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sk1fanfiction · 3 years

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the many faces of tom riddle, part 2

-you dislike frank dillane’s portrayal of tom riddle only because you don’t think he’s attractive-

FULL DISCLAIMER THAT THIS IS JUST MY OPINION OF A CHARACTER WHO DOESN’T HAVE THE STRONGEST CANON CHARACTERIZATION, AND THUS ALL THIS IS BASED ON MY CONCEPTUALIZATION (and this time, featuring a bit of armchair child psych from a student).

Wait, don’t clutch your pearls just yet. Compose yourself.

I am about to explain why it’s not actually that bad, and Dillane’s portrayal is vastly underappreciated.

I definitely agree that his portrayal comes off as ‘creepier’. It’s not helped by the stylistic decisions in the scene -- the smeary, green filter gives the scene a sinister quality.

Even Slughorn looks suspect here, which is somewhat appropriate, given that he is complicit in this crime.

Again, this scene is very much intended to be slightly off.

You’ll notice (and I’ll discuss this again when I talk about Coulson’s portrayal) that Dillane is almost always shot from at least slightly below, which makes the lower third of his face look bigger (and thus more menacing). The lighting also makes his eyes glow in a really unnatural way. There’s an echo-y effect to make his voice (and not Slughorn’s) sound unnerving.

People talk about how Coulson would have looked in this scene, and if he was filmed in the same way (monotone, smeary/shadowy filter, and always from below), he’d look a bit creepy, too.

But all of this, imo, is for a pretty good reason. Slughorn isn’t the POV character. Harry is. Harry is learning about how a young Lord Voldemort wheedled the secret of Horcruxes out of an unsuspecting teacher. Unlike in COS, he expects Riddle to be evil. And, so, Harry’s new perception of Tom Riddle literally colors how we perceive him.

Take this shot, for example: he does that head-tilt thing that Coulson does, and it’s actually... kind of... cute???

Imagine Dillane filmed from slightly above, like Coulson usually is, and it looks even more innocent. (I mean, come on, he does not look like he’s killed four people, does he?) It’s not hard to imagine teachers being taken in by this kind of act.

Even that little smirk he does when the camera (aka, Harry’s gaze) pans in, is for Harry’s benefit. No one else noticed that.

However, I still fail to find this creepy, like, at all. Yes, it’s a fake smile, but he’s portraying a different side of Tom Riddle to Coulson. Whereas, in COS, he’s in his vindictive, murderous element, where he’s free to express himself, in this scene, Tom Riddle is doing what he does best -- manipulating and managing appearances.

This entire scene is an act. And because Harry knows it’s an act, it should look a bit stilted.

From the Hepzibah Smith scene in the books: Voldemort smiled mechanically and Hepzibah simpered.

So, Harry is pretty adept at parsing Tom’s fake expressions.

But just look at the expressiveness in his face: he goes from brooding, he blinks, and his entire face changes to this charming (fake) smile.

At the risk of sounding elitist, I’m a bit tired of seeing the word ‘psychopath’, which is not an actual medical diagnosis recognised by any psychological or psychiatric institution, being tossed about, especially with reference to Tom Riddle (and from a neuroscience perspective, it’s doubly annoying). There’s no such thing as ‘insanity’ or ‘psychopathy’ or being ‘crazy.’

-although I use it too a shorthand in conversation to distinguish ‘canon’ Tom from his ‘softer’ OOC counterparts, I really shouldn’t-

Unfortunately, I’ve seen the ‘psychopath’ comment used time-and-time again as an excuse or a full explanation of ‘why Tom Riddle went evil’ (JKR in fact, has made a weird comment in an interview, basically saying that ‘psychopaths can’t be redeemed or learn adaptive coping skills’ or whatever), which really just goes to show the lack of understanding and compassion when personality disorders, especially, are concerned.

But what I like most about the opening of this scene, actually, is that first, listless expression. And this is where we get slightly into headcanon, but Tom Riddle is the opposite of a happy, mentally healthy teenager. By Dumbledore’s own admission, he has no real friends. He has no parental figures, no real attachments. Yes, he might derive some pride or enjoyment from being good at magic and top of his class and all that, but I really don’t think even Tom finds that truly fulfilling. There is nothing that makes him happy.

In fact, although some might perceive it as ‘creepy’, I think that listless expression is an accurate window into Tom’s psyche.

I know people aren’t big on Freud, but I think that he does make some interesting points (also, cut the guy some slack for being relatively open-minded for the Victorian Era, and inventing psychoanalysis and while yes he did say some sexist stuff, good luck finding a field of science that isn’t male-focused and makes crazy generalizations about women, especially back in the day) about the possible origins of thanatophobia, the fear of death.

According to Freud, thanatophobia is a disguise for a deeper source of concern -- he did not believe that people were capable of conceptualizing their own death to that extent. Instead, he believed that this phobia was caused by unresolved childhood conflicts that the sufferer cannot come to terms with or express emotion towards.

Now, I know Freud almost always attributes mental distress to childhood experiences, but I think in this case, it really has some merit.

According to attachment theory, the basis of how we form attachments in adulthood is dictated by learning it from experiences with caregivers in the first two years of life. We know Tom was born in an orphanage, and that he didn’t cry much as a baby, and subsequently, probably received very little attention. Compounded with possible genetic factors and his caregivers being afraid or wary of his magical abilities, he later struggled to form attachments because of this -- I would actually go so far as to say that by the time Dumbledore meets him, Tom Riddle is severely depressed.

And that flat affect and anhedonia, I think, comes over very well in Dillane’s portrayal. There’s kind of this resignation -- a very deep sadness and loneliness to his character.

Of course, he doesn’t derive any comfort or fulfillment from human interaction, because (to borrow the description from the Wikipedia article on ‘Reactive attachment disorder’, which Tom meets all the criteria for) he has a “grossly disturbed internal working model of relationships.” In other words, he is unresponsive to all offers of attachment because of this unacknowledged trauma.

(You could arguably class Tom as having an avoidant attachment style, but I think in his case the trauma and its effect on him are severe enough to call it disordered.)

RAD isn’t particularly well-characterized (especially neurologically) and quite new in the literature, but here are some links if anyone is interested in doing a bit of digging: Link 1 | Link 2 | Paper 1 | Paper 2

And, instead of trying to resolve this conflict in a healthy way, or at least recognize that this is why he can’t be happy and try to learn how to cope from there, he (a) represses the desire for human attachment and (b) funnels that negative emotion into being the fault of Death, the Grim Reaper (again, to borrow Freudian terms).

And we all know how that turned out...

(And now, this should go without saying, but psychoanalyzing fictional characters has nothing to do with assigning a morality to mental disorders. Mental illness is neither a cause nor an excuse for criminal behavior -- in the same way that the cycle of violence is a phenomenon, not an excuse. Tom Riddle did not become a genocidal murderer because, in common parlance, he was a ‘psychopath’ -- he was not necessarily ‘predisposed’ to evil and could just as easily chosen to not follow the path that he did -- instead, he willingly made poor choices. This is a descriptive analysis, not a justification -- a ‘how’, not a ‘why’)

Here’s a Carl Jung quote that articulates it better:

“I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.”

Yes, he’s a bit stiff (and a lot more formal than in COS during his *conversation* with Harry). But, and here comes the controversial bit, this is appropriate for a portrayal of a schoolboy in the 1940s. The upright posture is accurate -- respectful, polite -- everything Tom Riddle would have been expected to be (and even Coulson, in that scene with Dumbledore in COS, is quite stiff). Even the way he looks at Slughorn and maintains eye contact is very *respectful.*

And, Dillane (I think he’s seventeen or eighteen here) actually looks like a believable sixteen-year-old. I’m sorry, I love Coulson’s portrayal as well, but he looks around nineteen in COS; so in HBP, he probably would have looked at least twenty-two or so. (Sorry, not sorry).

This may be influenced by my own interpretation of the character (because I imagine Tom always looks young for his age, and Dillane fits that archetype, but I don’t think that’s very popular), but I think young Tom Riddle is supposed to be *cute* and a bit stiff/shy/awkward (being charming and awkward is very much possible), if you consider the way Dippet and Slughorn treat him.

