd offers a miraculous combo of remembering + having time + having motivation + having inspiration.  rafi has the most art because they’ve been collecting it for years.  i have to start smaller.  i’m not used to keeping physical objects.  dev has a few pieces thrifted or bought at local artist events or painted themselves

so we’ll put art up in the living room, my single “you are magic” flower print alongside a naked monster lady that dev fell in love with when we browsed art at a yuletide event months ago, alongside rafi’s monster girls and comic characters and book characters and literature art and quotes and abstract pieces and whatever else they have hiding in boxes.

my head protests that naked monster ladies do not belong in the living room, although the picture isn’t overtly sexual.  but then i remember that they do, actually, because it’s our space and we can do whatever we want with it as long as the lease isn’t broken.  there isn’t anyone in the local social circles who’d be perturbed by the decor, as far as i know.  i don’t have to hide anything from my parents because i live 3600 miles from them, and even though i miss my mom, the distance is good for me

there are two exquisite chairs on the porch.  they fold and recline from thrones to nearly-horizontal beds.  there are pillows and cupholders and trays and specific spaces for both a book and a phone.  i can sit there while the morning sun rises and read or play word games or browse tumblr, cup of coffee beside me, trees shielding my eyes from stabby sunbeams

there are remnants of the last tenant’s garden in one corner of the yard.  we’ve done fuckall for yardwork but plants struggle through anyway.  some seem to have sprouted by accident.  mushroom clusters populate the edges of the fence.  the apartment squirrel (there are probably several, but i like to think it’s a single energetic creature) runs back and forth along the fence & i always lose my train of thought & then laugh my ASS off at the “SQUIRREL! XD” adhd moment.  birds kick up leaf litter and play on the ground looking for insects to eat, they wiggle their tail feathers and flap their wings and sometimes they disappear and then return with friends

a little more than eleven months ago, i packed all of dev’s and my shit into a uhaul and drove and drove and drove to get to this city i’d never been in before to live with a partner i’d never cohabitated with.  we were homeless for more than a month, we weathered some financial disasters, we met some great people and some shitty ones

on the drive i fell in love with the sky.  i didn’t know how big it can get - actually, that’s a lie.  i’d FORGOTTEN how big it can get.  i’ve loved the sky thirty miles out to sea, no land in sight in any direction, just blue water and blue space above.  i’ve loved the vastness and the yawning beneath me and the knowledge that everything is BIGGER than i can fathom.  the depth of the sea doesn’t frighten me, it’s home. i don’t want to die, but if i had to, the ocean makes a soothing grave

in north dakota i discovered that i’ve been partially blind my whole life, which is a different tale that showed me i’ll never stop learning myself.  in montana we struggled up thousands of feet of mountains with the car huffing and puffing at the trailer’s weight, and when we finally coasted downward, it felt like sudden freefall.  we ended up in the pitch darkness of night on sheer winding interstates with midnight construction projects forcing detours.  the mountains felt hungry, they had teeth.  mountain cliffs are much scarier to me than the ocean depths

i bought a red bull and poured a little out the driver’s side door as an offering to hermes, because i’m not particularly religious but i’ll take help where i can get it.  slammed that back in a few gulps and shook to bright-eyed alertness and ended up behind a slow-driving red pickup truck that guided us over about a hundred miles of mountain terrain

i thought, that’s just some construction worker driving between sites.  the roads are empty at this time of night, but it’s an interstate.  of course we’d end up behind someone.  this isn’t divine intervention.  this isn’t the benevolence of a god

i thought, but it can be a little magic.  if i want it to be.  

and it was.  it stays with me.

god help me but i’ve been writing this stream of consciousness for more than 30 minutes and i’ve said nothing.  i haven’t talked about the city, the parks, the people, the conversations, the books, the tv shows, the movies, the communities, the library, the animals, writing, reading, singing, acting, swimming, analyzing, creating, supporting, building.  and i can keep going.  i can come up with hundreds and hundreds of things i love and i can write paragraphs about all of them

so i’ll stop here.  you get the picture.  love is the life i’ve made for myself, the surroundings i’ve built, the quiet moments i can capture, the inspiration i pin, the magic i commit to memory.

i had to work so damn hard for every single bit of this.

i’ll be fucking damned if i let it go because my brain tried to trick me into thinking death is better.

