#one time read something like ‘trans bodies are sacred’ and I think about it sometimes

[roadkillnroses]

Those who have followed me for a little bit have probably noticed that I tag deities I worship on reblogged posts that don't directly concern them. This is because it's important to me to be able to see the gods in everything. Here's a quick overview on how I sort things (in alphabetical order!)

Apollon posts are sometimes also Artemis posts if I see something that reminds me of their sibling relationship. He's the kouros to Persephone's kore, a serpent-slaying idealized type of young man. He represents plague and curing of disease. Posts about birds also go to him because crows are among his sacred animals. The sun, insight, truth, justice, and certain types of divination are also his. Ironically for a god with such protagonist vibes, I tend to think of him in relation to other deities- his sister, Kore, and especially his half-brother Hermes because they're in each other's stories and their domains are so close

Ares posts are about struggle, specifically class warfare and decolonial struggles and other mass movements. Mostly news posts in here.

Ariadne posts are about visual and tactile intoxication. For a time I was trying to see her as an equal counterpart to Dionysos, a sort of Shakti to his Shiva, but it just wasn't there. I wish I'd been able to build up a relationship with her as strong as the one I have with her husband. I have a deep affection for textiles, folk costume and embroidery and I associate her story of the ball of thread and the Labyrinth with that. So, she gets posts about clothing and design, especially ancient Minoan costume.

Artemis posts are about animals and the wild viewed from close up. Never domesticated animals, always wild ones. Also the wildness of youthful energy and mischief. Children as untamed creatures. Also lesbianism? Sometimes, maybe?

Cybele posts are for motherhood, mountains, trans ancestors (such as the galli), nature in the big general sense, and certain predatory animals, especially lions. In her native Phrygia she was often pictured with lions and eagles. She has had a number of names over the millennia, but I use Cybele just to be as understood as possible. The scholarship I've read suggests that her personal name among the Phrygians was something like Angdistis or Acdestis. Personally, I just call her Great Mother.

Dionysos posts cover a pretty broad range of things but they include certain queer vibes, madness, self-indulgence, liberated sexuality, and of course intoxication and altered states of consciousness.

Hekate posts are about secret things, night and nocturnal animals, death, protecting the vulnerable. She is the guide for those who pass in liminal spaces, unguarded paths, the places where it's unsafe to linger. Her posts and Hestia's are the most likely to be prayers to protect certain people- refugees, children, those who need reproductive medicine, the unhoused and marginal.

Hephaistos posts are largely about disability and having been through some shit. The exceptions are about crafting, making stuff. There aren't many of them.

Hermes posts are about communication, exchange, movement, travel, petty crime, freedom, and also esoterica because I acknowledge Hermes Trismegistus as an aspect of the Hellenic Hermes. Why not!

Hermaphroditos posts are about androgyny, trans bodies, and t4t eroticism. This is kind of also an Aphroditos tag, for the male/androgynous Aphrodite who was historically worshiped in some places. So consider these posts to be shared between the child of Aphrodite and Hermes and also an aspect of Aphrodite herself.

Hestia posts are about home. Housing justice, warm food, objects of comfort and security and the support of community.

Kore (Persephone) posts are about plants, usually flowering plants but also femininity/maidenhood. I don't really deal with her queen of the underworld aspect, but that may change.

Lucifer-Prometheus posts are about rebellion, questioning orthodoxy, tearing down hierarchies, and blinding flashes of insight. Anarchy as a gut feeling. Youth liberation. Elevating the abject and deposing the despotic. I am only somewhat a Satanist, but I am wholeheartedly an anarchist. Prometheus as an accuser/adversary who was gave up his freedom to liberate others is my political exemplar.

[coochiequeens]

All Christian churches, no matter how liberal they present themselves now, never had trouble telling the difference between men and women before.

PORTLAND, Ore.— Something as small as signs that say "men" and "women" on the bathrooms in a house of worship can shut the door to trans people. 

"For me as a non-binary person, I've been to so many churches where they don't have a bathroom that I feel like I can use," says AJ Buckley, an Episcopal priest in Portland, Ore. "And so I'll just not go to the bathroom there."

Churches are tasked with living out the Bible's message both from the pulpit and in the pews.

And it's hard to connect to spiritual concerns if people there to sing and pray literally can't be physically comfortable. 

That's why Saint David of Wales Episcopal Church in Portland, where Buckley has been associate rector for the past year, has made changes like putting up signs that say anyone can use any bathroom, including pronouns on name tags and preaching to "siblings in Christ" rather than brothers and sisters.

"Sometimes we'll say, 'God loves you,' but then not live that out in the church always," Buckley says. "And so, having those things say you're actually wanted here, [means] we're excited that you're here."

Pro-trans voices are emerging within Christianity 

Evangelical Christianity has played a big role in the political debate around transgender issues, and the spate of legislation it's led to. And so that position is widely known: God created humans, separated into male and female – categories that are innate and immutable.

But religions speak with more than one voice. And other Christians are using their sacred texts to embrace a broader understanding of gender. 

Shannon TL Kearns is the first openly transgender man ordained in the Old Catholic Church, a denomination that split from Rome after the first Vatican Council in the 19th century. He's co-founder of QueerTheology.com, and author of the book In The Margins: A Transgender Man's Journey with Scripture.

"The world of gender in the Bible is much more complex than I was taught growing up as an evangelical," says Kearns, pointing to numerous stories of biblical figures transgressing gender norms.

"We have women who are judges. We have men who spend their time in the kitchen. There are eunuchs, which were considered this kind of other third gender," he says.

Many Christians are rethinking the biblical stories they think they already know

Theology is stories. And Kearns says figuring out the Bible's message on trans people is partly about rediscovering these particular stories. But, in a larger sense, it's about asking harder questions of the stories Christians think they already know. 

For example, in Genesis, angels come to Sodom and Gomorrah, and the townspeople threaten to rape them. The destruction of those cities is often seen as God's condemnation of homosexuality. But it could be read as a lesson in welcoming the stranger.

"When we look at a passage like Sodom and Gomorrah, we're looking at the places where — where might we still be inhospitable to people today?" asks Kearns. "Are we benefiting from systems that are hurting other people?"

Sometimes, showing hospitality is as easy as a sign on a bathroom door. And sometimes it's harder. Not every congregation, not every Christian, welcomes these changes. Theologian and ordained Baptist minister Robyn Henderson-Espinoza says conflict is not new to Christianity and that it's central to understanding the story of Jesus.

"I follow the story of a brown, Palestinian Jew who was executed by the Roman empire," says Henderson-Espinoza. "And that story is painful." 

But Henderson-Espinoza, author of the book Body Becoming: A Path to Our Liberation, says this re-centering of the story from the point of view of the powerless rather than the point of view of the powerful is the work of Christianity. And that re-centering has implications for trans people today. 

"I think that's how we bring heaven to Earth: Having these hard conversations and creating more relationships, and creating more opportunities to be in relationship with difference."

Trans people read themselves into scripture the same way all people see themselves in biblical characters 

If you look in the Bible, stories of difference are there as well says theologian Kearns. The arc of scripture bringing the most marginalized people to the center has always been there. But he's not surprised it hasn't always been told that way.

"White, cisgender heterosexual men — they're reading from their specificity and particularity and calling it universal. And that's the real damage," Kearns says.

Kearns says it's not that reading from a particular perspective, a particular experience, is bad — it's how scripture has always been read and interpreted. People just need to be aware of what they're doing. And to expand the conversation to include all voices.

"I think that we all read ourselves into scripture," Kearns 

says. "I think the kicker is that folks from marginalized communities are being honest about the fact that that's what they're doing."

Trans Christians practice a faith that fits their bodies 

Good narratives survive because they welcome a range of readers into their world.They don't define meaning — they reveal it for those who enter the story. 

Austen Hartke, a Lutheran theologian and founder of the Transmission Ministry Collective, asks the question, "If you believe, like I do, that God made me trans on purpose, then what does that mean that I am allowed to do to steward my body, to live a healthy and full life?"

Hartke, who's also the author ​​of Transforming: The Bible and the Lives of Transgender Christians, says, "In the same way that if God made somebody nearsighted, they're allowed to get glasses."

He says it's part of Jesus's call to abundant life. It's not desecration; it's co-creation. Holy work.

"Yes, our bodies are temples," Hartke says. "But temples change."

And Hartke says the blueprint for that change is in the text.

"Even though Genesis One talks about binaries in the world, we know that those binaries aren't as clean cut as they are in this one piece of writing."

It's not just man and woman, land and water. 

"So for instance," he says, "God creates the day and the night — it says nothing about dawn or dusk."

But these in-between places exist. Hartke says there's a richness to them and to the theology that emerges from them. Because they tell a fuller story of existence in this holy world. 

"If we say God is the alpha and the omega, we don't mean God is just A and Z," Hartke says. "We mean God is all."

[tentacleonastick]

numinous body (sketch)

[femmefoxbeast]

I’ve been thinking a lot about body positivity and self-image and how to deal with that as a trans man.

This is a long post. The rest is under a read more because of this. It’s a bit rambling too. I’m just working through my thoughts.

CW: surgery mention, abuse mention, unhealthy eating/thoughts about eating mention, lots of discussion of social beauty ideals and how people are treated poorly for not meeting them. Nothing graphic though.

The pressure to transition into an ‘ideal man’

So - in September I had top surgery. It was definitely the right decision and (combined with starting testosterone in July 2019) it’s had a huge positive impact on my mental health. I look at myself in the mirror and finally see myself looking back. I feel like life is full of possibility at the moment. It’s pretty great honestly.

Here’s the thing - I’m chubby - I was in an abusive family situation for a while and ended up with some food issues which resulted in me losing a fair bit of weight and then putting a bunch back on.

Because I’m a bigger guy I’ve got dog-ears (excess skin and fat) at the ends of my top surgery scars. I feel mostly okay about them and am not planning to get a surgical revision. But I feel weirdly guilty about being okay with them.

I feel like there’s this pressure and expectation that if I want to look like a man (and I do because that’s what I am) then I should look like society’s ideal of a man. People seem to think I should want to be thin and muscular and to have a sharp jawline and just the right amount of body hair.

But to be honest I don’t want that. And I feel guilty about not wanting that.

I have a lot of conflicting feelings about this - on one hand, I have this feeling that I’m doing something wrong or wasting my transition somehow? Logically I know those thoughts aren’t mine - I know that this external pressure I’ve experienced has put these thoughts into my head. But the idea has bedded itself surprisingly deep into my brain so I haven’t been able to get rid of the nagging voice going ‘you’re doing it wrong’.

On the other hand, I’m pretty repulsed by this expectation that I should conform even more strictly to societal beauty standards because I’m trans. I shouldn’t have to thin, I shouldn’t have to work out unless I feel like it, I shouldn’t have to try and look cis. I want to look like a man yes. But I want to look like a queer trans man because that’s what I am and if I look like a cis dude then I’ll start seeing a stranger when I look in the mirror again.

It doesn’t help that the pressure to conform isn’t just interpersonal but structural - for example, trans people often have to be below a certain BMI to access surgery on the NHS and even in some private hospitals. Because of this, every time I’ve had to interact with the clinic that prescribes my hormones they’ve made some pretty yikes remarks about my weight.

I still remember, in our first meeting, how the person assessing me commented that if I could lose some weight then I’d be very handsome due to being fairly tall and broad-shouldered for a trans guy. It made me feel like they saw me as an object that could be shaped and moulded into whatever they wanted - into a symbol of their mastery over medicine.

It was dehumanising as hell.

Femininity, fatness and autism

Being overweight and a man who is slowly starting to present in a more authentically femme manner is interesting.

It makes me feel like some kind of horrible pervert a lot of the time.

I think we’ve got this image of a fat, effeminate, creepy dude so embedded in our collective consciousness that it’s poisoning my self-image a little. It doesn’t help that this collective caricature has a lot of autistic traits and well - I’m autistic.

It sucks because I try very hard to be respectful and non-creepy. I don’t think other people perceive me that way, from what I can tell.

But my brain keeps insisting that if I wore a dress or lipstick or high heels then I’ll transform into some Silence of the Lambs-type figure.

So I’ve been restricting myself to just painting my nails and wearing necklaces sometimes.

But I don’t want to do that any more. I want to be myself as hard and joyfully and authentically as I can all of the time. I feel like I’ve spent so long repressing myself - first because I was in the closet about being queer and trans and then because I was trying my hardest to pass due to not being about to handle social and physical dysphoria at the same time.

I guess it’s something I need to work through... but I’m not going to give up and hide away again. I won’t do that.

Transandrophobia

The other thing I’ve been thinking a lot about is how the sex characteristics primarily associated with men - for example, facial and body hair - are seen in a negative light. Largely in social justice spaces and communities but in the wider world to some extent also.

In social justice spaces, there is a lot of fear and dislike of maleness and masculinity. I can understand why but it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with as a man who is marginalised due to his gender. I don’t feel very safe or comfortable outside of these spaces but it’s often a pretty tough experience to exist in them too.

This dislike of male things extends to physical traits that are seen as male also. Even in supposedly trans-inclusive spaces, I’ve seen this vocal repulsion to things like body hair and facial hair. Disgust towards traits like this is harmful to pretty much everyone who doesn’t fit cis, perisex, white beauty standards.

People who express this disgust in trans inclusive spaces often seem to think that their words will only hurt white, straight, able-bodied, perisex cis men and that it’s therefore fine.

However, I don’t think it’s okay to talk about cis guy’s bodies like that - for one because it’s just a mean thing to do and for two because even if you want to go out of your way to hurt cis men’s feelings then there’s still no way for you to prevent unintended collateral damage if you say horrible things about someone else’s body in a public place.

So if it’s wrong to make comments like that towards relatively privileged people then it’s very, very wrong to say such things about the bodies of trans people, intersex people and people of colour.

Another factor that harms trans men and other transmasculine people specifically is how people tend to react towards our bodies at varying times during medical transitioning. People (especially cis women) tend to react very positively towards us having feminine physical features - being soft and hairless and pretty-looking. Then we receive backlash if we choose to transition - we run into this idea that we’re “ruining” our “precious, sacred, feminine bodies”.

This nasty, entitled rhetoric tends to crop up strongest among TERFs but I’ve come across less explicit, less obviously transphobic variations in trans inclusive communities also.

This demonisation of “male” traits messed with my head when my hormones started to take effect. I was really happy to feel my dysphoria decreasing but at the same time, I had to come to terms with looking well, ugly. At least - ugly according to the spaces and communities I am a part of.

[atruththatyoudeny]

Monthly Reads | September 2020

Happy 28th! All the love for all the authors in this fandom. Thank you for making my days better with your work! ♥ Here are all the fics I read and loved this month: 🍂 Remember Me Fondly | kiddle | enemies to friends to lovers - 1990s - historical - angst - humor - closets - 74k “You’ve told the beginning of the story so many times. I want to hear the end.” Louis laughed, scratching at his chin. “I can’t say I really know when the end happened.” “How about the tour of ninety-five?” “Alright.” Louis took a deep breath. “But it took a few steps to get there. What would you like to know?” Penny cleared her throat. “How did you first meet Harry Styles?” Grunge legends Fearless Doe topped the rock charts in the ‘90s, but they spent the decade kicking Smudge off their heels. From lawsuits to jaw-dropping scandals and a surprising joint world tour, the two bands share a complicated history. Twenty-five years later, frontmen Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles are finally ready to sit down and tell the world their two sides of the same story. Truth may vary.

🍂 you came into my life | disgruntledkittenface | Queer Eye AU - american AU - closeted character - Coming Out - pining - fluff - angst - implied/referenced homophobia - 57k They stand around talking for a minute and then Jonathan starts to ramble, “Has there ever been, like, an unrequited gay love story in here? Like a Brokeback Mountain moment where, like, someone just fell in love and they didn’t mean to?” Louis feels bile rise in his throat as Jonathan’s eyes sparkle, pleading for a yes. He manages to look around and see thoughtful looks on his coworkers’ faces before their heads shake no. “Not here,” Liam says finally. When the Queer Eye cast and crew sweep into Louis’ small town and fire station to make over his best friend and coworker Liam, Louis’ carefully constructed walls start to fall down and he has to face his fears – and the only guy he’s ever been able to see a future with.

🍂 Everything I need I get from you | jaerie | a/b/o - mpreg - strangers to lovers - emotional/ psychological abuse - sexism - unplanned pregnancy - 10k In a world where music and sound are just as vital to health as food, Harry is stuck in a town that thinks professional music is a scam and a relationship he never wanted. One chance event changes his life.

🍂 at last, at last | suspendrs | post-apocalypse - dystopia - cult - mentions of violence - mentions of death - homophobia - internalized homophobia - 41k “Come with us,” Tommo says, stopping at the other end of the gymnasium, near the doors. “Don’t let them make you suffer any longer. Come with us, and be human.” Before Harry has even finished thinking it through, he’s on his feet, gaining the attention of every single person in the gymnasium. What has he got to lose, anyway? Or, Harry is born into a cult in a post-apocalyptic world, and Louis is the leader of the rebel group tasked with the mission of shutting them down. Together, they make a rather effective team.

🍂 give me love | falsegoodnight and soldouthaz | a/b/o - past relationship trauma - past abusive relationship - slow burn - touch deprivation - touch starvation - nesting - angst - fluff - 41k Despite being an omega, Louis’ always had a blatant dislike of alphas. - Or, Louis doesn't feel like a good omega, Harry doesn't remember how to be an alpha, and they figure it out together.

🍂 You, Who Never Arrived | abrighteryellow | Only You AU - strangers to lovers - 90s AU - world travel - soulmates - fluff - angst - Fate & Destiny - 42k “That was him, Niall.” He claps a hand over a disbelieving laugh. “My soulmate – the person I’ve been waiting for since I was nine years old. That was him on the other end of the phone.” “But it can’t–” Niall stutters, unsure of what to do, how to put a stop to this. “That wasn’t real.” “Wasn’t it?” Louis rushes past him, zipping up his fly. He grabs a black denim jacket from a hook near the door. “Then who did I just talk to?” “Where are you going?” Niall demands as Louis pockets his keys and swings his front door open. “I just have to get a look at him. I just have to see, that’s all!” “You’re not serious. Louis, it’s already late.” “He’s at the airport. Fifteen years I’ve been expecting him around every corner, and now he’s half an hour away. I can’t just sit here.” “Bu–” “I’m not going to do anything crazy, I promise. I just–I have to see him. This is my chance. Maybe my only chance.” Louis Tomlinson is days away from marrying a perfectly nice podiatrist when he gets a phone call that changes everything. Or, the Only You AU in which Louis has a soulmate and it's definitely not Harry Styles.

🍂 Shall we sleep, my love? | givelourrylove | angst - emotional hurt/comfort - kid fic - 15k There is so much sincerity in Harry’s voice. So much that says you, Louis, I look forward to seeing you, you and your soft eyes and your petite body, just you, you, you, but Louis forces himself to ignore that. To gulp it down again, sizing up the lump that had formed beneath his lungs, possibly reappearing any time and choking him with everything he decided not to think about for the past year. or Louis loses his job as a teacher, has to move out and find somewhere to live. A certain someone named Harry offers his home to Louis and his son. Pining, crying and reading bedtime stories involved.

🍂 so much I could live for I could die | louisnights | dystopia - trans character - sexual harrassment - friends to lovers - strangers to friends to lovers - no smut - 15k “Sometimes I wonder what’s out there,” Louis confesses, tucking into his second biscuit. “I wonder if what they’re saying is true, about the Thieves, about the other compounds. Why are we not allowed to leave? Go to other compounds?” Lottie gets up, letting out a sigh as she squeezes his shoulder. “You shouldn’t think like that, Lou, it will get you killed.” “They can’t take away my thoughts,” Louis answers defiantly. Lottie pats his shoulder before she disappears to her room, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. or: Louis is a transgender man who escapes his compound after extenuating circumstances, and meets the Thieves, who show him what freedom really is.

🍂 A Road To Hope | he_wants_to_write | historical - World War II - 1940s - farm/ranch - PTSD - emotional hurt - hurt/comfort - angst - mental instability - internalized homophobia - 18k “We’re far from the people and their issues, don’t hold back. Please.” It’s true. They are far away from anything that could stop them, the middle of nowhere being the safest place on Earth for them to fall in love. The sacred land where sacred love is created. However, Louis is certain that even if they weren’t safe, he wouldn’t resist the sight of Harry, his pleading eyes, his warm skin beneath his touch. or In the heat of April, 1944, an escapee soldier lost in a dirt-road stumbles upon a small farm and finds himself recovering from the traumas of World War II in the simplicity of a frugal life, with the help of a little boy's innocent soul, and a farmer's hopeful green eyes.

