#like THE TOWER IS MORE THE BOOK THAN THE LIGHTHOUSE ITSELF.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Adventure: Grasping for Answers

Throughout their early adventures the party come into conflict with the agents of the mysterious mage known only as "The Ravelling Hand", a villain of uncertain identity who seems to have lots of schemes and no qualms using violence, trickery, and unexpected magic to get what they want.

Adventure Hooks:

The party first become entangled with the hand's minions when they're asked by an innocuous travelling merchant to deliver a small wrapped parcel to the wizard living one town over. The wizard isn't open to receiving guests, and after sneaking or charming their way in, the party will find out why: her apprentice has been kidnapped, the parcel contains both of the boy's index fingers as well as a note explaining that she can have the rest of him back in exchange for several dangerous texts in her collection, delivered by the party to the same intermediary who hired them. A brawl is likely to ensue as the wizard suspects the party is in on the blackmail, but if they can talk her down maybe they can figure out a way to work together to get the boy back before any more harm comes to him.

Most thieves know better than to try and rob a magic item shop, but most thieves aren't armed with dispel magic infused salt grenades to neutralize the shop's ubiquitous defences. A rash of these attacks across the duchy has shopkeepers worried, and one hires the party to stake out their store for the night when they suspect someone is casing it. Do the party trail the robbers back to their hideout, or interrupt them mid heist only for combat to delay them long enough for those indiscriminate defences to start turning back on?

Spoiler Alert: The mage is in fact an arcanely gifted lesser kraken by the name of Dlexx who seeks to avail itself of all the magical knowledge amassed on land. Sure the deep has its own mysteries but there's a thriving trade in spellscrolls and arcane tomes that don't make it below the waves. Using an old lighthouse as a disguise for its massive form while on land, it uses telepathy and sendings to direct its minions without ever revealing its true nature. Imagine the party's surprise when they roll up to the villain's lair expecting to bully some crusty nerd with a ratty beard and instead the lair sprouts tentacles that drag them into the crashing surf.

Challenges & Consequences

Finding Dlexx is an adventure in and of itself. When questioned, most of the mage's minions admit to never having met their employer, and those high ranking enough to have been summoned to a place called "saltbite tower" in dreams only to later have their memories muddled. Careful interrogation and study of local maps will have the party realize that the tower is infact an abandoned lighthouse, which will narrow their search as they comb the costline for their enemy's lair.

Actually defeating the Ravelling Hand might prove too much for early level adventurers, as in addition to being a powerful mage the kraken is literally in its element, able to breathe and move while the heroes flounder. Dlexx will toy with them, throwing unconscious foes out of the water the way a fisherman throws back a catch that is too small. When the battle is over and it's proved it's point the kraken will collapse the tower and leave into the wide ocean, telepathically taunting them with their inability to follow.

Though the Ravelling Hand will not resurface for some time, the destruction of the tower and Dlexx's retreat into the deep is partially a bluff. The kraken chose that particular lighthouse because it was a short distance away from the coral reef into which it scribed its arcane learning the way a wizard records spells in a book, coiling arms etching formulae into hundreds of yards of living stone. Dlexx must periodically return to the reef to add spells to it, and sightings by locals (or the occasional fish manifesting with magical talent) might clue the party into the reef's existence.

A pair of merfolk siblings named Crashing-Tide and Arcing-Mirror serve the Ravelling Hand as apprentices and scribes, having promised seven years of utmost loyalty in exchange for the chance to bring the arcane knowledge of the surface back to their community. They tend to the reef, and allow the Kraken to borrow their eyes from afar so that it might study the spells scribed there. Several years into their pledge, Crash (the sister) has come to idolize Dlexx and the power it wields above and below the waves, wishing that the whole of their shoal to come into its service. Mirror (the brother) is skeptical, well aware of the kraken's manipulations and distantly suspicious of the conflict that it invokes. Perhaps if the party can intercede with these two they can learn more about their enemy's plans, though doing so will take some careful diplomacy.

Artist

[essektheylyss]

Listen. I am NOT the type to be overly precious about plot details maintained from book to movie in the process of adaptation. I have taken whole classes on adaptation. I understand that sacrifices need to be made.

It is absolutely crucial that you know that I understand that things must be sacrificed in the process of adaptation.

BUT THE TOWER???

THEY CUT THE FUCKING TOWER????

[theantarwitch]

Tarot: About Spreads and Readings

I’m aware that the big majority of the tarot books, manuals and guides are based to the “this spread, cards in this position, this mean this, period” kind of mindset and, as an eclectic asshole who hate when people tell me what to do, I struggled a lot when I started my journey as a tarot reader a decade ago, to only figure out later that there are way very few rules in witchcraft, and how use tarot is not one.

I’m also aware that there are books now exploring the different ways to do tarot, like The Big Book of Tarot by Joan Bunning (My friend Ethan do an excellent review of that book and others here), but well, a book of 150 pages can be dense to read, and that one in particular is impossible to download for free, so I will do a “simple” post about this topic.

And as warning, I’m not a professional, and I speak mostly from my own experience, so take all what I say as you always should do: with a grain of salt. Also, the next ones are not “official names”, are my way to separate them to make it easier to explain.

                            About spreads…

Pre-Defined Spreads:

This are the typical spreads that you can find everywhere, the “Cards in specific sites mean exclusively this”. Like the “Past Present Future” spread or the “Celtic Cross”.

These ones are pretty good to beginners because are easy to remember, have not so many variations and their structure made it easy to read, more if you have the guide of the cards close to you.

Of course, there are exceptions, like weird complex spreads as this one:

The bad thing with the pre-defined spreads is that give little room to adapt the questions to our specific needs, so if the spread itself don’t have the “questions” you need, then lol…

Semi Open Spreads:

With the practice, you will maybe want to be more open and change the questions as the “form” of the spread remain the same. So instead “past, present and future” you can ask “yesterday, today and tomorrow” if you are not interested in check the far away past or future. So the idea of the meaning of the position of the card is the same, the variation come from the details of the question.

You also can just add cards to the spread. For example, instead of do the Wheel of the Year with one card each month, you can add one or two cards to add depth, or to see the bad and good thing of each month in particular.

Open Spreads:

In this case, the position and all is gone, and you just made up the spread accordingly your needs. For example, the “one card to answer a specific question” is one of this open spreads. But it can turn so complex or simple as you need. You want to add two more cards for details? A spread of 5 cards where the one in the middle is the important? A spread in which you use 20 cards in any position? Any question? The where, the what, the who, position, quantity… Is all up to you.

                  About Readings (or interpretation) …

Of the Book: This is the one people mostly use, the reading with the full guide on hand. Is great to when you can’t memorize a ton of details (specially if your deck is advanced with a ton of numbers and stuffs), pretty logic based, and, why lie? Is comfy and secure, you rely almost solely in what your cards say. I know, you will be like “As it should be, right?”, but I will touch that in the next, calm.

Intuition Mediated: Is pretty much as the book one but using the perception to change a little the meaning of the cards if they “feel” different. For example, in a spread with good cards, you have The Tower, which by the book is not a very good one, but the context of the spread was because you are going to a beach where is a lighthouse, so you feel The Tower is more a symbol of that lighthouse, than a bad omen. Is a good technique, it can bring info that’s outside the cards, but it demands be in touch with your perceptive side and very aware that unconsciously you can be changing the meaning of the cards, because the subjectivity of the mind see different things, and our minds hate the info that goes against our own beliefs.

Full Intuition/ Clair: The opposite of the book, the cards lost their main specific meaning and the reading depend fully in our perceptive side. This demand even more of our perceptive side or clairs, since the main info come from “us” and not from the cards. The cards are more a mirror of what we are detecting, so the reading become into an introspective research than just “read” them. In this way we can get info that we maybe couldn’t take from a logical reading, but also is even more affected by our own unconscious mind.

                 About the “Norms”:

There is a lot of bullshit about tarot, but also, DO WHAT SUIT YOU.

Some don’t believe in buy cards; others buy them all, others made their own.

Some use the major arcana only, others the minor too, normal deck, playing cards, oracles (which technically are not tarot), etc.

Some shuffle until a card slips away the deck and they pick that one, some shuffle until they feel enough, some shuffle and spread them all and watch until some call them.

Some don’t allow others touch it or cut the deck, some do.

Some don’t do a spread if is not over a specific cloth, or in their altar, some spread it even in the Mc Donald’s.

Some cleanse and charge the deck before and after use it, some only when they feel the deck “needs it”, some never.

Some have specific rituals with them, some put them names, some use different decks for different kind of questions or even day times.

Some use one deck and never mix them with other, some do a collage of cards (ehem… I use a playing deck, an oracle and runes in the SAME time lol).

If you like it, if it works for you, go ahead. The type of spread, the reading, anything. Is your craft. What you learn and read from books are important, yes, because only KNOWING, is when you can discern what is in tune with you and your needs.

The only norms I would suggest is: No cultural appropriation. And say “Thanks” is basic manners team.

[mlmreaderfics]

You Look Quite Divine Tonight (Cthulhu x Lighthouse Keeper!Male Reader)

The years have not been kind to you.

You are grizzled, old, scarred from your face to your heart, and tired. Your hair has gone white from age, along with your beard, and wrinkles break up the symmetry of your sandpaper skin. Your voice constantly aches and itches from yelling and overuse, though you appreciate the light Scottish accent you allegedly have. It makes you seem tougher than you actually are. There are callouses and blisters on your fingers, palms, feet from work. For work on the sea is anything but easy.

The sea has not been kind to you.

On occasion you find yourself with a strange, salty taste in your mouth. You used to know whether it was the ocean or your own tears. Your eyelashes freeze, yet you feel the most comfortable in the cold, or at least that’s what you’re telling yourself. You are very tired. Ever since hitting your ripe age of “too old to go to sea, but too young to retire properly” you took the toll of a lighthouse keeper. When you got here, it was supposed to be six weeks, with a young, scrappy helper that reminded you of yourself. Instead, he hung himself from the rope while he was supposed to be repainting the blistering white tower. Maybe he hated you. It wouldn’t surprise you, although it’s the first time anybody has taken their own life just to get away from you. You didn’t know him, yet you feel immense sorrow. Perhaps you were being too parental. You do tend to get attached.

The world has not been kind to you.

You never really knew your mother, she left before you were ten, and your father was colder than the ocean himself. Yes, you tend to refer to inanimate objects as “him,” but those rich men call their boats “her,” so who are they to judge? Though, perhaps it is because they see you as a predator, an animal itching to get its hands on any man it can find. But that’s not what you want. What you do want, you’re not sure, but it wouldn’t be just any man, and it wouldn’t be just for sex, throwing yourself around dark alleyways like a London whore. Though, you are just as tired as they are. It was supposed to be six weeks.

You have resided here, alone and without rescue, for a year. You think.

Thankfully, you have enough food to last you another six months. There’s been no ship to come rescue you from this rock, perhaps they no longer have a need for lighthouses. Maybe those children with their inventions figured out how to navigate the sea blindfolded, backwards, and in the dark. but they wouldn’t just leave you here, right?

You decide not to think about it. Thankfully, you have a very worthwhile distraction.

Whilst searching through the house, you notice one of the floorboards sounds off when you step on it. It takes you about five minutes to crouch down to the floor, but in the end, it’s worth it. You knock on the floor. Sounds like normal. You move your scarred fist to the left, three raps following. Also normal. Left once more.

There it is. The knock is echoed slightly, the wood hollow underneath.

It takes you ten minutes to get up off the floor, but thankfully you have a newfound adrenaline. You hobble over to the toolshed outside.

You make a point of not looking to your right, knowing you will find some of the grisly remains of your crew-mate, your excitement giving you tunnel vision to the crowbar. You rush back and bend over, your back loudly protesting as you attempt to pry back the floorboard. One push. Then two. Then three.

With a loud crack, the board splinters away, revealing a small hole with a book inside. It appears to be a journal.

————————————————————————————

Though you eat dinner that night, your health is the furthest thing on your mind as you theorize what the book could be. A book of spells? A tale as old as time itself? Maybe just pretty pictures? Whatever it is, the fact that new information is occupying your head is enough.

When you finally get a chance to sit down and begin to read, you notice an important sentence on the front page:

“This journal belongs to: Gustaf Johansen.”

Well, whoever this Gustaf character is, you are sure to be fascinated by him!

————————————————————————————

January 12, 1792.

Today marks my first day on the sea. While I do admit that I may come down with a minor sickness, I still have faith in my comrades to help me, as I shall help them.

———————————————————————————

You scan the pages, word by word. It details six months of a life at sea, similar to yours. Gustaf is (allegedly) described by his friends as “a man with strength and beauty to rival Thor himself.” Though you doubt that description, you can’t help but entertain the handsome image.

He’s holding your hand, rubbing his thumb on the back of it. Smiling, he nestles his head between your head and shoulder.

You shake your head. It’s ridiculous, no one is coming to save you.

_________________

April 20, 1792.

I have been having frequent dreams of a place I have yet never seen. I find myself under the ocean surface, far from dry land. And yet, in the murky waters, I see a glowing, beautiful city.

——————-

That night, you have the same dream.

You don’t think anything of it.

You continue to read.

_____________________

May 2, 1792.

The dream has come again, but now I hear a chorus of people. Or perhaps, not people, but simply voices. They speak in a language I do not recognize, yet still understand. They speak of the coming of a god, a Great Old One.

They call this being Cthulhu.

—————

Underneath the entry,  a sentence, phrase, or paragraph in an unknown language, presumably the one from the dreams, is written. It is a terrible mess of consonants and apostrophes. Though, it is still somewhat readable. Your pronunciation is messy, but you get through it.

Mggoka'ai ya, throdog gn'th

nog, uh'eog ot shugg

Y' nogephaii

nogephaii l' ya, gn'bthnknyth

nogephaii l' ya, orr'e

nogephaii l' ya, cthulhu

You finish the final syllable. Nothing happens.

In a burst of anger, you grab a flare from the supplies closet and walk out into the night.

Standing on the beach, you light the flare, waving it around. The sky is black, not a star in sight. “Please, help me!” you cry. “Please, anybody! I’m right here!” Tears burn your eyes and run down your cheeks. You muster all the strength in your lungs.

“I’M RIGHT HEREEE!!!”

With the final syllable, the ground shakes. Did somebody finally hear you? Are they coming to help you, after a lifetime of isolation?

It shakes again, your take a few steps to regain you balance.

Again. Your knees wobble.

Again. You fall, and a great deal of pain does not fill your body. In fact, you feel a great sense of rejuvenation in your bones.

Again. You manage to get up, seeing bubbles on the ocean surface.

Slowly, a mixture of flesh and scales emerges from the sea. Two sets of burning red eyes lie below. A strange beard of tentacles. A hugely muscled body with miles-wide wings. And when he speaks, you feel it in your chest.

“I do not recognize you, my beloved.”

You stare in fear, the flare still belching smoke.

“Lovely mortal, fear not. My beloved, Gustaf, had the most beautiful soul.”

The tentacles on his face gently wrap around you and lift you up. You find yourself between his eyes.

“You have that same soul deep within you.”