-

2. spite

there are people who want me to die.

i don’t mean that i have a giant entourage of personalized enemies who curse my name and plan my individual demise.  although there have been plenty of people who have not liked me much.  probably some of them would enjoy my death.  i don’t give a shit about that

there are people who want me dead because i am a dot on a grid they dislike.  a faceless anonymous enemy who meets too many bad criteria with numbers and percentages and shrinking majorities and shifting public opinion

because i’m gay.  because i’m bipolar.  because i’m autistic.  because i’m a dropout.  because i grew up poor.  because my spine curves and my shoulders ache.  because i squandered my potential, because i didn’t have enough potential, because i didn’t love god enough, because i love the wrong gods, because i don’t worship, because i worship wrong, because i didn’t seek a husband, because i never wanted one, because i talk too much, because i can’t be controlled, because i chose to leave the fold when i realized it was suffocating me, because i’m ugly, because i’m gorgeous, because my body belongs to me

pick your poison.

this bothered me growing up, a lot. i knew i did not deserve to die. but if enough people tell you that you should, a little part of you will wonder if they’re right.  that little part might become bigger the closer they get and the louder they shout and the longer they wear you down

we know the rough shape of this story, i don’t need to tell it.  mine was messy and not triumphant and i survived more by chance than premeditation.

i’m older now.  by and large i’m still young as shit - i’m 24 - but GOD i am LEAGUES away from 15, 16, 17. i know who i am. i know what i want. i know how to get it. and when i don’t know that, i find out. i tell the truth.  i ask for what i want.  i use my time how i want.  i do what i want.

there are days that i can’t access the “love” side of the equation.  no finding poetry in birdsong or sugared coffee for me, thank you, i feel like shit and the world is awful and everything is too big and fast and cruel and everything wants me to die and it wants everything i love to die, too.  everyone i love.  it’s all garbage. the good doesn’t touch me

trauma is difficult to describe.  the difficulty is compounded by the fact that my trauma is influenced by my various neurodivergences, bipolar included.  i never know if i’m feeling what other people do.  i don’t know if i’m voicing unpalatable feelings others are afraid to express - or if i’m just othering myself, admitting i’m not as human as everyone else.

there is something malevolent and monstrous inside me.  i don’t touch it all the time.  but i don’t pretend it isn’t there.  it sits in my chest and molders or radiates or oozes.  it presses at my throat.  it curdles in my stomach.  it hurts what it touches, whether that’s me or someone i love or someone i hate.  it sets things aflame with no regard for the precious or the fragile.  it tears down walls and razes shelters and begs for apocalyptic rain.

i can give this thing names, clinical descriptors.  i know what it is on a diagnostic chart, in a ponderous article, in an academic debate, in a fiction novel, in a war movie, in a memoir.  there are a thousand ways to describe this thing.  the descriptors aren’t important.  what is important is this - i have learned that most people do not walk side-by-side with a tornado-hurricane-hellfire-weaponized-open-nuclear-reactor.  this is not a “normal” expression of human emotion, this is not me trying to ascribe power to “bad bipolar feelings.”  this thing lives in me and i know why it’s there and it is not designed to be held/silenced/muzzled/controlled by my body.

it does not help to pretend this thing does not exist.  it does not help to try to reason it away or ignore it or tell it to stop.  it wants what it wants, it does what it does.  possibly if i was better at therapy or stubbornness then i wouldn’t resign myself to that

but it is fucking EXHAUSTING to try to fight something that’s part of me.  to try to reshape it, rename it, pare it down, make it consumable for the masses.  it’s a war i have never won and it’s a war that i will lose if i keep fighting it.  i cannot fight with myself.  i cannot beat my monster into submission.  if we’re gonna battle like that, head to head, me trying to cut it down, me trying to be the hero, it rearing back like a fire-breathing dragon,

then it’s stronger.  it’s always stronger.

so i surrender.

but that’s not where i stop.

can’t fight it.  can’t kill it.  can’t muzzle it.  can’t reshape it, can’t disarm it, can’t contain it.  

alright.  

so what now.

if the surrender was a full giving-up, this is where i’d passively accept that i’m doomed to hurt and destroy everything precious to me.  can’t fix it.  will lose everything, will never experience or deserve happiness, will make the world worse simply by existing.

that sure does sound like impending-doom rhetoric.  hop skip and a jump from some dire-ass conclusions.  

so fuck that, i say. 

here’s a better question.

if it has to get out, then what happens if i control where it goes?

here’s the thing.

the monster doesn’t care what it kills or destroys or hurts.  