🍂 With Love's Light Wings | 4ureyesonly28 and reminiscingintherain | Rome and Juliet AU - a/b/o - 1920s - marriage proposals - 12k Two households, both alike in dignity, / In fair London town, where we lay our scene... — Or something like that, anyway. On either side of the River Thames live Louis Montague and Harry Capulet, their noble packs entangled in a feud so old, nobody even remembers what caused it. As fate will have it, against all odds, they fall in love. Harder than the bricks that make up their families’ estates and faster than a Duesenberg car. AKA The 1920s ABO Romeo & Juliet AU that we desperately wanted to write.

🍂 The Very First Words of a Lifelong Love Letter | LiveLaughLoveLarry | first meetings - friends to lovers - weddings - no smut - 9.5k The prompt I picked was (lightly edited): "Harry and Louis have been best friends ever since they met through fandom (I picked Critical Role) twitter. Person A (I picked Louis) lives in New York City and Person B (Harry) lives in the UK. They’ve never met in person but they FaceTime and text daily. Person B’s cousin is getting married to a rich American who’s paying for the entire family to travel to The Hamptons for a summer wedding. Are Harry and Louis ready to meet?" ~*~ Harry thought he was just imagining things when the flower girl looked like one of the twins, but -- he’s almost certain that groomsman is Louis. The pictures he's seen haven't been the best quality, granted, but he knows Louis. He does. Harry stares wide-eyed as he walks down the aisle in step with the bridesmaid, taking their places on either side of the stage. As they turn to look out into the audience, Harry’s strong suspicion solidifies into certainty. That’s Louis. He’d bet his life on it. But Louis doesn’t look at him, and it’s not like Harry can wave. He can only stare, mouth still hanging half-open. Suddenly, as much as he loves weddings, he can’t wait for this one to be over.

🍂 promise you'll remember (when the sky is grey) | Anonymous | american AU - summer - 33k "Once you come to this town, you find that it's not so easy to leave," Niall spoke with a fond tone in his voice. "Canyon isn't a place that one leaves behind easily." "I guess we'll be able to test your theory come August," Harry spoke with a small grin, "because I'm set to leave on the twenty-ninth to get back to work in LA." Niall smirked back in reply, "I guess we will, but mark my words, you'll end up finding something to make you stay. We all did." Harry laughed, surprised at the man’s unwavering confidence in his statement. "We'll see." - a summer spent in small town Maine, filled with trips to the farmer’s market, lemonade tailgating, taylor swift, and falling in love at quite possibly the most inconvenient time ever (not necessarily in that order).

[stupid-damn-harp]

Notes for “Rural Boys Watch the Apocalypse”

“Your hand’s in mine”

This poem doesn’t explicitly state the relationship between the two boys, and this adds to it. The two characters could be in a romantic relationship, and this choice comes with a variety of implications given the traditional christian liturgy that’s repeated throughout the poem. If this is the end of the world, where will these two gay boys end up? Are they thinking about their afterlife? Are they wondering if they can stay together? Whether they’ll be with their family? There’s so many questions that these boys might be thinking of if they’re in this sort of relationship. They could also just be very close neighbors. Later in the poem he specifies his “doomsday neighbors,” which might be a sign that the other boy and his family might be the other neighbors, or it might have just been explaining the neighbor’s behavior. Another option could be that they’re best friends that are so comfortable with each other that holding hands feels comforting, but not completely natural because the narrator thought it was important to point it out. 

“waters turnin' to blood”

The two boys obviously share the same or similar religious views, and are probably at least somewhat learned or devout in their faith. I grew up reading the scriptures and I can’t say off the top of my head what a biblical apocalypse looks like - but this boy can, and relates it to the other boy, expecting him to also understand.

“But there are only the fallin’ stars”

I’m struck that the “only” thing is the falling stars. It’s almost as if he’s saying that the rest of the world has already ended, already vanished from his view and his mind. All he can see is the stars falling, and it doesn’t matter anymore if the rest of the world or the people around him still exist. He’s somehow writing himself and the other boy off as unimportant in the face of this global catastrophe. This line also stands outside of any stanza, forcing us to pay attention to the entire phrase and inviting a degree of separation from the stanzas before and after. There are only the falling stars, and that’s important. More important than what this boy thought would happen, more important than telling where the initial warning came from. The present events hold more weight.

"'Least the weather channel warned us about it,"

I wonder why the weather channel is the one that predicted this apocalypse? He mentions falling stars, which might be under their jurisdiction, but I feel like higher-up governmental agencies would be in charge of announcing and predicting the literal end of the world. 

“are loadin' the back”

If the stars are falling, and this is the end of the world, where do these neighbors think they’re going? Where do they think that they’ll be safe?

“under large whitewashed crosses”

This line is especially striking given the religious imagery throughout the entire poem. Jesus was a middle eastern Jewish man, and that’s something that many Christians in America conveniently forget. Many people in this religion spread around views that those with darker skin are children of ham (as we see in the Poisonwood Bible) or suggest that the native american people are really the descendants of the Lamanites, so their darker skin was a curse from God. These crosses that the neighbors are taking with them embody all of these harmful beliefs. The religion itself is whitewashed. The crosses are described as large, and I’m having trouble modulating that size within my own thoughts. On one hand, they have to be small enough to fit within the back of a pickup truck. But, are these crosses large as in “human sized and could be used for their original purpose”? Large as in “larger than handheld so they seem giant, but they’re best suited for yard decorations”? Either way, I’m taking it as a symbol of how contemporary christians take up the most space in religious discussions in America and quite often interpret anything different from their blatantly obvious beliefs as an attack on their faith. Think Boomers yelling about the “war on christmas” type. These crosses are not only whitewashed but they’re large too, visibly screaming to anyone looking in their direction that the drivers of the truck belong to the Christian faith and that they’re going to be confrontational about it. Everything else is stacked under the crosses, giving them the most significance and the most visibility.

“I wanna see ‘em”

Honestly, this line slightly confused me. These women seem quite knowledgeable about the events foretold in the bible. But it’s also stated in the bible that human beings never see angels or God’s true form because we wouldn’t be able to handle it. Surely they must know that? Do they think that these rules will be lifted simply because the world is ending? Are they hoping to see these wonders even though it would have untold consequences on her own mortal form? Don’t get me wrong, I would also love to see an angel in their full and confusing glory, but I don’t have enough of a death wish to actually follow through with that.

“their calloused hands”

Interesting imagery here. Typically angels are described using delicate and ethereal words, or sometimes words that just remind us that angels are spirits and don’t have physical bodies. But the word “calloused.” Calluses imply hard work. Calluses mean rough hands, dirty feet, and tough love. Calluses mean a physical body that is growing stronger. There’s nothing delicate about calluses. There’s nothing inherently holy about calluses. The working class has calluses, and the so-called “perfect” bodies of models and influencersnever have calluses. But here these heavenly beings are, rough hands and all. Perhaps he’s envisioning someone he knows as an angel, and thus opted for the more human-feeling approach. Perhaps he’s hoping that the people of earth are fighting to stay here, fighting to continue living, and the mere act of carrying these writhing and fiery people causes so much work for the angels that they develop these human characteristics of calluses. Perhaps he’s hoping that he’ll become an angel over some darker fate. I’m not sure what implications were intended with this line, but it feels beautiful and wholly human to me, and I love it for that.

“stupid damn harp”

This is the first of two instances where the narrator uses the phrase “stupid dumb” to describe something of the archangel Gabriel’s. Both times he isn’t describing Gabriel himself, just things that he possesses in traditional stories. This could be a nervous boy making jokes in an unsure time as a coping mechanism, but it also could be the author showing his own disillusionment with the traditional christian stories and traditions. 

Additionally, the combination of “stupid” and “damn” here is pretty interesting. In Christian mythology, any deity in heaven (e.g. God, angels, Jesus, etc) possesses all the knowledge in the universe. This boy referring to the archangel’s belongings as “stupid” doesn’t reflect this. It almost feels like he wants to criticize the angel himself but he knows there might be consequences, so he settles for calling his iconic harp and tunic the words he wants to call the angel himself. He’s also using the word “damn,” which in biblical contexts typically has hellish connotations. If someone is damned, then they’ve been condemned to hell. The archangel Gabriel is the literal antithesis of that idea, so it’s interesting to see this word applied to anything involving him at all. 

“moanin’ like a sinner in hell”

This comparison continues the interesting dichotomy between heaven/hell that we find throughout the poem. The doomsday neighbors’ truck not only holds large whitewashed crosses, but also sounds like someone suffering in hell. Weirdly enough, it seems to give us a view at the sort of Christians that think they’re doing God’s work (holding the whitewashed crosses), but once they get started towards their destination, it becomes more and more obvious that they’re not being entirely truthful (sounding like a sinner in hell). 

I’m also struck by the mildness and neutrality in this sentence. Usually when someone’s talking about those in hell, the verb used is “screaming,” not “moaning.” Is this wishful thinking on the narrator’s part, or just a description of the truck’s engine using terminology he already knows? The narrator doesn’t seem to be passing judgement with this comparison either, it comes across as an observation rather than a condemnation of the neighbors’ actions. His family chose not to leave, their family is leaving right now, and those two actions aren’t compared or judged here.

*

This poem was chosen for the anthology because of the twisted biblical themes tempered by a slight homoerotic vibe. From the beginning of the Abrahamic religions to today, LGBt+ individuals have been left out of religious contexts at best and damned to hell at worst. Given the author’s experience as a gay trans man, I’m reading the narrator and the other “rural boy” as lovers. The poem contains many instances where the narrator invokes sacred and profane imagery in reference to the same objects or beings, and gives a new sort of “hot take’ on the biblical apocalypse - contributing perfectly to the theme of altered religion.

*

Bibliographical Information:

This poem was posted on Tumblr, and the original source is reblogged below. 

[mediaeval-muse]

Book Review

Confessions of the Fox. By Jordy Rosenberg. New York: One World, 2018.

Rating: 4.5/5 stars

Genre: historical fiction, queer fiction

Part of a Series? No

Summary: Set in the eighteenth century London underworld, this bawdy, genre-bending novel reimagines the life of thief and jailbreaker Jack Sheppard to tell a profound story about gender, love, and liberation.

Jack Sheppard and Edgeworth Bess were the most notorious thieves, jailbreakers, and lovers of eighteenth-century London. Yet no one knows the true story; their confessions have never been found. Until now. Reeling from heartbreak, a scholar named Dr. Voth discovers a long-lost manuscript—a gender-defying exposé of Jack and Bess’s adventures. Is Confessions of the Fox an authentic autobiography or a hoax? As Dr. Voth is drawn deeper into Jack and Bess’s tale of underworld resistance and gender transformation, it becomes clear that their fates are intertwined—and only a miracle will save them all.

***Full review under the cut.***

Content Warnings: sexual content (as in sex acts, not the mere presence of lgbt+ people), blood, graphic depiction of top surgery, violence, racism, gender dysphoria

Overview: I didn’t know what I was expecting when I picked up this book, but something about it just hit all the right angles for me. I adore historical fiction that not only aims to imitate the aesthetics of the period, but also focuses on underrepresented identities, such as queer, non-white, and working or poverty class people; thus, it was inevitable that I would find Confessions of the Fox would be so engrossing. I do understand that this book might not be for everyone, as Rosenberg plays with a lot of academic ideas that usually fall in the realm of theory, but personally, I loved that this book wasn’t just about trans identity. While gender and identity and queerness were at the heart of this book, Confessions was also about archives and policing and commodities and so much more - things that were related and engaged the more academic part of my brain, but somewhat complicated for casual reading. Nevertheless, it was ambitious and smartly-constructed, so I’m giving it a high rating, even if I have quibbles here and there.

Writing: As a former academic and lover of history, I very much enjoyed Rosenberg’s approach to genre, form, and writing. It would have been easy to simply write a story using modern aesthetic tastes, but Rosenberg goes out of his way to imitate the prose style of the 18th century. I loved the richness of the vocabulary and the complexity of the sentences, as well as the juxtaposition of the sacred and profane. It was refreshing to read such beautiful prose that the author clearly put a lot of love into, and if you want to be so immersed in a story that you feel like you’re reading a historical document, I think Rosenberg does a wonderful job.

I also really loved the way Rosenberg wrote about trans identity in the 18th century. There are passages, for example, where Jack’s attention wanders while being dead-named, where Jack expresses feelings of confusion or freedom when talking about his physical body, where he talks about the process of coming into being when he heard Bess use his name, etc. I thought these passages were the most beautifully written and impactful, and they stayed with me the most after I finished the book.

These 18th century “confessions” are accompanied by a number of footnotes, written by a character named Dr. Voth in the present day. In these passages, Rosenberg shifts his tone and style, thereby differentiating between past and present without having to constantly remind the reader that Jack and Bess’s story is told through something of a frame. I think the choice to have footnotes instead of chapters where Voth’s POV takes center stage was a good one - it more effectively created parallels between the 18th century story and Voth’s personal story, and reminded the reader that history (especially trans history) evolves as a result of a kind of archival work, collected in pieces by many different people. In that sense, form matched function, which I am always delighted to see in my novels.

That being said, I can’t say I enjoyed Voth’s voice all that much. This criticism is probably a personal preference rather than anything Rosenberg did wrong - I just think Voth’s voice felt a little too conversational, like he was talking to someone instead of writing.

Plot: Most of Rosenberg’s novel follows Jack Sheppard and Bess Khan as they discover Jack’s identity, evade arrest, and disrupt a horrifying commodity trade (so to speak). In my opinion, the plot points surrounding Jack’s personal journey were incredibly well-constructed; I felt that the evolution of Jack’s gender identity, the romance between Jack and Bess, and their evolution as criminals were all very compelling and touched on a number of engrossing themes, from gender to poverty to anti-capitalism. Granted, there were some areas where I think the pacing dragged, but part of me thinks this was due to the 18th century style and genre conventions, more than anything Rosenberg was doing wrong.

In Voth’s footnotes, we also get something of a personal story which includes Voth being coerced into working for an exploitative publishing company at the direction of his university administrator. As we go through the footnotes, Voth recounts conversations he had with these figures while also disclosing details about his failed relationships - with one ex in particular. While I did like the parallels that exist between the manuscript and Voth’s own life, there were some things that challenged my suspension of disbelief. For example, I would never expect an academic to record personal anecdotes and intimate confessions in footnotes for an academic project. Maybe that happens in academic circles outside mine, and I understand it needs to happen for plot reasons (just reading references to critical theory or secondary sources would be boring for most people), so this criticism is coming from a place of being too close to the setting surrounding the text, in a way.

I also think that there were some passages where sexual activity would be mentioned where it was not needed. I do understand, on some level, that sex and sexuality is an important topic in trans studies (and queer studies as a whole), and I don’t want to appear too prudish. However, I think random references to a character masturbating, even if they were making a point, were a bit egregious. I was especially put off by the story of a 15 year old masturbating (in the present-day footnotes), and though I understand the story was illustrating an academic concept and books should acknowledge that (many) teens do have sex drives, it was also a bit much for me, personally.

Characters: Jack, our primary protagonist, is interesting and complex not just because he struggles with his identity as a trans man, but also because he struggles with acting in ways that are not out of self-interest. Though he is a thief and thus acts in self-interest in understandable ways, he eventually uncovers an operation which involves the production of a drug-like substance (or something - that’s the best I can describe it). Bess demands that he destroy all samples so that the substance can’t be reproduced by others, but Jack wants to confiscate the samples for himself to make a huge profit. I liked that this conflict existed, not only because it showed Jack as having other challenges in his life other than his gender identity, but it also spurred character growth and emotional turmoil.

Bess Khan, a prostitute and Jack’s lover, was written in a way that respected sex work and provided commentary on race and policing. I really liked that she had a strong set of principles and desires that were larger than herself, and I liked that she was confident and forceful where Jack could be meek and unsure.

Other rogues were equally loveable and admirable. Jenny, another prostitute, was a nice example of women forming networks of support within the criminal underworld while also showing how white women (even prostitutes) are treated differently than non-white women. Aurie, a black queer man, was also a supportive friend to Jack who is frequently instrumental in his survival. There is also a wide variety of named and unnamed rogues who were non-white and/or queer in some way, providing a rich array of characters that dispels the assumption that 18th century England was homogenously white and straight.

Our main antagonist, Jonathan Wild, is a bit less interesting in that he’s mainly just corrupt. I personally didn’t care for the chapters from his perspective, though I do understand that he functions as an important, symbolic figure that embodies all the things Jack and Bess work against (capitalism, police corruption, etc.).

Voth, our modern day commentator, has his moments, but sometimes, I would waffle back and forth between finding him engaging and finding him pretentious. I understand that he is supposed to be flawed, and I sympathize with a lot of his plights - mainly the pressure from his university and the anxiety he suffers from. But also, I found his voice to be somewhat combative, and if the point was to make a complicated, likeable-sometimes-unlikeable-other-times character, then I think Rosenberg succeeded.

TL;DR: Confessions of the Fox is a beautiful debut novel that engages with trans identity and history, though it does so in a way that may be a bit too academic for some readers. But while it definitely demands much of your attention, Rosenberg ultimately delivers a rich, engrossing story that reaches beyond the historical and textual boundaries of the page and invites the reader to see themselves as part of a vast network that is constantly “making” and “becoming” itself.

[elsanna-shenanigans]

December Contest Submission #19: Strange New Worlds, Familiar Warmth

Words: ca. 4500 Setting: Star Trek AU (DS9 Dominion War Era) Lemon: No CW: Mild to Moderate Violence, Trans!Anna, Background character death, Injuries

It had been a rather long and laborious day, but Anna was finally returning to her village with a sack full of freshly skinned meat, the sustenance that would help to feed her village and let her people grow strong.

Anna found it a great honour that she was the huntress for her village, as her duty was deeply sacred one to their people. Their world was full of many strange and massive beasts and Anna was the only one of her tribe who had been trained to face them alone.

Her people worshipped four great spirits, and Anna, to her people, was the living embodiment of their strength, the fifth spirit. As such, it was her divine duty to care for her tribe and to bring them the food and meat they required to survive.

And what a feast she was bringing home. She’d carved up two Aurorasaurs, a Sytrac and even a rare Jagra cat that she’d tracked from its den. That was certainly something the people of her village hadn’t eaten in quite some time.

As she made her way down the long mountain path towards the village in the great forest that was just on the horizon, Anna stopped for a moment to take in the view.

These mountains, the forest, this was her whole world… and it was simply a thing of beauty. From the orange and red trees, to the blue sky, Anna wouldn’t trade her world for everything and yet… she often wondered if there were other worlds out there.

The legends of her people often said that the four spirits they worshipped originally came from the stars, from mysterious worlds unlike Anna’s own. Of course, these were legends, but Anna sometimes wondered if one day, she might visit them, to truly be among the spirits and all who dwelled in their domain in the stars.

However, as Anna was about to pick her sack up and sling it over her shoulder for the final trek home, she heard the sound of something streaking through the sky. Looking up, Anna’s eyes widened as she saw what appeared to be some sort of fireball falling from the heavens. She couldn’t make out what it was… but it was clearly going to crash into the forest.

By the spirits…! Anna thought. If that fireball hits the village, my people will be killed!

Dropping her sack, Anna quickly ran down the small slope towards the trees, watching the fireball fall down towards the ground at great speed. She leapt and jumped between the trees agilely, trying to get to wherever the fireball was going to crash down.

She prayed to the spirits to give her the speed to reach her village, but at the same time, cursed herself for not being there to protect her tribe. Fortunately for Anna though, there would be no innocent blood on her hands this day.

With a massive KABOOM, the giant fireball crashed into a small rocky outcrop in the forest, carving a path through the trees. As it hit the ground with a massive bang, Anna was knocked back and onto her rear, slammed into a nearby tree. Stumbling back up, Anna rubbed her head and slowly started to approach the impact site.

To Anna’s amazement, whatever had crash-landed was surprisingly largely intact. It appeared to be some sort of large, silver capsule, with a pointed nose and two strange protrusions sticking out of its rectangular body. It had a long red stripe going across its body and on its nose, Anna could make out some writing in a language she couldn’t really understand.

“You…Ess…Ess…” Anna managed to read outloud shortly before she was distracted by a noise coming from the battered object. It was a deep hissing sound, one that startled the redhead.