You begin to cry once more. The tentacles are surprisingly not as freezing as you thought they would. Instead, they fill your body with loving warmth.

“I-I apologize.” You say. “I have not been held like this since…”

You look back on your life, quickly.

“No one has ever held me like this,” you admit. Your voice is small, lost, broken.

“Then I am honored to be the first.”

His centuries-deep voice is filled with love. He speaks your name softly.

“Wouldst thou like to experience the pleasure of a god?”

“Yes,” you whisper desperately. You quickly unbutton your shirt, but the tentacles take care of your clothes for you. He laughs like rolling thunder.

He devours you, body and soul.

[theguidetocryptids]

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Surprising.”

“Oh, shut it. I’ve been thinking. Why, exactly, are we heading towards the light?”

“Uh? Angels? Heaven? Refuge? Maybe just hot water and no goddamn monsters?”

“But how do we know that?” Implored the first voice, decidedly male.

“I don’t know jack shit,” Responded the second, sounding like the type of girl who, in another life, could’ve been a bouncer at a bar. “But it’s the only place in this hell that has power.”

“And that’s weird! I mean, the entire world collapses in on itself, and, fuck, there’s some weird lighthouse sayin’ ‘come on in, y’all, we got power for the tower and everything?’ Ain’t that a little strange, given the circumstances?”

“Strange is the new norm. We already saw a giant worm devour a car.”

“Strange is the new norm when you’re [read: yer] desperate and heading towards a light like a moth to a flame.” The first voice’s country accent seemed to be getting more pronounced the more time he spent in the ruins of humanity. After all, it did resemble the rural parts of America a lot more now. Not as many running cars. Less people. All that was really missing was the local crackhead and a herd of cows that mooed at ungodly hours of the night.

“A smart moth. Look, if you don’t like it, then that’s that. Just don’t come with me. Simple.” There was a pause after this, in which she immediately regretted the ultimatum. It wasn’t as if she needed him, nor as if their relationship was the best - in fact, these two particular people would have hated each other under normal circumstances, but as has been stated, end of the world, power outage, monsters, the whole apocalyptic shebang - but they were all that they had left: his family somewhere out in rural Mississippi, presumably dead; hers somewhere in the deeper part of the city that had burned when the riots hit, with the rest of the residents of said city currently residing in the bellies of a few less-than-satisfied creatures.

In fact, one of the unsavory diners roared their displeasure somewhere to the pair’s right.

“Get moving.” He said, apparently decided.

“Damn right.”

As their pace quickened, he pulled out a leather-backed journal from his pocket. It wasn’t fancy, and unnotable in every way except one; that it was the only thing keeping them from an untimely demise. A few weeks after the end of everything, with the cities burnt out with the corpses were cooling, the survivors awoke to something that had no business being around during the apocalypse.

It was, of course, the Guide to Cryptids, Monsters, and Unfriendly Others*. (The asterisk was pressed into the cover on. There wasn’t an explanation for the term within the pages.) But from locales, to favorite targets, to whether they liked their coffee black or with milk and sugar (or, gods forbid, even tea) it helped the reader move along with their lives in the end times (a version of this sentiment was a trademarked phrase, as the Guide felt the need to cover its ass from any lawyers who were still kicking about. The guide had no advice for lawyers.)

As if this wasn’t peculiar enough, reading the book was more convoluted than a normal glossary. Instead of flipping to the first page, with a table of contents, it was always the page pertinent to what was currently stalking you. Many (now rather dead) survivors have opened the cover to find details of monsters they’ve never even heard of, much less seen. Being that most of the monsters didn’t exist until last month, they tend to go out with something of a “Well, this is insane,” followed by a scream, and maybe a gurgle if it’s one of the more grisly things.

It was thanks to this book that Sarah and Joel were currently alive, and not being gnawed on by the friendly neighborhood rats. And they intended to keep it that way.

But what it was offering now was . . . less than consoling. It wasn’t that it was information about a particularly deadly monster, or that the text was too cramped to read, no. It was more that the first page said “TRUST ME,” and the second said “RUN. HIDE.”

It certainly hadn’t done that before.

Leaping over the skeletal arm of a less fortunate traveler, Joel unceremoniously yanked his companion into the shadow of a skyscraper, holding a finger to his lips as ways of explanation whenever she looked to him, raving mad.

Trying to keep calm, his eyes ran over the pages of the Guide, which had shifted to a much more helpful entry. It was written as follows.

Name: Screeching Thing (as determined by our brave field researchers).

Habitat: Abandoned cities, burnt out suburbs, and museums (recreationally).

Hunts: Any living thing. Also observed to attack sculptures which resemble other animals, or even humans. Heard from miles across its city, the Thing’s call can immobilize you if you’re caught by the brunt of it. That is, being screamed at with no dampeners between the Thing and you. Lesser effects include, but are not limited to, lasting ornithophobia, feelings of terror, migraines, punctured ear drums, and loss of balance. Disorientation is to be expected.

Hates: Tunnels, dark areas. Although bird-like, with talons and a ravaging beak gruesome enough to give anyone nightmares, the Thing possesses its own fear, something akin to claustrophobia. It is recommended that you seek out buildings with basements, or, more ideally, subway tunnels.

Tea preference: Straight, with two sugar cubes, but only at noon.

“I don’t suppose you have any teabags on you.” Sarah remarked, having been reading over Joel’s shoulder.

“Well, I do, but I ditched all the sugar over in Eddiesburg. Really wore my arms out.”

“You’d think they’d make smaller bags of it.” She said sympathetically.

“We should really get moving, huh?” He asked, as if the notion of being devoured by a hulking, screaming pile of feathers and muscles and sinew suddenly seemed unappealing.

The creature screeched, closer.

[hungwy]

musings about annihilation the book below, it DOES have some spoilers

what was so provoking about annihilation (the book) was how it tried to disintegrate nominality. the biologist specialized in transitional environments, symbolizing how she would throughout the book come up against a world where reality was always an in-between. animal and human, plant and animal, creature and environment, life and death, consciousness and unconsciousness, purpose and randomness, control and powerlessness, familiar and foreign, time and space, the self and the other -- Area X fell between all of these, and thus couldn't possibly be described to the outside world. the book is about the annihilation of identity, after all. one has to experience Area X to understand, and the biologist knew how to experience these in-betweens better than anybody else on the team. she quickly comes to terms with the fact that nothing actually needs to obey human conceptions of nature. where does one identity end and another begin? “That which dies shall still know life in death for all that decays is not forgotten and reanimated it shall walk the world in the bliss of not-knowing.”

nothing more in the book seems to reflect these principles better than the transcendent yet human quality of the crawler. how it modified the world was conscious, probing, almost scientific (perhaps human). yet it seemed, at least in the beginning, to be nothing more than a fungus. it left tangible physical effects on its environment and yet how it did so could not be deduced. the mossy growths of words on the curling walls of the tower seem like the ramblings of an AI being fed biblical quotes, but these words were also charged with symbolism reflecting the reality at play. was the crawler acting out something it learned, or expressing its intentions? after all, it expresses a knowledge of self-existence in its words, but only once: “I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead to share with the worms that gather in the darkness and surround the world with the power of their lives...” nowhere else does it refer to itself. so what has inspired or caused it? are its actions natural and mindless like the spinning of planets or the nuclear fusion of a star? it seems completely silly to even ask what it is. again, where are the words to describe this experience?

there's a ton that needs to be said about the book. how does the namelessness of the characters affect how the reader is able to project ourselves into their experiences? what can be said about the symbolism of the lighthouse and the tower? what is the door at the “top” of the tower? who was the lighthouse keeper? maybe the other novels answer these, but i seriously think these questions should be addressed within the context of the first book. or maybe ill read the other books so im not disappointed if these questions are different from what i thought...

[terramythos]

TerraMythos 2021 Reading Challenge - Book 3 of 26

Title: Acceptance (The Southern Reach #3) (2014) - REREAD

Author: Jeff VanderMeer

Genre/Tags: Horror, Science Fiction, Ecological Horror, Cosmic Horror, Weird, First-Person, Second-Person, Third-Person, Unreliable Narrator, Female Protagonists, LGBT Protagonist

Rating: 10/10

Date Began: 1/11/2021

Date Finished: 1/20/2021

Area X, a self-aware wilderness along the coast, has existed for decades behind a mysterious border. The landscape itself annihilates humans and repurposes them for its own ends. Hundreds of people have died attempting to uncover its secrets. But no one has yet discovered its origins or true purpose.

Now, Area X has spread past its former borders, perhaps to the entire world. Acceptance follows several key figures through the history of Area X, and their attempts to fight against an impossible threat.  

You feel numb and you feel broken, but there’s a strange relief mixed in with the regret: to come such a long way, to come to a halt here, without knowing how it will turn out, and yet... to rest. To come to rest. Finally. All your plans back at the Southern Reach, the agonizing and constant fear of failure or worse, the price of that... all of it leaking out into the sand beside you in gritty red pearls. 

Full review, major spoilers, and content warning(s) under the cut.

Content warnings for the book: Extreme body horror, altered states of mind, and psychological manipulation, including hypnosis. Several characters lose their sanity, and you see it happen in real time from their perspective. Intentional self-harm/mutilation as a plot point. Some violence and gore. There are brief references to animal abuse and terminal cancer. Not many happy endings in this one.  

This review contains major series spoilers. It’s also super long, as the book covers a lot of material. 

Acceptance is the most narratively ambitious book in the Southern Reach trilogy. While Annihilation and Authority feature a single protagonist/perspective, this one has four rotating POVs and one guest narrator partway through the book. It also covers a broader timeline than previous entries, from the origins of Area X 30-ish years ago to the ongoing present-day apocalypse. Acceptance is one of the few books I've read that utilizes first-, second-, AND third-person narration in a single volume, adopting whichever one makes the most sense for the character and their situation

While this sounds complicated, it's basically just a way to tell four different stories at the same time. VanderMeer also uses each storyline to address the major questions of the series. How did Area X come to be? What happened to the biologist? What was the former director of the Southern Reach trying to accomplish? And perhaps most pressing-- what is the fate of the world now that Area X has spread? Not everything is resolved, but it's definitely a conclusion.

The stories have some unifying connections, containing similar themes and callbacks/references to each other. However, for the purposes of this review I will be looking at each story and protagonist individually.

First up is Saul Evans the lighthouse keeper. He's been mentioned before, but never in much detail. Going in, we know a few things-- (1) he knew the director/Cynthia when she was a child and (2) something happened to him that turned him into the Crawler, the eldritch creature which writes the sermon on the walls of the tower in Area X. In Acceptance, we learn he's a former preacher who had a crisis of faith and left his old life, taking up the role of lighthouse keeper on the forgotten coast. It's implied this is partially due to him realizing he's gay and fleeing the resulting homophobic fallout. His past vocation explains the elevated, sermonic language of the words in the tower.

From the onset Saul is an intensely likeable character. He's trying to build a happier and more genuine life for himself. This part probably takes place during the 70s or 80s, but he's cautiously optimistic about his new life with a local fisherman named Charlie. He also forms an unlikely friendship with Gloria (aka Cynthia), a local kid who loves exploring the coast. However, he is tormented by the "Séance and Science Brigade", a shady organization that investigates/worships(?) paranormal phenomena. They sabotage the lighthouse beacon, which we learned in Authority is a marvelous piece of technology with a mysterious history. Shortly after, Saul accidentally absorbs a fragment of the beacon into himself, and shit goes downhill real fast.

While the catalyst of Area X may seem a little weird, the reader can piece together that part of the beacon has extraterrestrial origins, and Saul unintentionally activates part of it. The gradual shift from a normal life to something deeply unsettling has its appeal. I especially like seeing his logs/journal entries and how they devolve as proto-Area X overtakes his mind. The disturbing bar scene near the end is great as well. We know going in that this story has a bad ending (from a human perspective), but learning specifics about Saul as a person gives this more impact. Saul's is a sad tale of a man who wants to make a better life for himself and gets screwed over by bad luck.

Cynthia/Gloria/the former director is the next perspective character. In Annihilation she serves as the antagonist, but in Authority we learn it isn't that simple. She had ulterior motives, handpicking the biologist for the expedition in order to use her as a weapon against Area X. And, of course, we learn she was the little girl in that old picture of Saul, which means she probably grew up there before the border came down. 

This part opens with Cynthia/Gloria's death as "the psychologist" in Annihilation, but told from her perspective. From there, the pacing is a little slow, in similar style to Authority. We learn how Cynthia lived her daily life, how she infiltrated the Southern Reach, and her interpersonal relationships with Grace, Whitby, and Lowry. However, her storyline ramps up when detailing Area X and the lead up to twelfth expedition. Lots of old scenes/dynamics from Annihilation hit different with the new context. Especially interesting is the interview between Cynthia and the biologist; turns out there was a lot more context that the biologist obscured in her story. On some level we already knew she was an unreliable narrator, but it's fun to have it pop up again in a different book entirely.

I admire how VanderMeer makes someone who comes off as a throwaway villain into the one of the most complex, important characters in the series. This part is also really cool as it's written in second-person perspective, and the story justification for this (Area X examining her memories) is neat. While I like Cynthia's characterization in this part, the additional bits in Saul's story and his interactions with Gloria add helpful context and emotional impact. The end of the book being her letter to Saul is so damn sad.

The third main storyline follows Control and Ghost Bird in the "current" timeline-- exploring Area X in the immediate fallout of Authority. I love this part for several reasons. The contrast between the two leads and how they perceive themselves, Area X, and the current situation is great. Control is very much losing control, feeling "the brightness" taking over (a callback to Annihilation). Meanwhile, Ghost Bird is in her element, seeing and experiencing things the regular human characters do not. There's the sense that she's truly something "new" in terms of both humanity and Area X.

We also learn a ton of stuff about Area X that is hinted in earlier volumes but confirmed in Acceptance. (MAJOR SPOILERS) The first is that Area X isn't on Earth at all; something briefly hinted at in Annihilation, when the biologist doesn't recognize the stars in the sky.  Instead it mimics Earth, or something representative of it. The second big thing is that time works differently here. The uncanny state of decay noted in earlier books isn't actually a direct result of Area X. It's just the passage of time, because way more time passes in Area X compared to the "real" world.

The guest narrator/story is told within the Control/Ghost Bird storyline. The two meet up with Grace, who has managed to survive the Area X attack on the Southern Reach. She took shelter on the mysterious northern island and discovered an old journal written by... the biologist from Annihilation, which details what happened to her over the last THIRTY YEARS (yeah, the time thing) until she finally decided to give into Area X.

This section is sobering and sad; basically a glimpse at how the biologist's isolation slowly made her go mad. She finds an owl (hello cover) that she believes is her husband post Area X conversion and the two live together for decades. When it dies, the biologist loses the will to keep fighting Area X. It's ambiguous if the owl really is her husband, or if she's just projecting, but her heartbreak at the end is probably the strongest emotion she shows in the series. But what is interesting about this part is it confirms a cool detail. Injury and pain can halt the progression of "the brightness" within someone. Which is how the biologist managed to survive 30 years, how Grace survived what turns out to be 3 years, and so on. Even more interesting, when someone DOES finally succumb after warding off the brightness this way, they turn into something more strange and alien. Hence the moaning creature, and Saul/the Crawler. It's also probably why some creatures have incongruencies, like the dolphins with human eyes.

