#no i will not write a book for a cent per word

[lunarhorrors]

applying for and searching for jobs as a 20-something with an arts degree is so incredibly tedious and difficult For No Reason. like i’m sorry i’m not already a professional with 2+ years of experience. i am Looking For The Experience In Question .

[whisperedmeg]

LIBRARY RULES ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: you went to the library to escape the solitude of your apartment. but the last thing you were expecting was to spend the afternoon flirting over Foucault with a sweater vest-clad FBI agent who talks philosophy like it’s a love language.

genre: fluff | w/c: 1.2k

tags/warnings: none really! some light academic jargon and mentions of philosophical theory but you don’t need background on them for the story to make sense

a/n: went to the library and got inspired to write a quick little fluffy fic over the weekend 🤓 I chose the philosophy angle because I recently rewatched s4e8 ‘masterpiece’ where spencer mentions working on a philosophy BA. I dove into my old university notes while writing this, but my brain is a bit fuzzy on this stuff so pls excuse any inaccuracies lol. also specifically had season 2 glasses reid in mind (yet again). if glasses reid has no fans, I’m dead.

You only came to the library because your apartment is too loud. Or too quiet. One of those paradoxes you could never quite define — either way, you can’t focus, and you need to. So you packed up your laptop and headed for the only place where you could guarantee the atmosphere would match your mood: hushed, academic, and ever-so-slightly tense.

You love libraries. Especially the older buildings — all worn paper, polished floors, and endless mazes of shelves. There’s something sacred about it. But what you didn’t expect was for someone else to reach for the same book at the same time as you.

“Sorry—”

“I’m sorry—”

You freeze. So does he.

Your eyes meet.

He’s tall. Messy-haired. Wearing a sweater vest over a button-down and a pair of browline glasses that make him look like he walked straight out of a graduate seminar. His hand is still suspended halfway toward the spine of the book you’d both reached for — Foucault’s Discipline and Punish, of all things — and his mouth was already parting to apologize again when he seemed to realize you’re both staring at each other.

“You go ahead,” he says quickly, dropping his hand.

“No, really, you can take it,” you say. “Are you also writing an unhinged think piece on carceral theory and state surveillance?”

His mouth quirks at the corner. “Not currently. But now I’m intrigued.”

You tilt your head, feeling a little emboldened. “Do you think Foucault actually believed total surveillance was inevitable?”

He blinks, surprised. “I think he meant it more literally than people like to admit.”

“So, panopticism as a warning?”

“Or a prophecy. Depends on how generous you’re feeling.”

You laugh. “Are you always this philosophical in the library?”

He looks faintly bashful, like maybe he isn’t used to playful interrogation. “It’s, uh, kind of my default setting.”

You laugh again and glance at the book still between you. “So, are we sharing this, or arm-wrestling for it?”

“Actually,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I was just hoping to reread the section on disciplinary power, but it’s not urgent. I can find something else if you—”

“We could share,” you offer, surprising yourself. “There’s a reading table over there. Neutral ground.”

He looks at you for a moment, something curious in his expression. Then he nods. “Alright. Neutral ground.”

You walk side by side to a tucked-away wooden table nestled between shelves, sit down next to each other, and open the book.

The silence is companionable at first. You each pull out notebooks. You reach for your fountain pen. He’d brought a mechanical pencil — you find that endearing.

He turns the book toward you and taps a paragraph. “This part always gets overlooked.”

You read it silently. Nod. Scribble something down.

Then pass it back.

He makes a soft noise of agreement and flips a few pages, skimming with an intensity and speed that makes you wonder how many times he’d read it before and just how many words per minute he could possibly absorb.

You lean over slightly. “That part, where Foucault describes power as diffused rather than centralized. That’s where the whole thing turns, don’t you think?”

He glances at you across the book’s spine. “Yes. That’s where it stops being about prisons.”

You smile. “And starts being about everything.”

He passes the book back and nods towards your padfolio. “You take good notes.”

“Thanks,” you say, warmth blooming behind your ribs.

For the next twenty minutes, you trade the book like it’s a conversation — passing it back and forth with soft commentary and under-the-breath questions. You don’t speak constantly, but there’s no awkwardness. Just the quiet rhythm of two people paying attention to the same thing at the same time.

You aren’t sure when your knee started brushing his under the table. Or when your hands began to linger slightly too long during each pass. You tell yourself it’s incidental. The table’s small, and the book is large. But still, you notice.

When your fingers brush his again — knuckles, this time — you hear his breath catch and look up to catch his eyes.

You could look away. Instead, you opt for a conversational angle.

“So what’s your background? You don’t seem like the political theory type.”

He tilts his head. “No?”

“You read too fast. And your notes are in shorthand.” You lean in, smiling. “You’re either a court reporter, an academic, or some sort of federal agent.”

His eyes sparkle with something between amusement and alarm. “I’d argue there are more possibilities than that.”

“You’d probably argue anything,” you say, grinning. “Which is why I’m betting on academic.”

He ducks his head. “I’ve spent a lot of time in academia, but nope. I’m with the FBI.”

You struggle to hide your shock, then study him a little closer. “You? No way.”

“Dr. Spencer Reid,” he says, offering a wave instead of a handshake. “Profiler with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“Wait. I’ve heard of you.”

Spencer blinks. “You have?”

You smile. “It’s hard not to, if you work anywhere near federal law enforcement. You’re the one with, like, a million PhDs and a tendency to quote Enlightenment theorists in case briefings, right?”

His ears flush pink. “My reputation precedes me, I guess. But, uh, just three PhDs. Not a million.”

You laugh softly at his awkwardness and introduce yourself in return. “I work in federal program management. Mostly DOJ-funded prison reform initiatives. Sometimes I write about the surveillance state.”

His brow lifts. “Then you probably know more about this than I do.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” you chuckle.

He ducks his head. “Well, I’ve never done it professionally. I just read a lot.”

You study him for another moment — soft-spoken, serious, a tad awkward, earnest to a fault — and feel something warm pool in your chest.

“I like your brain,” you say casually.

That makes him choke on air.

You grin. “Too forward?”

“No, I just… don’t hear that often.”

You tilt your head, feigning surprise. “That seems criminal.”

He looks at you like he’s mentally thumbing through an index card catalog for the appropriate response. When he doesn’t find one, he does what you imagine he always does: he reaches for something safer. Facts.

“Foucault argued the panopticon wasn’t just architectural,” he says suddenly, voice steadier than his posture. “It was a metaphor for disciplinary power throughout society. He thought it turned surveillance into a subtle form of control.”

You gasp. “Oh no. Now you’re flirting with post-structuralist theory?”

He flushes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. That’s my love language.”

For a moment, the air between you shimmers — not quite silent, not quite static. You watch his fingers tap against the pages. He watches your smile soften.

You stand, closing your notebook. “I gotta head out. But would you want to do this again? Same time next week?”

His gaze lifts. “Same book?”

“Same table,” you say, shaking your head as you sling your bag over your shoulder. “Different philosopher. I want to see what you have to say about Nietzsche. I bet you have many opinions on eternal recurrence.”

Spencer huffs a quiet laugh, eyes still on you. “You have no idea.”

As you turn, notebook tucked under your arm, the air in the library seems to shift. The hush of pages and footsteps resumes around you, but it sounds different now. Warmer, maybe. Or maybe it’s just you.

At the end of the row, you glance back.

Spencer’s still watching, lopsided grin on his face. He pushes his glasses up his nose and looks away like a little kid caught peeping at his gifts on Christmas Eve.

You turn the corner smiling.

Library rules: always return what you borrow. But this time, maybe — just maybe — you’re hoping to keep what you’d found.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[thesilvertheorist]

• tangled up •

Carl Grimes x gn!reader

plot: [fluff] you're sat listening to music, he ends up getting tangled up in your headphones.

tags: fluff, sfw, established relationship, happiness (eee), alexandria era, pre n*gan, post eye-loss <3

word count: 1182

Masterlist

You finally had a day off. No duties to see to, responsibilities to handle, babysitting to oversee…a rare privilege for you as of late. Rick and the council had been pushing you and the others hard, even Carl was being pushed to his limits with the workload – and that’s saying something. Needless to say, this small break in your schedule was a glimmer of hope among the pile of dogshit that was the overarching task of securing Alexandria’s perimeter and ensuring the self-sufficiency of the community.

Frustrated that you’d woken up as per your stupidly-set body clock as opposed to enjoying a nice lay in, you followed your morning routine as you usually would: quick shower, dental hygiene, combing the knots out of your hair so it dries as you like it. Puzzled as what to do with your newfound spare time, you searched your brain for ideas.

You could re-read all of your comics and books…not really as enticing the seventh time around. You could see if Carol would finally teach you her ‘three ingredient cookie’ recipe…hmmm no – cooking on a warm day like today sounded like hell. What about updating your shabby journal…eh, that could wait a few days more – what were you going to write? ‘I have a day off and I don’t know what to do with it.’… hardly introspective or poetic, definitely authentic though.

That’s when your brain lit a spark: CDs!

Whilst out on runs over the years, you made a point of collecting interesting CDs that people had left behind. In one house, you even found a portable CD player – one of the handheld ones with a headphone jack and crunchy small speakers. You were eternally grateful when Daryl found some earphones for you when raiding an old store, unopened and everything!

Your CD collection had grown over the years, you treasure them almost as much as you treasure having water in the summer or firewood in the winter. Ranging all the way from pop music (mostly Beyonce, Alicia Keys, Shakira) to rap (Eminem and 50 cent) to heavy rock (Blink-182, Green Day, The Killers), (you even have a Nirvana CD) and your absolute favourite – ‘Favourite Worst Nightmare’ by the Arctic Monkeys, a super rare find around this part of the country! They’re your prized possessions, these albums. Finally, something to do on your time off.

Content with your idea on today’s activity, you collect your CDs, the player, and your earphones and head out of the door towards your favourite tree in town. It provides the perfect amount of shade for you to sit there comfortably all day without getting burned but enough dappled light for you to feel the warm sun on your skin.

On your way over, you spot Carl – your boyfriend, walking towards you. How has Rick not caught him slacking off? Still, you walk over to him, unable to wave as your hands are full of music.

“Where’re you goin’?” he asks inquisitively, a small yet familiar smile creeping across his lips.

“Some of us have the day off,” you say gesturing (rather haphazardly) to yourself, “and we want to spend it under our favourite tree”.

“Hmm, well, lucky for some” your boyfriend retorts, rolling his eye at you, putting his hands in his pockets.

You kiss your boyfriend on the cheek before walking past him and towards your spot. Wondering how long it’ll take Rick to realise that Carl is missing, you make your way onto the grass and over to your tree – planting yourself down under it pondering if you too, could take root here.

You bask in the warm air as It breezes past you gently, taking in the smells of summer. Allowing music to fill your ears, you let yourself close your eyes, grounding yourself with the familiar feeling of the grass under your hands and the tree bark against your back. Relaxing, at last.

Time passes in a weird warp as you sit there, songs repeat as you refuse to bring yourself to change the CD whirling around in the player on your lap. You’ve absolutely no clue what time it is, nor do you really care all that much. That is until you feel someone’s footsteps vibrate the ground ever so slightly under you, feel the air change in your environment as the breeze carrying itself across you is blocked. Looking up reluctantly and rather offended, your eyes focus in on your boyfriend stood over you, smiling down at you.

“Hey sleepyhead, relaxed enough yet?” he laughs out as his hand meets the top of your head.

“You’re lucky you’re you and not anyone else, I hate people interrupting these songs” you smile back to him, taking out your earphones to hear him better.

Carl sits down next to you, placing his hat to one side yet still within reach in case the steady breeze drops, and allows himself to see what you see, to feel what you’re feeling, to ground in the way that you’re grounding. After taking a moment, he turns to you and looks through the CDs at your side, asking you if he can listen to one along with you. You gently accept and allow him to pick the next track – something you’d never allow anyone else to do.

He reaches for your earphones, finding them a little tangled up as the two of you have been reaching across one another ever since he sat down. He tries his best to undo the small knot in the wires, getting overly frustrated when he can’t – handing them over to you for help as he rests his head on your shoulder. Getting a little pouty when you undo the mess of wires almost immediately, he leans further into you as you both take an earphone each, letting the track play.

A few songs in, you feel him shift against you, noticing him place a kiss on your cheek in the same way you’d done to him earlier in the day. You turn your head to kiss him back as the music plays in your ear, feeling as though the world consists of just you and Carl in a small, musical bubble. The two of you kiss again and again and you reach to put your hand on the back of Carl’s neck, accidentally tangling the earphone wires yet again. Uncaring, you continue to feel this moment for what it is: perfect.