A door on its rear section opened and Anna hid behind some rocks, pulling out her hunting knife. If whatever was inside it was hostile… she preferred to have the element of surprise if she was to face it in combat. She kept hugging against the rock, eyes peeping out around the corner.

However, the hatch opened… and Anna saw a woman come stumbling out of it, carrying someone on her shoulders. The woman placed her companion on the ground, both of them visibly injured. If this woman was hostile, she clearly was in no way to start a fight with Anna.

Quickly, the woman took out some strange grey object from her pocket and hovered it over her friend. While they were both beaten and worn, Anna could see the woman’s friend was in a much worse state than her, with deep burns and scars across the side of his face.

The woman kept waving her strange grey machine over her friend, Anna seeing a pained, desperate expression on her face. She stared intently at her device, as if praying there was hope for her injured friend… only for it to only make a dull, monotone whine in return.

The woman let out a saddened sigh. “May the prophets be with you, my friend,” she whispered, taking the other person’s hand and holding it close to her chest.

Even though she didn’t know who this stranger was, she was able to empathise with her. She knew what it was like to say goodbye to someone she cared about. Her father in particular, as he lay dying of sickness, as he finally came to terms with Anna being his daughter.

Then Anna got a glimpse of the woman’s face and saw that she looked very different to her. She had short platinum blonde hair in a pixie cut, wearing a blue headband on her head. Her clothes were also quite different, a black and grey form-fitting outfit with a blue collar with two golden circles on it. The woman’s nose was also different. Unlike Anna’s smooth one, this woman had a series of bumps on the crest of her nose. On her ear, she wore a rather beautiful looking silver earring.

But her whole face was completely different from Anna as well. Instead of yellow eyes like Anna’s people had, the stranger had bright blue ones. She had normal ears as well, lacking the bony crests Anna’s people had on the sides of their heads. She also had five fingers on each hand, instead of the four Anna had. Yet, their skin tone was the same and Anna could understand her language… somehow.

Even though this woman was so… alien to her, Anna couldn’t help but think she was beautiful. Sure, she was covered in bruises and dirt, but Anna hadn’t seen a woman like her. She was fascinated by her.

However, before Anna could even think of trying to approach the strange woman, she suddenly remembered her hunting trip. She’d left all that meat on the hill when she saw the fireball crash. This stranger would have to wait, she had her own duties to attend to.

As the woman tended to her departed friend, Anna quietly made her exit from the area, the stranger completely unaware of her presence. Eventually, Anna made it to the hill where she had stashed the meat earlier.

Fortunately, it hadn’t been poached by scavengers, much to Anna’s relief. As she looked at the strange craft from afar, she kept thinking about the woman and where she had come from. She didn’t seem to be a spirit of any kind. Anna knew all the spirits, being empowered by them after all. Yet, whatever she was… Anna knew she had to keep her a secret from her tribe.

She knew they’d likely panic and as their guardian, Anna wanted to keep them safe. Besides, the stranger clearly had her own problems to attend to.

Slinging the sack full of the day’s catch over her shoulder, Anna started to make her way back towards her home.

xXx

When Anna got back to the village, it had been chaos. The people of the tribe had thought the end of the world was upon them. After stashing away her hunt in the village store, Anna saw a large gathering in the centre of the village, people surrounding the large fire that burned at the heart of their community.

So many occasions had taken place there. Weddings, funerals, ceremonies dedicated to the spirits, but this occasion was much dire than any of those.

The tribe’s elder, Yelena, was trying to assure her tribe to be calm, but there was no such luck. There hadn’t been a commotion like this since the last tribal war, where their tribe, the Northuldra, had fought their rivals, the Divalla over their hunting grounds.

The gathered members of the tribe were panicking and bickering amongst themselves, all of them fearful for what the fireball could have meant, and some fearful for their safety and the safety of their families and loved ones. Anna didn’t blame them. She was still a little scared herself.

“Calm down, everyone!” Yelena called for order. “Let us wait until our guardian makes her return!”

“And what if she was killed when the sky fell?” one of the tribespeople asked frantically. “What if she has been betrayed by her fellow spirits?!”

“Please, let us think rationally!” the elder spoke amidst the mounting panic. “We have been in harmony with the spirits for generations. There is no reason for there to be conflict between us.”

Anna then stepped into the village center, seeing the assembled crowd. “I’m here, brothers and sisters!” she called out to them. “There is nothing for you to fear!”

One of the tribe turned around at once. “It’s the Fifth Spirit!”

“Oh thank the Divine Ones!” Another exclaimed.

At that moment, a young woman turned around and ran over to Anna. It was Honeymaren, Anna’s Spirit-Sister. Anna’s family had been close to Honeymaren’s and after her father died, Honeymaren’s parents had adopted her into their own, as their spirit daughter. Born to different parents, but treated like family all the same.

Ryder, Honeymaren’s brother, was the tribe’s resident Akadeer herder, while Maren was a blacksmith, forging and carving weapons and tools for their village. Anna saw both of them among the crowd. As Honeymaren rushed up to her, she took Anna’s hands.

“Anna, thank goodness!” Honeymaren exclaimed. “By the spirits, we were worried about you.”

“I’m fine, sister, I’m fine,” Anna assured her gently. “I was fortunately nowhere near the shooting star when it fell from the sky.”

“You were uninjured?” Yelena asked her.

Anna nodded, putting her hands on her hips proudly. “I was. It would take a lot more than a shooting star to bring this fifth spirit down.” She hoped her usual sense of pride and cockiness would ease the concern of her fellow Northuldra.

The tribe indeed felt a little relieved at that, some of them chucking and others just smiling. Honeymaren however, sighed and rolled her eyes playfully. “Your hubris will be the end of you someday, I swear.” She smiled. “But I am glad to see you are uninjured. Did you bring much for the tribe?”

“Oh, today was a good hunt,” Anna replied cheerfully. “Our village will be quite fed for quite a while.”

“But what was the shooting star when it landed?” Yelena asked her. “What did it bring from the heavens? Surely you must have seen it after it had crashed.”

She didn’t think it’d be best to tell the tribe about the strange silver craft that had crashed into their forest. She knew her tribe would likely panic and try to kill that beautiful blonde woman she’d seen in the woods, thinking her to be some sort of demon. But Anna had seen her bleed, seen her cry. Demons did not do either of those things, but she knew her people wouldn’t understand.

But she still had to give them an answer.

“Well, what did it look like?” Maren asked.

“Oh, it was uhhh… a big rock,” was all Anna replied.

“Just that?” Yelena wondered. “A big rock.”

“Yes, a really big rock,” Anna responded. “I give you my word as the guardian that it hopefully will not cause us any harm. However, I would recommend we do not go near it… at least not until I remove it. It could still pose some sort of danger to the village that I am not aware of.”

Yelena nodded. “Very well, I trust your judgement, Anna. Alright everyone, you can go about your business now. The Fifth Spirit has spoken!”

As the people dispersed, Maren and Ryder walked with Anna to their hut, both of them still concerned. Maren in particular, since she was the closest to Anna. Anna knew she wasn’t one to be satisfied, even when Anna told her she had nothing to worry about.

“Please, don’t worry us like that again,” she said in a worried tone. “You are the only family Ryder and I have left.”

“I’ll be fine,” Anna told her. Honeymaren did tend to worry a lot. She was the oldest in the family after all.

“Still sounds pretty cool though!” Ryder gushed. “A massive ball of fire falling from the sky!”

Maren shot her younger brother a look. “Don’t you start too.”

Anna chuckled a little. As they went inside and Honeymaren started on dinner, Anna went to her room and sat down. She looked at all the various souvenirs in the room, tokens of her adventures.

Her life had been one of wonder and hardship. From discovering that she was a woman not long after she became the fifth spirit, to helping forge an alliance between the Northuldra and another tribe called the Saporilda, to losing her father to the sickness. All of that had been impactful on Anna… and yet, she hadn’t thought of any of that as much as that strange blonde woman and her craft that had crashed down.

She couldn’t get her out of her mind, even now.

Eventually, Honeymaren called Anna to dinner and she dined heartily with her spirit-siblings. But soon, when they retired to bed, Anna found herself thinking of the woman again, wondering if she was alright in the forest on her own. Where could she have come from? Why had her strange vessel crash-landed into their forest? So many questions… questions which were keeping Anna awake that night.

Soon, Anna realised she couldn’t sleep. She had to see that woman again, to know that she was alright. She jumped from her bed and grabbed one of her hunting spears before crawling out of the window. And then she headed out into the night.

xXx

As the stars hung in the sky above her, Anna kept making her way through the forest. Her mind was focused on seeing the strange woman again. Anna hadn’t seen a woman quite like her, and now that she was freed from her duties she could observe her for as long as hse wanted to.

Anna knew that Honeymaren would likely chew her out for rushing out in the middle of the night, but Anna knew this was for the best. After all, she was the representative of their people. If she did indeed want to talk to this stranger… she was the most qualified person to do that.

It didn’t take Anna long to reach the crashed craft. The woman had started up a fire near her ship and was sitting beside it for warmth. At the same time, she was tinkering with some sort of metal object. She’d brought other things out from her ship as well, strange machines that Anna did not understand.

Hiding behind a tree, Anna watched as the woman warmed her hands on a nearby fire she’d started, before she tried to activate the strange object. She grumbled, pressing a switch on the device, only for there to be no response. She sighed, trying to remain calm.

“Okay, let’s try this again,” the woman muttered to herself. She pressed a few buttons before speaking into the machine. “This is Lieutenant Iduna Elsa calling. any Starfleet vessel? Do you read me? My ship was attacked by a squad of Jem'Haddar ships. I managed to escape but have crashed on an uncharted world. I am all alone here, my supplies are low and I don’t know how long I can last. If there is any Starfleet vessel receiving this, please respond… please.”

The woman groaned, as there seemed to be no response.

“Oh come on!” she groaned. “Did I do something wrong? You were the engineering expert, Kristoff. If you were still here, I bet I’d have found someone by now.”

Iduna. What a beautiful name for such a beautiful woman. And Kristoff was likely the person Anna had seen Elsa carry out of their crashed ship. While Anna had a few answers now, she still had many more questions about this woman. Part of her wanted to talk to her… but she had a feeling that would only make things worse. The woman was clearly still grieving and a stranger interrupting would have been the last thing she wanted.

Iduna rubbed her forehead, clearly fatigued. Working on whatever that contraption was exhausting, not to mention her shouting at the contraption when it wasn’t functioning as intended.

Gazing curiously, Anna continued to watch the woman, seeing her open some sort of packet containing some food. Iduna seemed to express a certain disgust to the food, but ate it anyway. Clearly, it was the only thing she felt like eating, or at least, was comfortable eating.

At that moment, Anna thought about grabbing some fresh Javarro fruit from the nearby tree and offering it to Iduna, only to then realise it was probably best for her to observe and not interact. Still, she found herself in awe of the strange machine the woman had used.

While Anna didn’t know what its purpose was… it was clearly important to Iduna. Perhaps she was trying to send a message to the stars from where she came?

Eventually, after Anna had watched Iduna for a while longer with her eating, it was clear she was getting sleepy. The blonde woman sat back on the rock she’d been resting against and pulled a nearby silver blanket over herself. Anna realised she should probably leave as well. After all, she’d seen her strange visitor more than enough now.

And yet, Anna had another question. The woman’s face… it was no longer dirty and certainly no longer covered in cuts and bruises. Had the woman… healed herself somehow? In such a quick time?

As the woman was closing her eyes, Anna crept closer to the camp, wanting to take one final close look at the stranger.

However, just as she got closer. Anna saw something sneaking in the darkness. A faint red glow and two crimson eyes. Anna recognised them instantly. She heard the sound of footsteps rushing towards the blonde woman, crunching leaves beneath them.

Grabbing her spear again, Anna looked in the darkness. The red eyes were gone and the footsteps had stopped… but Anna knew whatever was out there was getting closer and she wasn’t going to let it hurt this strange woman. Clutching the weapon tighter, Anna listened for a low growling.

The woman may not have been a native of the forest or part of Anna’s tribe, but Anna was determined to protect her.

Suddenly, Anna heard the footsteps again, hearing the creature snarl and charge at the camp.

Leaping out from behind the tree, Anna tossed her spear at the creature as it leapt out at Iduna. The beast groaned, being knocked back from the force of Anna’s attack. The illusion wore off, Anna seeing the sight of a black, bipedal wolf creature with black and red fur. A Lukark. They were nocturnal, cloaking themselves in shadow to sneak up on their prey.

Iduna jumped up, seeing Anna standing before her. “What the hell?!” she exclaimed. “Who are you?”

“Stay back!” Anna cautioned.

The beast snarled, ripping the spear from its leg and tossing it aside., charging at Anna with its claws. Anna tackled the beast, punching it in the face with her fist. She tried to toss the beast down onto its back, but Anna’s own fatigue got the better of her, as the Lukark managed to slash her with its claws.

Grunting, Anna looked down at her bleeding wound, distracted. She tried to reach for her weapon, but she was already starting to feel weak. With the little strength she had left, she tackled the creature, pinning it against a tree. Her hands grabbed onto its neck, Anna trying to choke it, but the beast then kicked her square int the stomach with its feet.

Iduna, staring at Anna, realised she had to do something. She quickly reached for one of her devices, a sleek silver, handled device. She aimed the weapon, trying to get a good shot at Anna and the creature, but they were both moving too much.

However, the Lukark then tackled Anna down. It slashed at her and tried to bite at her head, but Anna, with what little strength she had left, tried to fight back, but the creature’s foul breath filled her face and its great strength pressed down upon her, claws digging into her skin.

As Anna thought this would be her end. She’d lost a lot of blood and knew the Lukark was going to kill her… but at least she would die knowing that gave her life for this woman, protecting this innocent stranger to her woods. She just hoped that Iduna was running away now, far enough that the creature wouldn’t catch up to her.

However, Anna was then saved herself. . A beam of orange energy fired through the air, shooting the Lukark off her, killing it instantly. Anna turned, seeing that Iduna had killed the Lukark. In surprise, she tried to sit up, but felt searing pain all through her body.

“Damn it!” Iduna shouted, rushing to Anna’s side and cradling her. “Are you alright?!”

Anna tried to respond, but her vision was growing hazy. She kept focusing on the woman though, those beautiful blue eyes gazing back at her. Iduna was clearly a mix of a cunning warrior and a gorgeous beauty… and Anna was glad to have given her life for her.

But, before Anna could thank her rescuer, she lost consciousness due to her blood loss…

xXx

When Anna awoke, she found herself wrapped up in the same silver blanket Iduna had been in. As her eyes widened, she saw that she was beside the fire… and Iduna was sitting on a rock beside her. She was looking at the fire, warming her hands again, but she stared at Anna when she realised the redhead was awake.

Startled, Anna jumped up, panicking for a moment. Iduna got up, trying to calm her own.

“Woah, calm down,” she assured her. “Everything’s alright… you’re safe now.”

Staring at Iduna a little warily, Anna looked down at herself after pulling the blanket off her form… and saw that the injuries she’d sustained had been healed. Was this strange woman magical? Did she have powers that could not only heal herself, but others as well? Anna stared back at Iduna confused.

The woman nodded. “Yes… I healed your wounds.” She sighed. “It was the least I could do for you saving my life.”

Anna felt grateful… and humbled. And she couldn’t help but admit that she loved the sound of Iduna’s voice. Melodic and gentle… like how she imagined the voice of the spirits.

“I’m breaking a ton of rules by even talking to you right now,” Iduna remarked. “But I couldn’t just let you die. I’ve already lost one person today and I wasn’t prepared to lose another.”

“Iduna…” Anna spoke.

The blonde woman turned. “Huh?”

“Iduna…. that’s your name isn’t it?” Anna stated.

“How do you know my name?”

Anna blushed. “I was watching you work on whatever that big grey machine of yours is. You said your name into it.”

“Oh…” Iduna responded, feeling embarrassed. “Well, I prefer to be called Elsa, if that’s okay. I never liked my family name much anyway.”

Anna was a little confused. In the traditions of her people, the family name came after the first name, but clearly, wherever Elsa was from, the traditions were different. If she was honest though… Elsa was a much more beautiful name. In her own language, it meant “white flower”, but she doubted it meant the same to her new friend.

“My name is Anna,” the redhead introduced herself. “I… I saw this ship of yours crash earlier”

“You saw me then too?” Elsa asked. “How long have you been watching me?”

“I couldn’t help it!” Anna argued. “I saw the ship fall from the sky earlier today. So did practically everyone in my tribe. Don’t worry… I didn’t tell them about you. They… probably wouldn’t understand you and Spirits, even I don’t know what you are? You’re so… different to me.”

Elsa rubbed the back of her head. “I guess you could say… I’m from another world. A world called Bajor.”

“Bajor?” Anna wondered. “Do you have spirits there too?��

“Spirits?”

“Yes… divine beings who protect you and you believe in?” Anna stated. “I am empowered by the spirits of my world and I’m considered the guardian of this forest.”

“Ah,” Elsa responded. “Well… I suppose we have something similar on Bajor. We worship the Prophets. They protect us and are there for us in our lives. They have someone like your Fifth Spirit too, an Emissary… I wish he was with me right now.”

Anna sighed. “You didn’t mean to come here, did you?”

“No, I actually thought your world was uninhabited so I figured it’d be a safe place to crash after my shuttle got shot down,” Elsa expressed. “I’m sorry you were dragged into this.”

“Hey, I dragged myself into this,” Anna insisted. She grunted as she moved. “Ah..”

“Easy,” Elsa insisted. “Just because I healed your wound, doesn’t mean you don’t need to rest.” She helped Anna lie back and tucked her into the blanket. “There… now you get some sleep.”

“What about you?” Anna wondered. “Won’t you be cold?”

“I’ll… I’ll be alright,” Elsa replied. “You need it more than me.”

“No… you deserve to be warm as well,” Anna stated. She opened up the blanket. “Come on… we can share. We’ll keep each other warm.”

Elsa felt a little reluctant, but nodded. She climbed into the blanket with Anna and they both snuggled up beside the fire. Anna relaxed, resting against Elsa, the Bajoran smiling at her. Anna didn’t know what the future held for her and the woman from Bajor… but she was certain that she wanted to be with Elsa now.

After all… she was making her feel warmth.

[dolly-decadatia]

Intention of the day-

This is so hard to pick out on days without a pressing need. Also, let’s take a minute to focus on the fact that I don’t have a pressing need. I’ve been in constant crisis mode for 3 decades. I was starting to calm down at the end of 2020 and then my health tanked and I went back into crisis mode. I had 1 single therapy appt recently. It was mostly a waste of time but the one relevant theory she had was that because I’d been in such unsafe situations my whole life, the possible reason I got sick recently was because my body finally “felt safe” to do so. Who knows? But yeah, being in crisis mode I always needed something so it would have been easier to set intentions then. I’m sitting here drawing a blank.

Fuck it. I’m going to set an intention based on my reading yesterday. I’m going to be kind to myself.

Incense: cedar (for confidence) however, I only have one brazier. I’ve got mandarin currant wax melting in the living room and I’m about to light frankincense on the actual order in a little while before I do my daily divination. Les Vampires like frankincense.

Candle: pink would be best, especially with sigil carved into the side and anointed with rose oil. (I don’t have any of that.)

Crystals: I have rhodochrosite and rose quartz (nurturing) and tigers eye (self esteem)

Perfume: rose oil

Flowers: roses and lavender

Color: pink

Food: almonds and chocolate are both good for self esteem and by coincidence they were both in my breakfast.

Affirmations: I love the person I becoming

Daily Divination :

Will I ever be beautiful

Underneath: transgression

Flaws, contradictions, mistakes

It’s all about self forgiveness. “Live better, do better, but let the self punishment go. ... Go now and make amends, then give thanks for self forgiveness.”

“Make amends. Take stock, asses, and redirect, and come back into harmony with the voice of your soul.”

This doesn’t appear to answer my question. Maybe all 3 will make sense together, or Les Vampires think this is what I should be worried about instead of my looks.

Heart: creator (inverted)

“...now you call them scientists and they merge cells, transform bodies, change peoples shapes, repair great injury, change destiny. sometimes, it is wonderful, and sometimes, it is most destructive.”

Is this about my weigh loss and plastic surgery obsession?

“Each day with your thoughts, actions, and decisions you create anew the form your natural energies and soul will take... you can recreate yourself”

This part seems like an answer. I’m recreating myself and I need to make sure I nurture this new being with nutritious thoughts and tend it with actions that will help them grow beautiful.

“You are the vessel through which new life and ideas are born... When we create a new one, they struggle and are often confused and in pain.”