The biologist? She transformed into a giant, oceanic eldritch abomination COVERED in eyes. Just primo aesthetic. We get to see her from both Ghost Bird and Control's perspectives. Ghost Bird feels solidarity and a sort of euphoria meeting her alternate self. Control... basically breaks in the face of something like that, full cosmic horror style. Again, the contrast here is really appealing to me.

Both of their story arcs end in a way that is narratively satisfying, though the ending is open. The future seems hopeful in a bittersweet way, but presumably Area X has destroyed humanity as we know it. Whether that's a good or bad thing depends on your perspective and is a central thesis of the series.

So, I said I'd discuss how this series approaches aliens. While there's an appeal to anthropomorphic alien species one can talk to and communicate with, I think an "unknowable" perspective is more realistic. After all, who's to say alien life formed under similar conditions or has any resemblance to our own? The extraterrestrial element in The Southern Reach is very much this type. But it's a fine line to walk in fiction, because handwaving the weird alien stuff as impossible to comprehend (and thus conveniently ducking any responsibility for explaining it) is lazy writing when done wrong.

The thing I find interesting about this series is the human characters understand lots of the what of the alien elements, but not the why. For example, Area X transforms humans into various plants and animals. We know it instills a sense of "brightness" in humans exposed for too long, which encourages assimilation into itself. Humans infected in this way, even if horrified or resistant, have thoughts of this being inevitable, even a good thing. The biologist takes samples in Annihilation and finds several plants and animals have human cells. Control logically knows what Area X does to people, but he is ultimately helpless to resist the process when he experiences it firsthand.

As for the why of it all... we don't really know! There's multiple ideas presented throughout the story. Ghost Bird probably gets closest to the "truth"; that Area X is part of a machine organism from a dead alien civilization, and that it has a bizarre effect on Earth's biology based on its now defunct programming. Other worlds would have their own Area Xes based on this idea, as it's implied the Earth version is just one piece of many. But it's worth noting that Ghost Bird is a creation of Area X and sees things differently than the other characters. Unreliable narration is ironically consistent through the series. So it's hard to say if this is true or not; perhaps it's silly to think any explanation would be understandable to a human mind. Obsession with finding the answer is a recurring theme that drives characters insane. I think this is an interesting compromise when discussing the unknowable; to have some facts and theories but not necessarily a concrete answer. 

If I have a criticism for this book, it's the role of the "Séance and Science Brigade", especially in Saul's storyline. While they're set up earlier in the series, we only really see them in this book. Our limited perspective via Saul leaves a lot of ambiguity as to their purpose, function, and goals. There's an implication that Control's family influenced the organization's decision to sabotage the beacon and create Area X. But I consider the subplot with Control's mom/grandfather to be one of the weaker ones in the series, and this book didn't help. The S&SB comes off as campy and ineffectual, which is perhaps intentional? But since they're narratively the fanatics who caused Area X to happen, I really wish they felt more sinister and impactful. There's some attempt to make them scary, but it's not very convincing when compared to Area X. Kind of like a Saturday morning cartoon villain vs the unknowable cosmic horror of the universe. This is a nitpick, though.

While rereading the series, I discovered there's a planned fourth book which may or may not star a minor character from Saul's story. I'm interested to see what else there is to explore about Area X and the Southern Reach. As it stands, I still really like this series. Between the horror and general weirdness, it's not for everyone, but it sure does appeal to me. I think this is one of those series that you'll either adore or hate. Obviously I recommend it.

[coreymichaelsmithson]

The Lights of Treasure Island

For the past few years, I've been living on a barrier island named Anastasia. A sandy, sleepy, slow place, just off the coast of our nation's oldest city, Anastasia Island features tall palm trees and gorgeous beaches, along with excellent sushi and a surprisingly active arts scene. Its most splendid attraction, though, is an old lighthouse, one striped with a black and white spiral and crowned by a bright red lamphouse. It towers commandingly over the dunes, casting a long beam that can be seen from nearly anywhere in town.

I've always liked lighthouses. In days of old we set these magnificent lanterns on the edge of the sea, to guide sailors through dark and treacherous waters, to show them the way home. Lighthouses represent so many things we need: safety, comfort, reliability, navigation. But in my mind, these structures hold the magic of candles, the magic of illumination itself. When we speak of enlightenment, we may be speaking specifically of rationality and discovery, but we are also conjuring images of light prevailing over darkness. And in this way the lighthouse emerges as a powerful symbol of the spirit.  

This February, for my 47th birthday, I explored the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where I saw several amazing lighthouses. Impressive as they were, I did not think they quite compared with the singular majesty of the structure that stands on Anastasia Island. After a harrowing return journey, one in which I drove with no working alternator (and sometimes without headlights or windshield wipers) through nearly 700 miles of tornadic thunderstorms, I felt the most profound relief when I finally crested the peak of the SR-312 bridge, which connects my island to the mainland, and I saw those familiar black and white stripes in the distance, signaling that I had made it home. Less than half a year later, my feelings about this special lighthouse of mine would be forever changed by a chance encounter.

Just under two months ago, I received a brief and rather unremarkable message from a stranger on Scruff, a queer dating platform that I use. One might charitably call Scruff "a social club for discerning gentlemen" ... it appeals to men who are hirsute, meaty, perpetually horny, and even a few of us freaks who defiantly straddle the line between "butch" and "nancy". Since this man's profile didn't really offer all that much information, and his one available picture wasn't particularly compelling, I promptly tucked his message away and forgot about it, and went for my customary sunset walk on the beach.

I live exactly one mile from the southern boundary of a state park, which offers a four-mile stretch of pristine dune habitat, completely undeveloped and sparsely occupied. The only man-made objects in sight are a few empty lifeguard stands, the city's sightseeing pier, a radio antennae, and our lighthouse. Dolphins gather here, their dorsal fins rising and falling between the breakers. Squadrons of pelicans fly in tight formations, gliding only a few feet above the water's surface. Terns and sea turtles nest in its sands, and I've found many shark teeth among the sea shells and ghost crab burrows. This is a special place, a holy place, and I've made a daily ritual of enjoying its cloudscapes and crepuscular glow as I explore the edge between land and sea.

After a pleasant stroll, maybe an hour or so of blissful meditation, I turned around and started heading back towards my car when I caught sight of a man who had just walked out of the water and was now drying himself off. We locked eyes.

He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Arrestingly beautiful, the kind of handsome that stops you dead in your tracks. I just kind of gulped for a second, and then walked right up to him, with an audacity that I didn't even know I possessed, turned on every damn bulb in my Christmas tree, and murmured, "Hi!", making the word shimmer like tinsel. In a short amount of time, I learned that he was a Russian artist, born in St. Petersburg but living in Moscow. I had met him during a brief pause on his long drive from Jacksonville to Key West; he had only intended on stopping in St. Augustine long enough to explore our old Spanish fort and take a swim on our nicest beach. He possessed a keen intellect, a quick wit, and a laudable command of English. As we spoke, he kept giving me flashes of the most mischievous smile, and so when I finally asked him what he was grinning about, he revealed that he was the same man who had messaged me earlier. This came as a surprise, for I hadn't recognized him at all ... I had only been drawn in now by his gorgeous movie-star looks, the undeniable sex appeal of his dripping wet body, and some weird sense of destiny.

We talked. We talked some more. We went to dinner. And then he stayed for the better part of three days.

In my bed, we enjoyed the most astonishing kind of communion. Our nights and mornings were filled with such tenderness ... soft eyes, soft caresses, fearlessly sustained gazes, the kind of kisses that tell a hundred little stories. One by one, various secrets were brought to light. We shared toe-curling carnality, thunderous climaxes, an unalloyed and unembarrassed intimacy. We shared joy.

On our second day together, I took him to the top of Anastasia Island's lighthouse. We lingered on each landing to kiss and giggle, and our embraces grew more intense. We felt a stronger and stronger pull towards one another. I knew that this was more than just a simple infatuation. By the time we reached the lantern's round balcony, and stepped out together onto the most spectacular view of St. Augustine, I knew that I was falling in love.

I don't blame you for rolling your eyes at this. You may, in your justifiable cynicism, think it ridiculous for a man to utter such a powerful phrase within such a short time. But if you've ever known me, you've come to recognize by now my considerable capacity for love. My passions and appetites may rise to the surface with little interference, and will I admit some recklessness in how I've invested my energies, but I am no fool. I am neither naïve nor desperate. And I can say in all sincerity that what we felt then was, at least for a short while, genuine love.

From the top of the lighthouse we could see everything. The old downtown, with its mixture of colonial and Spanish Renaissance buildings. The Matanzas River, named for the 1565 massacre of shipwrecked Huguenots, separating my island from the mainland. The harbor of St. Augustine, crowded with sailboats and pleasure craft, a forest of masts. And then the sea, blue and inviting, the sea that would soon separate us. We held each other tightly and looked upon the Atlantic together, casting our dreams towards the horizon, into this vista of seemingly endless possibility and hope.

On our last night together, we took a naked midnight swim in my pool, which is lit from above by a row of blue lights. A light and warm rain fell on our heads as we twined our legs underwater, and our ardor cast a web of rippling refractive patterns on the pool's concrete bottom. He looked me in the eyes, kissed me with the utmost gentleness, and formally invited me to come stay with him in Moscow. I accepted with my new magic word, "Да."

The following morning, our parting was so sweet, and so warm. We solidified our promise to be reunited. He drove down to Key West, enjoying a music playlist I assembled for him, and then he flew up to New York for a week's visit with old friends. After he returned to Moscow, we embarked on a passionate long-distance affair via telephone and social media apps.

I plunged right away into the Russian language, practicing for hours a day, rediscovering my knack for linguistics. I bought books on the cities of Moscow and St. Petersburg, books on Russian verbs, flashcards, a portable dictionary. I subscribed to online learning programs, put apps on my phone, read up on the country's history. I was all in, bringing every available bit of my enthusiasm, work ethic, and inventiveness to the challenge. Every day, I would send him sweet little videos or text messages ... sharing good news, conveying small but significant events of my daily life, showing off my rapidly accelerating grasp of Russian. I sent him notes of encouragement, pictures of me looking my cutest, small but enjoyable details of my life on Anastasia Island. I sent him a short clip of the black skimmers that sliced back and forth across the thin swash of the surf, their beaks dipping into half an inch of water. I sent him pelicans, beach crabs, waves, paintings, difficult words, idioms, cute terms of venery, sunsets, clouds, kisses, evidence of my changing body. I sent him love, every day. "каждый день," I promised him, placing my hand on my heart, "каждый день." Every day.

My love deepened by the hour. I know this is going to sound so gushy and gross, but I really pushed the lighthouse metaphor pretty hard, calling myself "твой смотритель маяка" or "your lighthouse keeper". I meant this in all sincerity, without a drop of bathos or schmaltz. Our time atop the lighthouse was sacred to me. I promised him that I would keep its light burning bright.

Over time, however, things shifted. As my interest grew, his began to dwindle. He sent less and less of himself, slowly removing from our conversation his humor, his sexuality, his warmth, his trust. It was like seeing a fully assembled jigsaw puzzle get lifted into the air, and watching all the pieces falling out ... at first only a few at a time, then more and more, until there was only a jagged perimeter where there had once been a lovely picture.

The nadir came when he lost his temper with me over my visa. I was confused about the process, as the Russian consulate and other sources were providing patchy and often conflicting information, and his own explanations changed from day to day. During our last video chat, I asked one too many questions, and he snapped. He rolled his eyes, effectively called me stupid and childish, and hung up on me three times. My many attempts at reconciliation were completely rebuffed. It was both baffling and extraordinarily painful.

Two days after our fight he was in a terrible car accident, one from which he miraculously escaped unharmed. He posted on social media an impassioned paragraph about the event, and how it drew into sharp focus all the love he had in his life, how he felt that he wasn't deserving of such love, how grateful he was for his friends. Yet instead of contacting me, inviting me into this experience, or trying to repair our frayed connection, he spent his evenings logging back into Scruff, the aforementioned dating app. He continued to ignore me, choosing instead to pursue (or perhaps refresh) other opportunities. I tried in vain to reach him, to restore our bond, but was met with only the most chilling silence.

How had I been so wrong? Had my desire devolved into mere obsession, albeit one artfully disguised as love? Had my zeal somehow suffocated him? The irony for me was that this disastrous affair unfolded during a period of rapid and positive transformation. In the space of the last seven months, I'd already changed my diet, fixed my teeth, joined a gym, paid off a chunk of my debt, reorganized my home office, purchased a standing desk, resumed my daily beach walks, started seeing both a psychiatrist and a therapist. My relationship to my body was improving, I was working at a higher level of professional responsibility, gaining new clients, writing my fourth novel, and churning out the finest paintings of my career. A recent experience with ayahuasca had given me valuable insights into my adulthood. It seemed only right that this Russian should be the cherry on my sundae, a prize I had been working so hard to deserve.

And so, after admitting my own disenchantment, I surrendered. Reeling from an overwhelming feeling of loss, I wrote him a heartfelt letter in Russian, one in which I explained the hurt his indifference was causing me. I poured a lot of benevolent energy into this letter. And then I said to him the saddest word I've learned in Russian, "Прощай", which is the type of goodbye you use when you think you are not likely to see someone again. It translates, literally, into "forgive me."

Here is the letter I wrote to him, translated into English:

***

"V_____, beautiful V____:

Okay. I give up.

Your silence gave me a very clear and very painful answer. You have been entrusted with something rare and beautiful, and you have shown that you do not want it. So now it's gone.

I'm sorry my heart bored you so much. I will no longer annoy you with my desires.

The love that I offered you ... pure and strong, given without demands or jealous limitations ... does not come often.

It pains me to realize that you do not appreciate what I have tried to give you. It is even more painful to realize that I may have aggravated the situation with my zeal. But the distance that you put between us is your choice, and I must respect that.

It seems that the epiphany you experienced in the car accident, the moment you thought of all the love in your life, did not include my love for you. Your priorities are yours, and I accept that. But you almost died yesterday, V_____. And instead of choosing to bond with a man who cares about you so much, your focus shifted to Scruff. Your indifference is so obvious now. Please do not say anything ugly or cruel in response. There is already enough sorrow on my island. I feel both grief and embarrassment, but not anger. I've always wanted the best for you, and it's still true.

I sincerely wish you a long and happy journey. I hope you enjoy many successes and find many pleasures. I hope you stay healthy. I hope the man you choose deserves your best gifts. I hope you find a better lighthouse. I must direct my light now to those who are really looking for it. So now I must tell you the saddest word that I have learned in your language.

Goodbye."

***

Please allow me now to rewind a few years, and tell a correlative story.

In the autumn of 2019, during a period of intense sadness and frustration, I fled from Anastasia Island and drove impulsively across the state to the Gulf Coast. I didn't have a clear destination, I didn't pack enough clothes or supplies, and I was so blinded with tears and unexpressed rage that I didn't know where I was, or even care much about where I might land. While getting lost somewhere in the vicinity of St. Petersburg, I glanced at a map, dragged my finger along the squiggly coastline, saw the name Treasure Island, and thought, "That's gotta be the place."