To support this, he says very few words to Hepzibah Smith (in the book, that scene’s not in the movie), and is very... bashful and coy during the whole interaction? I think yes, he’s charismatic, but he’s not loud, suave, openly flirtatious or particularly verbose. Tom Riddle should have a quiet magnetism, and to me, that came across in Dillane’s portrayal.

"I'd be glad to see anything Miss Hepzibah shows me," said Voldemort quietly, and Hepzibah gave another girlish giggle.

...

"Are you all right, dear?"

"Oh yes," said Voldemort quietly. "Yes, I'm very well. ..."

Even the ‘ugly, greedy look’ described in the books, when Slughorn starts spilling his secrets, is there. This is how he’s supposed to look! Slughorn glimpses it, but doesn’t understand its significance. Harry does.

“Slughorn looked deeply troubled now: He was gazing at Riddle as though he had never seen him plainly before, and Harry could tell that he was regretting entering into the conversation at all.”

Remember the context of this moment, as well: He’s just discovered how to create multiple Horcruxes. Excuse him for looking a bit creepy (if not now, then when?).

Here’s two direct quotes of Harry’s impression of Tom Riddle in that scene:

“But Riddle's hunger was now apparent; his expression was greedy, he could no longer hide his longing.”

“Harry had glimpsed his face, which was full of that same wild happiness it had worn when he had first found out that he was a wizard, the sort of happiness that did not enhance his handsome features, but made them, somehow, less human. . . .”

Tom Riddle’s Horcruxes are a direct metaphor for his refusal to allow himself to heal from his trauma -- instead, he continues to inflict destruction on himself and others.

His desire to continue creating more Horcruxes sort of resounds with the fact that self-harm can also become a compulsion.

I’d also like to digress a bit to discuss the Gaunt Ring, while we’re at it. While we’ve talked about his attachment issues in general, this discussion is particularly pertinent to father figures. And while Tom’s attachment issues are extensive, I think there’s ample evidence that as a child, he craved acknowledgement and acceptance from a father figure -- the man who gave him the only thing Tom truly owned -- his name. He would have had a vaguely defined mother figure in Mrs. Cole, perhaps.

"You see that house upon the hillside, Potter? My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived here in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was.... He didn’t like magic, my father ... He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was even born, Potter, and she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage ... but I vowed to find him ... I revenged myself upon him, that fool who gave me his name ... Tom Riddle. ..."

We know that by June of 1943 (COS flashback) Tom has already uncovered the truth of his parentage; he knows he is the Heir of Slytherin via the Gaunt line, and he describes himself to Dippet as ‘Half-blood, sir. Witch mother, Muggle father.’

In Part 1, I discussed the high probability that as a presumed ‘Mudblood’, Tom Riddle was treated rather poorly in Slytherin House. But by this scene in the fall of 1943, he is surrounded by a group of adoring hangers-on. Why?

In my opinion; the Gaunt Ring. We know that Tom stopped wearing it after school, so its sentimental value couldn’t have been that great. We know he likes to collect objects (which I believe stems from his attachment issues -- he seeks comfort in things instead of other people).

Signet rings (such as the one belonging to Tutankhamun seen above) were used to stamp legal documents and such, in order to certify someone’s identify -- like an e-certificate, if you will. Like Tutankhamun’s ring, the Gaunt Ring bears an identifying symbol -- Marvolo Gaunt tells us proudly that it bears the Peverell family crest.

By the Middle Ages, anyone of influence, including the nobility, wore a signet ring. Rings in antiquity were auspicious -- they signified power, legitimacy, and authority. And so, I believe that all the Sacred Twenty-Eight families would have worn these, too.

And so, bearing the Gaunt Ring would have established Tom Riddle, symbolically and in the eyes of the Sacred Twenty-Eight (his future supporters and followers), as the legitimate heir to the House of Gaunt. This is why, I believe, Tom coveted the ring as soon as he saw it -- not just because it was a family heirloom, and not just because he thought it was a pretty toy for his collection.

(He curses it so that no one else but him can wear the Gaunt Ring safely.)

This is why, to make the legitimization literal as well as symbolic, Tom murders his father and grandparents. It’s not just an act of vindictive, murderous rage due to his perception of being rejected by his father (although it is that, too). And so, Tom, abandoning his search for a father figure (and possibly also giving up on the possibility to allow himself to heal from his own personal trauma rather than continue to inflict it on others), ‘cleanses’ his bloodline, to make himself truly legitimate. It’s rather telling that instead of affirming his legitimacy as a Riddle, which would have put him in line for a nice inheritance, and hey -- money is money -- (thus accepting his half-blood status), he simply kills them all. He has done all the murdering he needs to become immortal (and he hasn’t had the discussion about multiple Horcruxes yet); but yet, he does it again. Frightening stuff.

(Just look how the others look at Tom. All but the one to his left -- possibly Nott, Rosier, or Mulciber -- have their torsos turned towards him. Their attention is on him, while he knowingly regards the viewer/Harry. Tom seems a little uncomfortable with the attention.).

“And there were the half-dozen teenage boys sitting around Slughorn with Tom Riddle in the midst of them, Marvolo's gold-and-black ring gleaming on his finger.”

...

“Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.”

...

“Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others laughed again. Harry noticed that he was by no means the eldest of the group of boys, but that they all seemed to look to him as their leader.”

The ‘gang’ are true hangers-on; Tom doesn’t seem to pay them much attention.

So, if not via careful flattery or charisma, the attraction must be status.

And perhaps yet more telling...

"I don't know that politics would suit me, sir," he said when the laughter had died away. "I don't have the right kind of background, for one thing." “A couple of the boys around him smirked at each other. Harry was sure they were enjoying a private joke, undoubtedly about what they knew, or suspected, regarding their gang leader's famous ancestor.”

That, in my opinion, is as good as we’re going to get as proof that Tom’s shiny new signet ring (and by extension, his new status) made a big impression on his fellow students.

So, when he returns to Hogwarts, he is ‘pureblood’. He is cleansed of his Muggle roots, and becomes the legitimate heir of the House of Gaunt, now well on his way to becoming Lord Voldemort...

Watch the scene again, with a critical eye, and imagine Slughorn’s perspective, instead of Harry’s. There’s nothing creepy about Tom Riddle... unless you know what he is...

Strip away all the effects of Harry’s gaze (and notice, here he’s still looking at Harry), and he’s quite the charmer, actually.

(I will concede that I don’t like the promotional images where they have him looking like he’s up to no good. And I do wish he blinked once in a while.)

My challenge to you: Rewatch the scene with an open mind, and let me know if you agree that Dillane’s portrayal comes off as depressive rather than ‘creepy.’ And if not, why do you dislike his portrayal?

#tom riddle #character analysis #character study #the many faces of #tom marvolo riddle #frank dillane #i literally could not find any pictures other than these #literal crumbs i swear #i know this is unpopular #people really dislike him i guess #watch the scene again with an open mind i promise you'll like it #i seriously do think he did a good job #tw: mention of child abuse #tw: mention of self-harm #i'm not trying to oversimplify things but you can't deny that maybe if tom was hugged as a child it would have helped #say it with me: psychopathy is not an actual medical diagnosis #it's actual more of a legal/criminal justice term #and people just use it as a synonym for 'evil' at this point so the original meaning is pretty much obscured #and personality disorders should not be moralized #people with personality disorders are not 'evil'

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libra-kirishima · 4 years

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could i request a pansexual s/o to bakugou coming to him upset because they tried to come out to their parents and it went very badly? sorry if its,,, a little sad

If Belle Delphine can make a comeback, so the fuck can I.

I'm so sorry this has taken me so long to get to. If you ever wanna talk to someone about what might be going on, but don't know who to reach out to, I'm here. 💖💖💖 I based this off of my own experiences coming out to various people as bisexual, but I know it's a little different for everyone :)

Okay, it's fine. It's okay. I have nothing else to lose, right? It's cool. There's no need to be nervous.

You rehearsed what you planned to say again and again in your head as you made your way from your own room to his.