Cursed: (because it was inverted) terrifying paragraph that kicked me straight in the tokophobia. May I learn today’s lesson quickly so I never have to read this terrifying bit again. I believe they’re saying raising this new version of me will require sacrifice and inconvenience and be frustrating and joyless at times but they used a triggering cis breeder metaphor to convey their point that I really could have lived without. Point taken. I will undertake this labor. I had already often thought that my transition was very much me suffering through an unknown amount of years and then “delivering” this beautiful peaceful man and happily dying. That man I was supposed to be was still born. Top surgery botched, looks decimated, sick from hrt which is massively unfair seeing as its safe for 99% of other trans people. He’s dead. I must stop mourning him and put all my loving attention on this next baby I’m nurturing. They are nonbinary and long for peace and beauty and community. How I nurture them now colors who they will be when they’re “born.”

Promise: primal

Connecting deep within, sacred dance, instinct

This is very gendered. Second very gendered card of the reading. I’m unsure if I want to continue to work with Les Vampires. We will see how tomorrow’s reading goes.

Anyway it talks about dancing. The thing that I love to do and am grieving not being able to do right now because of pain and illness. It calls dancing “feminine” which is absolutely ridiculous. This cis obsession with gendering inanimate objects and actions is juvenile and stupid. Makes it hard to suspend disbelief that I’m working with immortal wise vampires. Maybe the author put her own spin on what they told her. Still annoying to read.

My action to work with this card to to dance.

And that’s my future.

Dance.

On a question about “will I be beautiful.”

So how do these go together? I do carry a lot of guilt in my past that I beat myself up for. Is this why I’m not currently attractive? All the self abuse. It’s all taken a physical and mental toll? I don’t take care of myself so I’m physically ugly and I’m too busy ruminating on all my failings that my energy is also ugly? The card does make a bit more sense in context with the other 2.

So in the present, I need to let all that self loathing stay in the past and not feed that poison to my “baby”.

So what’s the future? I do what I need to do to be a responsible Sire and then fledgling me is healthy enough to dance and therefore the answer is “yes I will be beautiful”

Or

I leave the self hatred behind, nurture my fledgling and then fledgling me’s “beauty” is the beauty of dancing meaning “no, you won’t achieve physical beauty, but you will achieve a beautiful art form to offer the world.”

I feel uncomfortable. Today more than yesterday I feel the human author behind the guide deck. This is why I’m an atheist. Once holes appear I rip them bigger and look into them. This was why I couldn’t be Wiccan. I had the same problem pretending to talk to a Goddess as I did the Abrahamic God. I was much happier when I was a pop culture pagan because I could just do the LaVey school of “this is theatre because humans need ritual” with characters I was more attached to than deities. If they are all made up anyway, why do pick my faves? I may end up back in Pop Culture Paganism at the end of this journey. It’s too early to tell.

As an ex PCP I can say, ok maybe this is just a book but my belief makes Les Vampires real. Of course I’m spotting an undercurrent of bullshit. It runs through everything.

But still I’m shaken. I had found so much comfort in the concept of loving vampire guides yesterday and now doubt is setting in and my good mood is tanking. It’s going to take a lot of work to resuspend disbelief and try and feel that love again.

In the meantime I accept my task of forgiving myself and nurturing my fledgling .

Later on a thought occurred to me. Maybe all the gross prego talk was because Les Vampires are trying to dumb down the beautiful Sire/ fledgling relationship into terms a human would understand. The bulk of the target audience won’t understand them the way I do. Now I feel bad for having sulky, bratty energy in front of them. I’m going to make amends by forgiving myself like my Underneath card said and nurturing my fledgling like my Heart card said.

[myselfsquared]

I'm so sorry to bother you and feel free to ignore this if it's annoying but PLEASE I am literally begging for more info about Cynthis??? PLEASE???? I LOVE HIM??? MUST KNOW???? ✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Literally none of these asks are a bother at ALL, quite the opposite, so please don’t apologize! It makes me SO happy to see people like my art and are interested in my characters! So… I’ll try to cover the basics but if you wanna know more feel free to let me know!

Context: Cynthis exists in two settings, because I am weak for AUs and using the same characters over and over again in different things. First one is my comic “My Superhero Husband” which I made a teaser for a while back and plan on continuing it as soon as I have some free time on the side. Second, the one all the moodboard drawings are from, is a cyberpunk story/RP I’m writing with @reversedkore​—we’re writing it for fun and it’s messy and it’s out of order, so we don’t really have any plans of sharing the full thing, but I can at least share some info, and maybe some pages of Cynthis’ backstory!

This is gonna be kinda long so I’m putting it under the cut, but please don’t feel obligated to read the whole thing!

Setting: We’re in the far future and there’s spaceships and there’s an intergalactic Empire who controls everything, and there’s androids, and it’s kinda dystopian, except most people are queer one way or another, because this is our story and we do what we want. Society is divided in two sides: the Noblus, who are like nobility except it’s a bought title, and they have to pay millions to keep it every year, and the Hands, who are literally everyone else. 

The current Emperor, James, is the first Hand-turned-Noblus to earn the throne. He’s a bit of an arrogant self-centered prick who kinda ends up being the bad guy, but it’s complicated and we love him.

Magik: Due to experiments done decades ago, now a small percentage of people are born with powers that we’re calling “magik” because we are edgy and unimaginative like that. There’s three types of magik: Techs (communicate with technology), Warpers (they can literally warp the fabric of spacetime and do shit like teleport, time freeze, gravity control etc. which is fun but also their powers are killing them), and the most common ones, Shockers (different types of electrokinesis). The Empire doesn’t allow non-Noblus magik users the tech that helps them properly use their magik though, unless they join the military, the police force.

Backstory: So, Cynthis had to leave his home planet at a very young age and join the Fleet (their version of the military) so he could get the tech that helped him control his powers. He comes from a planet where all life is considered sacred, so for many years he refuses to kill. But unlike most Shockers, his power is limited to touch—he can’t send out stuff like bolts of electricity. Nobody really takes him seriously as a kid cause Shockers are like canon fodder and his powers aren’t that great, and purely out of spite he becomes the best one in class. If you have time to kill and you wanna read some snippets of his childhood, you can find them here. 

Forward several years, he’s been part of special forces units, he’s earned some medals, and is considered one of the best the Fleet has to offer. And then the Emperor decides that Cynthis is both skilled and pretty, so he assigns him to be his personal bodyguard, and Cynthis hates this, but the money is very good. Then emotions and morality and a whole bunch of factors get involved and things get complicated.

Personality: Cynthis tends to be flat, cynical and sarcastic. Though he used to be a bit more idealistic, now he’s of the opinion that nothing ever changes anyway, so why even try? He also has a bit of a guilt complex and always tries to blame others for things. Despite that, he’s straightforward and honest, with no taste for small-talk and pleasantries. He is not great at understanding emotions and social cues, and is especially thick when it comes to realizing that someone is flirting with him. You could be handing him flowers and saying “I LOVE YOU” and he’d still be like “???” He has shitty self esteem.

Interests: Outside his job and training, his interests tend to change quickly. He picks up random hobbies all the time, and then some months later drops them: sewing, gardening, snowboarding, knitting, carving, fishing, hiking—you name it and the chances are he’s done it. Sometimes he comes back to them, sometimes he doesn’t. He loves plants though, that doesn’t change.

Mental Health: Though he keeps himself distracted most of the time, Cynthis doesn’t exactly have the best mental health possible. He shuts himself off from other people, and sometimes has self-harming tendencies. He has a lot of guilt surrounding things he’s done, and often goes through long depressive periods. Though he used to be more hopeful, that’s been replaced by cynical pessimism. He’s 33 and he feels old.

Dysphoria: Cynthis knew he was trans since he was a kid, but he couldn’t start hormone treatment till he was 18, because the Fleet did not allow it. He’s gotten top surgery since then, and that’s helped his dysphoria a lot, but doesn’t want bottom surgery. He’s not as bulky as most of the other guys he served with, and he’s not very comfortable with his body in general, but his dysphoria nowadays is more of a background thing, rather than something unbearable. There’s days where he doesn’t even think about it.

Relationships: Cynthis has a boyfriend called Archimedes, who is a Noblus fashion designer, and about 8 years younger than him. Archimedes is the kind of person who says he’ll get a coffee and orders a mocha with extra whipped cream, croissants on the side. I adore him. He’s idealistic, and naive, and sheltered from the world, but he’s incredibly kind. He hates the Emperor and the whole Empire system, but is too scared to leave his family and go fight for what he believes in. The two are very different but somehow click together. Archimedes makes Cynthis feel hopeful again.

Things get more complicated when James, the Emperor, gets involved. Though Cynthis hates him at first, over the years the two grow closer, and they end up having a very intense, somewhat toxic relationship. They bring out the best and the worst in each other. Cynthis can talk to him about things he’s never been comfortable discussing with Archimedes, and James actually begins it trust Cynthis and value his opinion.

A bunch of very messy things happen and plot and blah blah blah, but the most important point is that the “love triangle” turns to an OT3, and you can pry these three out of my cold dead hands.

Oh god this really has gotten long. Okay. I’m going to stop now?? Thanks for the ask and I hope this kinda answered some questions!

[tessatechaitea]

Wonder Twins #7

I didn't realize the Wonder Twins were Gen X.

Oh yeah! Zan had just saved the world by stopping a plot that was going to save the world.

I just realized I hadn't scanned the cover yet and as I did, I noticed the Wonder Twins fist/star emblem marks a striking resemblance to a goat.se riff. Zan and Jayna get taken off of monitor duty at the Hall of Justice now that they've stopped the League of Annoyance. You'd think that doing a good job would get you a promotion but those of use who have always done spectacularly good jobs know better. While everybody else works down to the lowest common denominator (because who wants to do more work than the next guy?! A fool, that's who!), good workers just put on blinders and do the job they were hired for until the time they're being paid for is up. Sure, that sounds like I'm describing a sucker who's been completely manipulated by the man! But I'm also describing a person who fulfills their end of whatever bargain they've agreed to! So when I say Zan and Jayna wind up giving tours at the Hall of Justice because they were too good at catching criminals, you'll understand why I went into the previous digression. Maybe? I don't know. Have you seen what state the U.S. is in?! Why are you picking apart my writing style?! Mark Russell takes a few pages to shit all over hockey fans and now I hate Mark Russell with a burning passion. Even though I'd hardly call myself a hockey fan. I mean, I loved NHL '93 (unless it was '92 (or maybe '94?)) and I loved going to San Jose Sharks games when I was still living in the Bay Area (plus my friend worked equipment for the Sharks and would get us free tickets). But it's not like I follow it much anymore. I just like the feeling of being angry at somebody for writing a satirical critique of sports fans rioting because they're so happy that their team won. Although why would I be angry when I've never done that nor think Russell's wrong in his pointed and humorous critique?! Oh, who cares why! Being angry is just more fun! Oh shit! I finally understand people's attraction to Fox News! I just watched a YouTube clip of somebody's Jeremy Roenick highlights from NHL '94 set to the song "More Than a Feeling" and it was pretty awesome. Also, that was definitely the one we played nonstop back in 1993 and 94 and maybe even into 95. Roenick unstoppable down with the puck while Sharks players lay splayed out on their back all across the ice. To stop the riot, Superman calls in Repulso! He's a guy whose super power is super stink and he's kept in a locked room with a bare table and a microwave and nobody wants to be his friend because he smells like a garbage dumb that vomited on top of the diarrhea it shit out while standing on its head so the stanky muck ran down his body absorbing all of his body odor and then somebody cut up a durian and tossed it in the mix.

Superman is a dick. Get this guy some friends with no sense of smell. Or at the very least, an Xbox Gold account.

After the hockey riots, some "the end of the world" riots take place because Zan and Jayna screw up something or other. Basically what that means is that Repulso gets to be let out of his airtight containment unit again! He's a pretty optimistic guy for being sealed away by Superman (which is just Superman's way! Is somebody a problem? No problem! Put them in the Phantom Zone!). He's so happy and not bitter about his living arrangements that I feel like Zan and Jayna had better figure out a way to give him a better life before this issue ends. Because if Mark Russell fails this character he created before this issue is over and I have to face reality after snot crying about a fictional person, I'm going to be pretty upset when I continue to buy Mark Russell comic books because what other choice do I have? Am I going to stop reading DC's best written comic books because Mark Russell betrayed poor Repulso? Of course not! What am I? A person with integrity?! Repulso winds up getting his ass beat by rioters as Repulso's handlers flee the chaotic "end of the world" downtown riot scene. Luckily the Wonder Twins are headed downtown to save his life and maybe become his friend or something? Please? After Zan and Jayna save Repulso, Jayna goes to Superman to tell him everything sucks. He gives her a big speech about how being a hero is lonely work because you don't always get to fuck the hot chick at your secret identity's workplace and also fuck an Amazon warrior while also getting to fuck anybody at all whose initials are "L.L." and also have a best friend who is the coolest guy in the world with a butler who makes the best pancakes. Sometimes you're a fat jerk who smells who even Superman won't fucking give the time of day because Superman has this speech about how being a hero is lonely and that's a good thing so you should embrace your loneliness because who wants to put up with your super stink, fatty?

Jayna is a way better hero than Superman. At least in this comic book that's all about her and not Superman so of course she's going to outshine him!

Oh yeah, the ant in the above picture is Jayna. It can't smell. Wonder Twins #7 Rating: A+. I should probably be less cynical when reading Mark Russell comic books because he's as earnest and serious as he can be while also providing lots of jokes. He takes writing seriously because what else is there? If your message isn't going to matter, why bother? (is his philosophy. I think. It's not my philosophy! I don't think? Maybe it is! I just write things that matter in a much different way than Mark Russell writes things that matter.) I should probably read Superman's speech and be inspired by the idea that you don't do good because you want adulation; you do good because it's the right thing to do, even if the entire world thinks you're an asshole for doing it. Even if all of the other superheroes think you're a stinky fuck and only keep you around to use as a tool to oppress and manipulate the masses without having to use logic and reason on them (because, let's face it, the people doing terrible things don't understand logic and reason. Or they're do but they're just selfish and greedy so nothing is going to reach them anyway (which maybe is part of Superman's message?)), you're still a hero at the end of the day. You can still be proud of your stinky self. And even if the life is lonely, you should remain positive and upbeat because Superman really doesn't want to be reminded that you exist every time you complain about the lack of reasonable living conditions. Being a hero is a state of mind, says the guy who also looks great and is invulnerable and has the best wife and a cool son and doesn't have to fear death! So inspiring!

[vi-is-for-gay]

My coming out story

When I figured out I wasn't exactly what I was biologically assigned

Hi everyone!

This is meant more of a stream of consciousness online journal to help me think about my life.

I am Asian, Vietnamese. I was born in Los Angeles, CA and moved to Atlanta, GA, when I was 5 or 6 years old. I consider myself growing up in the deep south with conservatives and a strong Christian Baptist society.

I am AMAB and sometime in October I came out to myself that I am transgender. I seriously debated with myself that because I was able to have romantic relationships with women and I was then having a 'cis' relationship. It felt wrong and it felt guilty.

I wasn't sure what to make of my feelings:

I was a guy

I liked girls

But I also liked dresses and envied how girls could be so soft, had their ability to have a supportive social network, warm personalities, and a feeling of belonging, mostly

About 3 years ago, I confessed to a friend who came out gay to me that I had crossdressed when I was younger and that I always wondered what my life would be like if I was born a woman. I had these thoughts all my life that it was a bunch of 'what ifs' but I came to terms with my body and what I was. I guess that's why I've always been overweight; I never liked it and I didn't really desire the male idea of perfection of a 6 packs and toned muscles.

The feeling of being out of place started young. I was just a small child when I told myself I couldn't like yellow because it was a girl's color so I chose blue because it was neutral. I don't remember how old I was or when it was, but it was young and most likely under 10. I regret that choice. Today I embrace yellow.

In elementary school, I was placed into a group with 3 girls and one of them accidentally called me 'she/her' and then corrected herself. I remember feeling disappointed that she corrected herself.

I had a phase when there was lotion provided and I ran up with some other girls to get some. This was around in 4th grade. The music teacher said boys don't get lotion and I remember violently rubbing it on my jeans to fit in and feeling strongly ashamed.

During puberty I felt something wrong was happening. I saw the girls around me start growing breasts and they would compare cup sizes. Their friendships grew stronger. My relative male relationships fell apart and I felt that I got the short end of the stick. I felt that I was always missing out by being a guy because I didn't like what they had to offer.

When I was young, roughly middle school age, I went through a /phase/ where I tried to be emo/scene. It was that they had long hair, skinny jeans, and that appealed to me because men were acceptable in that scene. During the same time I would time these crossdressing episodes when the parents would be out of the house and it was just my brother and I at home. I'd set him up at the computer playing the RPG classic 'Sacred' and I'd rummage in my mom's closet trying a bunch of stuff on: dresses, skirts, panties, panty hose, blouses, etc. I took a strong liking to panty hose but my dad found out and said I'm not supposed to wear that. That whole phase stopped soon after because I didn't want to get caught again.

During that stint I tried to grow out my hair and I got a straightening iron. Issue was that I didn't know how to take care of long hair and Asian hair is naturally straight. I didn't have access to internet so I could not rationalize my feelings and find that there was a community that existed. My mom convinced me to cut off my hair because I didn't know how to maintain it and she said boys should have short hair, so I chose to fit in and repress how I felt for the greater good.

During my high school years we got internet access and I began to get educated on the world and it's sexuality. I was constantly looking up the concept of Male to Female Transsexual, reading stories of transition, pre op and post op, and I vividly remember one of them mentioning dialiation and it accidently feeling good, like what downstairs could feel like. I took several quizzes but they all pointed to me being male brained with some female aspect. I feel that it came from repressing and the constant 'I need to fit in' mentality from my culture. It was difficult being first born Vietnamese American.

I became a much better person in university when I found people who I related to strongly. I created a social network of mostly women with some standing on the LGBTQ spectrum. I considered myself a strong ally and I supported them. I always thought of myself as the token guy in the group.

It finally clicked one day last year that I envied women because I wanted to be like one, so stage one was this definition called:

Male lesiban.

Yeah it was sort of weird.

After doing more research and talking to close friends I trusted, I realized that I was a woman inside and that I liked women. The amount of visibility for Trans-Lesibans extremely helped my process of coming out to myself and coming to terms with my now, much more confusing (but also much more warm and soft) future. Tumblr incredibly helped because I was instantly thrown into a pro LGBTQ world. I was always afraid of Tumblr and maybe it was that I was afraid of coming out to myself because I just knew.

There was so much of my life that just 'clicked' the instant I called myself a woman. All those events in my childhood made sense. Why I strongly resented strong displays of masculinity was because I didn't want that for myself.

I was attracted to long hair in women.

I was attracted to soft women in body and personality.

I was attracted to social groups and a sense of belonging.

All of a sudden it was that

I wanted long hair

I wanted to be soft in body and personality

I wanted to have a close knit social group that society generally encourages.

And all of a sudden I was immediately thrown into the LGBTQ community as a violently strong member and from supporting their fights and issues, it became my personal fight too.

I came out to that friend who came out to me first. She gave me her support and love.

I came out to my close social group. They all gave their support and love.

I came out to my girlfriend. She gave me her support and love. Importantly, she said something that makes me warm every time:

I don't really care about your flesh prison and whatever you're really doing to it. I think right now you're just redecorating. I love the operating system underneath, I love the brain that controls the flesh prison, I love the spirit that inhabits this body. I love you (y o u) you. You're still cute and I love you.

After coming out to my group, I spent roughly 200 dollars on women's clothing. I bought a gaff, panties, sports bra, actual bra, camis, leggings, jeans, khakis, socks, a cute cardigan, and breast forms both adhesive and non.

I bought makeup: foundation, loose powder, eyeliner on pencil and liquid, lip stain, lip balm, lip stick, facial cleaner and day/night moisturizer, eyebrow pencil and tweezers.

The moment I put a cami on and looked in the mirror, I felt 'right'. I had a strong bubbly warm feeling in the mirror. It was literally euphoric and the feeling I've read about before in many MTF blogs and stories.

I took the cami off like women would by holding opposite sides of the shirt and pulling it over my head. The same feeling came back

I put on breast forms and had boobs. The same feeling came back.

I went out in androgynous style with skinny jeans, tucked in t shirt, boots, and a flannel to complete a lesiban look. Same feeling.

I'm so confused, but happy. I feel like soup. I don't know what I'm made of or what's inside. I just know that right now I'm warm and happy.