I don't know what I was expecting to find there. Something about the name sounded so exciting, so exotic. And as the evening wore on, my anticipation grew. I thought, in my desperation, that everything would be all right once I got to Treasure Island. Over the next few hours, I convinced myself that I'd finally feel good again in such a place, that my pain and confusion would certainly evaporate once I reached this safe haven. I'd check into a nice hotel room, preferably one with 300 thread-count sheets and a coffee maker, and I'd dream about pirate ships and gold doubloons, and when I opened my eyes and yawned and stretched against the sun-dappled pillows my life would basically feel like a commercial for some bougie brand of almond milk. When I arrived, however, I was deeply disappointed to see another narrow stretch of high-rise hotels, littered beaches, rank seaweed, and greyish-brown water. I found the cheapest hotel room around, one of the few remaining vacancies on the shore, and there I found neither crisp bedsheets nor good coffee. The view from my balcony, however, was utterly amazing: I could see not only a broad curving swath of the beach, but also a glow of distant resort hotels, some of them reflected in the waves. It was strangely romantic, seeing these twinkling lights ... red, gold, green, blue ... and their silent conversation with the stars, a dialogue of jewels above the warm churning waters of the Gulf. But it wasn't the salvation I had been hoping for.

When I got up the next morning, I was still facing the same problems, the same irritations, the same heavy sorrows. Treasure Island would not, could not, rescue me from myself. So I drove back home to my own island, back to my lighthouse, and was relieved to discover that it was in fact even more stirring than I had remembered. During my absence Anastasia Island had become a magical and restorative place, quite different than the one I had left only days before.

What I should have learned back then, but have only come to realize now, was this: I didn't need to travel to a distant island of treasure and twinkling stars, for my own island already had plenty of both. I didn't need to seek the incandescence of a handsome man to light my way, as my own inner flame was at last beginning to shine without the shutters of inhibition or profligacy.

I am now recalling my disappointment with Treasure Island, while concurrently considering my grief over the Russian. At first, I wanted to hate him for his carelessness, for how he squandered my gifts. But I don't hate him. Not really. There's no need to wring my hands any further over his callousness. I don't even mourn his absence anymore. My mood has shifted today, and I no longer choose to see this abortive liaison as being so devastating. For I know, deep down, that the failure here was not really mine. I am not a loser for investing myself unreservedly in someone who could not fully appreciate me, nor I am not the weaker man for feeling injured. I will not be permanently depleted for having offered all that kindness to an undeserving recipient, as my wellspring of love remains inexhaustible.

I tried to share my lighthouse with the Russian. But he did not recognize how special it really was, and he declined to follow its beacon to a rewarding harbor. And thus, our romance was destroyed, and his memory became just another broken boat littering the shallows.

I have seen so many ruins in my years: bad relationships, lousy jobs, soured opportunities. My life story reads like a ledger of dashed hopes. It seems sometimes that both the island I occupy and the more elusive island I am eternally seeking are surrounded by shipwrecks. Yet the lighthouse of my spirit still stands, sturdier and stronger than ever. The waves may batter its bricks, salt may scour its surfaces, it may occasionally groan under its own weight ... but it will not crumble, it will not fail, and even in the darkest of hours this lamp of mine will continue to shine: bright, focused, undiminished.

[tallstales]

Day 11 Haunted Places in New England (13 Days of Halloween)

New England is home to some of America’s oldest colonies and so it only seems natural that it is home to some old spirits. Let’s take a tour state by state of 13 of the most popular haunted locations in New England.

Maine

The Wood Lighthouse - Saco Bay, Maine

In 1808 a lighthouse was built in Saco Bay, Maine at the request of President Thomas Jefferson. That lighthouse, though full of history is not the infamous haunt that stands today. After falling to disrepair, it was replaced by a stone and granite tower that still stands today. it is in this newer structure that a violent tragedy would take place.

Based on reports, in 1896 a tenant renting the lighthouse or possibly squatting there, was approached by the landlord regarding the subject of paying rent. An argument took place which resulted in the shooting and death of the landlord. After realizing what he had done or possibly panicking over the consequences of his actions, the tenant went into the lighthouse with his gun and killed himself.

Keepers who have lived in the Wood Island Lighthouse since say that unexplained shadows frequently appear as well as unusual moaning sounds. Other reports say that sometimes locked doors fly open and gunshots are heard. The light was also know to turn on and off by itself. It became such a problem in fact, that in 1972 to save the lighthouse keepers from dealing with the possibly haunted light, it was replaced with an automated light.

Goose River Bridge - Rockport Harbor, Maine

A spirit with spirits can be found on The Goose River Bridge on Pascal Avenue near picturesque Rockport Harbor. The Goose River Bridge is allegedly haunted by William Richardson, a town resident who lived there around the time of the Revolutionary War. There are at least two stories about Richardson’s death that circulate to this day amongst the locals. The first is that British sympathizers murdered Richardson in 1783 because they were enraged by his drunken celebration of the American victory. The second is that he got so drunk celebrating the American victory that he fell from the Goose River Bridge to his death. Either way, if you catch a whiff of ale in the air by the bridge and happen to see this celebrating apparition, legend has it that he’ll offer you a drink from his pitcher. I wonder what the tab would be for 200 years worth of ale.

Vermont

Emily’ s Bridge - Stowe, Vermont

In Vermont there is another haunted bridge but one without a such a friendly spirit. If you travel through Stowe, Vermont it is likely that you will eventually pass over the Gold Brook Bridge. At least, that’s what your GPS will call it, but locals have renamed it something different. Emily’s Bridge has been nicknamed such after a tragedy befell the location. A girl named Emily had planned to meet her lover at the covered bridge, where they would then run away together to elope. According to the story, her beau man never showed, and a brokenhearted Emily commited suicide. The method has changed over time and story teller, some saying she hanged herself from the rafters of the bridge, others saying that she drove off the bridge in her carriage and others still saying that she flung herself from the bridge.

One thing that remains consistent are the experiences. Visitors have reported long scratch marks appearing on their vehicles, hearing footsteps and spotting a white apparition. Some pedestrians have even reported experiencing scratches along their skin. The most common thing among these witnesses? They apparitions and disembodied footsteps seem to be experienced by all types, but the scratches always seem to be inflicted upon men. Maybe Emily is still blaming her lover after all these years. Or maybe, her lover did show up on the bridge that day and Emily didn’t kill herself at all. We’ll likely never know.

University of Vermont - Burlington, Vermont

Established in 1791, the University of Vermont was the fifth university founded across New England. The school welcomes thousands of new students every year, but according to legend it seems like many of them never actually leave.

Over the years, many homes were bought and absorbed into the campus. One of these homes is now the Counseling Centre. Once owned by Captain John Nabb, the building still seems to house his spirit. Staff of the Counselling Centre say that he is still there and makes himself known by knocking over buckets and slamming doors and windows. The nearby Public Relations building is also said to be haunted by its former resident John E Booth who is said to make various banging noises all over the building. But it doesn’t end there. The most haunted house on the campus is said to be The Bittersweet House where many people have reported seeing full body apparitions. It is believed that one of the ghosts there is Margaret Smith who was widowed at a young age and spent the rest of her life as a recluse until she died in the house in 1961.

Not all of the ghosts at the University of Vermont are former residents, there is reported to be a far more tragic spirit in the Converse Residence Hall. A young med student called Henry is reported to have committed suicide in the building in 1920 and many say he is still there, manifesting himself in the form of poltergeist activity.

With all of these separately haunted buildings on campus, I would say this makes the university of Vermont the most haunted place to visit in Vermont and probably a paranormal investigators dream!

New Hampshire

The Mount Washington Hotel - Bretton Woods, New Hampshire

The Mount Washington Hotel was built by Joseph Stickney from 1900 to 1902 and for a time was the largest wood structure in New England. Sadly, Stickney wouldn’t get to spend much time in his hotel as he died a year after completion, but surprisingly he is not who is reported to haunt the place. Instead the hotel is allegedly haunted by his widow Carolyn.

Soon after the death of Carolyn in 1936, hotel staff began seeing strange things around the hotel. Reports were made of her descending the stairs for dinner, as well as lights inexplicably turning on and off all over the hotel. Photographs have also been taken by the staff with the shadowy figure of an elegant lady looking through the windows or standing behind them. Carolyn’s old room, number 314, is reported to be the most haunted room in the hotel. This isn’t at all surprising considering some of her furniture including her four-poster bed is still in use in the room.

The Chase House - Portsmouth, New Hampshire

The Chase House in Portsmouth, New Hampshire was built as a home for orphaned children. As you can probably guess, it has some spooky tales to tell regarding the ghosts of little orphans some may be more gruesome than you’d expect. The most reported ghost to haunt the premises isn;t the result of a tragic illness or accident but of a poor young girl who hanged herself in her bedroom. Her apparition is seen wandering the hall and in her old room and there have also been reports of disembodied screams from within the room. Doors in the building have also been known to lock or unlock on there own and the electricity allegedly turns on and off as well.

Massachusetts

Danvers State Hospital - Danvers, Massachusetts

The Danvers State Hospital opened in 1878 as the Danvers State insane Asylum. The impressive Gothic architecture shapes the building like a bat with expanded wings and makes for a sufficiently eerie exterior. Underground tunnels weave beneath the building to up the creep factor of the interior as well. But what’s really scary here is the history. Typical of asylums for the period, Danvers housed more patients than they should have causing poor treatment and overcrowding. Historians belief that Danvers may have been the birthplace of the prefrontal lobotomy. Unfortunately that’s not where the mistreatment of patients ends. There was a distinct lack of adequate care and treatment with those actually receiving any sort of treatment being subjected to brutal methods such as shock therapies, drugs and straitjackets from the staff as well as your more average human violence like beatings and rape from inmates and staff alike.

The hospital was closed in 1985 and was left completely abandoned. People interested in the paranormal would try to enter the building but with no success. As of 2005 you can now live on the property in renovated or completely new apartments and condos. That being said there are still graveyards for patients. if you walk down a hill you will come across many markers, most of them remain nameless. Hopefully the rent is cheap?

Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast - Fall River, Massachusetts

“Lizzie Borden took an ax and gave her mother forty whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.” So goes the catchy rhyme that anyone from New England is sure to have memorized. Whether or not Lizzie actually killed her parents is a matter that is still debated today, but you can stay in the very house where the couple met their gruesome fate. The Lizzie Borden house is now a bed and breakfast and museum and is also said to be very much haunted.

Guests lucky enough to snag a reservations at this constantly booked up B&B can sleep in John V. Morse room, where Lizzie’s mother was murdered. Downstairs visitors can see the couch where her father died. Overnight guests get an extensive tour that lasts about an hour and half of the house including the basement and a full of history and the murder case. To those who don’t want to sleep in the room where someone was ax murdered, the museum also offers a 50 minute tours visitors.

Those who have decided to stay the night have reported hearing a woman crying, heard unexplained noises and have even woken up with scratches all over their bodies. Also frequently reported are the apparitions of Lizzie herself as well as the murdered John and Abby wandering the home.

Hawthorne Hotel - Salem, Massachusetts

The Hawthorne Hotel in Salem, Massachusetts has been ranked as one of the top 10 haunted hotels in the United States. It was also recently investigated by The Atlantic Paranormal Society, better known as TAPS or The Ghost Hunters.

Since its opening 1925, the Hawthorne has collected numerous ghosts. Witnesses have reported hearing what sounds like a child crying incessantly when there are no children around. Guests in room 325 have felt the sensation of someone’s hand touching theirs when no one is there.

The ghostly figure of a woman is also known to wander the 6th floor hallway. Others claim to have seen the woman enter different rooms as well and more still report a feeling of unease on the entire 6th floor and a restless presence that appears to pace the room according to guests who have stayed in Suite 612 of the hotel. Other guests in 612 that have not seen the pacing spirit report to hear footsteps in the room as though someone is pacing back and forth.

A more comedic report, at least to me, is from a guest who claimed someone had managed to get into his room when he heard the sink running and the toilet flush in his bathroom. After being shown there was no way anyone could get into his bathroom the man was resigned to the notion it was a ghost, and he was ok with that notion. I don;t know if I would be ok with that notion but to each their own. It is Salem after all and though this building is relatively young, the history of the city cannot be overlooked.

Connecticut

The Sterling Opera House - Derby, Connecticut

Built in 1889, The Sterling Opera House in Derby, CT is said to be one of the most haunted places in New England. The hauntingly beautiful Opera House remained open until 1945 and served as host to a slew of famous performers such as Bob Hope and Harry Houdini. Today, all that are left to perform or attend are the spirits.

There have been a number of paranormal investigations in the opera house over the years and the evidence gathered during them has included children talking or singing, shadowy spectors, light anomalies and the sudden appearance of child-sized handprints. Although most of the activity seems to center around children, some say that the building is also haunted by the spirit of Charles Sterling who the building was named for.

Dudleytown - Cornwall, Connecticut

Unlike some of the other hotspots on our list, this haunting consumed an entire town! Dudleytown was a village that was once said to be under a terrible curse. The Village was founded in 1738 by The Dudley Family who is the one who were the victims of the apparent cursed. You would think the curse would have ended when all of the Dudleys died soon after settling in Dudleytown, but it is said that the curse went on to infect the rest of the village. After the last Dudley died, the population of the town began to rapidly decrease with death... and it wasn’t a plague or sickness.

No, the deaths were violent in nature. Accidents and suicides wreaked havoc as well as a higher than average number of cases of insanity. The village was completely abandoned in the 1800s and now all that remains are the foundations and some stone ruins. Though access is rarely granted to the remains of this village by its current owners, guests to the ruins report that many of the former residents are still there in the form of ghosts. Many say that when entering the village there is a strong sense of dread. Some have seen orbs of light and unexplained shadow figures in the area.

To add to the strangeness, all visitors seem to notice the same unsettling thing. Though this is an area of overgrown forest, there are no birds or animals to be seen or heard. I think that’s enough warning for me to stay out!

Rhode Island

We’ve already visited my home state of RI on our haunted location hunt this week but here are two bonus locations for our tour of New England!

The Breakers Mansion - Newport, Rhode Island

The Breakers is one of the most popular tourist attractions and wedding venues on Aquidneck Island, but it has a haunted history. This mansion was originally the summer home of Cornelius Vanderbilt II, who was a member of the wealthy Vanderbilt family. It is said that Vanderbilt’s wife, Alice, was known to roam throughout the building, even after her death in 1934. Her spirit has been seen on multiple levels of the house in fine dresses from the golden age. other witnesses have reported the feeling of being watched or followed by something they couldn’t see.

The family currently living there says that Alice is a near constant presence but they will not allow any ghost tours or investigators because they believe she has a right to her own home and they don’t want to disturb her.