You and your boyfriend share laughs over the re-tangled wires, sharing smiley kisses with one another as your hands argue through fixing the knots. The remainder of your afternoon is spent with your boyfriend under this tree. He even falls asleep on your shoulder as music rings softly in his ear. Neither of you even notice when Rick storms over looking for Carl (who seemingly didn’t tell his dad that he was taking a break), but – in true Rick fashion – he takes one look at the sight of you two relaxed under that tree, that he gives you until the sun starts to dip in the sky before allowing anyone to bother the two of you.

[potatoofdefiance]

My two cents and a rant on the allegations and Good Omens

(I will probably regret this later)

This has been eating at me for a while now, ever since the news broke that Neil Gaiman was a sex pest (see infamous TERF-adjacent podcast by Tortoise media) and I have been consciously and unconsciously ruminating over it for weeks now, so here goes.

I think the news of Neil Gaiman hit me harder than I was expecting, and certainly harder than I would have liked.

I didn’t (and certainly do not now) consider myself a “true fan”. I was never a hard-core fan, one that goes to signings or book fairs or cons to meet my favourite author. Partly because I never latched that much on any of the authors of the books or movies I loved, and partly (maybe for the best now that I think about it) because I never had the money, or wasn’t located in a geographically favored area. Meaning I never lived anywhere near wherever events with Neil Gaiman were happening.

So, with all this in mind, how is it that the news managed to hit me so hard?

I thought (read: ruminated) about it, and I think it is because of Good Omens. And the latest times. In my life, and I think a good chunk of other people’s lives too, these last few years have been a roller-coaster. You choose which particular scenario the roller-coaster is set into; mine is on fire, running through a sea of shit and we are being slapped by gooey flaming eels hard in the face.

Maybe someone might enjoy this. That someone isn’t me.

But the point is: I have been struggling. With my life, with a mental health condition, with the world and my place in it.

Enter Good Omens. In an effort to actively expose myself to “nice” stuff, stuff that would, if not make me feel better, at least make me laugh, I started tapping more into the fandom.

I’m not a fandom person. Again, never latched onto anything that had a fandom big enough (where are the Ann Halam fans? No one is making cosplays of Sloe from Siberia, are they?).

But with Good Omens, it seemed perfect for me. I wasn’t invested so much, it didn’t make me feel like I was “lacking” something in order to be part of it. I just felt like I didn’t care enough to really be vulnerable to it, I felt like it could have been a nice innocuous hobby.

But that’s the point. Thinking it was innocuous made me let down my guard enough to actually fall in love with the fandom. Fall in love with those two weirdos of characters (which by the way, I’ll say this now: I think Aziraphale and Crowley as portrayed in the series are more a product of fans and Tennant and Sheen than they are a product of Gaiman and Pratchett. And this is not a bad thing per se, I think, but let’s give credit where credit is due).

And let me be clear: I gained so so much from joining the fandom. It has positively affected so many seemingly unrelated parts of my life, and I’m so grateful to so many kind strangers on the internet who have shared such wholesome art with me, and have gifted me so much, that even putting it into words is simply not enough to explain all of it.

And one of the results of this “wave of wholesomeness” is I also started following Gaiman more closely.

Like so many, I loved Coraline. Gaiman seemed a genuinely nice person. An old guy who had wisdom to share, and who seemed to be fascinatingly non-stereotypical? If that makes sense. What I mean is that he was everything my father warned me against. A goth, weird, a writer therefore an artist (and in my family we know artists are fools who end up on the street jobless and homeless). And yet, to me now he seemed such a normal guy. Yes maybe someone who enjoyed that fashion style, but otherwise very far away from the usual excess of a rockstar. Of course I was too young when he was at the peak of his rockstar years. English is not my first language, and when he was 40 I was in elementary school and just learning about him, and you know, they do not write about his fans passing out at signings or his groupies on the back cover of children’s books.

What I mean is that I didn’t have access to all the media and information about him.

So I start seemingly connecting to this writer, whose works I have enjoyed for the most part, and who seems such a nice guy in how he interacts with his fans and people in general. Such an inoffensive, kind person. And kind seemingly to everyone.

I started liking him. To the point where I remember telling my partner: you know, Neil Gaiman is someone I’d take a coffee with (which in Italian culture is one of the greatest honors one can give you. Having a coffee while sitting at a café and chat for hours is what good friends do).

So, in my mind he had a special place now. He was someone I started to admire and look up to.

And this is, I think, where it hurts. It hurts because even if I wasn’t personally victimized, I never met him, he never acted creepy with me, he doesn’t even know me, it still felt like I, as part of the fandom, had been used for his clout. And also, it hurts to feel like someone you trusted because of how they presented themselves has lied to you.

And on top of that: it is so fucking disrespectful. The fact he thought he could get away with it. With hurting so many people (one is one too many by the way), and causing so much pain, while also enjoying crowds of adoring fans, both online and in person.

I find it personally difficult to reconcile my love of the GO fandom with all of this right now. And I think it’s for a number of reasons.

Firstly because the silence of institutions and people around these facts has opened some old wounds and made me angry again towards a system that I perceive as hostile towards me and people like me who might be vulnerable.

What I mean is: I know that Gaiman is a powerful person, and a lot of people need to bring money home and are tied to contracts and what not (yeah I’m looking at our favorite two male presenting british actors here) and I understand it. I do. And this is exactly why this stuff makes me angry again. Angry at the whole shitty system we live in, where if you happen to be in some kind of power imbalance you might end up having to eat shit and shut up while witnessing violence against you or others and not being able to utter a word about it. This sucks. It makes me angry. It makes me angry that Michael Sheen, someone I like to believe would be among the first to shout “I BELIEVE THE VICTIMS” if he was talking to friends at a bar, likely has to shut up and play nicely because Darth Amazon has some fucking clause written in Braille somewhere that says he has to sacrifice his firstborn if he ever dares to suggest he doesn’t like anyone related to the franchise.

It makes me soooo angry that we stay in the dark, and we only know from those people who are brave, and powerful enough to speak up about something that (allegedly) has been known for fucking years in the writing community. That this person was a creep. That he was treating people, mainly women and non-binary folks, if not bad, at least poorly.

And you know, this makes me even more angry because I have been in such shitty situations too! I was a victim of a system where exploitation and borderline abuse were normalized in a work setting.

And it wakes something deep in me to read that “it was an open secret bla bla bla” and again: I understand why people set up whisper networks instead of taking these giants down. I understand it. It still makes me angry because I simply do not want to live in such systems. Systems where I’m either the sacrificial lamb or I’m the one tying it on the table, or handing the axe over to the butcher, or a witness who has no power to stop the suffering.

I don’t want to live in such a system. But I have to. In my real life. I have to put up with so much shit sometimes, shit that makes me feel like I cannot stand up for my values because hey, I need to pay the bills too. And Good Omens was one of those few things where I could escape a bit into an alternative reality, where everything could be a bit better.

And I’m sure the fandom is still like this for most of the fans. I have witnessed first-hand how supportive and cheerful this fandom can be.

For me though, it still makes me think of all this...tsunami of shit.

I want to be able to enjoy the silly fanart, the memes, the wait for season 3 again. But I can’t. I can’t because my brain does not work like that. Good Omens still means Neil Gaiman too much to me. And I cannot go around talking cheerfully about Good Omens while feeling like I’m feeding into the clout of someone who used their power to coerce vulnerable people. Because (and I might be wrong) it feels like the message I’m sending is: my comfort show/book is more important than your pain or your life. And I can’t. This is not the truth.

I feel for the victims. Probably I feel even more than it would be healthy for me, or normal. But I don’t know, I feel like I connect to them. Maybe because I’ve been a victim of abuse perpetrated in clear power-imbalanced relationships, or because I felt like nobody cared about me and my wellbeing for so long, that eventually I stopped caring too.

And it is bad. It’s dehumanizing to a point where you really start believing you don’t matter. Your wellbeing doesn’t matter. There are more important things.

Ok so, I don’t want the victims, the survivors, to feel like this. They matter. They matter to me because if there’s one thing that is going to re-ignate the sacred fire of defiance in me is being able to stop this self-feeding cycle of self-loathing and misery. You matter. We matter. Vulnerable people who have been hurt matter to me. If there is one thing we can do to resist these systems of oppression and these people who abuse their power, that thing is believing that the people they hurt matter. If not more, at least as much as them.

And the way I show myself and others that the victims and their lives matter to me is by distancing myself from Neil Gaiman and his works, at least for now.

I feel bad for people who might have found themselves unwillingly tied to all of this. I feel bad for Sheen and Tennant, for all the wonderful artists and craft-people who have put so much of their work and love in Good Omens and I don’t want to let them down.

My two cents are that season 3 will not be canceled if they see there’s enough traction, and definitely won’t be canceled unless fans start a crusade against it, which won’t happen most likely.

The fandom loves Tennant and Sheen too much, and these are too much nice people to really hold a grudge against them, so I don’t think it will be canceled.

I’m afraid we (I say “we” meaning everyone who loves Good Omens) will be “held hostage” by Gaiman in the sense that he knows season 3 is not going to happen without him, so it’s either “we” or the majority of “we” behave, or it’s not going to happen. Which again, I don’t think he would lose the opportunity to make some money, and he also has contract duties to fulfill, but it still is worth it for him to try to leverage his power.

I wanted to end this rant on a positive note, somehow. But I don't know exactly what to say. Recently one of the things that has brought me laughs and joy has been the Channel 4 series “We are Lady Parts”.

In one of the episodes they quote a very beautiful poem, which came back to mind when I was listening to Claire (the latest woman who has come forward with allegations) on the “Am I Broken” podcast.

The poem is Speak by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, I will paste the version from the show, because I think it’s very powerful and beautiful.

Speak, for your two lips are free Speak, for your tongue is still your own This straight body still is yours. Speak, your life is still your own.

See how in the blacksmith’s forge flames leap high and steel glows red, padlocks opening wide their jaws. Every chain’s embrace outspread.

Time enough is this brief hour Until body and tongue lie dead. Speak, for truth is living yet. Speak, whatever must be said.

[publishinggoblin]

What Makes Confluence New?

Right now on Backerkit, Confluence: The Living Archive is in its final 11 days of funding. This is a Table Top Role Playing Game unlike any other, but not just for the reasons you might think.

Look, yes, it's a 6 book set with incredible art and layout and an amazing world to explore. This is all true. It's a true living world you get to dive into and experience at the table. That's great, truly!

But the thing that made Confluence different from any other project out there that I've ever heard of, is that in this industry, freelance writing for TTRPGs pays pennies on the word you turn in.

Some people were recently talking about how 10 cents per word is pretty good! You write 5000 words for a project? That's a nice $500. Other indie people were talking about paying 7 cents per word. But what they almost never offer is hourly pay, or pay for work you do outside the writing (including researching the game material you're writing for, or research for what you're writing!)

The Confluence Contract

Confluence has always meant the world to me. Truly. I tried to fund it and make it on my own multiple times in the past. When the Alleyman's Tarot was successful, I immediately wrote the contract with my lawyer for Confluence.

Everyone who worked on the project would make $25/hr for any work they do on the project. We would all feel we had equal pull and power here in that way, as it had to be collaborative.

Everyone would be paid an up-front Retainer of $10,000 if they were going to work part time, or $20,000 if they were going to work 30 or more hours a week. This was to alleviate current financial stress and give them space to explore the game with more freedom.

Everyone who worked on the project would share ownership with things they make. New cool mechanic? It lives in Confluence AND the creator can take it to their own games later. Awesome NPC? In Confluence and can be adapted anywhere else! I didn't want anyone to hold anything back. As far as I know, this has never been done before.

I did all this because, you see, I had an amazing team of people who came together to help bring this to life. People in the US, yes, but in Canada, the UK, Brazil, India, the Philippines. You can learn more and get links to them on the Pub Gob website here!

Do You Expect This to be the New Standard?

No, I don't expect all indie publishers to start doing this for TTRPGs. It's costly and not easy. But I want to stress that this is a unique situation we will likely never see again. And Confluence can only exist into the future with such an amazing team if we can step up support on the crowdfunding project!

This experiential game doesn't want to change the industry, but it changed the process behind the scenes already. If you believe in such a thing, a possibility for people to be paid fairly and have equal say and keep the rights for their works, consider believing in this project with us. Confluence needs your help to reach its funding goal, but it also needs your help to push further so the team can continue working in this amazing space to bring you even more materials in the future!