But I'm struggling. Now I have to consider my future.

Do I come out to my Asian conservative parents?

Do I come out to my girlfriend's parents who think being gay is a //lifestyle// and are heavily Christian?

Do I consider HRT? Do I consider surgery?

I don't know. I don't really know.

I have some pipe dream of being able to pass as a woman in public. It went from passing online to passing at home to passing in public. I don't know.

Everything has changed so quickly and I'm afraid of what might come next.

I'm lucky that right now I'm financially supported. I'm about to graduate with an engineering degree with prospects for graduate school. I'm lucky that what I wanted to do is worth a lot of money. I don't know socially what's going to happen to me.

[unsettlingshortstories]

Green Tea

Sheridan Le Fanu (1872)

PROLOGUE

Martin Hesselius, the German Physician

Through carefully educated in medicine and surgery, I have never practiced either. The study of each continues, nevertheless, to interest me profoundly. Neither idleness nor caprice caused my secession from the honorable calling which I had just entered. The cause was a very trifling scratch inflicted by a dissecting knife. This trifle cost me the loss of two fingers, amputated promptly, and the more painful loss of my health, for 1 have never been quite well since, and have seldom been twelve months together in the same place.

In my wanderings I became acquainted with Dr. Martin Hesselius, a wanderer like myself, like me a physician, and like me an enthusiast in his profession. Unlike me in this, that his wanderings were voluntary, and he a man, if not of fortune, as we estimate fortune in England, at least in what our forefathers used to term "easy circumstances." He was an old man when 1 first saw him; nearly five-and-thirty years my senior. In Dr. Martin Hesselius, 1 found my master. His knowledge was immense, his grasp of a case was an vintuition. He was the very man to inspire a young enthusiast, like me, with awe and delight. My admiration has stood the test of time and survived the separation of death. I am sure it was well-founded. For nearly twenty years I acted as his medical secretary. His immense collection of papers he has left in my care, to be arranged, indexed and bound. His treatment of some of these cases is curious. He writes in two distinct characters. He describes what he saw and heard as an intelligent layman might, and when in this style of narrative he had seen the patient either through his own hall-door, to the light of day, or through the gates of darkness to the caverns of the dead, he returns upon the narrative, and in the terms of his art and with all the force and originality of genius, proceeds to the work of analysis, diagnosis and illustration. Here and there a case strikes me as of a kind to amuse or horrify a lay reader with an interest quite different from the peculiar one which it may possess for an expert. With slight modifications, chiefly of language, and of course a change of names, I copy the following.

The narrator is Dr. Martin Hesselius. I find it among the voluminous notes of cases which he made during a tour in England about sixty-four years ago. It is related in series of letters to his friend Professor Van Loo of Leyden. The professor was not a physician, but a chemist, and a man who read history and metaphysics and medicine, and had, in his day, written a play. The narrative is therefore, if somewhat less valuable as a medical record, necessarily written in a manner more likely to interest an unlearned reader. These letters, from a memorandum attached, appear to have been returned on the death of the professor, in 1819, to Dr. Hesselius. They are written, some in English, some in French, but the greater part in German. I am a faithful, though I am conscious, by no means a graceful translator, and although here and there ! omit some passages, and shorten others, and disguise names, I have interpolated nothing.

CHAPTER I

Dr. Hesselius Relates How He Met the Rev. Mr. Jennings

The Rev. Mr. Jennings is tall and thin. He is middle-aged, and dresses with a natty, old-fashioned, high-church precision. He is naturally a little stately, but not at all stiff. His features, without being handsome, are well formed, and their expression extremely kind, but also shy. I met him one evening at Lady Mary Haddock's. The modesty and benevolence of his countenance are extremely prepossessing. We were but a small party, and he joined agreeably enough in the conversation, He seems to enjoy listening very much more than contributing to the talk; but what he says is always to the purpose and well said. He is a great favourite of Lady Mary's, who it seems, consults him upon many things, and thinks him the most happy and blessed person on earth. Little knows she about him. The Rev. Mr. Jennings is a bachelor, and has, they say sixty thousand pounds in the funds. He is a charitable man. He is most anxious to be actively employed in his sacred profession, and yet though always tolerably well elsewhere, when he goes down to his vicarage in Warwickshire, to engage in the actual duties of his sacred calling, his health soon fails him, and in a very strange way. So says Lady Mary.

There is no doubt that Mr. Jennings' health does break down in, generally, a sudden and mysterious way, sometimes in the very act of officiating in his old and pretty church at Kenlis. It may be his heart, it may be his brain. But so it has happened three or four times, or oftener, that after proceeding a certain way in the service, he has on a sudden stopped short, and after a silence, apparently quite unable to resume, he has fallen into solitary, inaudible prayer, his hands and his eyes uplifted, and then pale as death, and in the agitation of a strange shame and horror, descended trembling, and got into the vestry-room, leaving his congregation, without explanation, to themselves. This occurred when his curate was absent. When he goes down to Kenlis now, he always takes care to provide a clergyman to share his duty, and to supply his place on the instant should he become thus suddenly incapacitated.

When Mr. Jennings breaks down quite, and beats a retreat from the vicarage, and returns to London, where, in a dark street off Piccadilly, he inhabits a very narrow house, Lady Mary says that he is always perfectly well. I have my own opinion about that. There are degrees of course.

We shall see.

Mr. Jennings is a perfectly gentlemanlike man. People, however, remark something odd. There is an impression a little ambiguous. One thing which certainly contributes to it, people ! think don't remember; or, perhaps, distinctly remark. But I did, almost im mediately. Mr. Jennings has a way of looking sidelong upon the carpet, as if his eye followed the movements of something there. This, of course, is not always. It occurs now and then. But often enough to give a certain oddity, as I have said, to his manner, and in this glance traveling along the floor there is something both shy and anxious. A medical philosopher, as you are good enough to call me, elaborating theories by the aid of cases sought out by himself, and by him watched and scrutinized with more time at command, and consequently infinitely more minuteness than the ordinary practitioner can afford, falls insensibly into habits of observation, which accompany him everywhere, and are exercised, as some people would say, impertinently, upon every subject that presents itself with the least likelihood of rewarding inquiry. There was a promise of this kind in the slight, timid, kindly, but reserved gentleman, whom I met for the first time at this agreeable little evening gathering. I observed, of course, more than I here set down; but I reserve all that borden on the technical for a strictly scientific paper. I may remark, that when I here speak of medical science, I do so, as I hope some day to see it more generally understood, in a much more comprehensive sense than its generally material treatment would warrant. I believe the entire natural world is but the ultimate expression of that spiritual world from which, and in which alone, it has its life. I believe that the essential man is a spirit, that the spirit is an organized substance, but as different in point of material from what we ordinarily understand by matter, as light or electricity is; that the material body is, in the most literal sense, a vesture, and death consequently no interruption of the living man's existence, but simply his extrication from the natural body --a process which commences at the moment of what we term death, and the completion of which, at furthest a few days later, is the resurrection "in power." The person who weighs the consequences of these positions will probably see their practical bearing upon medical science. This is, however, by no means the proper place for displaying the proofs and discussing the consequences of this too generally unrecognized state of facts. In pursuance of my habit, I was covertly observing Mr. Jennings, with all my caution--l think he perceived it--and I saw plainly that he was as cautiously observing me. Lady Mary happening to address me by my name, as Dr. Hesselius, I saw that he glanced at me more sharply, and then became thoughtful for a few minutes.

After this, as I conversed with a gentleman at the other end of the room, I saw him look at me more steadily, and with an interest which I thought I understood. I then saw him take an opportunity of chatting with Lady Mary, and was, as one always is, perfectly aware of being the subject of a distant inquiry and answer.

This tall clergyman approached me by-and-by; and in a little time we had got into conversation.

When two people, who like reading, and know books and places, having traveled, wish to discourse, it is very strange if they can't find topics. It was not accident that brought him near me, and led him into conversation. He knew German and had read my Essays on Metaphysical Medicine which suggest more than they actually say. This courteous man, gentle, shy, plainly a man of thought and reading, who moving and talking among us, was not altogether of us, and whom I already suspected of leading a life whose trans actions and alarms were carefully concealed, with an impenetrable reserve from, not only the world, but his best beloved friends- was cautiously weighing in his own mind the idea of taking a certain step with regard to me. I penetrated his thoughts without his being aware of it, and was careful to say nothing which could betray to his sensitive vigilance my suspicions respecting his position, or my surmises about his plans respecting myself.

We chatted upon indifferent subjects for a time but at last he said:

"I was very much interested by some papers of yours, Dr. Hesselius, upon what you term Metaphysical Medicine--I read them in German, ten or twelve years ago--have they been translated?"

"No, I'm sure they have not--I should have heard. They would have asked my leave, I think."

"I asked the publishers here, a few months ago, to get the book for me in the original German; but they tell me it is out of print."

"So it is, and has been for some years; but it flatters me as an author to find that you have not forgotten my little book, although," I added, laughing, "ten or twelve years is a considerable time to have managed without it; but I suppose you have been turning the subject over again in your mind, or something has happened lately to revive your interest in it."

At this remark, accompanied by a glance of inquiry, a sudden embarrassment disturbed Mr. Jennings, analogous to that which makes a young lady blush and look foolish. He dropped his eyes, and folded his hands together uneasily, and looked oddly, and you would have said, guiltily, for a moment.

I helped him out of his awkwardness in the best way, by appearing not to observe it, and going straight on, I said: "Those revivals of interest in a subject happen to me often; one book suggests an other, and often sends me back a wild-goose chase over an interval of twenty years. But if you still care to possess a copy, I shall be only too happy to provide you; I have still got two or three by me --and if you allow me to present one I shall be very much honored."

"You are very good indeed," he said, quite at his ease again, in a moment: "I almost despaired--I don't know how to thank you.

"Pray don't say a word; the thing is really so little worth that I am only ashamed of having offered it, and if you thank me any more I shall throw it into the fire in a fit of modesty."

Mr. Jennings laughed. He inquired where I was staying in London, and after a little more conversation on a variety of subjects, he took his departure. CHAPTER II The Doctor Questions Lady Mary and She Answers

"I like your vicar so much, Lady Mary," said I, as soon as he was gone. "He has read, traveled, and thought, and having also suffered, he ought to be an accomplished companion."

"So he is, and, better still,' he is a really good man," said she. "His advice is invaluable about my schools, and all my little undertakings at Dawlbridge, and he's so painstaking, he takes so much trouble--you have no idea wherever he thinks he can be o~ use: he's so good-natured and so sensible."

"It is pleasant to hear so good an account of his neighbourly virtues. I can only testify to his being an agreeable and gentle companion, and in addition to what you have told me, I think 1 can tell you two or three things about him," said I. "Really!" "Yes, to begin with, he's unmarried." "Yes, that's right---go on."

"He has been writing, that is he was, but for two or three years perhaps, he has not gone on with his work, and the book was upon some rather abstract subject--perhaps theology."

"Well, he was writing a book, as you say; I'm not quite sure what it was about, but only that it was nothing that I cared for; very likely you are right, and he certainly did stop--yes."

"And although he only drank a little coffee here to-night, he likes tea, at least, did like it extravagantly."

"Yes, that's quite true."

"He drank green tea, a good deal, didn't he?" I pursued.

"Well, that's very odd! Green tea was a subject on which we used almost to quarrel."

"But he has quite given that up," said I. "So he has."

"And, now, one more fact. His mother or his father, did you know them?"

"Yes, both; his father is only ten years dead, and their place is near Dawlbridge. We knew them very well," she answered.

"Well, either his mother or his father--l should rather think his father, saw a ghost," said I.

"Well, you really are a conjurer, Dr. Hesselius." "Conjurer or no, haven't I said right?" I answered merrily.

"You certainly have, and it was his father: he was a silent, whimsical man, and he used to bore my father about his dreams, and at last he told him a story about a ghost he had seen and talked with, and a very odd story it was. I remember it particularly, because 1 was so afraid of him. This story was long before he died--when I was quite a child--and his ways were so silent and moping, and he used to drop in sometimes, in the dusk, when I was alone in the drawing-room, and I used to fancy there were ghosts about him." I smiled and nodded. "And now, having established my character as a conjurer, I think I must say good-night!' said I. "But how did you find it out?"

"By the planets, of course, as the gypsies do," I answered, and so, gaily we said good-night.

Next morning I sent the little book he had been inquiring after, and a note to Mr. Jennings, and on returning late that evening, I found that he had called at my lodgings, and left his card. He asked whether I was at home, and asked at what hour he would be most likely to find me. Does he intend opening his case, and consulting me "professionally," as they say? I hope so. I have already conceived a theory about him. It is supported by Lady Mary's answers to my parting questions. I should like much to ascertain from his own lips. But what can I do consistently with good breeding to invite a confession? Nothing. I rather think he meditates one. At all events, my dear Van L., I shan't make myself difficult of access; I mean to re turn his visit tomorrow. It will be only civil in return for his polite ness, to ask to see him. Perhaps something may come of it.

Whether much, little, or nothing, my dear Van L., you shall hear.

CHAPTER III

Dr. Hesselius Picks Up Something in Latin Books

Well, I have called at Blank Street.

On inquiring at the door, the servant told me that Mr. Jennings was engaged very particularly with a gentleman, a clergyman from Kenlis, his parish in the country. Intending to reserve my privilege, and to call again, I merely intimated that I should try an- other time, and had turned to go, when the servant begged my pardon, and asked me, looking at me a little more attentively than well-bred persons of his order usually do, whether I was Dr. Hesselius; and, on learning that I was, he said, "Perhaps then, sir, you would allow me to mention it to Mr. Jennings, for I am sure he wishes to see you." The servant returned in a moment, with a message from Mr. Jennings, asking me to go into his study, which was in effect his back drawing-room, promising to be with me in a very few minutes. This was really a study--almost a library. The room was lofty, with two tall slender windows, and rich dark curtains. It was much larger than I had expected, and stored with books on every side, from the floor to the ceiling. The upper carpet-- for to my tread it felt that there were two or three--was a Turkey carpet. My steps fell noiselessly. The bookcases standing out, placed the windows, particularly narrow ones, in deep recesses. The effect of the room was, although extremely comfortable, and even luxurious, decidedly gloomy, and aided by the silence, almost oppressive. Perhaps, however, I ought to have allowed something for association. My mind had connected peculiar ideas with Mr. Jennings. I stepped into this perfectly silent room, of a very silent house, with a peculiar foreboding; and its darkness, and solemn clothing of books, for except where two narrow looking-glasses were set in the wall, they were everywhere, helped this somber feeling.

While awaiting Mr. Jennings' arrival, I amused myself by looking into some of the books with which his shelves were laden. Not among these, but immediately under them, with their backs up ward, on the floor, I lighted upon a complete set of Swedenborg's "Arcana Celestia," in the original Latin, a very fine folio set, bound in the natty livery which theology affects, pure vellum, namely, gold letters, and carmine edges. There were paper markers in several of these volumes, I raised and placed them, one after the other, upon the table, and opening where these papers were placed, I read in the solemn Latin phraseology, a series of sentences indicated by a penciled line at the margin. Of these I copy here a few, translating them into English.

"When man's interior sight is opened, which is that of his spirit, then there appear the things of another life, which cannot possibly be made visible to the bodily sight."....

"By the internal sight it has been granted me to see the things that are in the other life, more clearly than I see those that are in the world. From these considerations, it is evident that external vision exists from interior vision, and this from a vision still more interior, and so on." .... "There are with every man at least two evil spirits.".... "With wicked genii there is also a fluent speech, but harsh and grating. There is also among them a speech which is not fluent, wherein the dissent of the thoughts is perceived as something secretly creeping along within it." "The evil spirits associated with man are, indeed from the hells, but when with man they are not then in hell, but are taken out thence. The place where they then are, is in the midst between heaven and hell, and is called the world of spirits--when the evil spirits who are with man, are in that world, they are not in any infernal torment, but in every thought and affection of man, and so, in all that the man himself enjoys. But when they are remitted into their hell, they return to their former state.".... "If evil spirits could perceive that they were associated with man, and yet that they were spirits separate from him, and if they could flow in into the things of his body, they would attempt by a thousand means to destroy him; for they hate man with a deadly hatred." .... "Knowing, therefore, that I was a man in the body, they were continually striving to destroy me, not as to the body only, but especially as to the soul; for to destroy any man or spirit is the very delight of the life of all who are in hell; but I have been continually protected by the Lord. Hence it appears how dangerous it is for man to be in a living consort with spirits, unless he be in the good of faith." .... "Nothing is more carefully guarded from the knowledge of associate spirits than their being thus conjoint with a man, for if they knew it they would speak to him, with the intention to destroy him." .... "The delight of hell is to do evil to man, and to hasten his eternal ruin."

A long note, written with a very sharp and fine pencil, in Mr. Jennings' neat hand, at the foot of the page, caught my eye. Expecting his criticism upon the text, I read a word or two, and stopped, for it was something quite different, and began with these words, Deus misereatur mei--"May God compassionate me." Thus warned of its private nature, I averted my eyes, and shut the book, replacing all the volumes as I had found them, except one which interested me, and in which, as men studious and solitary in their habits will do, I grew so absorbed as to take no cognisance of the outer world, nor to remember where I was. I was reading some pages which refer to "representatives" and "correspondents," in the technical language of Swedenborg, and had arrived at a passage, the substance of which is, that evil spirits, when seen by other eyes than those of their infernal associates, pre sent themselves, by "correspondence," in the shape of the beast ()fera) which represents their particular lust and life, in aspect direful and atrocious. This is a long passage, and particularises a number of those bestial forms.

CHAPTER IV

Four Eyes Were Reading the Passage

I was running the head of my pencil-case along the line as I read it, and something caused me to raise my eyes.

Directly before me was one of the mirrors I have mentioned, in which I saw reflected the tall shape of my friend, Mr. Jennings, leaning over my shoulder, and reading the page at which I was busy, and with a face so dark and wild that I should hardly have known him.

I turned and rose. He stood erect also, and with an effort laughed a little, saying: "I came in and asked you how you did, but without succeeding in awaking you from your book; so I could not restrain my curiosity, and very impertinently, I'm afraid, peeped over your shoulder. This is not your first time of looking into those pages. You have looked into Swedenborg, no doubt, long ago?"

"Oh dear, yes! I owe Swedenborg a great deal; you will discover traces of him in the little book on Metaphysical Medicine, which you were so good as to remember." Although my friend affected a gaiety of manner, there was a slight flush in his face, and I could perceive that he was inwardly much perturbed. "I'm scarcely yet qualified, I know so little of Swedenborg. I've only had them a fortnight," he answered, "and I think they are rather likely to make a solitary man nervous--that is, judging from the very little I have read---I don't say that they have made me so," he laughed; "and I'm so very much obliged for the book. I hope you got my note?"

I made all proper acknowledgments and modest disclaimers. "I never read a book that I go with, so entirely, as that of yours," he continued. "I saw at once there is more in it than is quite un folded. Do you know Dr. Harley?" he asked, rather abruptly. In passing, the editor remarks that the physician here named was one of the most eminent who had ever practiced in England.

I did, having had letters to him, and had experienced from him great courtesy and considerable assistance during my visit to England.

"I think that man one of the very greatest fools I ever met in my life," said Mr. Jennings.

This was the first time I had ever heard him say a sharp thing of anybody, and such a term applied to so high a name a little startled me.

"Really! and in what way?" I asked. "In his profession," he answered. I smiled.

"I mean this," he said: "he seems to me, one half, blind--I mean one half[ of all he looks at is dark--preternaturally bright and vivid all the rest; and the worst of it is, it seems wilful. I can't get him--I mean he won't--I've had some experience of him as a physician, but I look on him as, in that sense, no better than a paralytic mind, an intellect half dead. I'll tell you--I know I shall some time--all about it," he said, with a little agitation. "You stay some months longer in England. If I should be out of town during your stay [or a little time, would you allow me to trouble you with a letter?"

"I should be only too happy," I assured him.

"Very good of you. I am so utterly dissatisfied with Harley."

"A little leaning to the materialistic school," I said.

"A mere materialist," he corrected me; "you can't think how that sort of thing worries one who knows better. You won't tell any one--any of my friends you know--that I am hippish; now, [or instance, no one knows--not even Lady Mary--that I have seen Dr. Harley, or any other doctor.