Seaview Terrace - Newport, Rhode Island

Closing out our list is the Seaview Terrace in Newport, Rhode Island. Also known as the Carey Mansion, Seaview Terrace is located on Ruggles Avenue in Newport, RI. This historical landmark dating back to 1907 and was a filming location for the gothic horror TV show, Dark Shadows. But it doesn’t just look creepy, the mansion is said to be one of Rhode Island's most haunted locations. Many believe the hauntings that take place here are attributed to whiskey magnate Edson Bradley and his wife Julia. Witnesses have reported apparitions, strange sounds, temperature drops, disembodied footsteps and the sound of a broken organ playing on its own. These odd happenings earned the mansion its own episode of Ghost Hunters.

Though several ghosts are thought to remain in the mansion, the most prominent spirit said to haunt the property is the original owner’s wife Julia Bradley.

Julia loved her home and had no desire to leave it. When Edson wanted to move to from Washington DC to Newport, they had the entire mansion disassembled and rebuilt in Rhode Island, a process that took nearly two years to complete. Julia passed away only a few years later and it seems she still doesn’t want to leave. Her ghost is often seen playing her favorite Estey organ.

One year after Julia’s death, the mansion became an exclusive all-girl summer boarding school, renamed Burnham-by-the-Sea where incidences of smoke detectors going off for no reason, bottles flying off desks and radios turning on and off by themselves were often reported. Others have experienced various strange noises like phantom footsteps, disembodied voices, banging, and even shadows jiggling door handles.

[dailyadventureprompts]

For the adventure prompt thing: How about an inland city with a towering lighthouse dominating the skyline? Instead of warding ships from the coast, the lighthouse projects a magical field of energy every night to keep out the hordes of monsters in the wilderness. People need to venture out of the city for supplies, but woe to anyone caught outside the ward after sunset.

Oooh, lots to work with here, let me see what I can do: 

Adventure: A Fading Memory of Light

“On that terrible night when the beacon tower died, the whole city’s hope went with it. The Corpse-king’s ghostly legions, long denied the promise of conquest that bound them to the living world, were able to march against the fortifications that had so long kept them at bay. 

In a single night, the city was swept clean of life, drained to feed the corpse-king’s armies or tolled to the well of darkness from which his power sprang. Only a score of survivors managed to flee the fall of their home and cross the haunted waste to civilized lands. 

may this account teach us that there are limits to what we can accomplish under our own mortal power, and that there is some darkness in this world that not even our brightest light can withstand.” 

-A history of the strongholds of humanity, volume IV: Southeastern continent

Setup:  The party comes into possession of a most unusual object: the diary of a refugee who fled Svivolda, a magocratic city as it was overtaken by an army of undead. So traumatic were these events, that anyone who reads the journal ends up bodily transported into a dreamlike memory of the days leading up to the conquest, able to live and relive the city’s trials before being returned to their previously unconscious body, no worse for wear and only a few hours having passed. 

Little more than a ruin reclaimed by the wilderness in the present day, Svivolda was once a city ruled over by a powerful mages, that for all their power failed to prevent the rise of a conquest hungry necromancer called “The Cadaver-King”. Whatsmore, when the threat presented itself, the masters of the city refused to heed the call and join their neighbors in dispatching the foe, trusting instead in their walls and wards to ensure the safety of their holdings. This isolationist attitude saw all of Svivolda’s contemporary settlements wiped out, as the corpse-king’s influence spread  and turned the surrounding landscape into a haunted wasteland. They held out nearly a generation, before some agent of the corpse king snuck into the city and managed to destroy the city’s protective beacon tower in an act of cataclysmic sabotage. 

Today the city of Svivolda is known mostly for its tragic end,  spoken of by sages and skalds as one of the most obvious examples of what happens when good does nothing but bide its time in the face of an overwhelming darkness. 

Adventure Hooks

The party starts their first loop awakening in a disused tavern (as the isolated city has little need in way of hospitality for outsiders) after the conclusion of some kind of festival the previous night. they are granted a few days to explore the city before, at sunset, the city’s beacon tower explodes, leading to a night of furious resistance as the corpse-king’s forces appear out of the mist to besiege the now unwarded city. After the defenders fall, its a few days of panic and nightly purges as the city either flees into the wastes or attempts to hide from the phantom army. After a few days of carnage, the loop suddenly ends, kicking the heroes back out to the real world. 

It the players are wise, the book can be more than just a historical curiosity: as the rumors have it, the final, deepest vault of the magisters, with all their riches and wonders survived the corpse-king’s plundering, as well as his defeat some decades later. A smart band of treasure hunters can follow likely suspects and perhaps ascertain the location of the vault and perhaps a manner to circumvent its defenses. After that, all that’s left is to plan an expidition to the city’s ruins, through the blasted wasteland left by the corpse-king’s defeat. 

The barrier beacon of Svivolda is perhaps one of the greatest works of abjuration magic ever developed, and was thought to have been lost to the ages when the city fell. If the party can somehow steal its plans or otherwise reproduce its function, they may be able to shield their own holdings or vessels from powerful opponents as well. 

Challenges & Complications: 

While the events experienced while inside the book’s memory are only illusions, the characters present within those illusions act as if they were real: the populace are warry of outsiders, and the city watch is alert for those breaking the peace. If the characters aren’t careful, its likely that they’ll be apprehended as spies and spend the rest of their loop rotting in some dungeon. 

Somewhere in the city, the journaler is alive, a young man who works as a servant in one of the grand households and acts as an attendant to one of the city’s magister lords. Should the party manage to find the journaler and keep him “alive” during the days of fear and tumult, they can add extra time to their run. Doing so is easier said than done, as they’ll have to work backwards from the details left in what remaining journal pages they have. Unlike other changes made in the memory, these changes actually stick, resulting in new entries (though written in vaguer prose) appearing in the journals accounts and allowing the party to start earlier in the loop, or spend more time in the fallen, undead haunted city. 

Art Sources: 

https://www.deviantart.com/gerezon/art/Endless-Legend-intro-image-488261045

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/8ldvkE

[wicked-game-black-butler]

The Heart of the Sea pt. 2

June 10, 1922

The lantern room was filled with the warm, golden glow of the late afternoon sun. It bore down on Bard’s face, tiny beads of sweat forming on his nose as he squinted, his attention darting between the brass encased gauges and his log while he recorded the invaluable data. Outside his glass and steel cage, a pair of seagulls bickered noisily over a piece of bread on the catwalk, a series of metallic scrapes and clangs of their skuffle echoing in the otherwise silent room. It set Bard’s teeth on edge.

He growled, ledger dwindling to an illegible scrawl in his haste to finish, before slamming the pencil beside the thick book and stomping over to the metal door. Groaning in objection underneath Bard’s merciless grip, it opened with a bang. 

“Piss off!” he shouted, waving his arms exaggeratedly as he charged at the offending birds.

They squawked, immediately taking flight when he approached, and circled in the sky above him just to taunt him before setting off toward the sea. 

“Stupid birds,” he mumbled, kicking the forgotten scrap of bread off the ledge.

Leaning back against one of the connecting steel beams, he plucked a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it with a flourish of his lighter. He closed it, the lid giving a ringing click before he slipped it back into the pocket of his uniform jacket. Billowing wisps of smoke poured from his mouth as he sighed, a mournful smile on his lips, light blue gaze trained on the glittering horizon. It was funny, he thought, taking another drag, he’d never intended on taking up the habit. Hadn’t been tempted by them in the past--before the war. His left shoulder ached in remembrance, though it was nothing compared to the gaping emptiness in his chest. Yes, there were a lot of things that happened which he hadn’t intended. War was funny like that. 

He stood abruptly upright, coughing in a feeble attempt to seal off the swelling emotions that threatened to seep to the surface. He needed a distraction. Turning back toward the lantern room, he glanced down at his wristwatch, relief washing over him when he realized it was only half past seven. That was plenty of time. He had an hour before the lantern needed to be lit.

His hurried footsteps echoed off the brick walls of the spiraling staircase as he descended the great tower, only pausing when he snagged the stiff navy blue hat from the hook he had installed next to the entrance. He hated the thing, but he was a lighthouse keeper and people expected him to look the part. 

Upon exiting, he took one last drag from his gasper, extinguishing the still smoking stub against the heel of his shoe before flicking it into an empty clay pot he kept by the entryway for that express purpose and ran his fingers through his hair before donning his cap. Deeply breathing in the sweet salt air, he closed his eyes, relishing in the slight relief it gave to the unsettling irritation that had ensconced itself in his gut. He sighed and opened his eyes before stepping out from the shade of the lighthouse, his feet subconsciously leading him to the one place that would ease his agitation--the beach.

He didn’t know what had gotten into him. He’d been out of sorts all week. Since that stormy night, to be exact. And, though he’d not heard the mysterious hum since, the urge it bore remained, clawing at his insides like a rusty hook. An all-consuming, persistent yearning. 

Torturous as it was, Bard was secretly grateful for its presence. Otherwise, he would’ve thought he was going quite mad. There had been enough doubt that plagued his mind about that night. Even now, when he thought back on it, the memory was hazy and surreal, like a dream. Had it not been for the uncomfortable vestige the encounter had left with him, he would have chalked it all up to that, just a vivid nighttime vision. And the man he had met no more than a mere fantasy.

An image of the man flashed in Bard’s mind--brilliant eyes sparking, his plump lips curved in a smile while his soaked-through clothes sumptuously outlined his deliciously sculpted form--and he froze, heart fluttering at the memory. If he were fully honest with himself, the stranger was the reason he ventured down to the beach every day, combing miles of the shoreline. All for the ludicrous hope that he might catch a glimpse of the onyx-haired mystery. He had even asked around a few of the local hotels, thinking perhaps he might’ve been a tourist, but every time he left disappointed. 

It was silly, someone his age chasing a spectre like he was some lovestruck schoolboy. But he couldn’t--no, wouldn’t stop. For too long he had been empty, a husk of a man, devoid of feeling and purpose. But this...this sparked something in him, rekindled the dying embers of his soul with the whispering promise that he might have a chance at being something more than how the war had left him. And he wasn’t willing to give that up.

The breeze was gentle, the rolling of the lulling tide rhythmic and peaceful when he stepped foot on the beach. Gulls flew overhead, crying as they glided just above the surface of the water, dodging the few kites they encountered along their way. Sandpipers darted this way and that, frantically pecking away at the wet sand for food before fleeing the next oncoming wave. Along the shore, the white sand was littered with groups of people, tourist and local alike, who had come to enjoy the remaining sunlight before returning home. Children laughed and squealed as they ran about while their parents sat underneath the shelter of an umbrella, content to watch from afar, most likely thankful for a moment to sit undisturbed. Young couples walked arm in arm, casting wary glances behind them, hoping no one would catch them while they attempted to inconspicuously slip away to the shelter of Lover’s Cove. Years of attentive care had allowed him to create a place of safety, of refuge for any who came here. And, on any other day, such a scene might have brought Bard some sense of satisfaction, but not today.

He gave a brief smile, waving in passing to Mr. and Mrs. Midford, who sat beneath a large parasol while their daughter, Lizzie, kept trying to get her friend, Sieglinde’s, attention so she could see the beautiful seashell necklace she had strung together. The other young woman paid her no mind, too consumed with a chemistry book to be bothered. Bard snorted, shaking his head as Lizzie dejectedly bemoaned something to the effect of ‘If I had known you were going to have your nose buried in books all day, I wouldn’t have invited you to stay with us,’ and set off toward what had quickly become a familiar haunt, where he had first seen him.

He nodded, tipping his cap to those who greeted him along the way, and muttered a hurried “hello” as he passed. He even paused long enough to give a visiting couple directions to the Noah’s Ark pub. And though none of those interactions took any time at all, they made him more anxious, more desperate to break free, like they were taking up time he didn’t have to give. Even his steps felt sluggish, like his shoes were weighed down with sand. 

Cresting one of the rolling hills of the shore, a doubting voice nagged, not for the first time today, what are you doing? Did he really think this was going to change the reality of the way things were? Was he so deprived of real human connection that he was willing to scour the coastline to seek the company of a man he’d not even had a legitimate conversation with?

Growling to himself, Bard shoved those thoughts aside. Maybe he was right to doubt, to question the soundness of his thinking. But there was a stronger pull, as sure as instinct, which told him this time would be different. He had to give it a try, at least. Besides, it couldn’t hurt, could it?

He was so consumed by his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed it at first, the steady ebbing of the tension from his limbs, the slowing of the clawing. It wasn’t until his steps had stopped of their own accord that he looked up, heart thundering in his chest when his gaze rested on him.

He was a vision in white. The well-tailored cream suit fit his athletic frame like a glove, accentuating every angle, every curve in such a way that made Bard’s mouth water, the evening sunlight doing his visage more justice than lantern light could. His ivory skin glowed with the molten light as he looked over the glistening sea toward the approaching sunset, the same light gilding his onyx locks and catching entrancingly in his mahogany gaze. 

“Why, hello.” 

Bard froze, his brain short circuiting at the greeting, the man’s dulcet tone effectively erasing any coherent thought from his mind. Fuck! he thought, swallowing dryly, cotton-mouthed as the man turned to face him. Fuck! For all the time he had spent thinking back on their last encounter, Bard had never considered what he would say if he did see him again.

The man’s brows furrowed slightly at his silence and cocked his head in question, a subtly amused smile ghosting his lips. “You seem familiar. Have we met before?”

“Yeah,” Bard stammered once he found his voice and cleared his throat, doing his best to flash a confident smile, “I’m the bloke who saved you from gettin’ swept away last week. Don’t know why you thought it was a good idea to come down here in the middle of the storm.”

Bard wanted to slap himself. That was what he was opening with? 

To his relief, the man didn’t seem put off by his blunt introduction. Rather, he chuckled, his smile widening before taking a step forward. “Ah, yes, I remember now,” he said, his tone light with recognition, voice dripping like honey, “I hoped I would see you again so I could thank you properly.”

Bard could only blink, his stomach clenching with anticipation at the promise of the stranger’s words.

The man glanced down, coming to stand within arm’s length of the lighthouse keeper, his cream-hued loafers tracing aimless shapes in the sand, while continuing, “You’ll have to forgive my foolish curiosity. My work keeps me confined to the open sea and its depths most days, so I was intrigued by the possibility of seeing a storm from land.”

“Well, I can’t say that I blame ya,” Bard answered, clapping a hand down on the man’s shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze when their gazes met, “It’s dangerous, but it’s quite a sight.”

A strange, knowing look flickered in the man’s eyes, simply answering, “Indeed.”

At that, Bard lowered his hand, trailing along the soft sleeve of the man’s suit jacket. His fingers twitched when his arm came to rest by his side once more, a yearning ache in his chest in the absence of contact.

“Actually,” the man continued, “I’m new to the area. Do you happen to have time to give me a little tour?”

Bard mustered all his self control to hold his tongue when the man flashed him a breathtaking grin. Everything in him screamed to accept. However, one glance down at his wristwatch had him swearing beneath his breath.

“Is something the matter?”

Bard looked up to find the man staring curiously down at his watch. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, but I’m actually late for my shift. I can ring a friend of mine to see if he could take you instead, if you’d like.”

The man cast his gaze toward the waves, pouting ever so slightly before turning to look at Bard again. Smiling now as if in apology, he took another step toward him, rapidly closing the distance between them.