So check us out on Backerkit today!

[tavolgisvist]

You Tell Me

When was that summer when the skies were blue? The bright red cardinal flew down from his tree You tell me When was that summer when it never rained? The air was buzzin' with the sweet old honey bee Let's see You tell me Were we there, was it real? Is it truly how I feel? Maybe You tell me Were we there, is it true? Was I really there with you? Let's see You tell me When was that summer of a dozen words? The butterflies and hummingbirds flew free Let's see You tell me Let's see You tell me

“I was really happy he [David Khane] let me include the count-in. It’s iconic.”

(Paul McCartney about You Tell Me recording)

A lovely sunny summer day. Once again, I was out at John’s house in Weybridge. <…> Around that time there was quite a spate of summer songs. ‘Daydream’ and ‘Summer in the City’ by The Lovin’ Spoonful, The Kinks’ ‘Sunny Afternoon’ – I think all those came out during the same year, 1966. We wanted to write something sunny. Both John and I had grown up while the music hall tradition was still very vibrant, so it was always in the back of our minds. There are lots of songs about the sun, and they make you happy: ‘The Sun Has Got His Hat On’ or ‘On the Sunny Side of the Street’. It was now time for us to do ours. So we’ve got love and sun, what more do we want? ‘We take a walk, the sun is shining down / Burns my feet as they touch the ground’ – that was a nice memory of summer. ‘Then we’d lie beneath a shady tree / I love her and she’s loving me’. It’s really a very happy song.

(Paul McCartney about Good Day Sunshine (1966), The Lyrics, 2021)

There's that old Maurice Chevalier song from Gigi called 'I remember It Well', which goes, ‘We met at nine, we met at eight, I was on time, no, you were late / Ah, yes, I remember it well’. I love that. A great little routine. The man in the song doesn’t quite remember, but the woman does, and ‘You Tell Me’ is a little bit like that. This is just memory. Often I think, ‘Oh my God, I really met Elvis Presley. I was really in his house, and it was a moment in time that really happened.’ That’s all there is to it. It just happened. Sometimes I pinch myself and think, ‘Was I really on the same couch as Elvis, talking about this stuff?’ I want to remember it three hundred per cent more; I want to bring it back: ‘Were we there, was it real? / Is it truly how I feel? / Maybe / You tell me’. <…> Because Linda’s father had a place in the Hamptons, I started going out there with her. That’s way over forty years ago – could be over fifty. I think that’s also where I wrote this, sometime in the early 2000s, and perhaps where the line about the red cardinal came from too, since you see them out there. ‘When was that summer of a dozen words?’ When everything’s going really well, nobody needs to talk, so you may just be sitting around with someone and reading books, or reading a newspaper, and you hardly even speak because there’s no need to; you’re in such a comfortable situation. ‘When was that summer when it never rained?’ I like that I’m not even going to try and remember what year it was. I remember hearing a story in the 1960s, when everyone was looking towards India and Indian mysticism, of some guy who was visiting a friend, and he came into the room and just sat down in a corner, and they didn’t speak. The idea was they were such good friends that they wouldn’t speak until someone had something to say. It wouldn’t just be, ‘What did you think of the football the other day?’ They were absolutely in each other’s presence, not needing to say anything. When they spoke it had to be meaningful. I liked the image of the peacefulness in that room. David Gilmour and Paul Weller, a couple of musicians whose opinion I value, independently sent me messages to say, ‘Wow, I like that one’ – to say that this song was one of their favourites of mine. Your main feedback is generally from critics, so it’s nice to get responses from people who’ve heard the song, especially real musicians, and were affected enough that they can be bothered to actually write to you. These days, it’s a message on your phone; there aren’t many people now who would sit down with beautiful old Basildon Bond stationery and expand it a bit. I don’t do too much letter writing myself anymore, but I have to admit I do like handwriting. I enjoyed being taught it at school, and I had a ‘proper’ way of handwriting. I miss the old stationery. I love the civility of letter writing. George Martin always wrote a letter to thank me for his birthday gift. We’d done ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’ together, so I would always send a birthday bottle of wine, and he would handwrite me a very elegant note. It was always a delight. In fact, I’ve kept most of them. George’s widow, Lady Judy Martin, has the same sensibility. It was very much what you did when I was growing up, but also, a certain class did it. I don’t know of many of my working-class friends in the street who did it, but my family did, and I had friends later, who lived in places like Hampstead, who would open their mail in the morning and answer it. They had one of those little envelope slitters, and they would be quite organised: ‘Dear Henry, What a surprise to hear from you. I was thinking of you only the other day . . .’ I like the civility of that. You know, the working-class equivalent of letters was the postcard. You used to write and try to be amusing. That’s when you could say things like, ‘The air was buzzing with the sweet old honeybee’. Now we have Instagram, but the postcard was the Instagram of its day.

(Paul McCartney about You Tell Me (2007), The Lyrics, 2021)

Lying behind the phrase ‘We’re on our way home’ is less the literal sense of going back to London, but more about trying to get in touch with the people we once were. The postcard sending does have a very literal feel, though. Whenever Linda and I went away, we would buy lots of postcards and send them to all our friends. John was also a great postcard sender, so you’d get some great stuff from him.

(Paul McCartney about Two Of Us (1969), The Lyrics, 2021)

[thefandomwritersblog]

Hello! As those who have been following my blog for some time now may know, my name is Liz. I primarily write fanfiction for the Horizon Zero Dawn/Forbidden West fandom, but I also enjoy exploring other fandoms and am currently working on my own book.

I'll get straight to the point. I unexpectedly lost my job last Wednesday. It was a tough blow since I had put in a lot of time and effort to do well at it. I am now actively searching for a new job and have a few potential prospects, but my previous job was what paid for my mortgage and bills. Without it, I'm not sure if I'll be able to cover my expenses until I find something new.

Therefore I am opening commissions. I currently have five slots open, and I can write for a variety of fandoms, pairings, etc. Feel free to DM me for any details!

I do have a couple of rules however:

Anything NSFW can be negotiated with a higher price attached (mostly because I rarely write sexual content/smut) to the final piece but I REFUSE to write the following:

Rape, non-consent Anything involving the abuse of children Over the top, extreme violence and gore

The following are base prices for regular work: .03 cents per word for a max of 1.5K words 500 = 15 USD 1,000 = 30 USD 1,500 = 45 USD

I am willing to go over my 1.5K word limit but for an extra .01 cents to the OG price: 2K = 80 USD 2.5K = 100 USD 3K = 120 USD

Anything with NSFW will be subjected to a price increase of .02 cents to the total word count.

Meaning 1.5 K words = 45 USD + another 30 USD (.02 cents x 1.5K = 30) = 75 USD

I also set up a Ko-fi . My commission info is there too, and you can donate some money if you want to, thought it's absolutely not necessary, as I'd prefer to take commissions.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you can't commission, I would deeply appreciate if you could share this post so I can reach as many people as I can to try and help me out in the coming weeks.

[aanoia]

your taylor swift song imagines give me life so I HAD to request one. Can you do something to Timeless from Speak Now TV with either james, sirius, or remus? whichever one you see fit!

I'm so happy I give you life ;) I chose James bc deep down I'm a James girl and it just fit best with him imo. I hope you like it!

Timeless

James Potter x reader words; 2230 song; Timeless by T Swizzle (TV, duh) alright y'all, this one might get a little confusing. Let me break it down for you. italics is lyrics (and two other super small things, you'll know it when you see it), italics and bold is memories, there's two memories split into three parts total, when the story starts saying would that means thats what would happen if it did, yk. You and James do die, I just wanna make that clear. if you love a song, the marauders, and my writing, request a song fic and your wish shall be my command. now, i have two things. one, you can give me requests anyone in the marauders era btw, not js the actual marauders (i'll even accept Peter because i like to think he never became evil and was always just shy little Peter). Second, GIVE ME PREFERANCES PLS they'll be good fillers for in between longer fics so please pls pls i rly want sushi rn anywho HAVE FUN

Down the block there's an antique shop

And something in my head said "stop", so I walked in

Y/n quietly walked into the small antique shop and the woman at the counter smiled kindly at her. She smiled back and gave her a small nod before looking around the shop. It was much bigger than it looked on the outside, so she assumed an enlargement spell was used on the inside. There were loads of trinkets across the many shelves, big and small.

On the counter was a cardboard box

And the sign said photos 25 cents each

Y/n’s eyes caught a bright white sign with bold red letters, “Photos 5 knuts per” she walked over to the table, curious. She thumbed through the pictures, all of them were old, as they were dusty and black and white.

Black and white saw a 30s bride and

Two lovers laughing on the porch of their first house

I smiled as I pulled out a picture of a man and woman. The man was in a nice suit, a bright happy smile on his face as he held the hand of a woman with a beautiful wedding dress on, her smile matching his. They seemed to be laughing in the picture, radiating pure joy. I turned the picture around and read the pen, “Just married! 7/24/36”

The kind of love that you only find once in a lifetime

The kind you don't put down

As Y/n flipped through more pictures, her mind wandered to James. She saw them in these pictures, together no matter the circumstance, with bright smiles on their faces and laughs leaving their lips. They’d be hopelessly in love in any universe, and she knew it.

And that's when I called you, and it's so hard to explain

But in those photos, I saw us instead

“Oh, did you stop by the antique shop?” Y/n’s mom asked as she walked in through the door, a small bag in my hand. 

Y/n nodded with a smile, “I did, it’s pretty cool in there. I’d love to talk more but I need to write James a letter.”

Her mom laughed, “All right, you go, don’t take too long though. Supper will be done soon.”

And somehow I know that you and I would've found each other

In another life you still would've turned my head

James looked up from his desk as a loud pecking noise was made on his window. He smiled as he saw his girlfriend's owl, banging his beak against the glass of his window with a letter tied to his leg and his claws clutching onto a brown package. James opened his window and let the owl in, petting him gently and placing a few pellets on the window cill for him to munch on. 

James opened the letter quickly, pausing as two black and white photos fell out. He furrowed his brows at the photos and his eyes flitted to the package. He grabbed it and untied the string, opening it quickly to find an old book, a few specks of dust on the front. He laughed to himself at the randomness and began actually reading the letter.

Even if we'd met on a crowded street in 1944

And you were headed off to fight in the war

“Off to war?” Y/n would’ve said, a laughing tone in her voice.

James would’ve nodded with a smile, “Yes. But we could write to each other, we could court and then once the war is over we’ll get married!” He‘d say excitedly.

Y/n  would have laughed, “Of course we will.”\

You still would've been mine

We would've been timeless

James would’ve been hanging halfway out of the train, the only thing keeping him in being his friends as he waved to the love of his life.

“I love you!” She’d shout and he’d blush.

“I’ll see you later, love! Don’t miss me too much!” He’d yell back, blowing her a kiss before he was forced back on the train.

I would've read your love letters every single night

And prayed to God you'd be coming home all right

“Oh, Y/n, don’t be ridiculous. James will be fine, I’m sure.” Lily would tease, smoothing down her skirt as she sat on the bed next to her best friend. 

“That’s easy for you to say, Lils, he’s not the love of your life. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” She’d say, setting his latest letter into a box that held all the other ones.

“Y/n, have faith in the man. He’s strong, he’ll make it.” Lily would persist and Y/n would nod with a sigh.

And you would've been fine, we would've been timeless

She’d run to James at the train station and he’d drop his bag and hold his arms out, catching her in an embrace and spinning her around. She’d laugh joyfully, thankful the love of her life was finally home. 

“Oh, I’m so thankful you’re okay.” She’d whisper and he’d kiss her cheek. 

“I’m thankful to be back with you, beautiful.”

'Cause I believe that we were supposed to find this

So even in a different life

You still would've been mine

We would've been timeless

James smiled at her idea, quite liking it himself. He loved listening, or in this case reading, about all her ideas. He knew how much her mind ran wild, thinking of every possibility for every little thing, and he loved it. He loved being a part of it. 

I had to smile when it caught my eye

There was one of a teenage couple in a driveway

Holding hands on the way to a dance

And the date on the back said 1958

James picked up one of the pictures and smiled at the couple, still in their wedding attire, holding hands tightly on a porch. He set the photo down, it not being the one he was looking for, and picked up the other one. He gazed at the two teenagers, almost imagining them as himself and Y/n. He could see it, and he remembered what it was like taking her to the Yule Ball. How beautiful she looked in her dress.