It'll be fine. Katsuki isn't like that. He's different. That's why you love him. That's why he loves you. He couldn't possibly-

"oof-" You bump into someone's chest, which knocks you back and nearly makes you fall over. You were too preoccupied with your own nerves to notice a strong arm around you which kept you from hitting the floor. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to- Oh, it's you."

Your eyes moved up to lock with Katsuki's, watching you intently with poorly masked concern.

"You've gotta watch where you're going next time." He grumbled. He tried to mask his concern as annoyance, but you knew better from the way he helped you to your feet and checked you for any injuries.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you there and I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine." He cut you off. The sadness you tried to cover up before returned to your eyes. "Really, it's- is something wrong?"

Upon hearing those 3 words, the dam began to overflow. You quickly wiped a tear from the corner of your eye.

"Yeah, um- No, yeah, I'm good, I promise. Can, uh..." Your voice began to shake more. "Can we talk?"

"Of course."

"So what exactly did they say?" He asked. One of his hands was rubbing soothing circles into your back as he held you. A side of Bakugou that very few people got to see.

"Well, um, I guess the first stage of grief is denial, haha." You stated between sniffles. "So they started by saying that they didn't believe me. I tried to explain it as much as I can but it just didn't stick in their heads, I guess. They thought I was either lying or making something up. I don't know what I did wrong there."

"You didn't do anything wrong." He answered. "None of this is you fault."

"It's not?" You asked.

"Of course not."

"Oh..." You mumbled. "I guess you're right."

"And then what?"

"And then they got upset about everything. My dad was was pretty angry about it once I started explaining it more. Then both of them got really sad. My dad asked if my interest in the same sex was because either he or my mom did something wrong. Like because they made a mistake when I was growing up it gave me the gay disease. As if I were trying to rekindle a relationship with an absent parent or something."

"That's some Freudian shit." He mumbled into your shoulder. You rolled your eyes, but laughed at his joke.

"Then they asked if I was going to break up with you to date a girl, or if I was going to cheat on you to see other girls. I told them no. That it wasn't like that. It didn't matter much to either of them. So I left. I didn't wanna be there anymore. And I thought I was okay with it, but it's really hard to be rejected by the 2 people most important in your life like that. I'm trying to not let it get to me, but it hurts sometimes. You know?"

"No, I don't." He stated bluntly. Before you could respond he added "I don't know what you're going through, or how you feel. I can't even imagine the sorts of things you're feeling. But I can try to. I love you. And if nothing else, you'll always have me."

"God, you're such a sap." You joked, but still you hugged him a little tighter. A silent way of telling him

Thank you.

#bnha imagines #bnha x reader #mha imagines #mha x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou

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melissart · 4 years

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Miracle Circus: Chapter One

Genre: fantasy/coming-of-age/LGBT+

Word Count: 8,447

Synopsis: Every summer, Peterkin G. Saemon and Ralph Blimerance spend the summer touring across the country with their respective parents, Sybil Saemon and Dorian Blimerance—the two most powerful circus magicians to ever live (in that order, Sybil would proudly boast). With their great power, Ringmasters Sybil and Dorian run the world-renowned Miracle Circus all by themselves: the tickets, the concessions, the games, the tents, but most importantly, the Big Top show that ends the night with a guarantee for the impossible, the fantastic, and the miraculous. But Peterkin is bored of perfection. He can’t find excitement in a perfect world of where everything is colored within the lines, no matter how glorious the colors may be.

In his twelfth-and-a-halfth summer, Peterkin decides to sabotage Miracle Circus’ first show of the season, just for a brief moment. That moment is the first time Miracle Circus had ever been thwarted. Impossible, fantastic, miraculous—Sybil and Dorian realize they had been out-miracled in their own Big Top and come to the conclusion that there are still witches remaining. They stage an audition as a facade for a witch-hunt, not knowing that the witch they are hunting is none other than their own darling little Peterkin.

The fair, golden-haired boy sits in Section E, Row 5, Seat 12 and a half whenever he visits Miracle Circus. It’s specially reserved for him because he’s Dorian’s son—handsome Dorian’s son, ringmaster Dorian’s son, old money Dorian Blimerance’s son—but he doesn’t know that. Ralph Blimerance sits in the same seat because he’s used to it. He doesn’t know that the ringmaster and ringmistress of the circus perform to him, for him, and because of him every summer, when Dorian has custody of him. He doesn’t know that the sun’s warm beams follow him even when he’s strolling down the darkest of alleys because he was always meant to walk in the light. He just thinks that life is wonderful and that whoever is miserable is simply predisposed to gloom.

It’s already five minutes past scheduled showtime and Section E, Row 5, Seat 12 and a half is empty. Another thing that Ralph doesn’t know is that the show doesn’t start without him.

Peterkin had been alternating between apparating and running, charming every minute hand on every clock into turning one degree counterclockwise per every 360 degrees the second hand travels. He can’t find Ralph anywhere, that stupid boy! He’s not in the Tent of Sundials and Mercury or the Tent of Time and Candles or the Tent of Hourglasses and Looking Glasses or any of the other tents that are either time-themed or, for some reason, involve some kind of clock.

Peterkin hates the circus for having so many tents. He’s wasting his time! The mature thing to do would be to tell Dorian, straight-up, that he doesn’t know where Ralph is and that tonight’s show would have to start without him. Ralph is a big boy, now, and he should be allowed to live his life as he pleases. He’s half a year older than Peterkin and he still doesn't understand why he was looking after him.

The harsh air of Empire State’s night weather engulfs Peterkin in a shiver as soon as he exits the Tent of Isolation and Crippling Anxiety. (Actually, it’s just an empty tent. Some of those are thrown in amongst the infinite attractions as a prank. Expect anything—even nothing.) His breaths come out in hot white puffs.

“Dorian,” Peterkin says to himself quietly. Best to practice now. “Ralph is missing.”

He happens to look down at his hands which were, rightfully, shaking—Dorian is going to have his head. His first day officially volunteering as the third magician of the formerly two-magician wonder that is Miracle Circus and he’s already failing miserably. Tonight’s show was supposed to be dedicated to Ralph. But then again, every show is dedicated to him. It doesn’t take much but a heartfelt speech at the beginning of the show to dedicate it to someone. Dorian and Sybil could adlib any other name in their dedication and it wouldn’t make a difference.

“It’s not my fault!” Peterkin insists. He walks and talks, all the while scanning for any sign of Ralph. “Ralph is twelve-and-a-half years old, already. He can take care of himself.”

He pauses in his tracks. “Twelve-and-a-half years old is still a child, stupid. Of course he needs a babysitter.” It’s all because he lost him while repairing the glass menagerie in the Tent of Fragility. The crystal animals, the glass sculptures, the diamond chandeliers, the pottery and the intricate spider webs and the preserved flowers and the porcelain tea sets—all destroyed. He told Sybil to not put that tent next to the Tent of Baseball and Bats, but she never listens. It’s the most vulnerable tent, besides the Tent of Vulnerability, and he’s always the one who has to clean it up. Almost as susceptible as the Tent of Susceptibility. “It’s all my fault. It really is all my fault!”

It’s strange, though, because usually Ralph is eager to drag Peterkin from tent to tent and narrate what elaborate techniques went into designing each and every detail, as if Peterkin were not a son of a ringmaster himself. It’s not as if he took too long un-shattering the shards in the Tent of Fragility. It takes but a flick of the wand. Somewhere, amidst the applause of nosy spectators, Ralph slipped away without a trace.

Suddenly, Peterkin realizes he’s surrounded by fountains and bubbles. He doesn’t remember how he got there or how much time it took, but he refuses to think of it. Sometimes he uses magic without realizing it. It’s not good. Again, he doesn’t want to think about it.

The Tent of Fountains and Bubbles has been his favorite tent ever since Sybil made the pink bubbles pink-flavored. Peterkin says it’s one of the greatest accomplishments of her entire magician career, next to founding the Little Miracles Orphanage. She really captured the color pink in a flavor: bubble gum, watermelon, strawberry, peach, and some other artificial undertones he can’t quite place. The other bubbles taste like soap. Non-toxic for curious idiots like him, but disgusting enough to discourage you from eating it.