So pray don't mention it; and, if I should have any threatening of an attack, you'll kindly let me write, or, should I be in town, have a little talk with you." I was full of conjecture, and unconsciously I found I had fixed my eyes gravely on him, for he lowered his for a moment, and he said: "1 see you think I might as well tell you now, or else you are forming a conjecture; but you may as well give it up. If you were guessing all the rest of your Iife, you will never hit on it."

He shook his head smiling, and over that wintry sunshine a black cloud suddenly came down, and he drew his breath in, through his teeth as men do in pain. "Sorry, of course, to learn that you apprehend occasion to consult any of us; but, command me when and how you like, and I need not assure you that your confidence is sacred."

He then talked of quite other things, and in a comparatively cheerful way and after a little time, I took my leave.

CHAPTER V

Dr. Hesselius is Summoned to Richmond

We parted cheerfully, but he was not cheerful, nor was I. There are certain expressions of that powerful organ of spirit--the human face--which, although I have seen them often, and possess a doctor's nerve, yet disturb me profoundly. One look of Mr. Jennings haunted me. It had seized my imagination with so dismal a power that I changed my plans for the evening, and went to the opera, feeling that I wanted a change of ideas.

I heard nothing of or from him for two or three days, when a note in his hand reached me. It was cheerful, and full of hope. He said that he had been for some little time so much better-quite well, in fact--that he was going to make a little experiment, and run down for a month or so to his parish, to try whether a little work might not quite set him up. There was in it a fervent religious expression of gratitude [or his restoration, as he now almost hoped he might call it.

A day or two later I saw Lady Mary, who repeated what his note had announced, and told me that he was actually in Warwickshire, having resumed his clerical duties at Kenlis; and she added, "I begin to think that he is really perfectly well, and that there never was anything the matter, more than nerves and fancy; we are all nervous, but I fancy there is nothing like a little hard work for that kind of weakness, and he has made up his mind to try it. I should not be surprised if he did not come back for a year." Notwithstanding all this confidence, only two days later 1 had this note, dated from his house off Piccadilly:

DEAR Sir,--I have returned disappointed. If I should feel at all able to see you, I shall write to ask you kindly to call. At present, I am too low, and, in fact, simply unable to say all I wish to say. Pray don't mention my name to my friends. I can see no one. By-and-by, please God, you shall hear from me. I mean to take a run into Shropshire, where some of my people are. God bless you! May we, on my return, meet more happily than I can now write.

About a week after this I saw Lady Mary at her own house, the last person, she said, left in town, and just on the wing for Brighton, for the London season was quite over. She told me that she had heard from Mr. Jenning's niece, Martha, in Shropshire. There was nothing to be gathered from her letter, more than that he was low and nervous. In those words, of which healthy people think so lightly, what a world of suffering is sometimes hidden! Nearly five weeks had passed without any further news of Mr. Jennings. At the end of that time I received a note from him. He wrote: "I have been in the country, and have had change of air, change of scene, change of faces, change of everything--and in everything ---but myself. I have made up my mind, so far as the most irresolute creature on earth can do it, to tell my case fully to you. If your engagements will permit, pray come to me to-day, to-morrow, or the next day; but, pray defer as little as possible. You know not how much I need help. I have a quiet house at Richmond, where I now am. Perhaps you can manage to come to dinner, or to lunch eon, or even to tea. You shall have no trouble in finding me out. The servant at Blank Street, who takes this note, will have a carriage at your door at any hour you please; and I am always to be found. You will say that I ought not to be alone. 1 have tried everything. Come and see."

I called up the servant, and decided on going out the same evening, which accordingly I did.

He would have been much better in a lodging-house, or hotel, I thought, as I drove up through a short double row of sombre elms to a very old-fashioned brick house, darkened by the foliage of these trees, which overtopped, and nearly surrounded it. It was a perverse choice, for nothing could be imagined more triste and silent. The house, I found, belonged to him. He had stayed for a day or two in town, and, finding it for some cause insupportable, had come out here, probably because being furnished and his own, he was relieved of the thought and delay of selection, by coming here.

The sun had already set, and the red reflected light of the western sky illuminated the scene with the peculiar effect with which we are all familiar. The hall seemed very dark, but, getting to the back drawing-room, whose windows command the west, I was again in the same dusky light. I sat down, looking out upon the richly-wooded landscape that glowed in the grand and melancholy light which was every moment fading. The corners of the room were already dark; all was growing dim, and the gloom was insensibly toning my mind, al ready prepared for what was sinister. I was waiting alone for his arrival, which soon took place. The door communicating with the front room opened, and the tall figure of Mr. Jennings, faintly seen in the ruddy twilight, came, with quiet stealthy steps, into the room.

We shook hands, and, taking a chair to the window, where there was still light enough to enable us to see each other's faces, he sat down beside me, and, placing his hand upon my arm, with scarcely a word of preface began his narrative.

CHAPTER VI

How Mr. Jennings Met His Companion

The faint glow of the west, the pomp of the then lonely woods of Richmond, were before us, behind and about us the darkening room, and on the stony face of the sufferer for the character of his face, though still gentle and sweet, was changed rested that dim, odd glow which seems to descend and produce, where it touches, lights, sudden though faint, which are lost, almost with out gradation, in darkness. The silence, too, was utter: not a dis tant wheel, or bark, or whistle from without; and within the de pressing stillness of an invalid bachelor's house.

I guessed well the nature, though not even vaguely the particulars of the revelations I was about to receive, from that fixed face of suffering that so oddly flushed stood out, like a portrait of Schalken's, before its background of darkness.

"It began," he said, "on the 15th of October, three years and eleven weeks ago, and two days--I keep very accurate count, for every day is torment. If I leave anywhere a chasm in my narrative tell me.

"About four years ago I began a work, which had cost me very much thought and reading. It was upon the religious metaphysics of the ancients."

"1 know," said I, "the actual religion of educated and thinking paganism, quite apart from symbolic worship? A wide and very interesting field."

"Yes, but not good for the mind--the Christian mind, I mean. Paganism is all bound together in essential unity, and, with evil sympathy, their religion involves their art, and both their manners, and the subject is a degrading fascination and the Nemesis sure. God forgive me!

"I wrote a great deal; I wrote late at night. I was always thinking on the subject, walking about, wherever I was, everywhere. It thoroughly infected me. You are to remember that all the material ideas connected with it were more or less of the beautiful, the subject itself delightfully interesting, and I, then, without a care." He sighed heavily. "I believe, that every one who sets about writing in earnest does his work, as a friend of mine phrased it, on something--tea, or coffee, or tobacco. I suppose there is a material waste that must be hourly supplied in such occupations, or that we should grow too abstracted, and the mind, as it were, pass out of the body, unless it were reminded often enough of the connection by actual sensation. At all events, I felt the want, and I supplied it. Tea was my companion-at first the ordinary black tea, made in the usual way, not too strong: but I drank a good deal, and increased its strength as I went on. I never, experienced an uncomfortable symptom from it. ! began to take a little green tea. I found the effect pleasanter, it cleared and intensified the power of thought so, I had come to take it frequently, but not stronger than one might take it for pleasure. I wrote a great deal out here, it was so quiet, and in this room. I used to sit up very late, and it became a habit with me to sip my tea--green tea--every now and then as my work proceeded. I had a little kettle on my table, that swung over a lamp, and made tea two or three times between eleven o'clock and two or three in the morning, my hours of going to bed. I used to go into town every day. I was not a monk, and, although I spent an hour or two in a library, hunting up authorities and looking out lights upon my theme, I was in no morbid state as far as I can judge. I met my friends pretty much as usual and enjoyed their society, and, on the whole, existence had never been, I think, so pleasant before.

"I had met with a man who had some odd old books, German editions in medieval Latin, and I was only too happy to be permitted access to them. This obliging person's books were in the City, a very out-of-the-way part of it. I had rather out-stayed my intended hour, and, on coming out, seeing no cab near, I was tempted to get into the omnibus which used to drive past this house. It was darker than this by the time the 'bus had reached an old house, you may have remarked, with four poplars at each side of the door, and there the last passenger but myself got out. We drove along rather faster. It was twilight now. I leaned back in my corner next the door ruminating pleasantly.

"The interior of the omnibus was nearly dark. I had observed in the corner opposite to me at the other side, and at the end next the horses, two small circular reflections, as it seemed to me of a reddish light. They were about two inches apart, and about the size of those small brass buttons that yachting men used to put upon their jackets. I began to speculate, as listless men will, upon this trifle, as it seemed. From what center did that faint but deep red light come, and from what--glass beads, buttons, toy decorations-was it reflected? We were lumbering along gently, having nearly a mile still to go. I had not solved the puzzle, and it be came in another minute more odd, for these two luminous points, with a sudden jerk, descended nearer and nearer the floor, keeping still their relative distance and horizontal position, and then, as suddenly, they rose to the level of the seat on which I was sitting and I saw them no more.

"My curiosity was now really excited, and, before I had time to think, I saw again these two dull lamps, again together near the floor; again they disappeared, and again in their old corner I saw them. "So, keeping my eyes upon them, I edged quietly up my own side, towards the end at which I still saw these tiny discs of red.

"There was very little light in the 'bus. It was nearly dark. I leaned forward to aid my endeavor to discover what these little circles really were. They shifted position a little as I did so. I began now to perceive an outline of something black, and 1 soon saw, with tolerable distinctness, the outline of a small black monkey, pushing its face forward in mimicry to meet mine; those were its eyes, and I now dimly saw its teeth grinning at me. "I drew back, not knowing whether it might not meditate a spring. 1 fancied that one of the passengers had forgot this ugly pet, and wishing to ascertain something of its temper, though not caring to trust my fingers to it, I poked my umbrella softly towards it. It remained immovable--up to it--through it. For through it, and back and forward it passed, without the slightest resistance.

"I can't, in the least, convey to you the kind of horror that I felt. When I had ascertained that the thing was an illusion, as I then supposed, there came a misgiving about myself and a terror that fascinated me in impotence to remove my gaze from the eyes of the brute for some moments. As I looked, it made a little skip back, quite into the corner, and I, in a panic, found myself at the door, having put my head out, drawing deep breaths of the outer air, and staring at the lights and tress we were passing, too glad to reassure myself of reality. "I stopped the 'bus and got out. I perceived the man look oddly at me as I paid him. I dare say there was something unusual in my looks and manner, for I had never felt so strangely before."

CHAPTER VII

The Journey: First Stage

"When the omnibus drove on, and I was alone upon the road, I looked carefully round to ascertain whether the monkey had fol lowed me. To my indescribable relief ! saw it nowhere. I can't describe easily what a shock I had received, and my sense of genuine gratitude on finding myself, as I supposed, quite rid of it.

"I had got out a little before we reached this house, two or three hundred steps. A brick wall runs along the footpath, and inside the wall is a hedge of yew, or some dark evergreen of that kind, and within that again the row of fine trees which you may have remarked as you came. "This brick wall is about as high as my shoulder, and happening to raise my eyes I saw the monkey, with that stooping gait, on all fours, walking or creeping, close beside me, on top of the wall. I stopped, looking at it with a feeling of loathing and horror. As I stopped so did it. It sat up on the wall with its long hands on its knees looking at me. There was not light enough to see it much more than in outline, nor was it dark enough to bring the peculiar light of its eyes into strong relief. I still saw, however, that red foggy light plainly enough. It did not show its teeth, nor exhibit any sign of irritation, but seemed jaded and sulky, and was observing me steadily. "I drew back into the middle of the road. It was an unconscious recoil, and there I stood, still looking at it. It did not move.

"With an instinctive determination to try something--any thing, I turned about and walked briskly towards town with askance look, all the time, watching the movements of the beast. It crept swiftly along the wall, at exactly my pace.

"Where the wall ends, near the turn of the road, it came down, and with a wiry spring or two brought itself close to my feet, and continued to keep up with me, as I quickened my pace. It was at my left side, so dose to my leg that I felt every moment as if I should tread upon it.

"The road was quite deserted and silent, and it was darker every moment. I stopped dismayed and bewildered, turning as 1 did so, the other way--I mean, towards this house, away from which I had been walking. When I stood still, the monkey drew back to a distance of, I suppose, about five or six yards, and remained stationary, watching me. "I had been more agitated than I have said. I had read, of course, as everyone has, something about 'spectral illusions,' as you physicians term the phenomena of such cases. I considered my situation, and looked my misfortune in the face.

"These affections, I had read, are sometimes transitory and sometimes obstinate. I had read of cases in which the appearance, at first harmless, had, step by step, degenerated into something direful and insupportable, and ended by wearing its victim out. Still as I stood there, but for my bestial companion, quite alone, I tried to comfort myself by repeating again and again the assurance, 'the thing is purely disease, a well-known physical affection, as distinctly as small-pox or neuralgia. Doctors are all agreed on that, philosophy demonstrates it. I must not be a fool. I've been sitting up too late, and I daresay my digestion is quite wrong, and, with God's help, I shall be all right, and this is but a symptom of nervous dyspepsia.'

Did I believe all this? Not one word of it, no more than any other miserable being ever did who is once seized and riveted in this satanic captivity. Against my convictions, I might say my knowledge, I was simply bullying myself into a false courage.

"I now walked homeward. I had only a few hundred yards to go. I had forced myself into a sort of resignation, but I had not got over the sickening shock and the flurry of the first certainty of my misfortune.

"I made up my mind to pass the night at home. The brute moved dose betide me, and 1 fancied there was the sort of anxious drawing toward the house, which one sees in tired horses or dogs, sometimes as they come toward home.

"I was afraid to go into town, I was afraid of any one's seeing and recognizing me. I was conscious of an irrepressible agitation in my manner. Also, I was afraid of any violent change in my habits, such as going to a place of amusement, or walking from home in order to fatigue myself. At the hall door it waited till I mounted the steps, and when the door was opened entered with me.

"I drank no tea that night. I got cigars and some brandy and water. My idea was that I should act upon my material system, and by living for a while in sensation apart from thought, send myself forcibly, as it were, into a new groove. I came up here to this drawing-room. 1 sat just here. The monkey then got upon a small table that then stood there. It looked dazed and languid. An irrepressible uneasiness as to its movements kept my eyes always upon it. Its eyes were half closed, but I could see them glow. It was looking steadily at me. In all situations, at all hours, it is awake and looking at me. That never changes.

"I shall not continue in detail my narrative of this particular night. I shall describe, rather, the phenomena of the first year, which never varied, essentially. I shall describe the monkey as it appeared in daylight. In the dark, as you shall presently hear, there are peculiarities. It is a small monkey, perfectly black. It had only one peculiarity--a character of malignity--unfathomable malignity. During the first year looked sullen and sick. But this character of intense malice and vigilance was always underlying that surly languor. During all that time it acted as if on a plan of giving me as little trouble as was consistent with watching me. Its eyes were never off me. I have never lost sight of it, except in my sleep, light or dark, day or night, since it came here, excepting when it withdraws for some weeks at a time, unaccountably.

"In total dark it is visible as in daylight. I do not mean merely its eyes. It is all visible distinctly in a halo that resembles a glow of red embers, and which accompanies it in all its movements.

"When it leaves me for a time, it is always at night, in the dark, and in the same way. It grows at first uneasy, and then furious, and then advances towards me, ginning and shaking, its paws clenched, and, at the same time, there comes the appearance of fire in the grate. I never have any fire. I can't sleep in the room where there is any, and it draws nearer and nearer to the chimney, quivering, it seems, with rage, and when its fury rises to the high est pitch, it springs into the grate, and up the chimney, and 1 see it no more.

"When first this happened, I thought I was released. 1 was now a new man. A day passed--a night--and no return, and a blessed week--a week--another week. 1 was always on my knees, Dr. Hesselius, always, thanking God and praying. A whole month passed of liberty, but on a sudden, it was with me again."

CHAPTER VIII

The Second Stage

"It was with me, and the malice which before was torpid under a sullen exterior, was now active.

It was perfectly unchanged in every other respect. This new energy was apparent in its activity and its looks, and soon in other ways.

"For a time, you will understand, the change was shown only in an increased vivacity, and an air of menace, as if it were always brooding over some atrocious plan. Its eyes, as before, were never off me."

"Is it here now?" I asked.

"No," he replied, "it has been absent exactly a fortnight and a day--fifteen days. It has sometimes been away so long as nearly two months, once for three. Its absence always exceeds a fortnight, al though it may be but by a single day. Fifteen days having past since I saw it last, it may return now at any moment."

"Is its return," I asked, "accompanied by any peculiar manifestation?"

"Nothing--no," he said. "It is simply with me again. On lifting my eyes from a book, or turning my head, I see it, as usual, looking at me, and then it remains, as before, for its appointed time. I have never told so much and so minutely before to any one."

I perceived that he was agitated, and looking like death, and he repeatedly applied his handkerchief to his forehead; I suggested that he might be cured, and told him that I would call, with pleasure, in the morning, but he said: "No, if you don't mind hearing it all now. I have got so far, and I should prefer making one effort of it. When I spoke to Dr. Harley, I had nothing like so much to tell. You are a philosophic physician. You give spirit its proper rank. If the thing is real----"

He paused looking at me with agitated inquiry.

"We can discuss it by-and-by, and very fully. I will give you all I think, " I answered after an interval.

"Well--very well. If it is anything real, I say, it is prevailing. little by little, and drawing me more interiorly into hell. Optic nerves, he talked of. Ah! well--there are other nerves of communication. May God Almighty help me! You shall hear. "It is power of action, I tell you, had increased. Its malice became, in a way, aggressive. About two years ago, some questions that were pending between me and the bishop having been settled, I went down to my parish in Warwickshire, anxious to find occupation in my profession. I was not prepared for what happened, although I have since thought I might have apprehended something like it. The reason of my saying so is this--"

He was beginning to speak with a great deal more effort and reluctance, and sighted often, and seemed at times nearly overcome. But at this time his manner was not agitated. It was more like that of a sinking patient, who has given himself up.

"Yes, but I will first tell you about Kenlis my parish.

"It was with me when I left this place for Drawlbridge. It was my silent traveling companion, and it remained with me at the vicarage. When I entered on the discharge of my duties, another change took place. The thing exhibited an atrocious determination to thwart me. It was with me in the church--in the reading desk--in the pulpit--within the communion rails. At last, it reached this extremity, that while I was reading to the congregation, it would spring upon the book and squat there, so that I was unable to see the page. This happened more than once.

"I left Drawlbridge for a time. I placed myself in Dr. Harley's hands. I did everything he told me. he gave my case a great deal of thought. It interested him, I think. He seemed successful.

For nearly three months I was perfectly free from a return. I began to think I was safe. With his full assent I returned to Drawlbridge.

"I traveled in a chaise. I was in good spirits. I was more--I was happy and grateful. I was returning , as I thought, delivered from a dreadful hallucination, to the scene of duties which I longed to enter upon. It was a beautiful sunny evening, everything looked serene and cheerful, and I was delighted, I remember looking out of the window to see the spire of my church at Kenlis among the trees, at the point where one has the earliest view of it. It is exactly where the little stream that bounds the parish passes under the road by a culvert, and where it emerges at the roadside, a stone with an old inscription is placed. As we passed this point, I drew my head in and sat down, and in the corner of the chaise was the monkey.

"For a moment I felt faint, and then quite wild with despair and horror, I called to the driver, and got out, and sat down at the road-side, and prayed to God silently for mercy. A despairing resignation supervened. My companion was with me as I reentered the vicarage. The same persecution followed. After a short struggle I submitted, and soon I left the place. "I told you," he said, "that all the beast has before this become in certain ways aggressive. I will explain a little. It seemed to be actuated by intense and increasing fury, whenever I said my prayers, or even meditated prayer. It amounted at last to a dreadful interruption. You will ask, how could a silent immaterial phantom effect that? It was thus, whenever I meditated praying; It was always before me, and nearer and nearer. "It used to spring on the table, on the back of the chair, on the chimney-piece, and slowly swing itself from side to side, looking at me all the time. There is in its motion an indefinable power to dissipate thought, and to contract one's attention to that monotony, till the ideas shrink, as it were, to a point, and at last to nothing--and unless I had started up , and shook off the catalepsy I have felt as if my mind were to a point of losing itself. There are no other ways," he sighed heavily; "thus, for instance, while I pray with my eyes closed, it comes closer and closer and closer, and I see it. I know it is not to be accounted for physically, but I do actually see it, though my lids are closed, and so it rocks my mind, as it were, and overpowers me, and I am obliged to rise from my knees. If you had ever yourself known this, you would be acquainted with desperation."