“have a conscience, care about things, remember love, stop yourself, don’t do this don’t do this don’t do this.” 

 losing battle.  lost war.

 it’s not the monster’s fault.  the monster doesn’t have complex motivations or hates or fears.  it exists to protect me through scorched earth.  a remnant of a chemical imbalance, maladaptive coping mechanism, bipolar crazy, traumatized injury.  it doesn’t know that its job is obsolete.

i can’t change the monster.

but my mind is a separate thing.  my mind knows what matters, what my priorities are, what i find precious, what i want to protect.  my mind remembers all the things the monster doesn’t.  

my mind has learned things the monster can’t.

when i fight it head-on, the malevolence is stronger than me.  but as i am, walking with it, sitting in my bed writing this while examining the void and the consciousness, describing it, quantifying it,

that’s when i’m stronger.

and with my mind as the stronger force, i can decide where the monster goes.  what it touches.  what it destroys.  what it burns.  where the ashes land.

i do not want to be a destructive person.  i want to be someone who builds, repairs, changes.  i want to make the world better for kids like me.  i want to stop pouring more gasoline onto a fire that’s been burning since long before i was born.  i want to believe - i do believe - that positive change is better than negative.  i do my best to plant good things and enact that positive change instead of becoming a beacon of wrath.

but there are a lot of kids surrounded by people who want them to die, and not all of them have a protective monster.

so it’s good.

when i’m depressed, my mind loses its battles.  my cognizance slips.  i forget why i care.  i forget what i want.  i forget how happiness feels, how to find pleasure in quiet moments.  

i don’t get depressed as often as i used to since my meds are adjusted correctly now.  but it still happens.  it will keep happening for the rest of my life.

my mind weakens and curls up and stops fighting, and the monster is always there.

it’s a very powerful thing when it wants to be.

it wants to survive.

the thing is, it knows there are people that want me/us/whatever dead.  it’s been fighting them forever.  die like they want?  my mind says, sure, what does it matter.

the monster says, nah.  our work isn’t done.  and fuck them, anyway.

so we get up.

-

so that’s how i stay alive.

i typed this for 90 minutes and after editing i’d spent two hours on this post.  i don’t know if anyone will read it all.  i don’t know if it’ll mean anything.  i don’t know if these thoughts even make sense, much less if i’ve conveyed the feelings i have.

i love being alive.  and when i don’t, i love being a monster.  it’s good.  all of it is good.  i’ve reconciled my uglier pieces.  it’s not one or the other, love or spite.  it’s symbiosis.  i need both, i love both.

no guarantees that this is helpful, but based purely on my own life experience, these are my tips for survival:

you’ll have to find your own roots.  i can’t give them to you.  

but it’s possible to dig them in and spread them far enough that one uprooted peg doesn’t shift your whole equilibrium.  

and when you’re tired, rest, and let yourself be tired, and find the reason why you’re staying in the world. 

 i’m positive there’s at least one.

figure out why you’re losing your battles and then change the game.

if you can’t win one setup, don’t try to beat the system.  adjust your strategy.

you’ll be surprised by what you can love when you stop fighting the disparate pieces of you, and instead figure out how to use them.

[itsbuckysworld]

Welcome to Hello Spring!

A 31-Day, daily fiction short story event, where for every day in May, should you decide to join in, we’ll be writing a short piece based on the day’s prompt. This is both a sharing event and a chance to work out those writing muscles! 

Find my masterlist of this event here

Without further ado, a foreword:

To keep in mind: (these are kinda rules but not really cause it’s not that deep and formal, this is for fun!)

Don’t have to follow me to participate. Please reblog to help me spread the word.

I’ll be starting May 1st (lord knows i’ll try, no promises!) but you 100% don’t have to if you can’t or don’t want to. If you start these today, mid May or June that’s a-ok. 

The idea is to do 31 continuous days, but if you have to skip one that’s totally fine, just continue from where you left off when/if you return to writing them. 