Oh, he loves this tent. He can’t be anything but happy when sitting at a fountain and catching bubbles in his hand. It’s all a good time. The bubbles come in all shapes and sizes and colors and opacities. Some become cute bunnies that hop along a pool of water at the bottom of a five-tiered fountain. Some never pop. Some are colorful, foamy bubbles in a bathtub that apparently passes for a fountain just because it has lily pads in them.

The lighting changes according to Pacific Standard Time, the time zone Peterkin was born in. It’s barely glowing a sunset in the Tent of Bubbles and Fountains, though it’s already dark outside. The bubbles near the top of the tent glow auburn and amber and rose and pewter-blue, the same shade as the clouds on the beach. How is he supposed to leave this tent when the fountain water tints to the same darkness as the ocean and foamy bubbles start to look like the white crests of pacific waves?

Peterkin sits at the cupid fountain wondering if he even had the heart to leave the tent. It’s not often that he gets to sit at the cupid fountain without being surrounded by PDA. Sybil says the fountain is made of pearls to strengthen love and protect children. Witchy elements like that are socially accepted as long as it’s for good luck.

There’s a lot to say about a cupid fountain that depicts Cupid stabbing himself through the heart with his own arrow. The water gushes out of his wounds and his crying eyes. The main legend is that Cupid was so fascinated by a mortal that he thrusted his own arrow into himself so he could properly fall in love. There’s another variation he’s heard, where the arrow is poisonous to Cupid and he only has a short time before he dies to experience true love for the mortal.

The important part is that Sybil tells people if two lovers toss a chip behind them at the same time and the chips land on the same side, then they will stay in love forever. At the end of the day, she has Peterkin clean up the chips and store them away. Not that money is of much use, nowadays. Inflation in the country is a nightmare.

Peterkin looks down at his reflection in the pool of water, littered with white roses. “Dorian, I’m sorry,” he says to his wavering image. He brushes some foam out of his hair. He tries a more pitiful tone. “Please forgive me, Dorian.” He sure is glad nobody is around to hear him. “Dorian, you’re the most handsome man in this universe and I want to marry you.”

“Peterkin!”

Peterkin doesn’t dare look behind him. Dorian is as stunning as Medusa is petrifying—one thoughtless glance, and he’s done for. The enchantment is insidious, as Freudian as it is Pavlovian. “I didn’t say anything—”

“Where’s Ralph?”

“Um…” The blank white petals on the roses start to dye an inky black. He stands up and faces Dorian. “I’m sorry, sir.” Uncharacteristically, he meets Dorian’s gaze. Better for Dorian to look at his pitiful face than the black roses behind him. Peterkin has to pick his troubles.

And what a devastating trouble it is to look Dorian in the eyes. Dorian is in a pure white ringmaster’s ensemble: a white button-up under a white vest with a white silk bow with a white satin tailcoat and white pants and a white tophat. All fitted perfectly and immune to even the most miniscule specks of dust. Ruffles of white lace adorn his arm cuffs. Raining down his waist are strings of pearls, like icicles hanging down from the edge of a snowy roof. He looks as if he robbed his outfit from a bridal shop. Peterkin assumes Sybil’s ringmaster costume for this show is in pure black, to juxtapose her partner. Pure black and pure white—the trademarked colors of Miracle Circus’ striped tents. Every other non-Miracle Circus-affiliated product or company or production featuring black or white has to settle for an off-colored variant.

Dorian sighs loudly. He crosses his arms and shakes his head in disappointment. As a performer, he has a habit of exaggerating his feelings, constantly broadcasting to an invisible audience. “You had one job, Peterkin.”

“No, you gave me one job! Sybil gave me one job, and then the same job again because she forgot, then she kept on piling more tasks on me, and then eventually she figured out that writing a list would be more efficient...” The list she gave Peterkin was a scroll longer than his height.

Dorian gives Peterkin a sympathetic pat on Peterkin’s shoulder. His reflection is covered by pink roses. “That’s your mother’s revenge for ditching last year’s finale show.”

Peterkin looks away. He never was good at keeping eye contact. Sybil tells him the trick is to look six feet past the person in front of him, but the only trick he wants is a vanishing act. He’d like to be the disappearing milk poured into a dry cone of yesterday’s newspaper.

“Maybe Ralph wants to ditch tonight’s show,” Peterkin suggests. “It gets boring going by yourself all the time. Most kids visit the circus with their parents.”

Dorian ponders the idea. “You’re right, young Peterkin.”

“I am?”

Peterkin can’t believe Dorian is buying his lemon of a pitch. Ralph could be in real danger, maybe kidnapped for ransom by a rival circus. He never misses a show. He spends every summer with his father, and consequently with Sybil and Peterkin, and every summer he’s thrilled to see the same three tricks his father and Peterkin’s mother perform: the impossible, the fantastic, and the miraculous. He’s Miracle Circus’ biggest fan. Even in the off-season, he watches old recordings of Miracle Circus shows and practices behind his mother’s back after he’s done studying. He collects all the merchandise and wears it to every show. He readily soaks in all the propaganda Sybil feeds him of Miracle Circus’ glory, the silver lies of Miracle Circus’ divine right to ruling the circus industry. It’s hard to believe wide-eyed Ralph is capable of a rebellious phase.

“Of course you’re right, young Peterkin!” Dorian ruffles Peterkin’s hair affectionately. “Why don’t you take Ralph’s seat for tonight?”

“Huh?”

“I understand that you don’t have the most maternal of mothers. She treats you more like an equal than a son. That’s not fair to you. Why, just because you’re a child prodigy doesn’t mean you’re not still a child.”

Peterkin glances down at his watch. “That’s kind of you, Dorian.” It’s already twelve-and-a-half minutes past scheduled showtime. They should really be double-timing it to the Big Top, but he doesn’t have the courage to rush Dorian. The more distracted Dorian is by his own tangent, the farther away from the consequences of losing Ralph Peterkin is.

“We’ll change the plans! This show is just for you, Peterkin. Your favorite color is pink, right? And your favorite bird is the rooster and your favorite noise is the jingling of keys and your favorite flower is the daffodil?”

“That’s... right.” Peterkin would fear Dorian had been reading his diary, but he doubts Dorian would be able to look him in the eye if he did. “You’re not going to dedicate it to me, are you? Out loud with a spotlight and all?”

“Of course we will!” Dorian grabs Peterkin by the shoulders. “This show will be un-ditch-able. One hundred percent, money-back guarantee!”

“But I didn’t pay—”

Before he can finish his sentence, he appears at Section E, Row 5, Seat 12 and a half with a surprised yelp from the boy in Section E, Row 5, Seat 14. He’s the only one bothered by Peterkin’s abrupt existence. The rest of the crowd is busy orchestrating the cacophony of excited chatter.

“Geez, you scared me!” the boy in Seat 14 exclaims. He’s clutching at his chest, as if he were trying to keep his heart from leaping away. “But I’ve got to admit—that’s a wicked clean appearification. I’d poof around everywhere too, if I were that clean.”

The cogs in Peterkin’s mind are turning too fast for him to come up with a proper response to his undeserved compliment. He swears both of Dorian’s hands were grabbing him, in that split second moment before he poofed them both away. Far from the wand in his back pocket. He can still feel the warmth of those strong, soft, handsome hands on his shoulders, like a phantom’s touch—a ghost of a memory of a feeling that he was going to be dazzled against his will. He wouldn’t forget anything Dorian makes him feel.

He just used wandless magic. Didn’t he?

Complete darkness swallows the Big Top. The white stripes of the canvas become indistinguishable from the black stripes. Light manipulation is one of Miracle Circus’ many specialties, under the broader umbrella of passive magic. There’s a difference between active light manipulation and passive light manipulation that Peterkin hasn't figured out, yet. A single pink spotlight befalls Sybil and Dorian. Peterkin looks up to try and locate its source, but the point at the top of the cone of light has no blinding shining circle of origin. The pink light seems to come from higher than the ceiling of the Big Top, as if it were sent by the heavens above.

Any half-smart magician would be immediately impressed by that pink spotlight alone. Peterkin notices that the boy beside him has his chin turned up, wondering about the source of the light instead of cheering for the ringmasters under it. Ralph would be doing the same, if he were here. Peterkin tries to look around for Ralph’s specific hue of blond, but every mop of hair he finds are all the wrong shades.