CHAPTER IX

The Third Stage

"I see, Dr. Hesselius, that you don't lose one word of my statement. I need not ask you to listen specially to what I am now going to tell you. They talk of the optic nerves, and of spectral illusions, as if the organ of fight was the only point assailable by the influences that have fastened upon me--l know better. For two years in my direful case that limitation prevailed. But as food is taken in softly at the lips, and then brought under the teeth, as the tip of the little finger caught in a mill crank will draw in the hand, and the arm, and the whole body, so the miserable mortal who has been once caught firmly by the end of the finest fibre of his nerve, is drawn in and in, by the enormous machinery of hell, until he is as 1 am. Yes, Doctor, as I am, for a while I talk to you, and implore relief, I feel that my prayer is for the impossible, and my pleading with the inexorable."

1 endeavoured to calm his visibly increasing agitation, and told him that he must not despair.

While we talked the night had overtaken us. The filmy moon light was wide over the scene which the window commanded, and I said: "Perhaps you would prefer having candles. This light, you know, is odd. I should wish you, as much as possible, under your usual conditions while I make my diagnosis, shall I call it--otherwise I don't care."

"All lights are the same to me," he said; "except when 1 read or write, I care not if night were perpetual. I am going to tell you what happened about a year ago. The thing began to speak to me."

"Speak! How do you mean--speak as a man does, do you mean?" "yes; speak in words and consecutive sentences, with perfect coherence and articulation; but there is a peculiarity. It is not like the tone of a human voice. It is not by my ears it reaches me-it comes like a singing through my head.

"This faculty, the power of speaking to me, will be my undoing. It won't let me pray, it interrupts me with dreadful blasphemies. I dare not go on, I could not. Oh! Doctor, can the skill, and thought, and prayers of man avail me nothing!"

"You must promise me, my dear sir, not to trouble yourself with unnecessarily exciting thoughts; confine yourself strictly to the narrative of facts; and recollect, above all, that even if the thing that infests you be, you seem to suppose a reality with an actual in dependent life and will, yet it can have no power to hurt you, unless it be given from above: its access to your senses depends mainly upon your physical condition--this is, under God, your com fort and reliance: we are all alike environed. It is only that in your case, the 'parties,' the veil of the flesh, the screen, is a little out of repair, and sights and sounds are transmitted. We must enter on a new course, sir,---be encouraged. I'll give to-night to the careful consideration of the whole case."

"You are very good, sir; you think it worth trying, you don't give me quite up; but, sir, you don't know, it is gaining such an influence over me: it orders me about, it is such a tyrant, and I'm growing so helpless. May God deliver me!"

"It orders you about--of course you mean by speech?"

"Yes, yes; it is always urging me to crimes, to injure others, or myself. You see, Doctor, the situation is urgent, it is indeed. When I was in Shropshire, a few weeks ago" (Mr. Jennings was speaking rapidly and trembling now, holding my arm with one hand, and looking in my face), "I went out one day with a party of friends for a walk: my persecutor, I tell you, was with me at the time. I lagged behind the rest: the country near the Dee, you know, is beautiful. Our path happened to lie near a coal mine, and at the verge of the wood is a perpendicular shaft, they say, a hundred and fifty feet deep. My niece had remained behind with me--she knows, of course nothing of the nature of my sufferings. She knew, however, that I had been ill, and was low, and she remained to prevent my being quite alone. As we loitered slowly on together, the brute that accompanied me was urging me to throw myself down the shaft. I tell you now--oh, sir, think of it!--the one consideration that saved me from that hideous death was the fear lest the shock of witnessing the occurrence should be too much for the poor girl. I asked her to go on and walk with her friends, saying that I could go no further. She made excuses, and the more I urged her the firmer she became. She looked doubtful and frightened. 1 suppose there was something in my looks or manner that alarmed her; but she would not go, and that literally saved me. You had no idea, sir, that a living man could be made so abject a slave of Satan," he said, with a ghastly groan and a shudder.

There was a pause here, and I said, "You were preserved nevertheless. It was the act of God. You are in His hands and in the power of no other being: be therefore confident for the future."

CHAPTER X

Home

I made him have candles lighted, and saw the room looking cheery and inhabited before I left him. I told him that he must regard his illness strictly as one dependent on physical, though subtle physical causes. 1 told him that he had evidence of God's care and love in the deliverance which he had just described, and that I had perceived with pain that he seemed to regard its peculiar features as indicating that he had been delivered over to spiritual reprobation. Than such a conclusion nothing could be, I insisted, less warranted; and not only so, but more contrary to [acts, as disclosed in his mysterious deliverance from that murderous in fluence during his Shropshire excursion. First, his niece had been retained by his side without his intending to keep her near him; and, secondly, there had been infused into his mind an irresistible repugnance to execute the dreadful suggestion in her presence.

As I reasoned this point with him, Mr. Jennings wept. He seemed comforted. One promise I exacted, which was that should the monkey at any time return, I should be sent for immediately; and, repeating my assurance that 1 would give neither time nor thought to any other subject until I had thoroughly investigated his case, and that to-morrow he should hear the result, 1 took my leave.

Before getting into the carriage I told the servant that his master was far from well, and that he should make a point of fre quently looking into his room. My own arrangements 1 made with a view to being quite secure from interruption. I merely called at my lodgings, and with a traveling-desk and carpet-bag, set off in a hackney carriage for an inn about two miles out of town, called "The Horns," a very quiet and comfortable house, with good thick walls. And there I resolved, without the possibility of intrusion or distraction, to devote some hours of the night, in my comfortable sitting-room, to Mr. Jennings' case, and so much of the morning as it might require. (There occurs here a careful note of Dr. Hesselius' opinion on the case, and of the habits, dietary, and medicines which he prescribed. It is curious--some persons would say mystical. But, on the whole, I doubt whether it would sufficiently interest a reader of the kind I am likely to meet with, to warrant its being here reprinted. The whole letter was plainly written at the inn where he had hid himself for the occasion. The next letter is dated from his town lodgings.) I left town for the inn where I slept last night at half-past nine, and did not arrive at my room in town until one o'clock this after- noon. 1 found a letter m Mr. Jennings' hand upon my table. It. had not come by post, and, on inquiry, I learned that Mr. Jennings' servant had brought it, and on learning that I was not to return until to-day, and that no one could tell him my address, he seemed very uncomfortable, and said his orders from his master were that he was not to return without an answer.

I opened the letter and read:

Dear Dr. Hesselius.--It is here. You had not been an hour gone when it returned. It is speaking. It knows all that has happened. It knows every thing-it knows you, and is frantic and atrocious. It reviles. I send you this. It knows every word I have written--I write. This I promised, and I therefore write, but I fear very confused, very incoherently. I am so interrupted, disturbed.

Ever yours, sincerely yours,

ROBERT LYNDER JENNINGS.

"When did this come?" I asked.

"About eleven last night: the man was here again, and has been here three times to-day. The last time is about an hour since."

Thus answered, and with the notes ! had made upon his case in my pocket, I was in a few minutes driving towards Richmond, to see Mr. Jennings. I by no means, as you perceive, despaired of Mr. Jennings' case. He had himself remembered and applied, though quite in a mistaken way, the principle which I lay down in my Metaphysical Medicine, and which governs all such cases. I was about to apply it in earnest. I was profoundly interested, and very anxious to see and examine him while the "enemy" was actually present. I drove up to the sombre house, and ran up the steps, and knocked. The door, in a little time, was opened by a tall woman in black silk. She looked ill, and as if she had been crying. She curtseyed, and heard my question, but she did not answer. She turned her face away, extending her hand towards two men who were coming down-stairs; and thus having, as it were, tacitly made me over to them, she passed through a side-door hastily and shut it.

The man who was nearest the hall, I at once accosted, but being now close to him, I was shocked to see that both his hands were covered with blood.

I drew back a little, and the man, passing downstairs, merely said in a low tone, "Here's the servant, sir."

The servant had stopped on the stairs, confounded and dumb at seeing me. He was rubbing his hands in a handkerchief, and it was steeped in blood.

"Jones, what is it? what has happened?" I asked, while a sickening suspicion overpowered me.

The man asked me to come up to the lobby. I was beside him in a moment, and, frowning and pallid, with contracted eyes, he told me the horror which I already half guessed.

His master had made away with himself.

I went upstairs with him to the room--what I saw there I won't tell you. He had cut his throat with his razor. It was a frightful gash. The two men had laid him on the bed, and composed his limbs. It had happened, as the immense pool of blood on the floor declared, at some distance between the bed and the window. There was carpet round his bed, and a carpet under his dressing. table, but none on the rest of the floor, for the man said he did not like a carpet on his bedroom. In this sombre and now terrible room, one of the great elms that darkened the house was slowly moving the shadow of one of its great boughs upon this dreadful floor.

I beckoned to the servant, and we went downstairs together. I turned off the hall into an old-fashioned paneled room, and there standing, I heard all the servant had to tell. It was not a great deal.

"! concluded, sir, from your words, and looks, sir, as you left last night, that you thought my master was seriously ill. I thought it might be that you were afraid of a fit, or something. So I attended very close to your directions. He sat up late, till past three o'clock. He was not writing or reading. He was talking a great deal to him self, but that was nothing unusual. At about that hour 1 assisted him to undress, and left him in his slippers and dressing-gown. I went back softly in about half-an-hour. He was in his bed, quite undressed, and a pair of candles lighted on the table beside his bed. He was leaning on his elbow, and looking out at the other side of the bed when I came in. I asked him if he wanted anything, and he said No. "I don't know whether it was what you said to me, sir, or some thing a little unusual about him, but I was uneasy, uncommon uneasy about him last night.

"In another half hour, or it might be a little more, 1 went up again. 1 did not hear him talking as before. I opened the door a little. The candles were both out, which was not usual. I had a bedroom candle, and I let the light in, a little bit, looking softly round. I saw him sitting in that chair beside the dressing-table with his clothes on again. He turned round and looked at me. I thought it strange he should get up and dress, and put out the candles to sit in the dark, that way.

But I only asked him again if I could do anything for him. He said, No, rather sharp, I thought. He said, 'Tell me truth, Jones; why did you come again--you did not hear anyone cursing?' 'No, sir,' I said, wondering what he could mean.

"'No,' said he, after me, 'of course, no;' and I said to him, 'Wouldn't it be well, sir, you went to bed? It's just five o'clock;' and he said nothing, but, 'Very likely; good-night, Jones.' so I went, sir, but in less than an hour I came again. The door was fast, and he heard me, and called as I thought from the bed to know what I wanted, and he desired me not to disturb him again. I lay down and slept for a little. It must have been between six and seven when I went up again. The door was still fast, and he made no answer, so 1 did not like to disturb him, and thinking he was asleep, I left him till nine. It was his custom to ring when he wished me to come, and I had no particular hour for calling him. I tapped very gently, and getting no answer, I stayed away a good while, supposing he was getting some rest then. It was not till eleven o'clock I grew really uncomfortable about him--for at the latest he was never, that I could remember, later than half past ten. I got no answer. I knocked and called, and still no answer. So not being able to force the door, I called Thomas from the stables, and together we forced it, and found him in the shocking way you saw."

Jones had no more to tell. Poor Mr. Jennings was very gentle, and very kind. All his people were fond of him. I could see that the servant was very much moved. So, dejected and agitated, I passed from that terrible house, and its dark canopy of elms, and I hope I shall never see it more. While I write to you I feel like a man who has but half waked from a frightful and monotonous dream. My memory rejects the picture with incredulity and horror.

Yet I know it is true. It is the story of the process of a poison, a poison which excites the reciprocal action of spirit and nerve, and paralyses the tissue that separates those cognate functions of the senses, the external and the interior. Thus we find strange bed-fellows, and the mortal and immortal prematurely make acquaintance.

CONCLUSION

A Word for Those Who Suffer

My dear Van L--, you have suffered from an affection similar to that which 1 have just described. You twice complained of a re turn of it. Who, under God, cured you? Your humble servant, Martin Hesselius. Let me rather adopt the more emphasized piety o[ a certain good old French surgeon of three hundred years ago: "I treated, and God cured you."

Come, my friend, you are not to be hippish. Let me tell you a fact. 1 have met with, and treated, as my book shows, fifty-seven cases of this kind of vision, which 1 term indifferently "sublimated," "precocious," and "interior." There is another class of affections which are truly termed- though commonly confounded with those which I describe--spectral illusions.

These latter I look upon as being no less simply curable than a cold in the head or a trifling dyspepsia. It is those which rank in the first category that test our promptitude of thought. Fifty-seven such cases have I encountered, neither more nor less. And in how many of these have I failed? In no one single instance.There is no one affliction of mortality more easily and certainly reducible, with a little patience, and a rational confidence in the physician. With these simple conditions, 1 look upon the cure as absolutely certain. You are to remember that 1 had not even commenced to treat Mr. Jennings' case. 1 have not any doubt that 1 should have cured him perfectly in eighteen months, or possibly it might have ex tended to two years. Some cases are very rapidly curable, others extremely tedious. Every intelligent physician who will give thought and diligence to the task, will effect a cure. You know my tract on "The Cardinal Functions of the Brain." I there, by the evidence of innumerable facts, prove, as I think, the high probability of a circulation arterial and venous in its anism, through the nerves. Of this system, thus considered, the brain is the heart. The fluid, which is propagated hence through one class of nerves, returns in an altered state through another, and the nature of that fluid is spiritual, though not immaterial, any more than, as 1 before remarked, light or electricity are so. By various abuses, among which the habitual use of such agents . as green tea is one, this fluid may be affected as to its quality, but it is more frequently disturbed as to equilibrium. This fluid being that which we have in common with spirits, a congestion found on the masses of brain or nerve, connected with the interior sense, forms a surface unduly exposed, on which disembodied spirits may operate: communication is thus more or less effectually established. Between this brain circulation and the heart circulation there is an intimate sympathy. The seat, or rather the instrument of exterior vision, is the eye. The seat of interior vision is the nervous tissue and brain, immediately about and above the eyebrow. You remember how effectually I dissipated your pictures by the simple application of iced eau-de-cologne. Few cases, how ever, can be treated exactly alike with anything like rapid success. Cold acts powerfully as a repellant of the nervous fluid. Long enough continued it will even produce that permanent insensibility which we call numbness, and a little longer, muscular as well as sensational paralysis.

I have not, 1 repeat, the slightest doubt that 1 should have first dimmed and ultimately sealed that inner eye which Mr. Jennings had inadvertently opened. The same senses are opened in delirium tremens, and entirely shut up again when the overaction of the cerebral heart, and the prodigious nervous congestions that attend it, are terminated by a decided change in the state of the body. It is by acting steadily upon the body, by a simple process, that this result is produced--and inevitably produced--l have never yet failed. Poor Mr. Jennings made away with himself. But that catastrophe was the result of a totally different malady, which, as it were, projected itself upon the disease which was established. His case was in the distinctive manner a complication, and the com plaint under which he really succumbed, was hereditary suicidal mania. Poor Mr. Jennings I cannot call a patient of mine, for I had not even begun to treat his case, and he had not yet given me, I am convinced, his full and unreserved confidence. If the patient do not array himself on the side of the disease, his cure is certain.

[girlsagainst-archive]

THE SPOOK SCHOOL X GIRLS AGAINST

The Spook School are a Glasgow-based four-piece who make candid and earnest music. Their upcoming album, Could It Be Different, is out on 26.01.18.

What inspired the song 'Still Alive'?

Nye: I wrote the song kind of in response to a guy that sexually assaulted me years ago. It’s one of those situations where at the time, despite being very upset by the experience, I told myself that it couldn’t have been rape or any kind of sexual assault because ‘he was a nice guy’. For a long time I blamed myself for not protesting enough, or for somehow misleading him into thinking there was consent. It’s only in recent years that I’ve realised that it was him that I should have been blaming, not myself. So this song is an overdue ‘fuck you’ to that guy, and also an acknowledgement that – however much that experience might have messed me up – I’m still here and that’s something.

It feels quite different to the past stuff on Try To Be Hopeful et al – where do you think that comes from?

Nye: I think Try to Be Hopeful made sense as an album that you would write after quite recently figuring/affirming your identity – there’s a joy in that, and a desire to just kind of yell out ‘yeah, this is who we are’. I think also, especially as a trans person, because that can cause you so much unexplainable sadness/distress before you figure it out, you can fall into thinking that it’s the only part of your life that matters, and that being read as your gender/getting to physically transition and stuff like that will magically cure every problem you’ve ever had. It definitely helps, but usually all the other life stuff is waiting for you to pay attention to it again. And in many ways that’s kind of what this album is about, it’s about living as a queer person – about regrets and relationships and family and body image and just everything.

How would you describe the upcoming album?

Adam: It’s a lot more introspective that our previous work. More nuanced I think, and more personally honest. There’s a lot of looking backwards and looking forwards, wondering about the past and worrying about the future. At it’s heart though I see it as a celebration of the community we’ve found (in many ways through playing music) and the personal relationships we value in our lives.

Who in music inspires you right now?

Adam: Perfume Genius is making some really wonderful stuff right now. I’m also on a really big Jimmy Somerville kick at the moment. I think he’s one of the most underrated, radically political pop stars ever. Shopping, Sacred Paws, and basically everything Rachel Aggs touches is incredible.

Have you ever seen or been made aware of sexual harassment or assault at any of your shows?

Nye: I’ve never seen or been made aware of sexual harassment at any of our shows. I’d like to think that that was because the people that come to our shows are all wonderful people without exception, but in reality it’s more likely that it’s happened at least once and we’ve just not seen/heard about it.  

Is it something you've experienced as performers?

Nye: I’ve experienced sexual assault, though not in the context of playing shows. At least part of that is probably due to the fact that we’re an overtly queer band. Some of it will also be down to sexism – as a masculine presenting person playing music I’m less likely to get comments yelled at me than women or more femme non-binary folks.

What would be your response if you saw it happening?

Nye: If one of us saw something when we were onstage I would like to think that we’d stop playing and try to get the assaulter/harasser kicked out of the show. Equally, if someone came to us earlier in the night, we’d listen to them and see what they’d like done to make them comfortable and then work with the promoter/venue to make that happen.  

What would you like to say to the people who have that experience at a show?

Adam: This is not your fault, and there will be plenty of people who are willing to support you, including us. We’ll try our best to make sure our shows are as safe for everyone as possible. If there’s anything we can do to help please let us know (if you feel you can). We can be contacted online (email, Facebook, Twitter) or in person at shows. Reaching out to others for support can often be really helpful. This could be people close to you or organisations such as The Survivors Trust.

Girls Against are also here to listen to you and provide support, though please note that we are not trained counsellors.

What would your message be to the perpetrators of that behaviour?

Nye: If you can’t go to shows without harassing people, then don’t go to shows. Seek advice to change your behaviours and don’t put other people at risk of your unwanted advances/aggression. Doubly so if you are a performer/artist – you shouldn’t be putting yourself in a position where you have social capital that you could abuse.

Why do you think sexual harassment is such a big issue in rock/alternative music scenes?

Nye: A whole raft of things really. There’s still quite a lot of people with pretty misogynistic views of music scenes as a place where women/femme people don’t belong – despite all obvious evidence to the contrary (seriously, if you’re only listening to music written/performed by men how are you not bored by now?).

Also the association between gigs and alcohol probably isn’t something that helps, given how many people use being drunk/high as an excuse for acting in ways they wouldn’t allow themselves to sober. Especially for performers, there’s this kind of archetype of the rockstar that’s always drunk and that being a ‘rock ‘n roll’ thing. I remember going to gigs as a teenager and seeing the lead singers of bands that I loved at that time drinking full bottles of whisky on stage. I remember thinking that was just part of being a rockstar, rather than something that’s going to have an impact on both you and the people around you.

Then also there’s the whole ‘groupie’ stereotype – the idea that femme people in music scenes can’t possibly be creative or performers or even people that appreciate music, but are instead a kind of object to be claimed by male band members or fans. It seems like an outdated idea but the number of women in bands that still get asked ‘oh are you drummer/guitarist/whatever male band member’s girlfriend’ by people doing sound/other bands/promoters suggests that it’s very much still a stereotype that exists.  

What do you think your responsibility is, as a band in combatting this issue?

Nye: It’s a hard thing to tell someone that you don’t know about sexual assault, so it’s up to us/other bands/promoters/people in general to make it as clear as possible that any kind of harassment or assault won’t be tolerated and that we’ll do everything we can to make sure that people coming to our shows are safe from that. Things like signposted ‘no tolerance’ policies at gigs, statements on stage, and kicking people out when necessary. We should be making sure that we don’t play on bills that are just bro-ey bands, or for promoters/venues that create a hostile environment to any people that might want to come along to one of our shows. Sometimes it can be hard to know that information, especially when you’re travelling to places that you’ve never been before – so we’ve also got to be prepared to listen when someone comes forward to tell us something, and try to act helpfully based on that information.