“That won’t be necessary; I can wait. After all, it was your company I desired for that adventure.” He paused, gaze never leaving Bard’s as he reached out and brushed his fingers over the buttons of Bard’s jacket, his voice dipping an octave lower, the sound making Bard’s cock twitch. “Surely you can’t begrudge me for wanting to spend a few hours in the presence of such a handsome man.”

Bard’s cheeks warmed at the unexpected turn, his heart fluttering, his resolve quickly crumbling beneath the intensity of the stranger’s gaze and the luring temptation of his words.

“Um, I could show you round tomorrow,” he offered, “Town’s not that big, so it won’t take all that long. Meet here ‘bout five?”

“Sounds excellent. I look forward to it, Mister…?”

“Oh!” Bard gasped, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, extending the other to the man in belated greeting, “Name’s Baldroy, but you can call me Bard. Everyone else does.”

“Hmmm,” the man hummed, another smile lighting his face before clasping Bard’s offered hand, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bard.”

“No need for ‘mister.’ Bard’s just fine.” 

“Very well, Bard.” 

He sighed, the sound just short of a groan, cock growing firm as his name fell from those full lips a second time. Though it had been uttered in simple conversation, there was something about it that seemed forbidden. Sinful. Enticing. And he would do anything to hear it again.

If the man had noticed how utterly disarmed he was, it didn’t show. Instead he gave Bard’s hand a gentle squeeze with his long, slender fingers and added, “I am Sebastian.”

He cast a checking glace around them before drawing Bard’s hand up in a fluid motion. Bard gave a shuddering breath, skin tingling in the wake of the feeling of Sebastian’s soft, warm lips against the back of his hand. Mahogany met sky blue. The air thickened with tense promise, their hands remaining clasped as they lowered and he added a second time, “Sebastian Michaelis.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Part two of seven

Part one here

Another huge thank you to @plague-of-insomnia for beta-ing this chapter! You’re such a joy to work with and you’ve helped me learn so much. 

[travelleroflands]

My review of Virginia’s Woolf’s ‘To the Lighthouse’

Out of all the extraordinary gifts that books bestow upon our lives, the one that awes me the most is their ability to preserve thoughts, sentiments and ideas and safely ferry them across the expansive reaches of time to stimulate our own minds in a process that seems almost magical. Especially when, while reading a certain book, you cannot help but think: How can this author, born more than a century before the shape of me was even conceived by the universe, know what is in my heart, and know it so well? How do her characters articulate so many feelings that were, until now, ineffable to me? And once you have had this thought, your wonderment can only multiply. You might highlight numerous paragraphs, and still feel as though you haven’t highlighted everything that truly mattered to you in the story. You wish you could highlight every single word, because they are all equally impactful. You are torn between rereading each chapter and setting the book aside to mull over all that you read, all that seemed to overwhelm your mind and flood your senses. And when you have finished, you know that attempting to thoroughly articulate every emotion that you feel is a futile endeavor.

Virginia Woolf’s exquisitely woven modernist story ‘To the lighthouse’, masterfully employing stream of consciousness and free indirect discourse to provide an insight into the rich inner lives of her characters, is indubitably one such book. Effortlessly, she explores complex themes like love, life, mortality and even the agony of artistry. In her capable hands, she manipulates time, expanding brief moments and contracting long years. By magnifying the minutest of details in the lives of the Ramsay family and their guests, she illumines the intricacy of relationships between woman and man, wife and husband, children and their parents and even her characters’ perceived relations with the world itself. Against the eternity of the cosmos, she highlights both the despair and the beauty of ephemerality. The lighthouse, the waves tossing in the sea, the sand dunes in the distance, the wind, geraniums in an urn, a lone shawl flapping in a deserted house, all convey some greater meaning. There is beauty, there are treasures of meaning buried deeply within each word that Virginia writes, enough to pierce one through the chest and clench the heart with force enough to induce profound emotion. As one reads, one soon becomes a part of the Ramsay household, goes down to the beach with their guests and anticipates a visit to the lighthouse.

With her beauteous prose, Virginia establishes the distinctiveness of each of her characters. Mrs. Ramsay, the paragon of loveliness, the reservoir of sympathy and the conductor of familial harmony. She is honoured for her strange severity, her extreme courtesy, like a queen’s raising from the mud a beggar’s dirty foot and washing it. She has the power to influence everyone she knows, directly or indirectly, and generously lends a piece of her own vitality to them. But, beneath it is all dark, she contemplates, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by. Her horizon seemed to her limitless. There is so much about her that the world does not see, that which gives her boundless liberty when she manages to snatch a moment of respite in her life, from all the roles that she must play. Even when she does not wish for time to pass quickly, and to take from her all that she values, she finds solace in the fact that even if the moments she cherished would soon pass, they would live forever as pristine memory in her guests’ minds. And this belief of hers is validated when Lily Briscoe, one of her guests, reminisces about her years later, the clarion image of her beauty, her powerful presence and the impact that she had on everyone still persisting in her thoughts.

Lily Briscoe is a painter, an artist who agonizes over the inadequacy of her art, which she views as a formidable, ancient enemy of hers- this other thing, this truth, this reality, which suddenly laid hands on her, emerged stark at the back of appearances and commanded her attention. She is insecure, and uncertain about her own talent, an uncertainty that is compounded by others’ estimation (women can’t paint, women can’t write) and her own belief that her work would, anyhow, end up hung in a servant’s bedroom or rolled up to keep underneath a sofa. It will not, she thinks, make much of a difference. It is through her point of view that the author gives voice to every artist or creator’s dubiety and misgivings. It is also through her perspective and her thoughts that Virginia contemplates love and its numerous forms- Yet, she said to herself, from the dawn of time odes have been sung to love; wreaths heaped and roses; if you asked nine people out of ten they would say they wanted nothing but this; while the women, judging from her own experience, would all the time be feeling, This is not what we want; there is nothing more tedious, puerile and inhumane than love; yet it is also beautiful and necessary. Or even, It rose like a fire sent up in token of some celebration by savages on a distant beach. She heard the roar and the crackle. The whole sea for miles round ran red and gold. Some winy smell mixed with it and intoxicated her, for she felt again her own headlong desire to throw herself off the cliff and be drowned looking for a pearl brooch on a beach. And the roar and the crackle repelled her with fear and disgust, as if while she saw its splendour and power she saw too how it fed on the treasure of the house, greedily, disgustingly, and she loathed it. But for a sight, for a glory, it surpassed everything in her experience, and burnt year after year like a signal fire on a desert island at the edge of the sea, and one had only to say ‘in love’ and instantly, as happened now, up rose Paul’s fire again. She also ruminates over the meaning of existence-The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one. This, that and the other………In the midst of chaos, there was shape; this eternal passing and flowing (she looked at the clouds going and the leaves shaking) was struck into stability or What did it mean? Could things thrust their hands and grip one; could the blade cut; the fist grasp? Was there no safety? No learning by heart the ways of the world? No guide, no shelter, but all was miracle, and leaping from the pinnacle of a tower into the air? Could it be, even for elderly people, that this was life? Even the creative process is given unique form in her musings- All that in idea seemed simple became in practice immediately complex; as the waves shape themselves symmetrically from the cliff top, but to the swimmer among them are divided by steep gulfs and foaming crests. Still the risk must be run; the mark made………And so pausing, and so flickering, she attained a dancing rhythmical movement, as if the pauses were one part of the rhythm and the strokes another, and all were related….

People, and how one views them, and how one attempts to estimate their merit, are also inextricably entwined in her thoughts.

Mr. Ramsay, who is venerable and laughable at one and the same time, searches for, reaches for greatness he knows he can never hope to find. He wishes to make a tangible impression upon the world, and yet finds himself unable to make any great progression in thought beyond what he has already attained, the gradations of which he likens to the alphabet. What is the point of the journey he made, he thinks, if he couldn’t even immortalize his name? What was the purpose to all that he had done? His own frail luminosity would soon be extinguished, or swallowed up in the presence of some bigger, greater star. Even at the pinnacle of his achievement, he feels like he hasn’t done enough, and his desolation and hopelessness prompt him, from time to time, to seek solace in the all accepting sympathy that Mrs. Ramsay has to offer to him. He demands sympathy, devours it almost, to the extent that it makes Lily loathe him for it. His reliance upon her for that which only she can truly give him both exhausts and exhilarates Mrs. Ramsay. Mr. Ramsay, who seeks truth with the coldest clarity, still needs his wife to soften the blow of reality, and even as he scorns her, or looks down upon her, he reveres her and respects her. Similarly, even as she pities him, she admires him. It is through the multi-layered dynamic of their relationship that Virginia Woolf explores the interdependence of woman and man.

With characters as convoluted as these, and vast themes that are applicable even to the seemingly simple, Virginia takes her readers on a journey that colours their perspective and stimulates the depths of their own thoughts. Just as the lighthouse in the story is both a silvery enigma and a stark white entity to James, all that Virginia writes can be interpreted in more ways than one, with each meaning replete with its own significance. For, nothing was simply one thing. Reading this book can be likened to a treasure hunt of sorts, where gold nuggets of understanding can be extricated every time one rereads a sentence or revisits a chapter. Virginia’s descriptions, that bear her own sui generis style, are delightful to read. In my opinion, it makes her work singular and unlike anybody else’s. It is also what, in addition to her skilful use of stream of consciousness to connect readers to the core of her characters’ motivations and actions, made me love this book so much. I do not think any amount of praise or recommendation adequate to express my love, but I truly hope that everyone who reads it finds all that I found, and much more, to take away from it.  

Note: Excerpts from the book in italics.

[elizabeth-234]

Iron Dad Bingo

Previous Bingo Card: Gender Bend

This was going to be for the No powers tag but I wasn’t sure if since Tony is still Iron Man it would count so I just popped it under Any AU! 

Summary: By day he was billion, superhero, genius, Tony Stark. By night he was barista at The Split Bean coffee shop.

Warnings: references to alcoholism

Title: The Split Bean

Chapter One: Tony Finds a Job

While everyone on Earth knew of his secret identity as Iron Man. No one, not even Pepper, knew of his other secret identity as barista at The Split Bean.

It happened like most things in Tony’s life. A split-second decision followed by a large serving of fate and pure luck.

He’d been alone and slouched over the desk in his lab. One hand held a new prototype of one of the Starkpads he was working on and the other gripped a glass. Tony cracked one bloodshot eye open and stared at the amber liquid swirling around the glass.

Checking with Friday he realized it was past midnight and he had no memory of how long he’d been working or when he’d fallen asleep. That pattern of unawareness; of falling so quickly he wasn’t even aware the ground was gone was becoming tiresome.

Tony was exhausted.

His hands trembled and he watched in stillness as the glass tipped over. Liquid spilled across the table soaking all the papers and equipment in its path. The image burned into his mind as he thought of every way his drinking affected his life. The careful way Pepper folded her napkin over and over at dinner or the eye rolls his employees would when they thought he wasn’t looking when he stumbled in late for a meeting. Rhodey would straight up scold him and he ignored the truth in his friend’s words.

Backing away from the table, Tony stumbled to the window. His hands braced on the glass. The city below buzzed with life. People, subways, billboards. He was distanced from the movement alone in the tower. His heart didn’t beat with the rise and fall of the city’s anymore and the longer he watched it, the more he wanted to down. The more he yearned for some feeling besides the ache habituating in his chest.

In the end it was a piece of cowardice, a lie he told himself, that got him out the door.

You can have one more drink if you walk.

He told himself the phrase with repeated reassurance as he entered the elevator and exited the building. Phone, keys, and jacket all left inside the tower and Tony had never been so untethered. The air swept passed him and through his clothes as he walked.

Tony walked through the night until the sun peaked out from behind the sky. His legs ached but his mind was clear. As he entered his floor again he fell into bed not reaching for the liquor cabinet despite his mantra before.

The next night he walked and the one after that. He acclimatized himself to the people and stores, learning where the popular place was for the average person and what neighborhoods played the best music at night.

A month after this ritual began, Tony he arrived back at his floor. His mind hadn’t cleared with the air outside. The fog remained heavy in the dark crevices behind his eyes. Instead of feeling the muscles pinch in his legs or his eyes droop with the good kind of fatigue, Tony sat on the couch and stared at the amber liquid.

Temptation was too strong.

Tony woke up on the couch, drool on the pillow underneath him and empty bottle mocking him from the table. His head pounded under the pellets of the shower.

He shouted at Pepper that day even though she’d placed a blanket on him in the morning. Even though she was still there for him. Once night came he paced across the wood flooring, eyes roaming with dangerous intent over everything besides what was really calling to him.

You can have one more drink if you walk. Just get out the door.

It wasn’t a lie anymore so much as a plea. If he could make it out the door he would find something to occupy his mind. Something other than those bottles and their contents.

He couldn’t do it.

Tears leaked from his eyes the next morning and the one after that when he found himself in the same spot come morning. Bottles scattered across the table and his aching body, shivering and alone. The blanket was wrapped around him again. Almost shielding him from himself, but it would have to come off sometime.

A week later, Tony tore himself away. He stumbled out not hearing Friday’s voice or reading the texts from his phone.

Somehow, he got onto the subway. Out of breath and in sweatpants Tony melted into a seat on the train. He exhaled a sigh and almost smiled to himself. On and on he sat and watched the other occupants. Stops blurred by and still he sat there.

Another burst of fate nudged him forward and at random he exited the train. He passed by crumbling brick and signs hanging from their attachments. There was apartment buildings and stores, all dark at the late hour.

Then he saw the neon sign which shone like a lighthouse beacon in a storm.

Help Wanted.

Warm air blasted on his face when he entered the doorway and with quick steps Tony journeyed farther into the shop. He had no need for more money but there was this pull dragging him forward and into the shop. Coffee beans and mild desperation wafted through the air. People milled about bent over laptops of head deep in a book sitting in various sized and shaped chairs all over the small café.

A man named Doug greeted him from behind the counter and seeing the worn-down set of Tony’s shoulders, set him up in the corner seat of the café. Doug sat with him when he wasn’t tending to customers. His grey beard catching on the end of the table every time he leaned forward to whisper some gossip about another person to Tony.  

“What brings you in to The Split Bean?” He asked after refilling Tony’s mug.

He shrugged and brought the warm mug between his hands, fiddling with the handle. There was no honest answer he could give to the man. He was here and that small fact was a miracle in itself. Doug seemed to understand everything left unsaid and his eyes knowingly roamed along Tony’s stooped frame.

“Ah, I see.” The man said and with a clap on the shoulders left Tony to his coffee.

Tony stayed all night, warm and snug in the corner. He watched the occasional passerby outside, how they hurried away from the cool breeze, and the other patrons of the café working on their various exploits.

Before he knew it, it was the end of the night. Tony was the only customer left, as it was before the morning rush. He set the cup in the bin designated dirty dishes and grabbed another rag. He and Doug wiped down the tables, sweeping underneath to get all the crumbs.

“You looking for a job?” He said, leaning against one of the tables.

Tony chuckled and shook his head. The thought was ridiculous. He was Tony Stark. There was enough money hidden in the pantry wall for him to be comfortable for the rest of his life. He was a superhero. Iron Man could not serve people their flat whites or caramel macchiatos. Iron Man saved the world, multiple times. He was also a genius. It was beneath him to stoop to this level. Not even at MIT did he even buy coffee from café.