Sybil and Dorian’s ringmaster costumes have been dyed pink. Sybil’s bodice has strings of pink pearls cascading in loops, drooping down just until the poof of layered pink lace on her skirt, which flares out just below her sheer pink tights-clad knees. Her tailcoat is pink satin, the same as Dorian’s, with the same ruffled lace at her cuffs and the same pink silk bow at her neck. Her tophat is adorned with pink lace and pink daffodils and a pink bow. If there’s any consolation to Peterkin for being stuck watching another tedious show, it’s knowing that Sybil will be in a bad mood later from having to wear her least favorite color.

Contrasting Sybil’s pink ensemble is her infamous waterfall of dark, silky-straight hair that spills over her shoulders and down to her lower back. It’s not her natural hair texture. Peterkin thinks she must have wavy locks like his own, but he has no proof besides his genetics. More eye-catching, though, is the length of her hair. She doesn’t respect the hair protocol in the Magician’s Code, which states that all female magicians must have their hair worn up and out of the way during performances. Her excuse is that she’s not a “female magician”, but a “real magician”.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Both and neither!” Ringmaster Sybil calls out.

Her voice projects around the stadium surrounding her as if she were only a couple feet away from every audience member. She doesn’t need the assistance of a microphone. Passive sound manipulation is another specialty of Miracle Circus.

“Welcome to Miracle Circus! Home of the impossible, the fantastic, and of course—the miraculous! You’ll never find magic as pure, nor as powerful, nor as potent as ours! But there is another thing that’s just as pure and just as powerful and just as deathly potent… Dorian, do you know what that is?”

Peterkin knows he’s about to be publicly humiliated. He reaches for the wand in his inner coat pocket, but it’s missing. He frantically checks every other pocket to no avail. Dorian took his wand.

“Of course I know, dear Sybil! That would be…”

A new beam of pink light illuminates the poor idiot sitting in Section E, Row 5, Seat 12 and a half. The boy beside Peterkin yelps in surprise again. The spotlight is hot and heavy, but unfortunately not hot enough to burn Peterkin to a crisp and release him from his eternal suffering.

“... our love for little Peterkin-pumpkin!” the two ringmasters declare in unison.

The crowd erupts in an adoring coo and proud applause. Everyone likes a family business. It gives them the illusion of a moral high ground for supporting a mom-and-pop operation while still enjoying the luxury of a multi-million corporation. Sometimes Peterkin wonders if he was only born to be a marketing strategy, but he couldn’t deny that Sybil and Dorian’s grandiose gestures come from their idea of love. He could only cry in the restroom later from sheer embarrassment.

But if they dare call him up as a volunteer, Peterkin will not hesitate to cry right then and there.

“This show is dedicated to my darling Peterkin! My son! My pride and joy! You might have seen him earlier, helping Mommy maintain some of our more difficult tents, and you can bet a pretty chip that it only takes him a flick of the wand!”

Peterkin tries not to focus on the audience members below him, craning their necks to gawk at Ringmistress Sybil’s son. The energy is better spent trying to convince his nervous system to not shut down.

“That’s right,” Dorian says. “Young Peterkin is an heir of talent! A prince of purity! A claimant of genius!”

Peterkin slumps into his seat. He doesn’t like being Ralph’s replacement much. Only Ralph has the ego to soak up overinflated praise with a smile. This certainly is his punishment for losing Ralph.

“So, without further ado, let us begin our program, ‘Peterkin’s Show’!”

Peterkin is floored by the creativity of the title. Truly an inspiration. With that kind of eloquence, Sybil could be a wordsmith.

Though, what she can’t achieve with her words she compensates with her magic prowess. She flips her wand high up into the air, where it twirls and sparkles gold out of the white tips on either end. Underneath the wand, she does an aerial and lands in time to catch her wand, which triggers a burst of thick pink smoke and iridescent glitter that expands out into the audience. A light tinkling of metal keys ring out like sleigh bells. Underneath the high tones of the tinkling metal is the sound of many stringed instruments bending their pitch up.

Instinctively, Peterkin flinches at the smoke and glitter, but there’s no tangible residue to creep into his corneas. On the tip of his tongue, he tastes sweetness. A light aroma of peaches and cream wafts about. He already knows what’s to come: when the smoke clears, the stage will proclaim some dazzling display of roosters and daffodils and some random surreal element you wouldn’t usually associate with roosters and daffodils, like the twinkling of a galaxy or silvery clouds that project images of winged angels frolicking in lush fields or dancing bronze sculpture-people. It’s the classic Miracle Circus opener that the crowd swoons for every time. Sybil always likes to open with strong symbolism to give the audience members something to grasp onto before ripping away the familiarity and sending them spiralling down a rabbithole of spectacles.

When the smoke clears, the stage is revealed to be teeming with absolute emptiness. Nothing has changed. Sybil and Dorian are standing in the very middle of it, the same spot they were in before, gesturing to the invisible grandeur around them. Peterkin had to admit, his expectations are defied. He’s amazed. Not impressed, but thoroughly on the edge of his seat wondering what’s to come. It’s a risky move building up to a reveal and then disappointing hundreds of eager, money-paying spectators right off the bat. Anticlimacticism is hard to pull off. But he likes it. It’s a bold statement that asserts dominance, as if Sybil were saying outright, You know who I am, I don’t need to impress you.

Sybil is the first to break character. That’s when Peterkin realizes this isn’t some avant-garde act of defiance against consumer culture. She whips her head around, a quick motion emphasized by the twirling of her long, dark locks all around her, looking for someone hiding in the shadowy backstage. The show is being sabotaged. Peterkin picks his posture up and shifts his weight to the edge of his seat. No one has ever dared to sabotage a Miracle Circus Big Top show, before.

Dorian takes over and summons the growth of pink daffodils, peeking out of the crevices in between the floorboards. Green spathes unfurl yellow petals, cradling dew-kissed coronas spewing out puffs of glowing pollen, like millions of tiny fireflies. The distinct smell of burning canvas, a reminder of a lesson in creating fireworks gone wrong, distracts Peterkin from the light floral scent. Someone has set fire to the tent. In response, Sybil waves her wand and sprinkles water upon the audience. The sparks of fire at the bottom of the canvas sizzles out. She sends out an eclectic blue jolt of lightning into the air, which branches in all directions and hisses at every drop of water it meets.

When a deafening boom of thunder reverberates, Peterkin looks down and finds that Sybil has been replaced by a clucking rooster. The sprinkling of water has stopped. Dorian is similarly alarmed by his partner’s disappearance. In a panic, he resorts to distracting the audience with bright bursts of colored smoke streaming into the air and exploding in chrysanthemum bursts. Shades of cobalt, tangerine, violet, magenta, and dandelion swirl about. Behind the rainbow of cloudy smoke, a bright white orb of light shines. The shrill scream of a lime green stream of smoke popping into the air covers up yelling below.

All at once, the multicolored smoke gets absorbed into the orb of light, which collapses in on itself. Peterkin tries to blink away the spots in his vision. When he looks down at the stage again, he sees Sybil and Dorian gliding around on an ice rink on ice skates. In one corner, Dorian lifts up into a quadruple toe loop. The audience claps at his perfect landing. He meets Sybil at the center of the rink and lifts her up onto his shoulders. She uses the momentum for a backflip.

Before she lands, Dorian casts a large dome of opaque ice around them just before a gunshot. The bullet shatters the dome, revealing a flock of roosters underneath. There are screams from Section J, stage right. A pink spotlight flashes there for a moment, highlighting Sybil dragging a gunman out of his seat. The spotlight darkens and is replaced by a different spotlight back on stage, where Dorian juggles bowling pins. The ice rink has been replaced by a white marble floor. Dorian narrowly avoids the sudden addition of a bowling ball to his juggling act, but before the bowling pins and bowling ball come crashing down, the attention is once again replaced when yet another spotlight redirects the audience back to Sybil, who is crossing a tightrope up high that wasn’t there before, balancing the bowling pins and bowling ball from Dorian’s act on her outstretched arms in two precarious towers.