Short Stories = 450 words. You can always write more if you want, I’m not going to stop your inspiration! 450 words is about 6 paragraphs! You can do it! I believe in you!

If you write more, please use the Read More feature. Reach out to me if you don’t know how and I’ll explain it! This makes it kinder to people’s dashboards. 

You can link all the prompts to each other, meaning one can be a part one to any other following day. In fact one could be part three to something you already have going on. Go wild!

Open to every fandom, just don’t do real people (like the IRL actors that play fictional parts) it can also be non-character specific (example a journal entry that doesn’t tell us who wrote it). ships allowed, no incest no pedophilia tho!

You can write in any format you want: AU’s are 100% welcomed, Headcanon lists, TFLN style, Journal Entry style with or without specifying character (just don’t make personal entries like about yourself IRL)

please tag the sideblog for this event (@ibwhellospring) in your pieces! and include #IBW: Hello Spring 2019 in the first five tags. You can also help yourself and myself keep track of which day you’re doing by specifying so, somewhere in the post and by tagging it with #ibwhellospringdayX with the number of the day’s prompt. 

This is zero commitment! I'll try to reblog all the ones i spot on a sideblog for this event to keep this one more marvel centered (@ibwhellospring) just have fun and practice your writing!

PROMPT LIST UNDER THE CUT!

Reencounter after 3 years

Stroll

Goodbye letters

“____ is lost! Help me find it/them”

Starry night

Photograph

“are you in?

hiding in the closet, he/she found…

First kiss/ Last kiss

Allergies

“Where should we meet?”

Childhood memories

Bloom

When they met again

“That’s it! We’re going for ice cream”

Last December

Good luck/ Bad luck

Sunrise

Betrayal

Favourite pie

End of fall

Lost and found box

“Isn’t this dangerous?”

Library

“Who are you?”

A night in (insert country)

White party

What if

Subway

Contest

Flashbacks

HAVE FUN SEE U IN MAY! OR IF YOU WANNA START RIGHT AWAY GO AHEAD! OH AND SHIPS ARE ALLOWED! NO INCEST AND NO PEDOPHILIA!

[momentofmemory]

it’s almost the end of october, which means one of the greatest, most terrifying exploits known to writers is upon us: NaNoWriMo.

there are plenty of super good survival posts out there, but as this’ll be my seventh time participating (six wins, hoping for a seventh), i thought i’d drop my own set of tips into the mix. i’m going to focus mostly on the practical details of how to write; if you want tips on the writing itself either search the writing/reference tags or pester me to do another one later :P with that said, ~on with the post~

Step One: Figure Out Your Goal

i know, i know, obviously it’s to write 50k, but what does that mean to you? are you expecting

polished prose, ready to send off to a publisher?

being able to write every day? 

just throwing up a bunch of ideas?

a mix of everything?

all of these are valid, but they’re going to require different approaches. if you want jaw-dropping writing, you’re going to need in the ballpark of five or more hours each day, if not more. if you want consistency, you’ll want to look at your normal schedule and set up a couple times you know you can write at. if just you want words, pretty much all you need to make sure is that you squeeze writing time in whenever.

your goal will probably change as the month progresses, and that’s totally fine. just check in every so often to remember a)what you’re working for and b)if it’s actually plausible. speaking of...

Step Two: Realize Your Limitations

1. Typing.

imma get super practical here: your typing speed dictates how fast you can get done. if you write 40wpm (the average), you cannot write the full 1667 in a half hour any more than you can run a mile in under three minutes. it’s honestly not a bad idea to check out your own speed, if only to help you understand yourself better. in my experience, actual writing then works like this (using my max speed, 89, as an example):

Absolute Max: 89 wpm (baseline)

Warring: 70 (75% of baseline)

In the zone: 45 (50% of baseline)

Taking my time, concentrated: 22 (25% of baseline)

anything lower than your max/4 probably means you’re spending a lot of time either researching or staring at the page, so just be aware of that.