Which brought me back to the first time I saw you

Time stood still like something in this old shop

I thought about it as I started looking 'round

At these precious things that time forgot

Y/n and Lily walked into the train station together, hand in hand, happy to have made a friend before they even arrived at Hogwarts for their first year. Y/n giggled as Lily told her a story about one of her friends, Severus, and promised to introduce the two to each other. Y/n suddenly paused and Lily looked over, concerned.

“What is it?” Lily asked and Y/n pointed to a boy who was messing around with two other boys.

“He’s-” She paused, trying to find the right word. “Beautiful.” Lily laughed loudly and Y/n snapped her head to the side, “What?”

Lily shrugged, shaking off her laughter. “Nothing, nothing.”

That's when I came upon a book covered in cobwebs

Story of a romance torn apart by fate

Hundreds of years ago, they fell in love like we did

And I'd die for you in the same way

If I first saw your face

James looked at the book he had unwrapped and silently read the title. He hummed thoughtfully and opened the cover, leaning back slightly at the dust that filled the air. He smiled at the dedication the author gave. 

“To the love of my life. We, my dear, are timeless.” He read out loud softly. 

In the 1500s up in a foreign land

And I was forced to marry another man

You still would've been mine

We would've been timeless

“James.” Y/n would’ve said, running to him and hugging him after they were finally alone. “I don’t know what to do.” She’d cry softly as he rubbed her back gently.

“It’s okay, we’ll figure it out.” He’d say quietly, being equally as lost as her.

I would've read your love letters every single night

And run away and left it all behind

You still would've been mine

We would've been timeless

“Do you have everything?” He’d whisper outside the castle and Y/n would nod, handing James one of the bags.

“I do. Let’s go.” She’d say and throw the bag over the back of her horse, making sure it was secure as James would do the same. They’d share one last kiss before mounting their steeds and riding away as quickly as possible. By the time the castle woke up and realized the princess was gone, it’d be too late.

'Cause I believe that we were supposed to find this

So even in a different life

You still would've been mine

We would've been timeless

James laughed at her story, setting down the letter and glancing at her owl who hooted softly, waiting for something to return back to his owner. James pet the owl again before pulling out a piece of parchment, his quill, and an ink well, and immediately started writing back.

Time breaks down your mind and body

Don't you let it touch your soul

It was like an age old classic

Y/n smiled as the familiar pecking of her owl reached her ears. She rushed to her window and opened it, petting her owl gratefully and pulling the letter off his leg. Y/n sat down on her bed and practically ripped open the letter.

The first time that you saw me

The story started when you said hello

In a crowded room a few short years ago

It was third year, in the Great Hall. Y/n had spent the last two years of her life pining after the one and only James Potter, who barely even glanced at her. At least, that’s what she thought. But that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. 

“Just go talk to her already, Prongs.” Remus said quietly, patting his friend on the shoulder. 

James shook his head, “No way. I couldn't.”

“Why not?” Peter asked.

“Because Peter, she’s perfect. She’s beautiful, has perfect grades, I mean, she’s probably the smartest witch I’ve ever known, minus my mom. She’d never like someone like me.” He explained and Sirius rolled his eyes.

“Dude, you’re hot. That’s all you need, now go.”

And sometimes there's no proof, you just know

You're always gonna be mine

We're gonna be

“Hi, Y/n.” James said, standing awkwardly as the girl turned around awkwardly.

“Oh, hi, James!” She said, a small blush painting her cheeks.

“Okay, bye, Y/n.” He said, walking off and cursing to himself for messing it all up like that.

“Uh, bye, James?”

I'm gonna love you when our hair is turning gray

We'll have a cardboard box of photos of the life we made

And you'll say "Oh my"

“Aha, look what I found.” James would have said to his wife, pulling out the pictures she had sent him many, many years ago.

“Where did you find those? Did you find the book too?” She would’ve asked, a smile on her face as she would look at them. 

James would’ve shook his head, “Nope, no book. I’m not sure where that went. I found the letter though.” He’d say and pull it out as well. Y/n would smile as she reread her words.

“Oh wow, I’m such a sweetheart.” She’d say with a laugh.

“Not much anymore.” James would tease and Y/n would’ve hit his arm. “See what I mean.”

We really were timeless

We're gonna be timeless, timeless

You still would've been mine, we would've been

“Come on, Harry. I saw this shop when I was going on errands with mum.” Ginny said, pulling her boyfriend into a cute little antique shop. Harry looked around in awe at the shop.

“Why, hello there, young ones.” The lady at the front said, a warm smile on her face.

“Hello, ma’am.” Harry greeted and Ginny smiled at the old woman. 

Even if we met

On a crowded street in 1944

Still would've been mine

You would've been

“Look, pictures.” Ginny said, pulling Harry over to look through them. They sifted through them silently before Ginny pulled one out. “Harry, these look a lot like your parents.”

Harry grabbed the photo and inspected it closely, “They… they are my parents.” His eyes widened as he looked at the cost of the photo. The sign had bright red ink on it, “photo’s 5 knuts per”.

The lady at the front smiled when Harry placed the picture on the counter. She gazed at the photo and shook her head with a laugh.

“I remember when she first walked in here. Ah, it was such a long time ago. She bought a few of these and an old book, and two weeks later she brought him in. They were such a sweet couple. I wonder how they’re doing now.” The woman reminisced as she took the knuts from Harry.

Harry smiled at the woman, holding back tears, “Yeah, I wonder too.”

Down the block there's an antique shop

And something in my head said "stop", so I walked in

my masterlist

taglist (if u wanna be added js comment :));

@loving-and-dreaming @1lellykins @poetrypirate

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Andrew Doyle

Published: May 27, 2025

For years, woke activists have invoked the ‘paradox of tolerance’ proposed by the philosopher Karl Popper in his book The Open Society and Its Enemies (1945). Popper seems to be saying that if we tolerate the intolerant we ensure our own destruction, and the concept has often been cited as a defence of censorship or the suppression of political opponents. Many of us will have seen the cartoon meme gleefully posted by woke zealots, and this perhaps offers us the most succinct summary:

This week I had the pleasure of appearing on Winston Marshall’s podcast in which we discussed my new book The End of Woke (you can watch the full episode here and subscribe to his Substack here). During the course of our conversation, Winston raised the spectre of the paradox of tolerance, but in the context of how we might wrestle with the problem of unfettered immigration from societies that do not share our democratic values. This has given me much food for thought.

Given that the paradox is likely to be invoked more frequently now on both sides of the political spectrum, it is worth exploring a little further. Firstly, we should familiarise ourselves with the content of Popper’s paradox. This is what he writes:

‘Unlimited tolerance must lead to the disappearance of tolerance. If we extend unlimited tolerance even to those who are intolerant, if we are not prepared to defend a tolerant society against the onslaught of the intolerant, then the tolerant will be destroyed, and tolerance with them. In this formulation, I do not imply, for instance, that we should always suppress the utterance of intolerant philosophies; as long as we can counter them by rational argument and keep them in check by public opinion, suppression would certainly be most unwise. But we should claim the right even to suppress them, for it may easily turn out that they are not prepared to meet us on the level of rational argument, but begin by denouncing all argument; they may forbid their followers to listen to anything as deceptive as rational argument, and teach them to answer arguments by the use of their fists. We should therefore claim, in the name of tolerance, the right not to tolerate the intolerant. We should claim that any movement preaching intolerance places itself outside the law, and we should consider incitement to intolerance and persecution as criminal, exactly as we should consider incitement to murder, or to kidnapping; or as we should consider incitement to the revival of the slave trade.’

It is noteworthy that although Popper’s formulation is often cited by woke activists, his insistence that we ought not to suppress intolerance so long as it can be restrained by the force of public opinion is often overlooked. The triumph of social liberalism in today’s society is evident in that open declarations of racism and other forms of intolerance are treated with near-universal disdain. Faced with this reality, woke activists have resorted to detecting intolerance where it may not exist, sometimes as a means to justify acts of violence as a form of self-defence. A survey of undergraduates in the United States in 2017 found that 30 per cent of respondents agreed with the statement: ‘If someone is using hate speech or making racially charged comments, physical violence can be justified to prevent this person from espousing their hateful views’.

Popper was writing in the context of a global conflict and the atrocities of the Third Reich. It is unlikely that he would ever have envisaged his words being used as a validation for authoritarian strictures against free speech. His definition of intolerance explicitly relates to those who are impervious to rational argument and who cannot be constrained by public opinion. The woke ought to take care when invoking Popper’s paradox, given that they are the ones who most clearly resemble the model of ‘intolerance’ that he describes.

But what about the scenario of mass immigration from countries where tolerance itself is mistrusted? If we fail to make cultural assimilation a condition of citizenship, and instead foster multicultural societies in which opposition to liberal values and free speech become the norm, are we not endangering society as a whole? Where would we be if Islamist fanatics were to seize power in parliament, or sharia courts were to become more widespread, or the population shifted to such a degree that the public votes for a party that promises to take away its freedoms? Is this not precisely what Popper envisaged when he claimed that ‘if we are not prepared to defend a tolerant society against the onslaught of the intolerant, then the tolerant will be destroyed, and tolerance with them’?

I do not claim to know how best to negotiate this problem. In a previous article, I explored the case of Sweden, whose lax approach to cultural assimilation has reached the point where it feels as though the liberal consensus that the country once enjoyed has been obliterated for good. I noted that in spite of once boasting a crime rate significantly lower than most of its European neighbours, Sweden is now known as the gun-crime capital of the continent. With the exception of Mexico, Sweden is the country with the highest incidence of grenade and bomb attacks in any nation not at war.

Yet I do not feel that the UK has reached this point of no return. We still have the opportunity to affirm and reinforce the liberal values upon which our civilisation depends, but it will require resolve and vigilance. Most significantly, we need to reassert the right to freedom of expression, even (and perhaps especially) when it comes to offending the religious convictions of our fellow citizens.

The example of Hamit Coskun, the man who was arrested after burning his own copy of the Koran outside the Turkish consulate in February, represents a case in point. The Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) had originally charged him with intent to cause ‘harassment, alarm or distress’ against ‘the religious institution of Islam’. In a free society, there can be no such proscriptions against those who decide to protest peacefully against a religious belief. The CPS has since amended its wording and claimed that Coskun is now being charged under Section 5 of the Public Order Act for behaving in such a way that is likely ‘to harass, intimidate or distress others’. This is a slight improvement, but it is still far from satisfactory.

In order to ensure that Popper’s paradox need not be invoked, we should be ensuring that nobody is ever arrested for peaceful protest in the first place. To prosecute a man for burning his own book - simply because the act offends another’s faith - is not only an example of tolerating the intolerant, but outright pandering to them. Immigration on the scale that the UK has experienced is only sustainable if we defend liberal values and refuse to make any exceptions. We might call this a robust form of liberalism, one that does not cultivate the conditions of its own demise.

So while a future in which a majority of the country reject the principle of freedom is plausible, it is not inevitable. In order to avoid that eventuality, we need to act now and complain loudly when those in power insist on two-tier justice. The paradox of living in a liberal system is that not everyone will share those liberal convictions. But tolerating the right to oppose liberalism does not mean that we should sow the seeds for its destruction.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

childless cat lady painting by Dorothea Tanning.

* * * * *

A piece in the New Yorker fact-checks anti-divorce dude JD Vance's Hillbilly Elegy (and finds out his grandmother filed for divorce in the 1950s and his grandfather did so in 1981; the couple ended up legally separated) but the really important takeaway for me was: "As no-fault divorce became the norm in state after state, domestic-violence rates dropped by some thirty per cent, suicides among women dropped by as much as sixteen per cent, and the number of women murdered by their partners dropped by ten per cent."

In other words, feminism saves lives (including men's; a significant portion of women's spousal homicide is self-defense). Providing better recourse/escape routes benefits everyone, as does delegitimizing domestic violence, recognizing coercive control, and establishing that men and women are equal under the law and in every other way--in other words, that he has no right to do it.

It's feminism that did a lot of the work to bring us no-fault divorce. Here's a 1992 profile of one such woman:

"In her nearly 32 years as a professor at the University of California at Berkeley's School of Law (Boalt Hall), she has cajoled, wheedled, lobbied and persuaded in her mission to use the law to end sex-based discrimination, by reputation combining clear-eyed logic and flawless legal research with impeccable manners.

"How to make trouble without being a troublemaker, that describes my style," Ms. Kay said in an interview this week. "I think that if you are going to help build an institution, you have to be careful not to destroy it in the process."

"Now, long after many people say they expected her to get the job, Ms. Kay, 57 years old, has been named dean of Boalt Hall, the first woman to hold the position. For the female lawyers and law professors who were her students or who know her through her book and other writings on sex discrimination, Professor Kay is a "patron saint" and "godmother," and her appointment is a sweet victory.