There’s a final moment of relief as the spotlight follows her, in silence, across the tightrope. It is more of a quiet exercise in introspection than it is a gravity-defying act. As she is suspended in the air by only a rope and her balance, the audience, too, has their disbelief suspended with the knowledge that Sybil isn’t known to play games she can’t win. She will meet the end of the tightrope as easily as she met the beginning of the tightrope. But it is doubt that makes the journey through the middle of the tightrope tantalizing, the .01% of uncertainty that removes absolute perfection as easily as 10% would. It isn’t hers. The doubt could only belong to the envious onlookers, whose everyday lives are so infinitesimal with doubt, made so microscopic with every fluctuation between black and white and even more minute whenever wrong crosses paths with right, that the grains spill out and manifest as bias. If Ringmistress Sybil of Miracle Circus could only teeter to the left a bit, not even fall, but just give her onlookers the sharp inflation of a gasp into their pudgy stomachs and thus succumb to their doubt shamelessly, then absolutism could be abolished and absurdism may abscond.

Peterkin’s hope for his mother to make a mistake shines the brightest of them all. He doesn’t live in a reality of crooked lines or scraped knees or spilled half-empty cups of milk. There is no vicarious escapism for him at Miracle Circus. As he was telling Dorian earlier, he didn’t pay to get in, just as he didn’t ask to be the son of a ringmistress, and thus a refund wouldn’t be possible. And if he’s not the consumer and he’s not the producer, process of elimination would have it that he’s the product. Peterkin hopes to gain some form of pleasure from the show dedicated to him, to prove that he can be a consumer, but he can only indulge in schadenfreude when it comes to the pure black matriarchal shadow he lives in.

Peterkin can only be disappointed, but at the same time, impressed by the true ending. Not amazed, but impressed. Ringmistress Sybil places every high-heeled step in front of the other with the same ease and poise and deadset intent that brought Miracle Circus to its current prestige. That’s what Sybil tells Peterkin magic is derived from: ease and poise and deadset intent, especially intent. She tells him that one doesn’t try to pull a rabbit from a hat—one does pull a rabbit from a hat and both the rabbit and the hat are made from magic. All magic is intentional, she says, and she also says that nobody’s intent is stronger than hers. She crosses the tightrope from start to end without a wand because she’s so good at magic she doesn’t even need it. She is impervious to the sabotages of her worst enemies and the ill intents of her closest loved ones.

The breath everyone else had been holding is released, but not Peterkin’s. When Sybil is at the end of her rope and the bowling pins and bowling ball balanced on her arms vanish into nothingness, Peterkin is still suffocating within the vortex of an airless tornado because his doubts continue to bloom as plentifully as a meadow of pink daffodils. Sybil’s path, both across the tightrope and to success, was a straight line. She was so good that she became the best; that much is dumbfoundingly simple. Outside of that strict straight line, Peterkin thinks he sees an extraneous dot: a careless residue of a careless pencil stroke. He only thinks he sees it, but it doesn’t appear in isolation. Like stars in the night sky, the harder he looks, the more of them he sees.

Peterkin remembers himself suddenly surrounded by fountains and bubbles.

And he recalls the warm weight of Dorian’s hand on his shoulders.

And he also wonders why someone trying to sabotage the show wouldn’t have taken that perfect opportunity to shoot Ringmaster Sybil down during that unguarded lapse of time between the beginning and the end of the rope, because even Sybil has admitted to Peterkin that it’s faster to shoot a gun than to pull a wand out.

But Sybil isn’t an Impressionist, she’s a perfectionist. She wouldn’t dapple her pure white canvas with ugly little dots, yet Peterkin is seeing the work of another artist, and that artist can only communicate in dots, like Braille constellations warning Peterkin of the wool over his eyes.

The roar of applause dims down before Peterkin gains the capacity to register it. Sybil’s voice announces, “And there you have it, folks! The conclusion of the first act of Peterkin’s Show: ‘Peterkin’s Show’s First Act’! We’ll be back shortly after intermission!”

Light fills the Big Top. The usual chatter and stretching of limbs and hurrying to get to the snack bar before the intermission is delayed. No one can deny that an intermission felt deserved after such an odd, eventful first act, but it is only after the first act and it hasn’t been specified how long the intermission will be. Miracle Circus has defied yet another expectation. Ringmistress Sybil can declare intermissions whenever she wants and for however long she wants.

The boy in Seat 14 isn’t shy of expressing his surprise, again. “What!” he exclaims.

Peterkin isn’t sure who the boy is trying to address, anymore, because he and the boy are total strangers and the boy didn’t seem to expect any kind of response. As the only willing witness to the boy’s outburst, he felt obliged to take his exclamation as a conversation-starter. “What?” Peterkin asks, and a part of him hopes that the boy is frustrated for the same reason he is. Peterkin wanted to believe that the non-sequitur dots he saw in Sybil’s tightrope act weren’t invisible to the sane.

“I was trying to—she just—why couldn’t I—”

The boy trails off into a strangled scream. In the light, Peterkin can now see the boy’s features clearly: round almond eyes, a stout nose, and a nervous, frowning expression that looked to be his default. He’s thin, and it would seem to anyone else that his figure is simply good genetics, but as someone who’s known him for more than five minutes, Peterkin can already guess that weight is hard to stick on a boy who’s always burning calories with his tenseness. Every line on his body seems to be tapering inwards, like he’s constantly collapsing in on himself. More prominent to Peterkin is the crimson red pocket square in his suit jacket and a wand clenched in his left fist.

The pocket square inexplicably catches Peterkin’s eye more than the wand does, although there should be no reason for a magician in the audience to have his wand out during another magician’s performance. Peterkin recognizes that shade of crimson red as Phantasm Red, and so he begins to connect some dots. The wand should have been a deader giveaway, but the conclusion is still the same. The boy in Seat 14 was trying to sabotage Sybil during her tightrope act and couldn’t, even though she was wandless.

Experimentally, he taps a bouquet of roses into his hand, then taps it away.

“You’re the son of Ringmistress Sybil,” he says to Peterkin, but also more to himself. “Tell me, can magic go defective?”

“Um… Uh… I don’t know?” The real answer is no, magic is always intentional and always in control of the magician, but Peterkin isn’t good with being put on the spot. He tries to muster a more coherent response. “I think it has to be your intent.”

“What about my intent?” the boy demands.

“It’s—I don’t know, but it comes from your intent. I’m sorry.”

“What are you saying sorry for?”

“I don’t know.”

Peterkin turns to leave, but he’s met face-to-face with the elusive blond he had been trying to track down all night. Peterkin grabs him roughly by the shoulders and shakes him.

“Ralph!” Peterkin yells. “Where have you been?”

“Cheater, cheater, Peterkin-eater,” Ralph sings to him. He brushes Peterkin’s hands off of him. “Nice show, isn’t it? All for you and all. Some odd parts, but I’d say that’s fitting for a show with your name in it. And you’ve got the best seat in the house.”

Peterkin lets Ralph avoid the question. He knows he can’t enforce any consequences. All the responsibility, but none of the authority. “Just take your seat back, already.”

“Who’s to say it’s my seat? It looks like it’s yours. Your show, your seat. All for you.”

“You can take my seat if you’d like,” the boy with the Phantasm Red pocket square offers. “I’m done trying to sabotage the show.” He picks up Peterkin’s hand, pries open Peterkin’s fingers, and places his wand in Peterkin’s palm. “You can have my wand, even. I’m certainly not putting it to good use. I don’t have the right intent, or something.”

Peterkin watches the boy excuse himself as he crosses the row, disappearing into the crowd going upstream for kettle corn refills. At his hands is a shiny black steel wand with Phantasm Red tips. Engraved in gold, is a declaration of ownership: Property of Phantasm Circus™. It’s weighted heavily on the end with the engravement.

“You just let the kid next to you try to sabotage the show?” Ralph asks.

“I didn’t notice!” Peterkin says.

Ralph laughs at that and holds onto Peterkin for support while mirth wets his eyes. “Of course you didn’t! Who can ruin a Miracle Circus show? Only a Miracle Circus magician, right?”

“Right…”

“Right!”