2. Time & Focus

this kinda goes without saying, but best case scenario this is at least 1-2 hours of your life a day, or dedicating full Saturday/Sundays if you’re a weekend warrior kind of person. it’s so, so worth it if you can make time for it, but also don’t feel bad if you can’t! doing a half nano (25k) or whatever you want is also a fully acceptable plan.

that said, if you do have time, figure out your focus too. if you’ve never been the kind of person that can type for six hours straight, you will probably not magically become this person when it hits Nov. 1 (though with practice, you might be by Nov. 30). i like trying to write at least 300 before work and another 300 during lunch. that way there’s only 1k left for the evening, and having words on the page just makes me feel better. experiment with different ways of blocking out your time in the first few days and see what works best for you.

3. Don’t Forget You Live in a Body

writing is hard work, you will need to eat brain food! hunching over wrecks your back, stand up and stretch every so often! you will hate existing if you forgo sleep for days! and for the love of charles dickens, patron saint of getting paid by the word, take care of your mother-effing wrists!!

seriously on that last one. i’ve ignored it in the past and thoroughly screwed up my wrists one year; don’t be me. keep in them in a neutral position, do regular stretches, and if you need to, get wrist wraps (i recommend these).

Step Three: Actually Doing the Thing

the previous steps have had pretty broad advice, but now it’s time to get down to the nitty-gritty. these are mostly things i know work for me, and therefore may not for you—adjust to your own needs!

1. Write for 15 Minutes Every Day, Non-Negotiable.

i don’t even mean this is a “write 15 min and then your brain will be tricked into writing more” kinda way, but like, literally. you’re probably not going to be able to do 1667 every day—sometimes you’ll be tired and just won’t have the time. you’re very likely, however, to have 15 minutes, and you’ll want to use them. Doesn’t matter if you write 50 words or 500 in that time, at least you’ll have done something, and that’s usually enough to keep you from feeling like just giving up the next day.

2. You Might Need Physical Spaces

i’m a pretty sensory person when it comes to writing, and having a dedicated writing space is so helpful for me. going back to the idea of being an embodied person, it’s a lot easier to get your brain into a writing mode if your body’s already there. some good options include:

coffee shops (cozy! food!)

a specific room in your home (easily accessed! do what you want!)

libraries (free! quiet!)

a friend’s house (writing buddy! easy access to sounding board!)

all of these places usually have access to wifi, which is a positive.

3. You Definitely Need Digital Spaces

i pretty much always write in the same processor, once again because it helps set the mood. the main options include:

google drive (solid choice, cloud backup, mobile accessible)

dabble writer (cloud backup, links to nano, dark mode, chapter options)

write or die (only for actual writing—a scary but effective motivator; save elsewhere)

word/pages/etc. (ready to go on your computer, formatting options)

scrivener (great plotting tools, detailed interface)

i use dabble writer myself (they’re a nano sponsor, so you can get it free for this month, and as a double bonus you get it half off for the rest of the year if you win). and no, i’m not getting paid to wax poetic about them, but honestly i’ve used it to win the past two years and i adore it. 

anyway my biggest tip here is that i SUPER SUPER DON’T RECOMMEND NON-CLOUD OPTIONS. it’s very risky, but if you must, do a proper back up at least once a week. that shiz is not worth it.

4. The Timer is Your New Best Friend

because i’ve heard this argument before: no, it’s not a crutch, and no, it’s not cheating. it’s literally best practices. i’m personally a big fan of this online timer, and i let it run for 15 min every time i write. after each session i check how many words i wrote, then after maybe a quick 1-2 min break, start over.

you can totally set the timer for longer or shorter periods, depending on what works for you. i’m a fan of the 15 min sessions bc it’s just long enough to get a bit of flow going, and just short enough that i can convince my spacy brain that we can get through it without wandering. it’s also a fantastic length for warring, if you’re down for that.

5. Write That Idea Down for Lewis’s Sake

the original idea for the chronicles of narnia came to c.s. lewis when he was at a restaurant, and thank the lord, he wrote it down on a napkin. he wouldn’t write it until some time later, but if he hadn’t written it down, he might’ve forgotten it. why is this important, you ask?

BC YOU WILL FORGET THINGS.

if you have an idea, write it down in your phone or your notebook or the waterproof paper in your shower, because i don’t care how sure you are that you’ll remember it, you super won’t. i’ve forgotten many solutions to plot holes in my time and i still hold vigils over their graves. don’t be me. write it down.