"Over the years, Ms. Kay has become a leading scholar in family law and was an author of no-fault divorce legislation that has been adopted in California and other states. She has been a major force in bringing women into law schools and sending them out on graduation to use law to achieve social change.

"After graduating magna cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa from Southern Methodist University, Ms. Kay entered the University of Chicago Law School. She graduated in 1959, one of three women in a class of 109 students."

Which is also a reminder of how profoundly feminism remade the law and how much Vance and the Republican Party preach regression to almost every form of inequality.

But we still need more feminism because as a recent editorial in the Washington Post states: "One U.S. study found women are twice as likely as men to be convicted of a crime after claiming self-defense; the odds are even worse for a woman of color."

Likewise, restraining orders are a weak tool often not enforced against homicidal spouses intent on punishing women for leaving. Spouses who've often committed earlier violence that went unpunished. Feminism's work continues.

[Rebecca Solnit]

[circusgoth-dotcom]

Stalked

Ship: Jack Torrance x Gabriel Wiley [Swap AU]

Word Count: 1519

Summary: Gabriel has just begun his job as the off-season groundskeeper at the Overlook Hotel, accompanied by his friend Jack Torrance despite his insistence that Jack need not put that burden on himself. As they explore the hotel's grand hedge maze, strange things begin to happen to Gabriel that make him question just how good of an idea this really was. (a/n: can you tell my favourite scene from the book was the topiary animals? lmao) CWs for themes of alcoholism.

Jack and Gabriel had been at The Overlook for a little over a week, now. All the while, Gabriel had been, internally, both cursing and praising Jack’s insistence on accompanying him for this job. This gruelling, isolating job that supposedly drove lesser men to madness, at least according to the hotel’s manager. Gabriel considered himself as such and did not want to drag Jack down with him. But Lord, forgive him, Jack was such a well-meaning man… it would’ve taken far too much effort to force him away than to just let him shoulder the burden.

The first week had been uneventful. Gabriel dutifully tended to his tasks: groundskeeping, electrical, and heating. Luckily it hadn’t snowed yet, so heating was the least of his concerns. Jack was getting along with his writing in the meantime, something Gabriel deeply envied. Between chores, he would try to sit at his typewriter, which he had set up in the gorgeous Colorado Lounge, but ninety per cent of the time, the words wouldn’t come. He had barely written half a paragraph by the time Friday came around.

But the writer’s block wasn’t the worst of the hurdles, no, that could be attributed to something that was completely out of Gabriel’s control. There was no alcohol kept on the property during the off-season, for liability reasons. Jack tried to encourage him, You’ll be so busy, you won’t even realise you haven’t had a drink. It was the biggest load of shit Gabriel had ever heard.

“It’s a nice day out,” Jack called from the entryway to the lounge. “Don’t you think it’s about time we check out the hedge maze? Y’know, before it’s buried in snow and cold enough to freeze your balls off outside.”

Gabriel looked up from his powder blue typewriter, squinting at the clock on the wall. 12:40pm. He sighed and stretched, reluctantly pulling back from the desk. “Yeah, I guess. We can have lunch afterwards.”

“Great.” Jack smiled as Gabriel approached, holding out the man’s jacket and boots. “Grabbed these for you, in case you agreed.”

“Well, aren’t you a peach,” Gabriel hummed, half-sarcastic, half-affectionate. He slid off his house slippers and put on the items before following Jack out of the vast hotel. It was a crisp, late autumn day, but the unobscured sunlight warmed the Earth and the body quickly as the two men made their way across the grounds.

Gabriel frowned as he looked up at the tall archway opening into the maze. “Pretty big maze… maybe we ought to eat beforehand, in case we get lost.”

“Ah, c’mon, Gabriel. We won’t get lost. I’ve got a keen sense of direction.”

Gabriel couldn’t say no to that damn grin. He swept his arm out in front of him. “Then lead the way, Mr. Navigator.”

As soon as they entered the labyrinth, Gabriel felt as if his concerns were justified. Every turn looked the exact same, row after row of hedges, their leaves dry and brown by this point of year. It didn’t make it any easier to see past them, however, due to their tightly knit branches. Every few feet was a dip in the hedges which housed a small plaque with historical information, and every few feet they paused so Jack could read them. Though Gabriel was mildly interested in the Overlook’s history, he couldn’t be bothered with this, eyes drifting toward the pale sky. Deeper in, they found topiary animals, notably a dog, a lion, and a rabbit.

“Shit, am I going to be expected to trim these in the spring?” Gabriel groaned as he looked up at the rabbit. “Hope they like lop-eared bunnies…”

“Maybe just stick to the walls and someone more qualified will come along later? I mean, you’re just here for the off-season, they might not even expect you to touch this place at all.” Jack shook his head. “I wish I brought a camera, Danny would love these.”

“How’d your girl and the kid feel about you doing this, anyhow?” Gabriel asked curiously as they continued to walk. “Six months is quite a lot of time to be gone from them…”

Jack’s expression became sheepish. “Let’s just say, they weren’t too enthused…” He sighed, “But, y’know, Wendy, she’s a good woman. She understands that I want to be here for you, that I worry about you, so she let me go. Danny’ll come to understand when he’s a little older, I think.”

Gabriel flushed. “I wish you wouldn’t worry about me so much.”

“I know, but hey, you’re stuck with me.” Jack playfully bumped his hip against theirs and they tried to chuckle in response, but all they could think about was how close he had gotten to them in that moment. As they turned a corner, something flashed at the edge of Gabriel’s vision. He looked over his shoulder and began to slow his stride. There was a topiary rabbit not far behind them, almost in the middle of the path.

“Something wrong, Gabriel?” Jack asked, noticing how he wasn’t keeping up. Gabriel tore his eyes away and jogged up to his companion.

“Sorry, I just thought I saw something…” He screwed his eyes shut tightly for a moment. “Probably just a glare from the sun or something.”

“Probably. I don’t think we’re far from the centre, now.”

They continued on, pausing by more plaques, shooting more shit. Gabriel’s mouth felt dry, and for once he felt like a fool for not bringing a water bottle. His side was starting to ache, too. Christ am I out of shape. Finally, he had to stop, resting his hands on his knees as he took a few breaths.

“Look, I can probably find the rest of the way if you want to go ahead,” he panted to Jack.

“Are you sure?? We can take a breather…”

“No, no… it’ll be good for my writing for me to walk in silence… for a little bit…”

Jack shrugged and reluctantly continued along the path. Gabriel watched him until he disappeared around the corner, then straightened up, sniffing loudly. He looked behind him again, but no rabbit was waiting for him. “Losing my goddamn mind…” He tugged at his pants and continued to walk, alone.

It wasn’t long before an eerie feeling crept along Gabriel’s spine. Surely Jack hadn’t gotten that far away from him in that short amount of time… surely… he would’ve caught up to him by now, right? He wiped his hands on his jacket nervously. He thought about how much more fun this excursion would’ve been with a beer, then felt strangely guilty knowing Jack would’ve likely frowned on this. He halted in his tracks. In front of him, the topiary lion stood, non-existent teeth bared in warning.

“What the fuck?!” Gabriel hissed, stepping back in fear. Sudden sweat cascaded down his shoulders as he stared the lion between the eyes. He felt glued to the spot as it prowled closer. He covered his eyes with his hands, pushing up his glasses. “This isn’t real, this isn’t real. This isn’t real, this is some kind of… withdrawal hallucination or some shit…” He peered through his fingers and still spied the mass of dead leaves, even if it was now painfully blurry. “Leave me alone!”

He dropped into a crouch, covering his head with his arms as the lion charged at him, massive paws outstretched, razor-sharp wooden claws extended… a strong breeze blew over Gabriel’s form, then everything became deathly still. He dared not move. Minutes passed. When his legs began to cramp from his position, he slowly stood and looked around. There was no lion. No rabbit. No topiary animals whatsoever. Repeatedly swearing to himself, Gabriel stumbled his way to the centre of the maze.

“There you are! I was beginning to think I’d have to go fetch you from a dead end,” Jack called as they appeared from the foliage.

“Some crazy shit just happened to me, Jack,” Gabriel rambled breathlessly. “The fucking lion! It was there, in front of me! It attacked me!”

“Woah, woah, what are you talking about?? Slow down!” Jack placed his hands on Gabriel’s shoulders, forcing him to stand still.

“The lion!”

“You… mean the topiary lion?”

“Yes, that fucking lion, what other fucking lion would be around here??”

“You’re telling me… a topiary lion got up, waltzed around the maze, and specifically tracked you down?” Jack furrowed his brow at them, then took their jaw in his hand, muttering, “You do have a little scratch here, on your cheek…”

“I swear on my life it was real,” Gabriel whispered, briefly distracted by the unexpectedly tender touch. “I-I didn’t just see that shit, it ran at me…”

“Okay, okay… it’s alright… let’s just go back to the hotel and have some lunch. You haven’t eaten in a while, you didn’t bring any water… there’s probably a logical explanation to what happened. C’mon.” Jack wrapped his arm around their shoulders and led them back through the maze. They trembled under his arm, sure that they would next see the dog, but it never came.

[toothpuulp]

joe bob on men, women, and chain saws -- possibly my favorite book review ever. love his ass <33

transcript under the cut

"Joe Bob Goes to the Drive-In" for 12/18/92

cutline: Berkeley professor Carol Clover, author of "Men, Women and Chain Saws," may be the first person with a Ph.D. ever to watch 200 slasher flicks BY CHOICE.

By Joe Bob Briggs

Drive-In Movie Critic of Grapevine, Texas

For about ten years now, I've been getting flack from various organizations of feminists, fundamentalists, mad mamas and psycho college professors, claiming that the movies I write about--that is, the three B's, Blood, Breasts and Beasts--are sick and demeaning and twisted and perverted.

Of COURSE they are. Why do you think I watch em?

But there's other stuff they say that is NOT true. For example:

1. Slasher movies are demeaning because they celebrate violence against women.

I never understood this one, because I never noticed a single movie in which more women were killed than men, AND in 99 per cent of them, the ONLY person who survives is a woman.

2. Hard-core horror flicks cause crime.

If this is true, the Tarrant County Sheriff's Department should have a posse stationed outside my trailer house 24 hours a day, because NOBODY has watched more hard-core horror flicks than I have. Any day now I could go off the deep end and start flinging hatchets at old ladies.

3. Horror flicks are a way for rednecks (like me) to act out weird violent fantasies.

In other words, all of us out here in the boonies are like the cannibal family in "The Texas Chain Saw Massacre." We really WOULD like to be munching on tourists. Otherwise, why would we laugh and hoot at the screen when Leatherface's family does it?

Anyhoo, I've talked till I'm blue in the face about this stuff. I've gone to seminars, challenged the president of the National Organization of Women to a nude mud-wrestling match, faced off against that shrewd fundamentalist, Dr. Thomas Radecki, head of the National Coalition Against TV Violence. But nobody ever listens, because it's "just Joe Bob."

In other words, I'm too pitiful.

So I wanna say something here, and I want you to listen REAL carefully. I'm about to tell you about a book written by a Berkeley professor. This is hard for me. Large parts of my identity depend on HATING everything that comes out of Berkeley. But I like this book so much that I almost don't even wanna review it, because what if everybody says "Oh, don't read THAT. JOE BOB LIKES IT!"

But it gets lonely out here. So here goes.

"Men, Women and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film" is written by Carol J. Clover, Professor of Scandinavian and Comparative Literature at the University of California at Berkeley.

Whew! I'm already exhausted. Carol, next time, when you write a book, study titles like "Jaws" and "It." It's easier on all of us.

Anyhow, I'm not gonna try to analyze this whole book, because a lot of it, frankly, is over my head. (You scoff?) But it's basically about three kinds of flicks--slasher movies, possession films like "The Exorcist," and rape-revenge films like "I Spit On Your Grave." In fact, I'm pretty sure this is the first serious book in the history of the world to do a complete analysis of the PLOT of "I Spit On Your Grave."

But, from my selfish point of view, I want you to know a few things Professor Carol decided after watching about 200 of these movies:

1. Slasher movies are told FROM THE POINT OF VIEW OF THE WOMAN! In fact, the "Final Girl"--or, as I call her, the Jamie Lee Curtis Girl--is so much a part of the slasher film that the writer doesn't have any choice. You've GOT to have a Final Girl, and the Final Girl HAS TO BE A GIRL.