What do you think crowds should be doing?

Adam: Looking out for each other. Everyone’s come to the show to have a good time, so try to be aware of the people around you as much as you can. Dancing and jumping around is really fun, but it’s not an excuse to touch others without their consent. You wouldn’t do so in the street (I hope), so why would it be acceptable at a show? I’d hope people who come to our shows (or any show for that matter) would try to offer support if they witnessed harassment of any kind, or anyone looking uncomfortable or distressed.  

[lordbelatiel]

Shattered Minds (Laura Lam)

4.5 stars

“Ex-neuroscientist Carina struggles with a drug problem, her conscience, and urges to kill.

She satisfies her cravings in dreams, fuelled by the addictive drug ‘Zeal’. Now she’s heading for self-destruction – until she has a vision of a dead girl.

Sudice Inc. damaged Carina when she worked on their sinister brain-mapping project, causing her violent compulsions. And this girl was a similar experiment. When Carina realizes the vision was planted by her old colleague Mark, desperate for help to expose the company, she knows he’s probably dead.

Her only hope is to unmask her nemesis – or she’s next.

To unlock the secrets Mark hid in her mind, she’ll need a group of specialist hackers. Dax is one of them, a doctor who can help Carina fight her addictions. If she holds on to her humanity, they might even have a future together. But first she must destroy her adversary – before it changes us and our society, forever.”

Set in the same dark future as ‘False Hearts’, the newest offering from Laura Lam ( @lauraroselam ) is a very different book. Whereas ‘False Hearts’ was a book of neon warmth and arching redwoods, ‘Shattered Minds’ is a story filled with clinical chrome and the buzz of electronic instruments. It is a harder, colder book, less forgiving, with characters that take a little bit longer to love. But love them you definitely do.

Centring around a hacking group that is attempting to bring down a large, corrupt corporation that seems to own most of the West Coast (now Pacifica), ‘Shattered Minds’ has a really classic cyberpunk feel that put me in mind of William Gibson’s ‘Neuromancer’. Members of society now have complex neural implants to allow functions such as the straight downloading of information from external systems. Such neural implants can also allow hacking via VR, a more natural interface than hard code, though also bringing the added risk of cybersecurity systems being able to ‘fry’ user implants remotely, and, with them, the user’s own mind.

Carina, our protagonist, an ex neuroprogrammer, takes some time to warm to. She’s blunt and difficult, though once you realise how much of that ‘difficulty’ is due to self loathing and trauma she’s much easier to understand. She’s a character who has been betrayed by everyone she ever thought to trust, from her father to Roz, the scientist who was supposed to take her pain away. ‘Taking the pain’ away in Carina’s case turned out to be much more literal, with Roz re-engineering Carina’s brain in a way that made it so she rarely felt strong emotion. It was only when that programming began to unravel and sudden strong compulsions to commit violence and murder began to develop that Carina realised what had happened to her. Terrified of hurting people, she retreats into the world of zeal, a drug that allows users to manipulate their own dreamscapes. Her body falling apart at the seams, Carina feels that at least she is less of a threat to those around her…it’s heartbreaking on so many levels. The story raises the question on multiple occasions of just how much of Carina’s personality is her own and how much is what the brain engineering made her. Even if they were to reverse that engineering, how much of what Carina is was caused by nature and how much is what was done to her?

Dax, an important secondary POV character and love interest, was my favourite. I try not to play favourites, but I just couldn’t help it. He is, in Laura’s own words, the ‘cinnamon roll’, and I entirely agree with that assessment. The medic to our hacking collective, Dax originally was a surgeon specialising in body modification, common in the state of Pacifica. Always excellent at including LGBTQA+ characters and respectful rep in her stories, Laura’s decision to write Dax as a trans man is such a positive thing. Dax’s identity is not a plot point, it’s not a twist, it simply is. More books need to include LGBTQA+ characters in a way that makes identity incidental and not somehow part of the plot. LGBTQA+ people exist and their story doesn’t have to end there, let them have stories beyond that! Let them be heroes and villains and hackers and doctors, let them be whatever your stories need them to be, like any other character.

Also, you know, let them be cinnamon roll Native Doctors, because I love Dax so much.

Before I go on an excessively long ramble about how much I love one character, I’ll direct you towards our villain, the ruthlessly driven Roz. It’s been a while since I’ve disliked a villain quite as much as Roz. Cold, hard, indifferent to the feelings of others, she is probably my entire opposite, but I don’t think it’s even that which got under my skin so much. The most horrifying thing about Roz is how she doesn’t view consent as something sacred. She doesn’t care what you want, you’re simply her experiment and she has no qualms whatsoever in knocking you out and making fundamental changes to your brain. Genuinely, she gives me the shudders.

The half a star came off because I wasn’t able to gel with the story quite as much as I would have liked. It has a complicated structure, moving backwards and forwards in time in a way that makes a lot of sense for the plot and for Carina’s character, but sometimes left me a little confused. I’ve also mentioned before that Carina is maybe a little more difficult to love than your classic protagonist, but I think, once again, that that’s a personal thing and I know from reading other reviews that other people have absolutely adored her.

One of my favourite parts of the world that Laura builds for her Pacifica novels is the culture and the cities. There are all these subtle hints at other stories happening behind the scenes, like the fan who tried to clone his idols and led to a fashion for covering all fingerprints and shaving off all hair, so that no DNA was accidentally left behind. There’s also some overlap with ‘False Hearts’, in mentions of the cult that the protagonists were raised in, characters reappearing and further discussion of the some of the repercussions of events in the other book. Whilst you don’t have to have read ‘False Hearts’ to enjoy this, I’d honest recommend picking up both books, because ‘False Hearts’ is one of my favourite books of all time, and the world that Laura has created is a joy to read.

So, if you’re looking for a cerebral thriller (no pun intended), with diverse characters, genuine threat and much much neurohacking, this is definitely the book for you.

‘Shattered Minds’ is out on the 15th of June, and Laura has a pre order promotion going at the moment with 10K of extra Pacifica fiction available in return for proof of pre-order!

Many thanks to Tor Books for a copy in return for an honest review!

Originally posted at Moon Magister Reviews.

[getsterekt]

FIC RECS

in honor of gaining another hundred followers on my twitter account @getsterREKT heres another rec list. 

This will just be made up of lots and lots of different types of fics. Make sure to read the warnings for each fic before reading. 

(fics with ** are favorites)

It Takes A Village by  Hypocorismm

Stiles's used to yogurt handprints on his shirts from where he picked her up, and he's used to snot on his shoulders and neck from where she cried after a bad dream. He's used to her legendary tantrums when she doesn't get her way, her eyes glowing ferocious gold. He's used to being the village it takes to raise her, and the pack she longs for.

Except, he needs the pack's help, and Derek's protection when a particularly power-hungry pack wants his cub. And he isn't used to sharing.

WORDS: 49227

RATING: Mature

CHAPTERS: 35/35

WARNINGS: angst, kidnapping, mpreg.

Night Stroll by  Marishna

"Is it night there?"

Derek chuckled. "Yeah, it is. How do you know where I am?"

"I don't, that's why it's weird it's night. That puts you in... Europe?" Stiles asked after some quick math.

Derek raised an eyebrow. "Spain. You haven't lost that..." Derek waved his hand. "Stileness."

WORDS: 3276

RATING: Teen and Up

CHAPTER: 1/1

WARNINGS: derek has insomnia??? is that a warning??? idk

****Prince Among Wolves by  tylerfucklin (Deshonanana)

Looking for full day/evening sitter. 2 twin boys age 4. Must have exp. w/werewolves. Must be human. No pedophiles. No teenage girls. Pay negotiable. 

WORDS: 101,000

RATING: Explicit

CHAPTERS: 20/20

WARNINGS: mild transphobia, derek learns acceptance, broken family, so much angst

Walking Into Darkness by  alenie

Derek hears Stiles before he sees him. There's anxious, wheezy breathing coming from the next aisle over in the grocery store, accompanied by a racing heart and the smell of unwashed sneakers and hair gel. He turns the corner and Stiles is standing frozen in the dairy aisle, knuckles clenched around the metal of his shopping basket.

WORDS: 6342

RATING: Teen and Up

CHAPTERS: 1/1

WARNINGS: panic attacks, anxiety, depression, post 3b, pre-sterek relationship 

****Ashes, Ashes by  ShanaStoryteller

The Sheriff gets a call at work - someone's tried to burn down his home with his son inside.

"I thought of you coming here, and finding me dead, of another burnt out husk of a body, something else fire has stolen from you, of you having nothing left to grasp but ashes," John can't even call that a whimper, it's clearly a whine as Derek's hands tighten against Stile's hips, as if his boy will shudder to dust at the mere mention of the possibility unless Derek's hands can hold him into one piece, "and that thought was worse than dying."

WORDS: 2699

RATING: Teen And Up

CHAPTERS:1/1

WARNINGS: so much angst, stiles nearly burns to death

Just Realize What I Just Realized by  literaryoblivion

He’s never noticed it before; it’s always just been second nature to him these days, does it out of habit, but it’s not until he stops to actually think about it that it becomes abundantly and embarrassingly clear to him that he is in love with Stiles and that they are practically dating without the actual dating part…

WORDS: 2529

RATING: Teen And Up

CHAPTERS: 1/1

WARNINGS: a lil angst, (but mostly fluff)

The Potential Fatality of Assuming by  crossroadswrite

The hair, the buttons and the general happy and slightly tired disposition with which Derek came back from his secret exploits were as obvious as a glaring neon sign flashing the words JUST GOT LAID.

A sign that Stiles ignored because he had a seven year plan god damn it.

(OR: in which Stiles assumes things, gets accosted by the sister he never/always wanted, discovers he was horribly wrong, almost dies via Derek Hale with kids, can't handle all that collarbone action, uses tickling as the ultimate mode of revenge, and gets a boyfriend. In that order.)

WORDS: 2196

RATING: General

CHAPTERS: 1/1

WARNINGS: misunderstandings, because stiles is dumb, lots of pining

****If I Could Trade Mistakes For Sheep, Count Me Away Before You Sleep by  alisaj

"Thing is, Stiles," Derek says, his voice hard and unfaltering. "I didn't sign up for you. You just hung around until we got used to you being here."

That stings. He hadn't realised how Derek feels about him. They've been getting on quite well, teaming up on little missions and bantering back and forth without malice. Stiles sometimes lets Derek crash in his room after a big fight, trying not to let on how intriguing he finds the werewolf.

"Well now we can get used to you not being here. You're a liability, Stilinski. You can't protect yourself and we always end up having to help you when we've got more important things to do. You're out of the pack."

or

The one where Derek is a terrible Alpha and Stiles ends up walking into a big pile of shit.

WORDS: 33,383

RATING: Explicit

CHAPTERS: 1/1

WARNINGS: stiles gets kicked out of the pack, derek is stupid, like, so stupid, stiles gets hurt, theres so much angst in this like wtf, stiles is sad, the pack sucks

Sour Kush (series) by alisvolatpropiis

Stiles mentally curses Erica, because in all of her warnings about how brusque this guy could be, she forgot mention that he’s also hotter than the fucking sun. If Stiles had any lingering questions about his sexuality, they’d be completely settled by what this guy is doing to him. In fact, he might not even be gay anymore. He might be in the midst of crossing into some yet-to-be-named sexuality that’s all about a scruffy black beard and alarming green eyes and muscles and tattoos and this guy’s everything ever.

The guy’s name is Derek, his lust-addled brain supplies distantly.

Well that settles it, then. Stiles is Dereksexual.

WORKS: 3

COMPLETE: it says no but they havent updated in like over 2 years so im guessing its done

WORDS: 15,392

RATING: Explict 

WARNINGS: everyone is stoned all the time, also in work 2 stiles is hurt because he thinks derek is getting it on with parrish, they’re dumb, age difference, derek has a beardddd 

I Just Want You For My Own (More Than You Could Ever Know) by  yodasyoyo

“What is with that sweater, dude?”

Derek ducks his head to look at it, abashed. “Uh- Mrs Hernandez knitted it for me. It’s an early Christmas gift.” He smooths it down self-consciously.

Stiles cocks an eyebrow.

“What? She’s my neighbor and sometimes I-” Derek trails off. Stiles’ other eyebrow rises to join the first, and Derek sighs. “Sometimes I help her carry her shopping.”

Of course he does. One day maybe Stiles will stop being in love with Derek Hale, but today is not that day.

WORDS: 16,065

RATING: Teen And Up

CHAPTERS: 4/4

WARNINGS: pining, fake relationships, they’re both idiots. 

Baby You’re Beautiful by  supernaynay

“God you’re beautiful.”

Derek hadn’t even realized that the words had left his mouth until the whole room went silent, including Stiles, who until about five seconds earlier was busy yelling at him for putting himself in danger yet again.

WORDS: 1089

RATING: General

CHAPTERS: 1/1

WARNINGS: derek is hit with a truth spell

****(Sacred) In The Ordinary by  idyll

The Pack, after college, graduate school and the starting of careers, comes back to Beacon Hills. Nothing's gotten less complicated after all this time.

Based on a kink meme prompt that grew legs and got serious.

Note: This is a whole lot of pack!fic with a very slow build Derek/Stiles.

WORDS: 78,759

RATING: Explicit

CHAPTERS: 9/9

WARNINGS: violence, slow build

Cause I Built a Home (For You, For Me) by  noneedforhystereks

Mechanic!Derek and Daddy!Stiles

Derek Hale is a mechanic in the sleepy town of Beacon Hills, where he has lived all of his life. He spends his day in a simple routine: wake up, fix cars, go home, sleep. It's what he's good at, and it keeps things simple and uncomplicated. Derek doesn't let people in and remains emotionally distant from everyone except his sister, Laura, and her daughter. This all changes when Boyd tows in an old blue Jeep that needs a lot of work and Derek meets the owner of said Jeep.

Because once Derek meets Stiles and his kids, he can't stop himself from caring. And he doesn't want to stop.

WORDS: 59,719

RATING: Explicit

CHAPTERS: 15/15

WARNINGS: angst, pining, emotional hurt, stiles has a lot of baggage. 

Waiting For Our Superman by  tearsandholdme

Derek knew the moment he opened the front door of his clean and pristine apartment to Stiles Stilinski holding a small boy, a cluster of bags, and a suitcase, he was screwed. In every way possible. Undone by the big brown eyes of a small child and his annoying, witty, and attractive father.

WORDS: 95,240

RATING: Mature

CHAPTERS: 22/22

WARNINGS: angst, mpreg, emotional hurt, overprotective derek

Adding You to My Future by  NekoIzumi

“So, I'm Stiles.” he smiled warmly once he had put his unannounced patient down on the exam table. “I will poke and prod you a little bit to check for internal injuries, those that I can’t see because they're inside you, and some of it might hurt but it will pass, I promise. I will tell you everything I'm about to do and why I'm doing it so just stay calm and this will go like a breeze, okay?”

Now, Stiles wasn’t stupid in any way, shape or form, he knew a were when he saw one… although he had obviously never seen a werecat before, and definitely not one as young as this one.

WORDS: 42,252

RATING: Explicit

CHAPTERS:9/9

WARNINGS: violence, like, lots of violence, slow build, gore, emotional comfort, bamf stiles

Stars Plummet: a Christmas Story by  Peckishdragon

When Stiles left Beacon Hills, he never thought he would be coming back. Eight years later, he is coming home for Christmas, with a small passenger in tow. Old feelings, never forgotten, are rekindled.

WORDS: 11,589

RATING: Mature

CHAPTERS: 6/6

WARNINGS: a lil violence, like a tiny bit, 

All They Have by  Nival_Vixen

Single dads AU where Derek and Stiles meet because Derek’s daughter and Stiles’ trans son become friends at school.

WORDS: 4004

RATING: Teen And Up

CHAPTERS: 1/1

WARNINGS: trans child, which leads to ignorant adults being ugly fucks, protective derek 

love comes in all shapes and sizes by  trilliastra

“Daddy says that when I’m in trouble I should get the police because they always help us. You’re going to help me, right?” Stiles smiles at her, happy that today he decided to stop by the grocery store to buy milk after his shift instead of going straight home. At least now he’s able to help the little girl, who knows what would have happened to her if he weren’t around.

“Of course I will.” He smiles again. “What’s your name?”

“Rebecca Hale.” She answers proudly. “My daddy is Derek Hale.”

WORDS: 2207

RATING: Teen and Up

CHAPTERS: 1/1

WARNINGS: kate argent

When You Wish Upon a Dragon by  lupinus

Stiles is at the Hale house, lounging on the front stoop watching Isaac, Erica, and Boyd wrestle, when the baby comes running out of the woods. Derek becomes instant father to a magically appearing baby and falls in love. Stiles can’t take the cute and worries Derek’s heart will break if he loses the kid. 

or, a dragon gives derek a baby, stiles is oblivious, steve just loves his bright pink rocking unicorn and his da and ma 

WORDS: 13,739

RATING: Teen and Up

CHAPTERS: 1/1

WARNINGS: none, but so much fluff

****Lucky That I’m Yours Every Day by  stilinskisparkles

Derek doesn't see how Valentine's Day can get any better than a normal day with Stiles.

WORDS: 6772

RATING: Teen and Up

CHAPTERS: 1/1

WARNINGS: fluff. just. all the fluff. its disgusting how fluffy it is really.

Relationship Status: It’s Complicated by  kellifer_fic

Okay, I know this is a huge stretch for you, but can you please pretend you're like, into me?

WORDS: 4010

RATING: Mature

CHAPTERS: 1/1

WARNING: mentioned stiles/omc 

***************Shot Through The Heart by  LunaCanisLupus_22

All they've given him is the guy’s head shot. And it’s terrible because now he is ridding the world of one more ridiculously attractive, instant pants dropping- take me now, if you please- regulation hottie.

Even if he has a scowl to rival Kirsten Stewart.

Or the one when Stiles and Derek work for rival assassin companies and are sent to kill each other. It definitely doesn't go as planned.

WORDS: 64,833

RATING: Explicit

CHAPTERS: 12/12

WARNINGS: so much violence, they literally try to kill eachother, enemies to lovers pretty much

will to follow through by  owlpostagain

“It depends entirely on how you look at it, I guess,” Stiles shrugs. “On the one hand, instant healing and the apparently inherited ability to pull off leather at all times. On the other, serious attitude problems and a suspicious disappearance of eyebrows.”

“Even Derek’s?” Danny snorts, “that’s a lot of eyebrow to lose.”

“I know,” Stiles agrees. “You should see, it’s so weird. Every time I want to ask him where they go, except he’d totally eat my face off.”

“There are worse ways to die.”

WORDS: 42,411

RATING: Teen and Up

CHAPTERS: 2/2

WARNINGS: angst, mentions of violence, 

Professor D. Hale (series) by  har1ey_quinn

A series of outsider POVs on Professor Hale and his significant other (with some guest appearances from the pack)

WORKS: 7

COMPLETE: possibly

WORDS: 18,008

RATING: Teen and Up

WARNINGS: none

go on without me!!!! (or the one where stiles is cursed by witches and overreacts to everything) by  day

Stiles is cursed by witches and he can't react like a normal human being. Scott is a terrible best friend and can't stop laughing. Derek just wants it all to be over.

WORDS: 1396

RATING: General

CHAPTERS: 1/1

WARNINGS: crack

******For My Next Trick, I'll Regret All of My Life Choices: a performance by Derek Hale and 80% of his eyebrows by  crossroadswrite

(978): I woke up missing my shoes and my left eyebrow. MY. EYEBROW. . “What’s wrong with my eyebrows?”

Kira gives him a sympathetic look, and climbs up to sit next to him, “You kind of… don’t have one.”

“I what!” he shouts, wincing at the volume of his own voice.

Kira pats him on the shoulder and shoves a piece of toast in his hand.

“It’s not that bad,” she tries to console him with a smile, then glances up at his left eyebrow and winces, “It could definitely be worse. It’s not all gone. Just. Half of it.”

Derek considers crying into his orange juice but decides that would be a waste and because his mother taught him how to be a good guest he opts to drink it instead.

WORDS: 2566

RATING: Teen and Up

CHAPTERS: 1/1

WARNINGS: none buT THIS FIC IS AN ALL TIME FAV, THE FUCKING SQUIRRELS VIKING BURIAL GETs ME EVERYTIME, AND BATMAN OH MY