All is right with Ralph returned. Ralph can disappear but not be lost, can have his seat taken and then have another one offered, and break the rules without getting into trouble. In that way, Peterkin thinks Ralph to be more of a Miracle Circus magician than himself: impervious. He sees, in Ralph, the same easy balance that brought Ringmistress Sybil across the tightrope. There is no doubt that the rest of the show will continue smoothly, with Ralph now sitting in Section E, Row 5, Seat 14. And if there is, the doubt can only belong to Peterkin.

Slowly, the lights flicker on and off to signal that intermission is ending. The bleachers refill steadily. Peterkin slumps into Seat 12 and a half and laments, in his head, that the second act won’t be nearly as interesting as the first. No risk, no stakes, no bad guys to root for. Peterkin thinks a tone shift into the usual perfection would be too discontinuous. And isn’t the show “Peterkin’s Show”, not “A Show For Peterkin”? Meaning, the show belongs to him. With a Phantasm wand, he might be able to turn his doubt into certainty.

The Phantasm wand has a nice weight in Peterkin’s hand. It’s heavier and much more solid than a Miracle Circus wand, with a tip that follows the flow of its path smoothly, like dragging a finger across a lake’s surface. It feels more like a weapon than an instrument and Peterkin intends to take advantage of that.

The lights dim, then go pitch black. A rooster cries out, then a pink spotlight illuminates Sybil and Dorian, hanging off of either side of a swinging trapeze. At his lap, Peterkin slices his new wand horizontally. The trapeze’s strings are cut. Sybil screams—she actually screams out of undeniable fear and everyone hears it. Her illusion of invincibility has shattered and everyone sees it in how fast gravity works on her. Even the best circus magician to ever exist is subservient to the laws of physics.

In those few seconds where all of Sybil’s weight is working against her and plummeting her helplessly towards the ground, Peterkin finds certainty. It’s the same certainty he recognizes from when he lost Ralph—the certainty that he is a very bad person and everything is his fault. He didn’t have to do that. He really shouldn’t have.

But she recovers quickly, with a frilly pink parasol with enough air resistance to float her gently to the bottom. That makes Peterkin feel even worse. He discovers how shallow his regret was when Sybil arrives safely on the ground, but the only cure for his chagrin is to try again at matricide. And what if he fails again? Or what if he succeeds? Peterkin doesn’t see a happy ending in witnessing the rest of Peterkin’s Show, which is really just A Show For Peterkin and not A Show Belonging To Peterkin.

Peterkin makes like a banana peel and slips away.

---

For everyone’s safety, Dorian takes care to rush all the circus-goers out of the gates as soon as the Big Top show is over. The premiere was a disaster, by Miracle Circus standards. Dorian knows how bothered Sybil must be. First impressions are everything. And to make their first impression for the season a sabotaged show dedicated to young Peterkin—if Dorian were superstitious, he would fear a similar corruption to occur in or involving Peterkin, during his 12 and a halfth summer…

But Dorian isn’t superstitious, because according to the Magician’s Code, superstition is for witches. The ringmasters of Miracle Circus do not fear a bad premiere out of some contrived, non-sequitur correlation to the events for the rest of their season. They fear a bad premiere only due to their miraculously high standards.

Dorian leads Miracle Circus’ lovely fans off the premises like a pied paper, schedules an exclusive interview with the Cirque du Chronicles reporters addressing the future of their season in their current economic climate, and prepares a sweet cup of mint tea before knocking on Sybil’s dressing room door. With magic, it all only takes him five minutes total. Three of those minutes were spent preparing the tea. Even the best magical skill a Miracle Circus magician possesses cannot replace the care spent in preparing anything drinkable or edible. A magician’s magic is simply not capable of conjuring anything drinkable or edible. Thus, all snacks and beverages at Miracle Circus have zero calories, for they are but well-crafted illusions no other circus is capable of: from the crunch of a caramel apple to the tangy splash of pink lemonade. True food magic is impossible.

When Dorian knocks thrice on the grand cherry wood door, the door reveals its true nature and shatters into paper-thin shards of glass that have been deceptively painted with the facsimile of a grand cherry wood door. Beyond the remaining shards of the door is Sybil, sitting at a vanity mirror lit with red bulbs. The lights dye all it reaches the color of candy apples and ladybug wings, of lipstick and rubies, of blood and a dozen passionate red roses yearning to be cradled with the affectionate touch of someone enamored by true love. Phantasm has their own bright bastardization of red copyrighted, but this shade, as deep as the ocean and as rich as the Blimerance fortune and as true as an infant’s unfiltered babble, has been owned by Sybil as soon as it touched her. It isn’t a frivolous claim for the sake of competitive branding. The fact is inherent in her dark gaze at her reflection, which sees past the mere self-image in front of her and into a truth Dorian may never know.

Then, the color changes to cyan.

Then, the color changes to banana yellow.

“Remember when we thought it would be a good idea to have a light-based show? And then your ex-wife had to save us from the lawsuits?” Sybil asks. “We were so close to folding.”

Begrudgingly, Dorian recalls that show: “In Full Technicolor”. Show concepts were much simpler back then. They played improv with crystal prisms and refracting light beams and gave every spectator a complimentary pair of sunglasses. But having to pay for a hundred hospital bills wasn’t nearly as humiliating as having to explain to a much younger Ralph that, no, Daddy wasn’t visiting Mommy because they loved each other again. Daddy was begging Mommy for help because Daddy and Auntie Sybil induced seizures at their circus show. Somehow, Miracle Circus survived, on the basis that epilepsy fell under the umbrella of the impossible, the fantastic, and the miraculous.

Being on the forefront of innovation means taking risks. It was the first circus show to rely primarily on light manipulation. Miracle Circus used to show off the magical prowess of their ringmasters by demonstrating their mastery in every magic skill ever thought of: light manipulation, sound manipulation, space manipulation, animal summoning, botanokinesis, pyrokinesis, hydrokinesis, aerokinesis… Everything that magic was capable of, they mastered it and focused a show on it. There were enough magic skills to last them an entire season of shows. In Full Technicolor taught them that too much raw power was dangerous, though. That was when Sybil and Dorian discovered the true advantage of illusions, and that was sensory manipulation. No more seizures if your body doesn’t perceive the flashing lights as a disregulatory signal.

“We came out of that stronger than ever,” Dorian reminds her. “We always will.”

“Oh, save your pretty words for the press!” Sybil scoffs. The lights return to red. She stands up from her armchair and approaches Dorian. Although her high heels are off, her shorter stature does nothing to diminish her domineering presence. “That second-act-sabotage caught us both off-guard. With our wands in our hands. While we were already expecting a sabotage! How is that possible, Dorian?” The lights flicker. “Answer me that, Mr. Blimerance!”

Dorian winces at the flickering light. With a simple flick of his wand, he changes the light to bright white. He would’ve gotten sick if he had to tolerate those flickering lights any longer. Though he fears Sybil, and rightfully so, he is not scared of her. He hands her the steaming hot cup of mint tea.

“It’s impossible,” Dorian answers. “It’s fantastic. It’s miraculous.”

“We’ve been out-miracled in our own Big Top.” Sybil sips on the ice cold tea. She dumps it out. “And by Phantasm, at that. They’re not even world class!” She tosses the porcelain tea cup over her shoulder without a care. It poofs away.

“Sybil… do you realize what that means?”

Sybil nods.

They grab each other by the shoulders.

Their smiles are wide and gleeful.

“A witch hunt!” they declare in unison.

---

After the show, Ralph wanders around the empty circus grounds just as he did before the show. He calls it walking a mile in Peterkin’s shoes. In Ralph’s mind’s eye, Miracle Circus is a bright wonder of endless amusements, always teeming with toothy smiles and boisterous laughter. He thinks of Miracle Circus and its sweets that never give you a stomachache; he thinks of colored fire that won’t burn you; he thinks of water that doesn’t soak your clothes.

He thinks of his father ruffling Peterkin’s hair as if Peterkin were his own son.

He thinks of Auntie Sybil denouncing all lesser magicians.

He thinks of infinity.