2. Since 99 per cent of the audience at slasher movies is MALE, this means that all those men are IDENTIFYING WITH THE EXPERIENCE OF THE WOMAN! They're experiencing the movie THROUGH A WOMAN'S BODY! ... In other words, the OPPOSITE of what the feminist censors have been saying for umpteen jillion years now.

3. Jason and Leatherface are actually FEMALES DISGUISED AS MALES. Kind of a transvestite deal. Think about it. Aren't these guys always real screwed up sexually? Don't they always have trouble DECIDING what they are? It's a tradition that continues right up through Jame Crumb, the psycho killer in "Silence of the Lambs." So the original criticism of these movies--that the killers are always male, and the principal victims always female--is turned upside down.

3. The real villains in horror movies are MALE REDNECKS. "The rednecks have replaced the redskins," she says. In the old westerns, any Indian who came on screen was ASSUMED TO BE VIOLENT AND HATEFUL AND SAVAGE. Today, any redneck who comes on the screen is assumed to be violent and hateful and savage.

4. "I Spit On Your Grave," which has been called the most disgusting film ever made (by Eggbert and Siskel), and which has been banned from cable TV for 15 years, is actually told from a female point of view, so that the audience identifies with the ultimate triumph of the woman over the leering rapists. (As I've always said, what male could ever watch the bathtub scene and think the movie is in FAVOR of violence against women? When I see that scene, I can't walk straight for a week.)

5. "The Accused" and "Thelma & Louise" are both watered-down versions of "I Spit On Your Grave." And "Silence of the Lambs" is just another version of "The Texas Chain Saw Massacre."

You think I'm oversimplifying this deal?

Yeah, okay, sure. Probly. I'm probly gonna get a letter from the whole goldang Berkeley faculty, saying "You ignorant yahoo, that's NOT what it means."

But right now, today, after reading this book, I feel pretty good about it. Makes me think there's some hope. Makes me think some smart people will get their hands on it and become dumb like me.

Hundreds of dead bodies. No breasts. Academic Fu. "Men, Women and Chain Saws," published by--oh my God!--Princeton University Press.

Four stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.

[springfallendeer]

Hey

I don't post much but for anyone wondering, I DO take writing commissions and tbh its just a basic of "I charge $10 per 1,000 words".

I've got various examples of things that I've written, both here and on A03, with these two stories being my most popular that I've posted for those looking for examples of my capabilities.

I'm only really bothering to bring this up because I've seen that @driftingmoonmenace is in a bit of an unfortunate bind. I'm not personally in any situation to be buying a commission from them (or from someone else to give to them) but I'm more than capable of doing a writing commission on their behalf.

I'll accept up to 5 at a time. To book a commission all you need to do is make a donation directly to Menace's ko-fi (of any amount you prefer) and send me confirmation of the donation to book the slot.

Or if you don't happen to want a commission but still want to support Menace and don't already follow them for some reason, just head on over and make a donation. Ever cent counts in situations like this.

I'll be keeping track of who has booked commission slots here on this pinned post.

[beeribas]

Hi, I’m offering writing commissions now! I am offering short story length works (1,000 to 10,000 words) and while I can go over 10,000 for some works I will prefer to keep works under 10,000. My work is 1 cent per word with a minimum of 1,000 words. I’ll be taking commissions on Ko-fi and the link to my page will be at the end of this post and in my bio. 

I’m a senior English major at the moment so my turn around time might be a little slow. I’m also (hopefully, I’m currently applying) going into grad school for Creative Writing in fall 2025 so turn around time will be a little slow at that point too. I have one properly published work (a short story titled Words to Use More Often in a short anthology titled Under the Skin) and one poem published in my school’s arts magazine. Please also note that I do have a learning disability that affects my grammar and spelling abilities so apologies in advance for any issues that may cause. I will have you look over the work before I send you the finished product to make sure it is what you wanted and isn’t filled with a lot of errors. 

I Will Do -

Genre fiction (fantasy is my main genre but my published work so far is realistic fiction and poetry)

Established characters for shows/books/movies

 OCs in an original universe or real world/realistic fiction stories of OCs

OCs in worlds from shows/books/movies 

Shipping (OC x OC, Established character x Established character, Established character x OC)

I’m more than happy to write fics and backstory stuff for D&D characters. A lot of what I write in my free time is about my own D&D characters so I enjoy writing in that setting.

I Will Not Do -

NSFW/Smut. I’m not uncomfortable with a little steamy stuff but I’m not a good smut writer so I won’t offer that.

Extreme violence or gore, I’m not fantastic at writing physical fight scenes so violence isn’t something I can really do. I’m not comfortable doing extreme gore but some levels of gore is fine (mild depictions of injuries, blood mentions, mentions of past injuries/trauma) 

Relationships between adults and minors

Anything that portrays things such as abuse, racism, or queerphobia in a positive light. I can write stories where characters face these issues but I will not write them in a positive or glorified light. I also will not use racist slurs.

For the most part I will not write stories set in worlds from fandoms I know nothing about or I do not like. This is mainly because I wouldn’t know enough about the world or plot of the original story to write something set in it. I might make exceptions for some things but if I don’t know the franchise/story the work you want takes place in I most likely won’t take it. I won’t do Hazbin Hotel or Helluva Boss because I do not like those shows for personal reasons so I’m not comfortable writing about them. 

Some Rules and Extra Notes -

No posting my writing online without crediting me and no posting my writing to fanfic sites. I’m ok with you giving copies of the work I do to friends for free but don’t claim my work as your own or try to resell it. 

I have the right to refuse service to anyone. If I’m uncomfortable with writing a particular prompt or a particular fandom I will refuse to write it. 

I will try to complete the story as soon as I can but it may take a while to finish some things. I’m in college and disabled so I do have some things in my life that might prevent me from writing for a few days. I will keep you updated on my progress and let you know if I will be taking longer than expected to write a particular story for whatever reason. I am a particularly fast writer and have written 3000+ word short stories in about an hour or two so it should not take too long for me to complete the first draft of your story but I will keep you updated if it does. 

What I Need From You -

Name(s) of the character(s) you want the story to be about, a description of how they look (and a pic of them if you have one), a description of their personality, and their relationships to other characters.

The genre you want the story to be in and your preferred word count if you have one.

Tropes you enjoy and would like me to include.

Tropes you don’t like and anything you don’t want me to add.

Any inspiration you want for your story. This can be anything from a music playlist to a Pinterest board to a different show or story you want emulated.

If you have a preferred date of compilation let me know. I will try to get a first draft done as soon as possible.

Be as detailed in what you’re interested in as you can, even if all you’ve got is character names and a vibe. 

I will need some form of contact to message 

My Ko-fi link - https://ko-fi.com/beeribasschultz/commissions

[puriteenism]

Brithism - fictional religion because I'm silly- (kinda a sect of Christianity bc I need something to work with people). I am not trying to disrespect any religious practices,you do you as long as your not a bigot. This is just me seeing stuff and being like you could make a religion out of this and then doing it. Tw for:religious themes and religion in general, cult like behaviour.

Religion lore:

Ok, so basically, if god is the father and Jesus the son, then there needs to be some kind of avatar for the Holy Spirit. Now, you might be saying, Florence, you silly goose, the holy spirit is meant to exist as a spirit, not as an actual person, also Jesus isnt an avatar for god, thisisnt the magnus Archive. But I went to bible school, and I attended bible camp. I know what I'm on about. I know that the Holy Spirit isn't actually meant to be sent down, and I know that Jesus wasn't meant to be the avatar of God. But Thomas Nicholas, born in 1821, claimed to be sent by god to complete the trinity. It is said that he is the Holy Spirit made flesh, as Jesus was God made flesh. He is 100 per cent spirit and 100 per cent man. How does that work? I spent 13 years of my life in the Pentecostal Church and I couldn't tell you. But back to Thomas, who is claiming to be the holy spirit in the flesh. It is said he could heal, preform miracles. He gained a small following, which spread around the US.

Thomas Backstory, accorxing to Brithism-

Thomas Nicholas grew up in (place yo be decided, drop hints down below) with his mother and father. His parents were not very wealthy but raised him a good, god-fearing Christian man. But he always felt different, always k ew too much and did much more. He always felt that strange connection to the divine. He was absorbed with the Bible, but would often find himself writing in strange symbols, which only he could understand. One word would always stay there, one he could only slightly decipher. Brith.

Strange happenings occurred around him, almost miraculous, and he heard strange voices in his sleep. His mother told him he was destined for greatness, that she knew one day the Lord, his father, would help him. His father said nothing. There were whispers that he was the second coming of christ, but he was also very humble. Even then he knew that he was not to eb that. Not yet.

He had scrounged up enough money to try and go to university and become a man of learning, for he was a smart young man, wise beyond his years. One day in his dorm, he felt compelled to walk outside, and he saw an angel, the Angel Gabriel.

Excerpt from the Brithic Testament-

Oriol, 2:73:1

And before him stood an angel, bathed in golden light with wings that stretched up to the moon. The angel kneeled down before Thomas.

'Hail the Holy Spirit, the Holy Ghost. Hail the Spirit who moves through men and blesses them. Hail the completion. Hail the Brith,'

End excerpt.

Basically, Thomas was the completion of the trinity. He immediately realised this and felt all of his holiness seep . him, fully realised. He was the Brith, which, according to Brithism,means completion in Angel Speak, which, since he was the literal holy spirit made man, he could interpret.

Gabriel gives him a book, and tells him to spread the word everywhere, that there is more to the story of the Bible, that Thomas is the completion and that people should follow his teachings. So he did.

Thomas moved back to his hometown and preached the books, which was called the Brithic Testament. And soem called him a heretic and a fool and the devil, but to many that only backed up his claims, didn't they say the same about Jesus Chrizt.

Him and his followers set up communities, and flourished. He continued the book, adding on to to the translations with his own revelations. He also altered parts of the Bible based on his holy vibes. That is how the Brithic Testament was born.

He was then killed.

At the age of 45. Which made him a maytr. Especially when he came back from the dead. He was so incredibly similar to Jesus Christ, coming back after 3 days, then apparently ascending to heaven. His religion was now quite strong and many churches had been set up The churches spread out, and soon, Brithism was quite large. Now in 2024, in the story it has around 900,000 followers around the world.

What actually happened

Time to debunk lore. That I wrote.

Thomas was most likely a charismatic leader with a creative writing talent, who was able to lie a lot, set up a lot of churches, have very loyal allies and fake his own death as well as amass a lot of wealth.

So yeah . I can write more.

@auroraofthesun1

[lizisshortforlizard]

Living Dangerously - Chapter 29

Jurassic Park’s animal handlers: none of them ever mentioned by name in Michael Crichton’s original novel. Who were they? What were their lives like on Isla Nublar? Did any of them survive the disaster?

A year in the life of those responsible for the care of the dinosaurs. Many people would kill to have their jobs.

But would they die for it?

Jurassic Park novel/Jurassic Park film (1993)

Viewpoint: 3rd person female oc

Warnings: ready to have your heart ripped out?

Tagging: @heresthefanfiction @ocappreciation @wordspin-shares @howlingmadlady @arrthurpendragon @themaradwrites @starryeyes2000 @kmc1989 (please lmk if you would like informed of my sporadic updates)

Read on Ao3

Chapter 28 | Chapter 30

Living After Midnight - Judas Priest

Over the constant hum and buzz of the jungle darkness, never completely silent, Lizzy’s laughter was ringing through the trees, ricocheting around the clearing next to the Rex paddock. 

She had a filthy laugh that Muldoon hadn’t heard before. At hundred per cent volume, totally out of control, with her head thrown all the way back.  It was bloody glorious. 

And he would be attempting to make her do it again, as soon as possible. 

I’ll have more of that please. 

“Christ Almighty-“ Lizzy wiped her streaming eyes. “-that’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard. Well done.” She started cackling breathlessly again, clutching her stomach.

“If I wasn’t awake before that, I certainly was afterwards.”

“I’ll bet.” She wriggled uncomfortably, her ribs were seriously aching. “That was a good one. Got any more?”

“More than we’ve likely got time for.”

The campfire was finally dying. They’d been out in the park for hours, it had to be almost midnight. 

He built me a campfire. Lizzy was practically vibrating with contentment. Not that she couldn’t build her own fire, of course she could, but that wasn’t the point. The gesture was the point, and the fact he had agreed to an open flame amongst trees in the first place. 

Just this once. While there’s nobody here. Those were his exact words. 

Breaking the rules. 

Just this once. 

“We’ve got all the time in the world.” She insisted. “You really should write these down, you know.”