Step Four: Managing that Inner Critic of Yours

all right, pay attention. i’m not going to tell you not to edit, because i would be a massive hypocrite if i did. i totally edit during nano. the important part is letting your editor help you win, not hurt you. and that means gaming your critic’s system.

1. Have a Dedicated Deletion Section

many people hear “don’t delete anything” and baulk, because for some of us it’s distracting and we want to rewrite that section until it matches our vision. so, i’m here to tell you: delete it!! rewrite entire chapters!! just save the original content as part of your word count. this is another reason i love dabble, bc at the start of nano i just make a separate part of the book, label it “delete”, and any time i’m writing and dislike a sentence/paragraph i just dump it into that folder and move on. this way you still get to keep the numbers (and why shouldn’t you? you wrote them!) while also writing words you actually like. plus, sometimes that line you deleted in ch. 1 winds up being supremely pertinent in ch.15, and now you can just copy/paste it instead of having to try to remember what exactly you’d said.

2. Acknowledge Ranting as a Time Honoured Tradition

think there’s no precedent for that 2K diatribe you wrote on the london underground? well fear not, because you can’t possibly do worse than hugo’s entire chapters worth of content on the french sewer system! or melville’s frankly terrifying obsession with the finer features of whale biology!

like, yeah, maybe you’ll decide later you don’t need it, but for now, embrace that soap box. dead white guys have been doing it for centuries and still get places in college syllabi. the least you can do is give it a place in your word count.

Step Five: Have Fun!

i know, i know, it’s cliche, but seriously. if this isn’t fun, or at least rewarding, why are you doing it anyway? so enjoy it! send passages you’re proud of to your friends! daydream about it in the car on the way to work/school! cry over a notebook about the twist you just came up with! nano’s a time of fun and exploration, and you shouldn’t miss out on it because you’re thinking too much.

also, this might be counter productive to put at the end of an essay on nano, but don’t obsess over reading essays on nano :P there comes a time when one must simply do, and nano is pretty much the definition of that.

[barbex]

Self Promo Meme

Rules:  Post the first line of your last 10 published fics, then tag 10 people.

I was tagged by @lucyrne​, thank you darling! 

Let’s see, 10 fics is a lot, it’s not like I write that much. Also, I’m cheating and post the first paragraph because as it turns out, I tend to start fics with really short sentences. XD

Oh and be warned, I wrote lots of smut recently. 

1. In Service to the Inquisitor, Dragon Age, E, Female Lavellan x Cullen Rutherford. This is the subby!Cullen fic. I’m not quite sure how it started, I just know that I was on tumblr and suddenly I was writing Cullen on his knees. Recently completed at 52k words.

Alissa Lavellan paces. From the desk to the staircase and back. Again and again. Leliana once remarked that she would wear grooves into the carpet but a scowl from Alissa, the Inquisitor, can quiet even the Nightingale.

2. Ever Fallen In Love With Someone You Shouldn't've, Dragon Age, M, M!Hawke mage x Fenris, modern magicpunk (think cyberpunk, only with magic). This got started like two weeks ago because of an [amazing image] by @xiz0r​. WIP

The music tonight is different. The singer is definitely punk but the rest of the band looks way more goth than what usually rocks this stage. The audience also leans way more towards goth tonight, which isn't a bad thing per se. There's lots of new faces in the club tonight.

3. Lost Templar in Skyhold, Dragon Age, T, Carver Hawke x Merrill. This is currently my baby, Carver Hawke as the Inquisitor with Merrill at his side. WIP

Sometimes, big events start with small little words.

4. Yin to Yang, Mass Effect, T, Urdnot Grunt x asari OC. I wanted to show that Grunt isn’t just a stupid, brutal krogan. Recently updated WIP

Jinaya T'Sarev scratches at a spot under her head crest as she stares at the list of supplies that Professor Solus has put in demand for his laboratory. His research in the cure for the genophage requires the strangest components. Sometimes she wonders if all these resources are even worth the promised results. Does the galaxy really need healthy, multiplying, demanding krogan?

5. Books Fall Down, Dragon Age, E, Sebastian Vael x Fenris. @cullenlovesmen made some gifs of Sebastian in the library and then I asked for one with Fenris and Sebastian and one could say that I got inspired. 