Maybe those were the reasons he should. Tony Stark. Iron Man. They were both floating, disconnected from the day to day happenings of the Earth. He wasn’t those people, not really. They were icons and had grown beyond his own struggling person.

Tony looked around the space. It wasn’t special by any standards. Small and mismatched were two words he thought would describe it. But then he thought of the view from his floor in the Tower. Nothing mattered there. He didn’t care for any of the curated art pieces or the expensive furniture. He was a stranger in his own home.

The detachment he was running from rose up like an unleashed dam in his stomach. It swarmed up in his throat and Tony’s breath caught. His laughter stopped abruptly. This could be the pull he was feeling. It had to be guiding him to this place for some reason.

In all of a second Tony decided to change his fate.  

Doug was done wiping down and moved to grab a bag of coffee beans from a tall shelf. His wrinkled hands reached above his head, wavering before the man flinched back.

“Gosh darn.” He muttered. Doug rested into the counter, rubbing his back.

Tony marched to him and pointed at one of the bags. With a nod from Doug he grabbed it down and poured it into the machine.

“I was serious, you know.” Doug said. “I’m not as young as I used to be and you seem… well, you seem like you could use something to do. Pays not great but I need some help. What do you say?”

It was the polite way of saying Tony looked like a fucking mess, but he couldn’t fault the man for saying it in a polite way. Most wouldn’t.

“You know what? Sure, I would appreciate the opportunity.” He said, trying not to think about his latest relapse or the disappointed face Pepper gave him this morning.

That was how Tony found himself taking the subway to Queens every night to work as a barista at the Split Bean Café.

It was also the same sprig of fate that led a young Peter Parker into the café one night six months later and into Tony’s life.

Note: The name ‘The Split Bean’ is a tiny easter egg to my very first fan fiction ‘Someone to Care’ 

Thank you! 

Taglist: @whatisthou​ @warmwithafewfrostymoments​

Chapter Two: Tony Finds the Kid

[vannahfanfics]

Hiiiii again! I would love a current chapters compliant soowon x yona and I trust!!

So... I am honestly not sure if you’re the same YonaWon Anon that requested this story (which also happens to be Part I), so I just wrote another story anyway! So, if it is you, lucky you! Two stories! XD 

Mad World Part II

After wresting the dusty tome from the towering bookshelf, Yona fell back on the flats of her feet and tucked the volume underneath the crook of her arm. She paused to sweep an errant strand of her dawn-red hair from her forehead and tuck it neatly behind her ear. She pulled the book out from underneath her armpit to inspect its front cover; it was an accounting of a specific war from antiquity, written by an esteemed general. Soo-Won had requested she retrieve it from within the stacks and she obliged because, well, she was his assistant now.

Following her manic fit, Soo-Won had given her leave to enter and leave his personal study as she pleased. It was a far cry from the freedom she desired, but it was much better than being basically imprisoned in her bedroom to talk to the walls all day. As promised, Soo-Won had sent some contractors to repair the destroyed curtains with the concocted explanation that Yona had tripped and accidentally wrecked them. Their concerned side-eyes at the princess as she sat at her calligraphy desk silently drawing characters on parchment indicated that they didn’t quite believe that story, but they knew better than to openly dispute the fact. Yona had not since been gripped by that manic anger since that night, most likely because Soo-Won had taken her fragile mental health in mind and afforded her the tiniest bit of liberty.

The castle was quiet as she walked back towards Soo-Won’s study. Yona’s prior residence in the castle seemed like a lifetime away, but she still didn’t recall the castle ever being so… lifeless. Her memories, hazy as they were, were of a castle filled with laughter and smiles, of jovial parties and consular meetings, of bright days and the sense of home. To Yona it now felt like a foreign fortress of which she was a tolerated guest- fed well, clothed well, but looked upon like a stray dog or relative overstaying their welcome. The servants embraced her presence, at least, and always greeted her with genuine smiles and friendly words; however, Soo-Won’s cabinet always eyed her like a scheming wretch, a bug to be squashed before it could nip the tender flesh of their king and mar it forevermore.

They weren’t exactly wrong. Yona was indeed scheming, even if her scheming yielded no useable strategies. Scheming, as well as performing mundane chores for the king, at least kept Yona sane. Although… There was still one maddening gear that just didn’t fit properly into the clockwork of her mind.

The king himself. Soo-Won. Current sworn adversary whom she was also madly in love with and may or may not have kissed him in a very un-princess-like way after tearing curtains from a wall like a deranged maniac. Yes. A very oddly-shaped and uncooperative gear in her little whirling mind.

Yona’s steps faltered until she was standing in the middle of the hallway, just hugging the large book to her chest and staring pitifully at the stone floor. She had tried to forget about that kiss, to cordon it off in the recesses of her mind to be blissfully forgotten. She couldn’t, though. She couldn’t forget about how good it felt to have his lips moving against hers, to have his tongue swirling with hers, to have his hands roaming her body and lighting up a fire in her nerves. She couldn’t forget about what might have happened if they hadn’t stopped. She couldn’t forget about the headspace that one kiss had created, that temporary world where she could forget about all the maddening aspects of her reality and just be Yona. Not Princess Yona, not Yona the reincarnated Dragon King, not leader Yona of the Happy Hungry Bunch. Just… Yona.

Groaning, she knocked on the side of her head with a fist to shove down the tempestuous feelings that were once again rising up. It was already so complicated; she didn’t want to complicate things further by dredging up her old love for Soo-Won. Come on, Yona. Just deliver the book. It’s late in the evening, so you can retire to bed after. In her head, it sounded like a perfectly simple plan. With renewed vigor she set off to the study. Her pace was less than leisurely so she arrived in no time at all.

“Here’s the book you asked for,” she announced as she strolled in, holding up the book by the spine. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll…” she trailed off as Soo-Won leaned back in his desk chair to gaze at her with a small smile. Her words, and her plan to retire to bed, were completely forgotten in a mere instant. She stared owlishly at the taller man as he languidly rose and walked over to pluck the book from her hand.

“Thank you.” Her mouth made some gratuitous remark, but her brain did not register it. Her arm flopped limply to her side as he turned to begin thumbing through the pages. She was fixated on the way he moved, unbothered yet purposeful, languid yet graceful. Soo-Won had always been beautiful in his own sort of way. She was yet again reminded of that fact, and all it had taken was for him to get up from a desk and walk over to her. He suddenly looked up to eye her through his peripheral vision and she quickly shut her mouth after realizing that it was, in fact, hanging open. “You were going to say something?”

“Uh.” Yes, she was, but now she had no recollection of what. That little gear had tried to once more wedge itself into the cogs of her mind and sent her thought processes careening. Soo-Won raised an eyebrow and snapped the book shut to set it on the desk, turning back to face her. She found herself dimly wondering if his profile or his full face was more handsome. It was a very tough decision.

“Yona? Are you all right?” he asked. The genuine concern in his voice made her heart twist up, finally returning her wits to her. It was always that concerned, guilty look that did her in. It was so confusing. How could Soo-Won be so troubled about her well-being, and yet set this entire maddening situation into motion? How could he care for her, and yet murder her father in cold blood? She felt her throat begin to close up with mounting anxiety.

“I-I need to sit down,” she wheezed and stumbled for the nearest seat, his desk chair. He caught her underneath her elbow as she tripped over the hem of her dress, gently guiding her fumbling form to the chair. She sank down into the cushioned furniture with a shaky whine. She looked down at her hands to find them sweaty and frightfully trembling. Her face was beginning to feel clammy and sweaty, too. It was happening again. It was all surging up, the anxiety and the hypotheticals and the reality, a tsunami threatening to take her under and spirit her down into the dark abyss.

“Yona.” His voice was so soft, so reassuring. It shone out to Yona like the convivial beam of a lighthouse, and without thinking of its implications, she swam headlong towards it. Soo-Won was kneeling down in front of her. He reached out with his hands, then hesitated, leaving them hovering over her lap. When she made no move to resist, he slowly grasped her trembling hands in his own and squeezed them. “… It appears I have made you displeased again,” he remarked wryly. Despite it all, Yona sniffed self-deprecatingly.

“No. It is my own mind that is the problem,” she answered wretchedly. “I simply do not know what to do with you, Soo-Won, and it maddens me.” He glanced up at her with slightly wide eyes, then smirked dryly.

“If I told you that you don’t have to do anything with me, would you listen?” His own tone of voice indicated that he already thought he knew the answer. Before the establishment of the alliance, it would surely be right; Yona would scoff and agree that no, she would not listen. That’s what would have made sense to her. However, nothing made sense to Yona anymore. After months of spiraling down into a maelstrom of secrets and plots and myths made reality, nothing made sense at all. All Yona wanted was to reach out grasp the one thing that could make sense to her, even if it went against everything she had learned and experienced up until then. None of that made sense either; she knew not how all the puzzle pieces fit together. All she wanted was to shove the puzzle aside and for one brief, short, single moment, breathe.

“Yes,” she answered before her addled mind could convince her otherwise. Her eyelashes fluttered as she committed herself to the decision, and then repeated again more softly, “Yes… Just for one moment… I want to pretend that’s true.” His expression was calculating as he tilted his head to the side and searched her face for any sign of hesitation or insecurity. No such sign appeared. Yona closed her eyes as a sense of calm swept back over her just by the way he squeezed her hands again. Just for one moment… I want things to be uncomplicated.

On some level, she knew the kiss was coming. She knew the instant his hands met her cheeks. She knew the instant his thumbs swept away her falling tears. She knew the instant he ever-so-slightly tilted her head and the instant his warm breath ghosted her face. She knew it was coming, and she shamelessly welcomed it. Maybe she had gone mad, during those days isolated in her room poring over possibilities and hypotheticals. Maybe she had descended into insanity, but just for one moment, Yona wanted to delve into that madness where somehow things made sense.

She sighed in relief the moment his lips met hers. She leaned into the kiss, moving her mouth in tandem with his, and reached out to grab onto the front of his robes. His hands fell from her face to her shoulders, slowly making their way south until he had a firm hold on her waist. A small moan reverberated in her throat when she parted her lips and his tongue immediately moved in to claim hers. The chair creaked as she shifted forward, legs bumping into his as she searched for any semblance of closeness. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. She wanted to feel him, to know him. She keened with a needy whine, hoping Soo-Won would understand her wordless plea.

In an impressive display of athleticism that contradicted his fair physique, he deftly and swiftly wrestled her from the chair and spun her around, such that he was now seated, and she was sitting in his lap. At first, she was sitting with her legs hanging off the side; however, pressing herself into him was incredibly awkward and still didn’t provide that proximity she craved. With a grunt of frustration, she loosened her obi and opened her kimono just enough that she could swing her leg around and straddle him. Soo-Won made a choking noise of shock as she surged forward to kiss him with a ferocity, every square millimeter of her torso pressed against his.

The hairpin securing a segment of her red hair clattered noisily to the floor as his hands fisted the wavy tufts; they soon fell away to run down her back, pulling her loose kimono away from her shoulders. She whimpered as his mouth left her bruised lips, only to sigh contentedly as his lips reconnected with her neck. His name left her mouth like a divine prayer as he planted kisses down her neck, along the column of her throat, and then across her right shoulder. He finally stopped there, mouth resting against her flushed skin as he side-eyed her thoughtfully. She had her head tilted back, eyes lidded and hazed as she gazed up at the ceiling. Lost in the fog, where reality couldn’t touch her. So lost that it took her a moment to realize that Soo-Won had stopped showering her in his affections. Slowly, it dawned on her how very improper the whole thing was, and every inch of her face turned the color of her hair.

“Feeling better?” She felt him smirk against her skin. Blushing fiercely, she looked in the opposite direction of him but made no move to get up. She was feeling better. The tempest had receded back into the depths, biding its time for another moment of weakness. He took her silence as affirmation. He snorted in laughter and rested his cheek on her shoulder, staring at her in mild amusement. Yona, realizing how close she was to unveiling her modesty, pulled the front of her kimono together with her hands. “Yona?”

“What?” She couldn’t force any venom in her voice if she wanted to. She’d just let the man kiss her like a common harlot; she couldn’t pretend that she hated him now. Her mouth twitched with the urge to frown, and she rolled her eyes in their sockets to meet his heady gaze. The look in his eyes electrified her. There was no pity or triumph burning in those pools- only affection and longing. His hand shifted at her back, holding her tenderly to his body.

“If I told you that you could trust me, would you listen?” Her mouth ran dry and her throat bobbed like she was trying to choke down a rock-hard biscuit. Trust. That was a very complicated notion. Yona had not trusted Soo-Won from the moment she had watched him yank a blood-soaked sword from her father’s limp corpse. She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. Yona wanted to trust Soo-Won more than anything in her life. It would make things so simple. It would take her maddening reality and just paint it all in black and white; blissfully, she could just submit to that trust and everything complicated would all go away.

But yet… But yet…

“No.” He offered no resistance as she climbed off him and turned her back. With numb fingers still tingling with exhilaration, she fixed her disheveled kimono and refastened her obi snug around her waist. “No, Soo-Won. I wouldn’t.” Tears glistened on her lashes and she discretely flicked them away with her index finger.

“That’s fair.” He had said that the other night, too. That’s fair. Was it? Yona didn’t truly know. But that was the reality of things, in this mad world of hers. She could trust herself; she could trust Hak; she could trust Yoon and her dragons. No matter how much she wanted to, no matter if she loved him so much it was painful and allowed him to romance her as he wished… She couldn’t trust him.

And that was the only thing that truly made sense.

The chair squeaked as he reclined back against it. She glanced over her shoulder at him as he sighed deeply and rested his arm on the desk, the other stringing his fingers through his slightly sweaty blonde locks. He made no move to fix his ruffled robes, but instead picked up the tome he had discarded earlier and flipped it back open. Yona finally remembered the words she was going to utter earlier.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be retiring to my room now.”

“Goodnight,” came his only response, but he did not miss the way his eyes flickered to her form to watch her leaving. Just as she reached the door, he called out to her. “Yona.” She froze in the doorway. Was he going to ask her to stay with him tonight? Honestly, she didn’t know if she had the will to refuse him, as much as that would complicate things. She did not look back, afraid of what his expression would be. “… If you can’t trust me, trust in my love for the people.” The utterance caught her off guard. She stood in the threshold for a few seconds, processing it. Yes. Yes, she could trust in that. If anything, she knew deep down that he wanted what was best for the country.

“All right. Goodnight.” And with that, she left. He may have had her trust, but that did not mean that Yona was giving up. After all, if she did not continue fighting to uncover the truth, what was her purpose in this web of lies, deceit, and secrets? Yes, Yona would still fight, even if she believed in Soo-Won’s will to protect the people.

After all, in this mad, confusing, scary world, the fact that they were somehow working together made a comfortable amount of sense… but not enough. Not nearly enough.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

Tag List: @deliathedork

[lindoig7]

Tuesday-Friday, 25-28 August

Tuesday

We awoke carrying a few aches and pains from yesterday’s exertions, so we relaxed over some very simple killer Sudokus – we finished our previous book yesterday so started a new one today and the first few are VERY simple.