“Maybe someday. If I ever manage to retire. In fact-“ he was struck by an idea. “-you’re a decent writer.”

“Planning on keeping me around that long?”

“I’d like to think so. You have your uses.”

“I’ll take that.” Lizzy worked hard to keep her voice even after the compliment. “But you’d need plenty of photos, or drawings. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always preferred books with pictures.”

Her tone had just enough suggestion for Muldoon to wonder if Baker, despite her promises, had let slip about his own artistic capabilities.

He quickly moved the conversation along before she had too long to dwell on the thought. “You must have a few stories of your own by now?”

Lizzy did indeed have a good one she hadn’t yet shared. Through instinct, she looked around the clearing for eavesdroppers, although they had to be the only two humans for miles and miles, a vast stretch of ocean separating them from the nearest civilisation.  

“On the topic of photographs…I never told anyone outside of the research station because I didn’t want to embarrass Simon.” She rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t matter now, and it’s not like you two will ever meet anyway.”

“Go on.” He caught his grimace just in time at the mention of the ex-fiancé’s name. 

“The first time he came to visit me in Namibia, he was a little, uh-…condescending to the locals in our team-“

Muldoon was familiar with what the swift response from said locals would be, rich white clients tended to all behave in a similar way. It was expected. But that was a whole other collection of tales for the fireside. “I’ll bet that was swiftly resolved.”

“They had some fun with him first. Simon was parading his new Polaroid camera around giving it “magic picture” this and that. I was mortified.”

“Christ-“

“He hasn’t travelled much outside the States.” Lizzy explained. “Or, in fact, outside the state of New York. Anyway, one of my team, proceeds to tell Simon, translated by yours truly, that she prefers the resolution on the Nikon 35mm and also that she had the equipment handy to help Simon clean his dirty lens.”

Muldoon smiled grimly. “You laughed too, I imagine?”

He wondered if it had been as good as the ridiculous laugh he had recently become acquainted with. 

Lizzy had indeed tried and miserably failed to keep a straight face at her partners come-uppance. “I couldn’t help it!”

She recalled the memory. Simon’s face had been hot and red, mortally embarrassed, and he’d stormed off by himself into the long grass. 

A terrible, possibly fatal response. 

Once she’d caught up to him with a shotgun slung over her shoulder, she’d had to sweet-talk him into returning to camp before he stumbled across a big cat, buffalo or even a snake who would really give him something to be upset about.

That hadn’t improved his temper at all, but he had been downright foolish of him to just wander off like he was taking a stroll in Central bloody Park!

Why’d you laugh at me? Are all your friends like this? Do we really have to stay out here with them? What’s wrong with Windhoek?

Windhoek, really? They’re just messing with you!  It’s fine! 

Not fine, Liz! They should apologise!

You’re the one who should apologise! Pembe is the best guide we have and you were damn rude-

And so on. One of many disagreements, and they seemed to be increasing in frequency. 

“Yeah, he didn’t see the funny side at all.” She sniffed. “Was never that great at laughing at himself. Bless him.”  “You need to have a fantastic sense of humour-“ Muldoon’s voice was as dry as if he were telling Lizzy her shoelace was untied. “-to work with things that regularly try to make your life insurance policy pay out before time.”

“Good thing you’re so in tune with your emotions then, eh?” The comment earned her nothing more than a derisive glance as he lowered his slouch hat over his face, and she chuckled again. 

Maybe it was the Towel Incident, or the disastrous cooking attempt that had followed, but the ice was well and truly broken. No going back now. Lizzy felt the most like herself since the breakup. It was so easy, talking to him like this. She was happy. 

They were on opposite sides of the campfire, Lizzy scooched a fraction closer on her blanket so she could see him better through the heat haze. 

Muldoon was on the ground too, stretched out on a blanket of his own. Lizzy wasn’t sure how he seemed to look even taller lying down. She shook her head, trying to chase away the thought of how she’d measure up. 

Lizzy watched him for a long time, thinking to herself in comfortable silence, before speaking again. 

“Tell me about her.”

“Who?”

He’d answered instantly. Of course he was awake under the hat, alert. As always.

“Your wife.” She answered quietly. 

Muldoon hmm-ed for a long moment, Lizzy waiting as patiently as she was able, trying her hardest not to fidget. 

Just when she thought there was no way he was ever going to answer her in this lifetime, he did. 

“You’re not unlike her. Your attitude is-“ Damn. Did it again. He corrected. “-was very similar.”

“You can say ‘is’.” Lizzy told him gently. “Nobody here but me.”

“She cooked much better than you can.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Lizzy muttered. “But, in my defence, I didn’t know food could be any other colour than beige until I left school.” Shuffling where she sat, her legs starting to get pins and needles. “She pretty?”

“Knockout.”

“Wow.” She grinned. “Lucky you.”

“A lot taller than you.” Muldoon added. “Honour is likely going to hit six foot once she’s in high school.”

“Honour?”

“Our daughter.”

“Ah.” It occurred to Lizzy he’d never told her the name of his child before. Or ever used the prefix ‘our’. Always mine. Always my responsibility from now on. No more our. 

It felt like he was divulging a massive secret. Honour. Lizzy rolled it around in her brain. Not a name she would ever have imagined him going for, but she liked it. Rather a lot.

He took the hat from his eyes and looked her up and down. “She’s almost your height already, in fact. Although that wouldn’t be difficult.”

“The diet of beige is to blame. Unfortunately, I’m stunted.”  Not where it counts Muldoon thought. There was a reason he liked walking behind along Dr Armstrong where he could get away with it. The view was spectacular.

He tried very hard to get her quite frankly unfair side profile out of his head before he answered. “We’ll pretend the smoking habit had nothing to do with it, then. Honestly, the pair of you would have gotten along.” It was the truth. His wife, too, loved elephants and had a downright filthy laugh.

“Did Jeff know her?” Lizzy asked, hoping the answer was yes. 

“They were lethal together.”

“Dr Blacklaw has quite excellent taste in women, what can I say?” She made a show of tossing her hair back.  Muldoon found himself wondering if their paths had crossed sooner and he had met Armstrong in Africa, how would he have felt about her? How would she have felt about him? 

Life might have been very different. Maybe he would have turned down the offer from InGen, gone to India instead. He wouldn’t have to be so careful about what he said or did all the time. 

At least the other chap was out of the picture now. Matters were a damn sight better than when she first arrived with that rock on her finger, like a shameless beacon, flashing I’m taken every time the sun caught it at the right angle: You haven’t got a hope in Hell. 

Maybe the universe was capable of working things out for itself, even if it had put him through the metaphorical wringer to get to this point. 

“Has there-…” Lizzy was so relaxed she had forgotten herself, who she worked for, and all her manners. As the question was tumbling from her mouth she realised how inappropriate it was. They were good friends, sure, but working friendships always had their limits.

She was about to cross a very dangerous line. 

“What?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Less of that. It clearly does, or you wouldn’t have said it.”

In a rare occasion, she seemed lost for words.

”Nobody here but me.” He quoted her own words back to her.

“I…don’t know if you’ll like it.” She fumbled. “I was just curious. Nosy. I was being nosy, alright? Sorry.”

“Try me.”

Lizzy knew that tone. I dare you. If you’re brave enough. Deep breath.

“Has there been…anyone since?”

I double dare you.

There followed a very long pause during which Lizzy thought don’t ask why, do not ask why. 

“Why?”

Dammit. 

She couldn’t be the only person on the planet who could see the appeal. More-so now that he’d stopped drinking, Lizzy had an even harder time keeping her thoughts in check. He was looking damn fine recently. 

“Eight years is a long time!” Lizzy sighed and wrung her hands. “And I told you that you wouldn’t like it! Don’t answer. No need.”

“It’s alright.”

Muldoon was in fact very interested to see where this particular conversation was headed.

They could have been back in Kenya, with the campfire and animal calls, though of a different era, still familiar in their nature, all around them. 

If there’s a right time, it’s probably now.

“Nobody significant.” He answered. One or two that didn’t work out. Three or four that had just been stress relief. Nobody that he felt deserved any more of his time or his life, or his daughter’s. Until Armstrong had landed on the island with a bang and instantly began rearranging the natural order, and damn her, questioning the where-why-how of everybloodything. 

Lizzy meanwhile, was wishing she had never brought the subject up. 

And she knew the reason. Not because it was awkward to talk about, strangely enough it wasn’t awkward in the slightest. His answer had been as casual as if she had asked him what the time was, or what the weather was likely to do tomorrow. But the answer she had most wanted to hear, been hoping to hear, no, nobody at all, was way too much to wish for. 

She’d been correct. Eight years was a long time.

Or maybe Lizzy was just a little peeved he’d probably done better in the last eight years being out of a relationship than she had done  being in one until very recently. 

She had to admit the first two years with Simon had been a lot of fun. After that it became less about fun, and more about we’re in the same country, so we’d better do something about it. God, I’m so tired. Are you tired? C’mon, we gotta. At least once. I love you. So tired.

“Anything else in this particular line of questioning, while we’re at it?” He actually sounded amused.

“When…-“ Lizzy started then ground to a halt again. Way too inappropriate.

“When…?”

She just wanted to die there and then.

“Doesn’t matter.” She frowned and deliberately looked away. “Forget it.”

“Were you about to ask ‘when was the last time’?” Muldoon smirked. He knew he was on the money. And seeing the normally confident and bolshy ethologist becoming a little flustered was delightful. “Getting rather personal there, Armstrong.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” She stammered. “None of my business.”

“I honestly don’t mind.” This could work both ways. “We’re adults. I will if you will.”

Curiosity was burning Lizzy’s insides so much that it was manifesting as stomach ache. She had gotten herself into this mess, may as well keep going. She nodded, ignoring  Kathy’s voice in her head warning you’re gonna get in troooouble…

“Remember when the dilophosaur did a number on you? I was away at the time?”

“Huh. So when you said you had a good trip, you meant you had a good trip. I see.” She played with the belt loops on her jeans, reluctant to deliver her side of the deal. 

Muldoon cleared his throat. “Forgetting something, missus?”

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t like this game.” Lizzy grumbled, only because she was losing. 

“Then don’t give what you can’t take. I’ll have to make a wild guess if you don’t want to say out loud.”

Lizzy mumbled something that he took as affirmative.

“Let’s see, then.” She was shifty-eyed and squirming. Brilliant. “ Didn’t you stop off in the States with your man before you came over here?”

“Well, yeah-“ Lizzy forced herself to get over her self-consciouness. She still had the Spanish dictionary somewhere in her room in the lodge. Regrettably, the only thing Simon had given her before she boarded her flight to Costa Rica. “But if that’s your guess, you’re dead wrong.”

Muldoon looked at her in disbelief. He had so many questions.  What the Hell had the man been playing at?! It was like he wanted to lose her.

“This year at least?” 

“Yes, if you absolutely must know!” Lizzy knew the exact Pantone shade of scarlet she was turning, far beyond pretending it was from the heat of the campfire. “April was a very good month, okay?”

April?! It’s nearly bloody next year now…

Her short temper now seemed incredibly explainable.

”I can hear you thinking.” Lizzy said grumpily, still not looking directly at him. “Not quite the answer you were expecting from someone like me, eh?”

“If that’s true, I can’t help but feel most of your bad moods have a fairly easy fix.”

“Not so easy on a tiny island, where people talk. Our favourite engineer being the main culprit.” She grinned at him. “Or I could follow your example and finally have a good reason to go back to the mainland.”

He didn’t want her to do that at all, actually, but he grudgingly agreed.

She was lying on her side, propped up on an elbow. The size of her waist in comparison to her hips was unreal. Nothing wrong with her khaki shorts, but those damn jeans were doing her some incredible favours.

Lizzy couldn’t stop, though she was wary of feeling upset from finding out more things she didn’t really want to hear. “So, do you really like this person on the mainland?” 

Muldoon chose his words carefully. ”There is someone I’m keen on, yes.”

What the-

“Oh. Yeah, great. Good for you.” It came out more sarcastic than she intended. 

Muldoon nearly laughed. Armstrong wasn’t following him. 

”You know, it’s alright to be jealous.” He couldn’t resist toying with her.

Lizzy’s reaction was explosive. 

”I’m not-“ She practically back snarled at him. “Hm. I’m not jealous!”

Very convincing thought Muldoon. 

No, not jealous. She was fuming. Someone else?! Why was he telling her that? Lizzy really thought he liked her, and now he was interested in someone else? 

”Armstrong…” Please get there faster. I’m not ready to say it yet. 

Boy, did she feel silly when she realised Muldoon was talking about her.

She was the one he was interested in. 