Sebastian steps into the cool air of the library and closes his eyes for a moment to get used to the eternal twilight between the shelves. He breathes in the smell of books, of knowledge made script, of stories preserved for years to come.

6. Echo Between These Walls, Mass Effect, E, Adrien Victus x FemShep x Garrus Vakarian. Written for Spectre Requisitions 2019. Total self indulgence in turians, subharmonics, purring, trilling and good sex.

Human ships are always too cold. Too cold and too loud. He tries his best to make his steps lighter, but something about a turian in armor, just walking along a corridor, turns into a cacophony of noise with every step.

7. Shepard and the Machine, Mass Effect, E, Legion x FemShep. Also Written for Spectre Requisitions 2019. I wanted robot sex.

"Shepard-Commander."

"Yes, Legion?"

8. On The Wings Of A Crow, Dragon Age, E, Sebastian Vael x Zevran. A fic about naughty Sebastian, before he became the choirboy. 

Sebastian sometimes wonders if trouble finds Hawke or if she actively looks for it. Probably the latter. Taking up the search for a murderer, on the demand of someone who pretends to be an antivan noble — that's definitely actively looking for trouble.

9. Cookies and Broken Soldiers, Mass Effect, G, Javic x Liara, FemShep x Kaidan Alenko. Written for the End of Year exchange at the Mass Effect Creative Circle. People just living with the war behind them.

"Do we have everything?"

Shepard stares at the mountains of groceries as if she expects them to attack her at any moment. She leans on her crutch, favoring her left side, but her face looks relaxed. Kaidan knows every single line of tension in her face and always knows if she is in pain. Today she isn't. At least not more than it is to be expected if the Citadel fell on you.

10. A Hawke Investigates, Dragon Age, T, F!Hawke mage x Sebastian Vael. Written for the Ficmas Exchange on the server The Write Moment. I’m so glad this got on this list because I’m very proud of it. It’s a murder mystery, with a marriage of convenience. Set in Starkhaven, after DA2, Hawke tries to find a murderer. Complete at 11k words.

"Lady Amell, would you like another piece of fish ball?"

It takes Hawke a few long seconds to realize that the serving girl speaks to her. Right, she's going by Amell now. The Hawke name has a bit of a bad reputation, currently.

It feels like I wrote all those fics just yesterday!

I’m tagging: @hollyand-writes, @seigephoenix, @gremlinquisitor, @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul, @aban-asaara, @saltlordofold, @gothkimmyschmidt, @storybookhawke, @bronzeagelove, @natsora, @naromoreau

[ibwhellospring]

Welcome to Hello Spring 2019

A 31-Day, daily fiction short story event, where for every day in May, should you decide to join in, we’ll be writing a short piece based on the day’s prompt. This is both a sharing event and a chance to work out those writing muscles! Without further ado, a foreword:

To keep in mind: (these are kinda rules but not really cause it’s not that deep and formal, this is for fun!)

Don’t have to follow me to participate. Please reblog to help me spread the word.

I’ll be starting May 1st (lord knows i’ll try, no promises!) but you 100% don’t have to if you can’t or don’t want to. If you start these today, mid May or June that’s a-ok.

The idea is to do 31 continuous days, but if you have to skip one that’s totally fine, just continue from where you left off when/if you return to writing them.

Short Stories = 450 words. You can always write more if you want, I’m not going to stop your inspiration! 450 words is about 6 paragraphs! You can do it! I believe in you!

If you write more, please use the Read More feature. Reach out to me if you don’t know how and I’ll explain it! This makes it kinder to people’s dashboards.

You can link all the prompts to each other, meaning one can be a part one to any other following day. In fact one could be part three to something you already have going on. Go wild!

Open to every fandom, just don’t do real people (like the IRL actors that play fictional parts) it can also be non-character specific (example a journal entry that doesn’t tell us who wrote it).

You can write in any format you want: AU’s are 100% welcomed, Headcanon lists, TFLN style, Journal Entry style with or without specifying character (just don’t make personal entries like about yourself IRL)

please tag me (@itsbuckysworld) in your pieces! and include #IBW: Hello Spring 2019 in the first five tags. You can also help yourself and myself keep track of which day you’re doing by specifying so, somewhere in the post and by tagging it with #ibwhellospringdayX with the number of the day’s prompt.