It was still raining on and off – more off than on – so we stayed in the van virtually all day.  We sorted and edited photos and wrote for our blogs all morning and watched a movie in the afternoon – Legends of the Fall.  It was quite good, if a little depressing.

After I cooked a more than acceptable steak and added it to Heather’s veges brilliantly cooked inside, we ate dinner and then played dominos while waiting for the HWS to heat enough water to do the dishes.  We usually turn the HWS off during the day to save gas (and the noise the heater makes) and had forgotten to turn it back on in the late afternoon.

We then started a new series of DVDs – just the first episode of True Detective. It is too early to tell if we will like it, but it is set in the US.  For some reason, I thought it was set in the UK when we bought the series a couple of weeks ago.

Wednesday

We were still a bit fragile this morning so had another easy morning in the van. We had intended doing the laundry, but opted instead for a quiet morning catching up on a few items of business, looking at photos and relaxing.  It was mostly sunny but still felt cold so we ran our heater almost all day again.

During the afternoon, we went for a pleasant drive before hitting the supermarket and booze shop again.  We mostly shop at Woolies, but I needed beer and have become quite partial to a cheapie made specifically for Liquorland.  It is called Steamrail Pale Ale and given my penchant for the romance, noise and smells of steam trains (and the fact that I drove one about 30 km as an 11- or 12-year-old kid), it seems appropriate to add the taste of Steam(rail) to my list of pleasures. We shopped at Coles, but they didn’t have everything we wanted and Liquorland didn’t have Heather’s favourite cider, so we finished the groceries at Woolies and the booze at BWS after all.

Our drive was originally planned for Noojee, but we saw a turnoff to the Tarago Reservoir and detoured to that.  It was a delightful drive, especially the last couple of clicks to the reservoir itself – big trees, winding track through pastures, quaint farms and outbuildings – very cute.  We had a short walk around the sprawling picnic area (where all forms of picnics or social gatherings are absolutely forbidden) but access to the dam and its water is securely fenced off. Instead of returning to the main road and Noojee, we continued on the Tarago road through picturesque Jindivik and meandered via lesser roads back to Warragul.

Thursday

It looks like being fine most of today, but with a wickedly wild, wild wind.  It is howling around, rattling the whole caravan and battering the awning even though it is in the lee of the van.  A great day to get the washing dry and it was definitely laundry day for us – but Heather used the dryer in the laundry and everything was dry in the time it would have taken to peg things on the line (and retrieve the things that would inevitably have blown away!).

I had a few little maintenance things to do, including trying to secure the awning a little more rigidly. As I said, the wind has been quite ferocious here today, particularly in the afternoon, and the whole caravan is constantly buffeted and bombarded with the shriek of the wind and the crashing of the awning.

We went out for a walk in the afternoon, just a kilometre or two around the circuit behind the van, but it was quite hard work heading into the teeth of the gale.  It is a few days since we did the loop out there and it is amazing how much difference such a short time makes.  There are many more flowers out (mainly our beloved Flinder-bells, aka onion weed) but so many trees and shrubs are now in bud, the willows are covered with long trailing green ribbons, all looking very lacy and delicate, and even the scrawny little stick just outside the van is developing its mantle of beautiful white blossom.  We hadn’t noticed any of this before, but it seemed quite obvious today that the season is definitely changing – even if the weather still shows little hint if spring (other than its traditional winds).

It is getting very hard to post anything to my blog at present.  The Wi-Fi in the park is very weak and frustrating.  I can get very slow access most days until about lunchtime, but still with lots of delays and drop-outs.  After lunch, I can never access it at all.  I managed to post a few things today by transferring some text and photos from my PC to a Sandisk USB stick, then using Bluetooth to drop that into my iPad Camera Roll, and composing and posting that to my blog using my tethered iPhone as a hotspot.  It’s a slow and laborious process with too many steps and stages where I can get things wrong.  The Tumblr app is by no means intuitive – and is a bit different on either my iPhone or iPad – so the whole process is fraught!  I will just have to keep persevering – or get up early enough to post things from my PC in the morning.

We went down to the ablution block for our showers just before 5 pm with some mountainous livid clouds threatening – and it is a good job we never left it any later.  Heather got back in time, but I had gone down a few minutes after her and had to jog back to the van in the first of some sprinkles foreboding a very heavy downpour that hit just as I reached the awning.  Another 30 seconds and I would have had two showers for the day.

Within an hour, all Hell broke loose.  The wind went absolutely wild.  It shrieked through the adjacent trees and the awning on the van next to us was reduced to a twisted pile of scrap within minutes.  Ours disconnected from its struts a couple of times but we went out quickly and rescued it before any damage occurred.  We could hardly hear each other for the noise, and the poor screeching Corellas and Galahs in the trees were being blown off their perches. The rain bucketed down and the lights flickered on and off for several minutes. If any of the trees behind the van had fallen our way, the van would have been completely crushed.  Fortunately, the prevailing winds all pass our van on their way to the trees.  It was all very exciting, if more than a little disconcerting.  It rained/poured on and off until about midnight or a bit after, but the wind kept lashing the van until about 5 am.  Next morning there were numerous branches down around the park, but the extent of the damage elsewhere became obvious during our excursion later in the day.

I have experienced some amazing winds in caravans.  I recall many (many) years ago, I was in an onsite van in Busselton (Western Australia) which is not so far from the Cape Leeuwin weather station and we heard that the anemometer wound off its stanchion at about 190 kph.  We awoke to 20 cm of water throughout the park, but being so sandy, it was all gone within a couple of hours.  Much more recently, we were at Camperdown in our previous little van and it was so wild that I had to park the car across the van to shield it from the worst of it as well as chocking the wheels and tying it down.  And at Tibooburra a few years ago, we were the only van in the park and drove out to Cameron Corner for the day without any inkling of an impending storm – but came back in the afternoon to find all the components of the awning distributed around the park.  Fortunately, nothing was broken and we were able to reconstruct it well enough to continue on our way.  We sat out a wild cyclone in the Kuril Islands a few years ago and Heather drew attention to another exciting storm event the first time we approached Inexpressible Island in Antarctica (NEITHER of these were in our caravan) but I still think Thursday’s little puff was about as violent as I can remember – perhaps because we were so close to the trees and the cacophony they generated.

Despite the drama of the storm, Heather made the most wonderful meal using our new double-sided frying pan/mini-oven.  We had bought a boned leg of lamb and she marinated it for almost a day with a great concoction of herbs and spices (in lots of yoghurt).  Cooking it in the pan with lots of chopped onion resulted in the most amazing rich, caramellised, delicious feast you could imagine.  It really was fantastic and we have enjoyed the leftovers in 3 meals since.  Superb!!!

Friday

A really great day today.  We headed south to the coast, but you should have seen the trees on the way that had been brought down overnight.  We saw maybe 20 or so giants and hundreds of smaller trees as well as thousands of branches, twigs and metres of bark stripped from the vegetation. We had to drive around dozens of branches and small trees on the road, but the really big ones blocking the whole road were already being removed.  Council and SES crews were hard at work, along with local farmers who were cutting up the logs and repairing broken fences and other damage.  I don’t suppose this was hugely unusual for them, but for (sort of) city slickers to see so many mammoth trees that had been guarding the road for centuries laying on the ground with their roots splayed to the heavens was pretty amazing.  It reminded us how lucky we were not to have been in the way of the giants that could have demolished our caravan had we been in the path of one.

We went down through Korumburra and Leongatha to Tarwin South and hence to Tarwin Meadows – only to find that it was private property and we almost ended up in their front yard.  We back-tracked and followed a lovely quiet road to the Cape Liptrap Lighthouse.  It was a wonderful short walk to the light-tower itself and we enjoyed some magnificent views and saw some lovely little birds (and some quite a bit bigger). The coast was still pretty wild after the storm but we kept ourselves safe, well away from the fury, at the top of the cliffs.  We had a bit of fun playing the calls of the Brown Thornbills on our birding app.  There were quite a few around and several came out to say good mornig to us as well.  Don’t usually do this, but we were trying to confirm their identity using the app and next moment they were reacting with us.

We followed the coast as close as we could and ate our lunch at Walkerville North whilst watching the sea-birds (and a dog harassing them) before going on to Waratah Bay.  We walked along the beach and saw millions of tiny sand-balls created by the little crabs that had burrowed down while the tide was out.  There were quite a few pretty shells, all broken, and hundreds of small smooth stones of almost every colour and pattern.  The beach was very flat and very wide, at least 150 metres wide I reckon, but the tide was coming in and although we watched it for a while, I guess the entire beach would have been reclaimed by King Neptune within half an hour or so.

We tried to get to Shallow Inlet but were again thwarted by the National Park closure.  We had tried to get in from the east a week or so ago without success and coming from the west didn’t make it any more doable.  It simply doesn’t make sense to close so many parks and reserves because of Covid.  Every National and State park is locked up for no conceivable reason.  They would be the safest places around!  Sure, Melbourne people aren’t allowed to travel, but there is much more freedom throughout the rest of the State but government/s have chosen to punish the rest of the country despite there being absolutely zero risk.  Many of the rules are simply moronic.  There is no possible policy reason for them and the only other interpretation I can put on this stupidity is that the rules are set with only vindictiveness in mind.

We were able to go to nearby Sandy Point - and when we reached the end of the road, we simply drove straight onto the beach. We weren’t the only car on the beach and it was obvious from the many tyre tracks that driving on the beach was normal.  We drove half a kilometre or so along to where there was a sign indicating that driving beyond that point was not allowed, but it was a bit of fun and enabled up to get some good views of the shore-birds.  We saw about 15 Eastern Curlews – not that common in our experience – and a couple of hundred Red-capped Plovers – a lot more than all I have seen in my lifetime.  It was a great opportunity for a few photos and a bit of a novelty to drive on the hard-packed sand.  The whole area was wonderfully quiet and peaceful and quite beautiful!

We dilly-dallied there for a while and then drove home via Meeniyan, Mirboo North and Trafalgar with the last leg in particular being through really beautiful country.

[terramythos]

TerraMythos 2021 Reading Challenge - Book 1 of 26

Title: Annihilation (The Southern Reach #1) (2014) - REREAD

Author: Jeff VanderMeer

Genre/Tags: Horror, Science Fiction, Ecological Horror, Cosmic Horror, Weird, First-Person, Unreliable Narrator, Female Protagonist

Rating: 10/10

Date Began: 1/01/2021

Date Finished: 1/05/2021

Along an isolated stretch of coast lies Area X, a pristine wilderness which appeared decades ago and decimated all human civilization within its borders. The only people to enter since have been official expeditions overseen by the mysterious Southern Reach. Annihilation follows the twelfth expedition, an all-female party of four including a psychologist, an anthropologist, a surveyor, and a biologist.

The biologist has a secret; her husband was a member of the doomed eleventh expedition. He returned a shell of his former self before being quarantined and suddenly dying of systemic cancer. She seeks answers for what happened to him. But after the party discovers a strange underground staircase with a manic sermon written along the wall, she soon finds herself infected by Area X itself.

I am walking forever on the path from the border to base camp. It is taking a long time, and I know it will take even longer to get back. There is no one with me. I am all by myself. The trees are not trees the birds are not birds and I am not me but just something that has been walking for a very long time... 

Full review, some spoilers, and content warning(s) under the cut.

Content warnings for the book: graphic violence and gore. Lots (LOTS) of body horror. Some non graphic sexual content. Mind control/hypnotic suggestion is a plot point, but there's an implication it goes beyond that. There's a pervasive sense of unreality. 

Part of me wishes I could read this book, and series, for the first time again. Annihilation is a short read with a weird, disturbing horror story at its core. Area X feels vibrant and alive in creepy ways, and the mental effect it has on the few human characters is profound. It's basically a peaceful nature preserve, but there's something deeply unsettling about the state of decay, oddly aware creatures, pervasive sense of being watched, and how it twists the minds of the characters. The biologist's asocial view of the world colors how she interacts with the setting and the conclusions she draws about Area X, The Southern Reach, the Tower, the lighthouse, and everything in between. The result is an eerie story with a scientific, almost clinical narrator experiencing something beyond human understanding.

But only parts of the overall mystery surrounding Area X are solved in Annihilation; there is an explanation, there are enough hints to figure it out, but good fucking luck. You learn there's some kind of conspiracy and shady shit going on, and the biologist gets some things right... but also some things wrong. This is either infuriating or enough of a tease to encourage one to read the rest of the series (back in 2015, I was the latter). While Annihilation is self-contained, it leaves more questions than answers.

On a reread, everything is different. One thing I admire about VanderMeer is how he integrates hints and foreshadowing without making them too obvious; something I noticed with his Ambergris series as well. In Annihilation, some of this is thematic stuff that doesn't pay off until later books ("desolation tries to colonize you"). Sometimes the biologist draws the right conclusion for the wrong reasons (everything about the psychologist and how she seems burdened). Or some things are way more horrifying with later information (why the moaning creature is Like That even though the dolphins and other animals are almost normal).

Probably my favorite example, though, is eight pages in, the biologist mentions a weird vision she had. It's a throwaway line; just one of a dozen examples on how Area X affects the mind. With later knowledge, though, it's literally foreshadowing the biologist's fate in the final book, Acceptance. You can piece together later bits within Annihilation to see how significant this moment is, but I don't think most will. And there's just tons of stuff like that that doesn't come off as important, but is a little treat for anyone rereading the story.

I guess what I'm saying here is that as much as I like the base story of Annihilation, it's better in many ways on a reread. I wish I could remember my original impressions, because now they're inextricably affected by my knowledge of what happens later in the series. I know that the mystery of it all enthralled me, but I also know lots of people drop the first book due to a lack of concrete answers. If I were to read it again for the first time, who would I be?

Besides that, something I like about this book is the gradual dissemination of information. We start in the thick of Area X and the doomed twelfth expedition, but there are several sequences where the biologist will reflect on her past and her relationship to her husband, which add context to everything else. It's just a structural choice, but one I personally like; it makes her backstory relevant without detracting from the horror or killing the pacing. I like the glimpses of her “ordinary” life and how it juxtaposes/complements the bizarre nature of Area X. 

And the horror factor is just on point. VanderMeer really shines when writing horror because everything just feels... off. Something terrible is happening, but a lot of it is psychological or just out of reach. And when the creepiness is more overt (i.e meeting The Crawler), it's great, jarring cosmic horror.  Lighthouses are a special interest of mine, so I love seeing a horror story with one as a focal point (so to speak). I dig how Area X feels like a character in the story; the mark of a good setting, especially in horror.   

To me Annihilation is a comfort read despite being a disturbing horror story. I like seeing all the moving parts and knowing how it works, and it's a very short novel compared to Authority and Acceptance. I highly recommend this series if you're looking for a creepy, cerebral story which uses nature as the backbone for cosmic horror. For those who have seen the movie, it's a much different story with a similar tone, so if you wanted more... good news! Read the books! But they're also pretty weird and sometimes dense reads, so not for everyone.

I'll be rereading Authority next, which I remember is longer with slower pacing. Let's see how it goes!