”This person-“ Lizzy was finally on the same wavelength, much to the relief of both of them . “-I’m not sure she’s good enough for you.” 

“Oh, really?”  “I have some questions. Just to be certain.” The delighted grin was threatening to burst forth. She forced a neutral expression.

Keep it together.

“First question: is she pretty?”

“Very.”

“Intelligent?”

“She’s a clever girl, yes.”

“Meek and feeble?”

“Not even a bit. And you know fine that’s not what I would want.” Muldoon gave her that look she knew oh-so-well. “You’re pushing your luck, by the way.”

Lizzy laughed again, the real, uncontrollable laugh, and he finally smiled.

New Year’s Eve, or Hogmanay as she better knew it, had always been more magical than Christmas. No matter how bad things got, the moment the clock struck midnight had the promise of a new beginning, a fresh start. A chance to do better this time around. 

But she knew exactly what would happen this year on Nublar. The spell would break. They would go back to the visitor centre, back to work, and in a few days it would be as if this night had never even happened.

She needed to do something. Before it all ended.

“You alright in there?” He had noticed her smile fading. 

”Fine. Just thinking.”

Muldoon scoffed. 

“I know well enough that fine, very rarely means fine. Especially when it’s coming from you, my girl.” He stared her down. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s just…not fair.” Lizzy became aware she was whining, and hated herself for it.

She didn’t need to elaborate. He knew exactly what she meant. “I agree.”

Why couldn’t we have just met in Africa? 

”I don’t want to go back. Not yet.”

“Neither do I, but we have to, at some point.”

“Why, though?”  Muldoon hesitated, trying to word it as diplomatically as he could, to avoid upsetting her.

“Because there are rules that can’t be broken, and ultimately I’m responsible for your safety.” Damn this whole situation. “That is what it all comes down to.”

“Okay.” She reluctantly agreed. “Let’s go, I suppose.”

It’s not okay, it’s not okay at all.  A part of her had desperately hoped something would happen that night. Conditions were otherwise perfect. They’d likely never have a chance like this again for a long time. 

But it wasn’t meant to be.

Unless…

She had an idea. 

“Fire’s still going.” Lizzy stated flatly. “I’ll sort it out.”   The ground was too hard to kick dirt over it. But she knew Muldoon kept a couple of metal jerry cans in the back of his Jeep. Not InGen protocol, just old habits. 

One was water, one was gas. Labelled of course, but it was pitch black apart from the glowing embers nearby.

Don’t want to get these two mixed up. 

She unscrewed the lid of the first container and got a noseful of fumes. Then checked the second, and bingo, slightly stale water that smelled like the colour green. But it was much heavier than she anticipated, almost full. 

“Ooyah! Son of a bitch!” She’d tried to lift, lost grip, and somehow managed to trap her finger between the two cans with a bang. 

“Everything alright back there?”

“It’s fine, under control!” Lizzy struggled to free herself, cursing under her breath at her own clumsiness. Idiot. “Shitshitshit, come on!”

She eventually succeeded, dousing the remains of the fire with a quiet sizzle and a faint wisp of smoke.

Darkness.

Muldoon hadn’t started the Jeep yet, waiting for her, there wasn’t any light at all in the clearing.  She put the can in its place, then hung back by the tailgate, quiet and still. 

And in three…two…one…

Muldoon didn’t take long to twig that something suspicious was afoot.

”Christ’s sake, Armstrong, don’t do it!” He sounded exasperated. “If you’re planning on playing hide and seek in the dark again, I’m not having it this time.”

She didn’t answer.

If he wasn’t into this, he’d just wait me out.

Lizzy was very quickly proven right.

“I know exactly where you are.” He kept up a stream of expletives in her general direction as he slammed the driver’s door. “I’ve being doing this for years. I’m very good at it.” 

Come get me, then.

Lizzy didn’t even hardly dare breathe, placing her palm over her mouth to stay quiet.  Silence. 

For just a beat too long. 

Hang on, where the Hell is he? 

Lizzy realised she possibly no longer had the upper hand.  A tiny, deliberate, shuffle of gravel under heavy boots right next to her, that made her jump and flatten her body against the taillights with a small thump.

He was close. Much closer than she thought. And she’d just given herself away. 

“Got you.” Muldoon was attempting to sound put out, but he’d enjoyed that, as much was evident in his voice, she could tell. “Too easy.”

”Fair and square, mister. So, what are we going to do next?”

”You’re going to get in the Jeep, and we’re going back to the lodge.”

Lizzy leaned against the rear bumper, making the metal creak underneath her. Just so he knew exactly where she was.

”See, I don’t really feel like getting back in the Jeep right now, isn’t that a kicker?” She hoped the lip-bite was evident in how she coyly spoke. “What are you going to do about that?”

“I will pick you up.” Muldoon threatened. “Employee handbook be damned.” 

“If that’s the case, handbook out the window, then I think you should do more than just ‘pick me up.’” She mimicked. “I’d let you.”

“Lizzy.” Deep, exasperated sigh. “I am using your first name so you know how serious I am. Get in the Jeep.” 

She uttered the two words that she knew ahead of time would be the equivalent of a red rag to the park warden. 

“Make me.”

God, she could feel the annoyance radiating from him. He was bristling. 

But nothing could have prepared her for what happened next. 

Lizzy heard him tapping impatiently on the side panel of the Jeep, it felt like a countdown.

Should I be runni-?

“Right-“ He was fast.

She wasn’t fast enough. 

And really should have ran while she had the chance.

He was making good on his word that he would pick her up, willing or not, employee handbook, workplace code, the unspoken rules all thrown out of the window, never to be seen again. 

Muldoon went straight for her legs, grabbing handfuls of her through her jeans. Damn woman, she would get in the bloody car. 

Lizzy shrieked and flung out her arms, scrabbling for something, anything to grab onto, both hands found and gripped the sides of the Jeep tailgate. 

Muldoon was trying his best to pry her free while she barely clung on for dear life with her fingernails, not unlike a cat that was avoiding being stuffed into a cage and carted off to the veterinary surgery.

She felt the pressure on her legs ease, and thought he’d given up. She started to loosen her fingers on the cool metal. 

Then he found the backs of her knees with both hands, and pulled hard. But Lizzy wasn’t for letting go just yet. She still clung on for dear life like a very determined barnacle. 

“By Christ, you’re strong-“ There was a hint of desperation in Muldoon’s normally measured voice.

That did it.  Lizzy was gone then, she started laughing helplessly at the absurdity of what was happening, what events had led to this moment, and how ridiculous they must look.   She finally lost her grip all at once and slid ungracefully downwards with a thump, accepting defeat, still cackling.

Lizzy just knew Muldoon was shaking his head in exasperation at her in the dark, his accident-prone, walking disaster of an ethologist. 

“Sit up, you bloody lunatic.” But then her entire hand was grasped in his, pulling her upright into a sitting position. “For God’s sake, don’t bang your head. It might knock some sense into you, but I don’t fancy the paperwork.”

”It’s far too late for me.” Lizzy tried to catch her breath. “Would need to be one Hell of a bang.”

Realising the connotations too late, she snorted and muttered sorry as she tried to reason with her hair, patting it back into a more respectable shape.  

She felt two fingers under her chin, tilting her face upwards and she tensed, her breath caught in her throat.  “What am I going to do with you, Lizzy?”

The question was absolutely loaded.

”Anything you like.” She impulsively answered in a low voice.

She was euphoric, riding the high that had been building since the moment she stepped down out of the Jeep into the clearing, and honestly she just didn’t care any longer. 

They would never be alone again after New Year’s Eve. 

This was it. Her only chance for God knew how long. 

She had it bad, so bad for him. And she couldn’t really remember just then why this was such a terrible idea in the first place. Something about those damn rules…

Eh, never been one for the rules anyway.  Lizzy craned her neck upwards, stretching as far as she possibly could, relying on her intuition alone in the dark. 

She found what she was searching for and after a last moment of hesitation, she finally did it. She kissed him.  

He pulled away slightly, unsure. Lizzy felt sick that she’d misjudged horribly, and was starting to seriously panic with how she could possibly play this one off.

I…fell?

But she could have cried with relief when he apparently got over the surprise and began kissing her in return, leaning into her. Responding to her. 

It felt so right, so bizarrely normal, that Lizzy found herself briefly wondering why they hadn’t been doing this the whole damn time they’d known each other. 

Slow and hesitant at first. Then something simultaneously clicked for the both of them, and it turned into an altogether different experience. Urgent, messy, not at all careful, not what Lizzy was used to at all.

Lizzy feared the lamps would click on and flood the clearing with light at any second. Like they had to hurry before they were caught, as if John Hammond himself might pop out of the bushes, brandishing his cane, gotcha!

But it didn’t matter. This was what she’d needed. She hadn’t realised how much she needed it, that she wanted this so badly. For far longer than the past few months of living in Costa Rica.

She realised she didn’t mind so much anymore if she banged her head on the floor of Jeep. Repeatedly. In fact, at this moment in time she’d be glad of it. They might not make it back to the lodge. 

But as quickly as had happened, it was over. Fate had very different ideas for how the night would progress. 

He pushed a little too hard into her hips, and oh God it’s happening, forcing her backwards against the bed of the Jeep as Lizzy let her legs relax and fall further apart. It was evidently far too much for the built-in motion sensor, and the alarm in the vehicle began blaring like a police siren at ear-splitting volume, all lights flashing in unison. The Rex snorted and roared unhappily at the disturbance from the other side of the fence, only adding to the din.  The noise had the same effect as if someone had poured a bucket of ice cold water over them. 

“Shit-“ Lizzy shot upright, pulling away and covered her ears while Muldoon fumbled for the Jeep keys to stop the racket. 

Then silence. Deafening, smothering silence. Even the Rex was quiet. A single hadrosaur trumpeted in the distance.

She waited, unsure what to do next, she couldn’t read his expression in the dark, but he felt off. Something was badly wrong. 

“I’m taking you back now.” Muldoon said tersely. “I would really appreciate it if you just do what I ask this time.”

”Okay.” She knew better than to argue.

“That was out of order.” He continued icily. “That cannot happen again.” 

“Got it. Sorry.” Lizzy felt the heat rising in her cheeks. Goddamn embarrassment, flooding every cell. I can’t believe this. I’ve blown it. “I’m really sorry.” 

He didn’t respond as she shuffled into the passenger side and quietly buckled her seatbelt. He wouldn’t even look at her. She tried again, one last attempt. 

I’m using your first name so you know how serious I am. 

”Robert, I’m really sorry.”

Please believe me.

Please answer me.

She‘d never used his name before, ever. This wasn’t the pleading circumstances she wanted to use it for the first time. Not at all. 

Her efforts didn’t work. 

”Don’t do that.” Muldoon replied flatly, starting the engine while staring straight ahead. “We’ll deal with this in the morning.” 

Lizzy’s heart plummeted, her chest constricting, aching with that too familiar pain all over again.

Her stomach was flipping back and forth in sheer panic for the entire silent-and-not-in-a-good-way journey back to the lodge. 

She didn’t even bother trying for a goodnight as they parted ways to their own rooms. Neither of them did.  I’ve really done it this time.

Months of building a rapport, gone in an instant because of one false judgement. And what if he told Jeff what she’d done? What if anyone on the island, at InGen, found out what she’d done?

The rumours that had been swirling around would finally be true. There were names Lizzy would be called that she couldn’t just brush off anymore. Nobody would take her, or her work, seriously ever again. She’d be an outcast.

All terrible things. But worst of all was Muldoon refusing to acknowledge her. That was the reason she was trying her damnedest not to cry.  Stupid. Stupid, stupid idiot! 

It had turned out to be too much too soon. Maybe too much ever.

Why do I always do this? Why do I always ruin everything? 

***

Thanks for reading!

If a particular anecdote sounds familiar, I mayyyyy have drawn some inspiration from George of the Jungle (this is very important for later 🎶)

The story I envisioned Muldoon telling Lizzy is along the lines of Peter Capstick’s black mamba in the latrine story from Death in the Long Grass. If you want some idea of just how funny it is, I’ve read it multiple times and know what’s coming almost verbatim. I still laugh every time I read it.

And hearing Muldoon calmly recount one of the many times he’s almost checked out early would be, I imagine, quite hilarious.

I can’t believe I finally got to post this chapter. It’s been here since the very first draft, it’s quite special to me as New Year, or Hogmanay as we call it, is a much bigger deal in Scotland. A very important tradition is the first foot, which is supposed to bring you good fortune for the year ahead.

…I guess they did it wrong.