This is zero commitment! I'll try to reblog all the ones i spot on a sideblog for this event to keep this one more marvel centered (@ibwhellospring) just have fun and practice your writing!

PROMPT LIST UNDER THE CUT!

Reencounter after 3 years

Stroll

Goodbye letters

“____ is lost! Help me find it/them”

Starry night

Photograph

“are you in?

hiding in the closet, he/she found…

First kiss/ Last kiss

Allergies

“Where should we meet?”

Childhood memories

Bloom

When they met again

“That’s it! We’re going for ice cream”

Last December

Good luck/ Bad luck

Sunrise

Betrayal

Favourite pie

End of fall

Lost and found box

“Isn’t this dangerous?”

Library

“Who are you?”

A night in (insert country)

White party

What if

Subway

Contest

Flashbacks

HAVE FUN SEE U IN MAY! OR IF YOU WANNA START RIGHT AWAY GO AHEAD!

[sansanficrec]

Q&A with nevermorered

Get to know @nevermorered

How long have you been writing fanfiction?

I started writing short stories in high school, my freshman year. After that I wrote a few commentaries on Edgar Allan Poe for a newspaper. I didn’t publish any fanfic until 2015, but had written it for a few years beforehand

So, I started when I was 14 and now I’m almost 30

What was the first fandom you really got into?  Who was your first ship?

It was Buffy, actually. And I shipped the heck out of Spuffy.

What was the first fanfic you wrote?

It was a terrible time travel type fic for Sandor/OC and it was quickly deleted lol. Other than that, it was Should and Shouldn’t for SanSan

When did you first get into SanSan?

Hmm, I actually don’t remember when I got into SanSan. I was a show watcher first and I didn’t even realize it was a thing until I read the books. I have to say it was probably the moment Sandor gently wipes her bloody lip after Sansa was going to push Joffrey. That was it. They were forever my OTP after that.

Is there a SanSan fic you’re particularly proud of? Chapter?  Paragraph?  Sentence? Plotline?

Probably Deadly Savior is the one I’m most proud of. I had so much fun writing it and really liked the outcome. My favorite plot line was Finding Her Wolf, but I felt the execution came out a little wonky

Any SanSan fic of your own that you wish got more attention?

I’ve always been so happy with the amount of support I get from my readers, but if there had to be one it’s probably Windows.

Any comments you’ve received that stick out, even now?

The ones that include the readers favorite lines or parts. I always love hearing what got the reader specifically

Do you use a beta?  Or is there anyone who helps you with your stories in any way?

I don’t have a beta, no, but could probably use one lol. My sister is always a good person to bounce ideas off of, even if she isn’t in the fandom

When you start a fic, do you know where it will end?  Or do you figure it out along the way?

I have a vague outline, but I really like to let the characters write their own story.

Are there tropes/styles/genres you struggle with? Any that are almost too easy?

I’m awful with angst. I just want them to be happy as quickly as I can, which is probably why my fics are on the shorter side

Do you have any rituals/conditions for ‘getting in the mood’ to write?

Getting my kids busy so they leave me alone haha. No, quiet is a big thing. I talk out loud to myself, so I like being alone so I don’t look like a crazy person. Other than that, just my computer and some snacks!

Have you ever had writer’s block?  Any tips for overcoming it?

I have! I think that’s an affliction every writer faces. For myself, I like to do prompts to get the juices flowing again. It really helps!

What’s the meaning behind your username?

Edgar Allan Poe is my favorite writer/historical figure and The Raven is pure perfection. And my hair is red, so...lol

Aspirations of publishing one day?

I’d love to be published! I’m actually working with a publisher (also my brother in law) right now to get my original work published.

Any tips for nervous writers looking to post their first (or second, or twentieth) fic?

Just do it! Write for no one but yourself, and have fun! Ignore trolls and engage with your commenters.

What are your other hobbies?

Playing softball, reading, boxing, and watching tv lol

Any general advice for writers?

Have fun with it. Don’t stress writing every single day. Don’t try to cater to the masses. Write something meaningful to you.

Any general advice for readers?

Enjoy and please leave kudos and comments!

Anything you’d like to say to the SanSan fandom at large?

Ignore the antis and write, create, and publish!

Read nevermorered’s SanSan fics here

Read nevermorered’s full library here