Before tonight, Ralph has never thought to see Miracle Circus in its rawest form: a collection of tents. Sybil and Doran don’t produce the tents until the very second before the circus opens—thus, the only time to see the circus empty is during the Big Top show. Only Peterkin would ever think to ditch a Miracle Circus Big Top show and Ralph wants to get closer to how Peterkin thinks. Ralph’s hypothesis is that understanding Peterkin will help him understand why he’s lesser than Peterkin.

The circus is suddenly inanimate. Usually, the circus would’ve stopped existing as soon as the circus-goers left, and usually the circus-goers also wouldn’t be gone by now. Ralph has a lucky second chance at experiencing what Peterkin feels when he’s ditching a Big Top show, but this time, it feels different. The circus isn’t simply empty, because an empty circus feels like a relief after pushing through crowds all day. It’s desolate. Ralph has never noticed it before, but there’s an energy in Miracle Circus that is now missing that reminds him of the protective gaze of a parent while they’re watching their child at the playground. Miracle Circus is dead without Sybil and Dorian, whose ambition to be the best is the lifeblood of the circus.

Ralph walks through a few tents looking for either his father or Auntie Sybil. The circus is smaller and easier to navigate now that it’s not constantly rearranging itself. He visits all of his favorite tents, the clock-related ones, and notices all the clocks in the clock-related tents are hours off and out of sync. He assumes it’s one of Phantasm’s petty attempts at sabotage and moves on to the other tents: the Tent of Vibrations and Storms, the Tent of Waterfalls and Canyons, the Tent of Temperature and Mercury, the Tent of Spring and Jumping, and many other tents that seem as if their themes were lazily pulled out of a hat at random.

Ralph has never had so much trouble finding the two ringmasters before. They like having their presences known, but now, they seem to be in hiding. He closes his eyes and tries to hone in on whatever energy he can pick up on. It’s a witchy method, because really you shouldn’t be able to sense someone’s presence unless through supernatural means, but he does swear he can usually feel Dorian and Sybil’s presence. Any half-smart magician is aware of the sheer power they radiate.

He opens his eyes and heads toward the Tent of Void and Nothingness (one of the empty tents). He thinks Sybil is in there, though he has no proof other than a vague feeling.

“Auntie Sybil?” Ralph calls out. Ralph pushes through the flaps of the black-and-white-striped canvas. It’s dark, but not pitch black. He makes out Peterkin’s small frame, made smaller by the fact that he was curled into himself, sitting with his head buried into his knees. “Oh. It’s you.”

Ralph shivers. He gives out a long exhale to test the coldness in the tent and it comes out in a white cloud of condensation. It’s summer in the rest of the circus besides the tent he has entered. He thinks it odd. The empty tents in Miracle Circus are supposed to have no magical effects on them. But anything is possible in Miracle Circus, so there’s no way to be sure of any anomalies. It could be another one of Sybil’s pranks.

Peterkin lifts his head up. “Hi, Ralph.”

“Where’s my father and your mother?”

“What do you mean? They’re just around.”

Peterkin is right; the circus can’t exist without Sybil and Dorian around. Ralph isn’t sure why he gets the impression they’re gone. He wants to look for them some more, but he’s scared to leave the relief of Peterkin’s presence. He sits down next to Peterkin and wonders how he’s not cold and also why he would choose such a frigid place to isolate himself in.

Peterkin, after a long moment spent riling up the courage, finally gets around to saying what’s on his mind. “Ralph, can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

“Never mind.”

Ralph doesn’t mean to bully Peterkin. He thinks Peterkin makes it too easy. A magician shouldn’t ask to ask a question. He should simply ask it. A better magician would already know the answer, thus eliminating the need for asking unless for rhetorical purposes, but they had the excuse of youth to fall on. Although Ralph knows he is not the better magician, he takes responsibility as the older magician. He must lend his wisdom.

“Tell me what you want to ask,” Ralph demands.

“I wanted to ask what happens if you’re a witch.”

Ralph hesitates. His first instinct is to call Peterkin stupid, but he’s trying to be nicer to Peterkin and also it’s not Peterkin’s fault he doesn’t know. He’s surprised his father hasn’t told Peterkn, yet. After all, Peterkin gets to see Dorian all year round. Ralph is only 30% Dorian’s son, but Peterkin is 100% Sybil’s son, and Dorian and Sybil—they’re contractually bound together. That contract is more soul-binding than Ralph’s parents’ marriage ever was.

With Ralph’s surprise comes pride. It gives him the reassurance he’s been looking for that he is his father’s son. A Blimerance. His mom almost had him change his last name to her maiden name after the divorce, but decided it would be too troubling for his paperwork. Ralph thought convenience was the only reason he stayed a Blimerance, until now, with his heritage shining through his unique connection to the history of witches, a connection that Peterkin lacks.

“Do you know how the Blimerances came to their affluence?” Ralph asks.

“I don’t know. Stealing from the poor?” Peterkin guesses.

“What! No! The Blimerances were the best witch-hunters, back when this country was still a collection of colonies. And they were so good that witches don’t exist anymore. The end!”

“But what happens if you find a witch nowadays?”

“You’d burn ‘em at the stake, of cour—oh, what are you crying for?”

“That’s awful! Why should we kill anyone?”

“You don’t get it, Peterkin.” Ralph tries to phrase himself as if he’s speaking to a child, which he is. “Witches are bad. Their magic has gone corrupted from their ill intent. They hurt people, Peterkin. Magic isn’t for hurting people! It’s for making miracles. That’s why we have to get rid of witches, so they don’t hurt anyone. And they’re already gone, so what’s there to cry about? There’s nothing to cry about.”

“You think I need a reason to cry? I don’t!”

Ralph listens to Peterkin cry himself out in the empty tent, as he had many summers before. The temperature continues to drop. He expects, at any second, for the tent to poof away and for the summer air to coalesce into the cold air around them, but the night sky above them is never revealed. It’s anomalous, though that in of itself was also a part of the routine. Sybil and Dorian are hiding somewhere, brewing up another innovative spectacle, and then Miracle Circus will monopolize the circus industry so triumphantly that every other circus will fold in shame.

#miracle circus #original writing #original work #oc #book #fantasy #writers on tumblr #please read lol #melissart #lgbt

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sweetcinnamcn · 4 years

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Family Dinner || Self-Para

Summary - Ian and his three older siblings come home for a family dinner after which his mother gives him a talking to plus a little something something for the upcoming Bachelor Auction.

WC: 2,630

Without Tommy there to back him up, Ian slips into old habits too easily. It’s hard for him to not let his brothers’ joshing get to him, and each quip at his expense makes Ian’s smile that much more strained. Everything from “Hey Schoolboy!” to bets on how much cum he’s been guzzling seems to be on the table tonight, and since they’re drinking they’re a bit more abrasive about it too. Ian really doesn’t like being around his brothers when they’re drinking.

“Huh, buddy?” Ian had retreated inwards and completely zoned out of the conversation. It wasn’t until Harrison clapped him on the back that he even realized all three of his siblings were looking at him. His mouth falls agape as he tries to think of something—anything—to say, but Donovan’s snort beats him to the chase.

“Space cadet strikes again. How’s the view from the clouds Lieutenant Dumbass?” he chortles, both his brothers laughing boisterously now. Ian laughs along with obviously less zeal.

Annette only shakes her head, moderately eye-rolling at her brothers. “Please don’t mess with him like that. Ian’s no fun when he starts to turtle up.” While he’s sure she means well, comments like that only ever get his big brothers laughing at him harder. This is why Ian doesn’t enjoy family dinners without his younger in attendance.

“What’s wrong, Annie? Junior too busy to be his white knight so you’ve got to fill the vacancy?”

“Not that he needs it. He’s a grown man and we’re just kidding around. Ian knows it. Look at him! Life of the party!” Harrison points right to the smile glued to Ian’s face. That gets a smile out of Annette which she attempts to hide by taking a sip from her wine glass. Harrison and Donovan never hide when they’re laughing at him. This is why he needs his little brother. Ian always feels invisible, pushed aside, belittled, and a bunch of other things he’s not good at vocalizing whenever he’s at home. Tommy always knew how to save him.

“Have you guys spoken to him recently? I know he’s super busy, but I can’t ever get him on the phone anymore—”

“Time zones, buddy. We’ve been over this. England is a few hours ahead of us, so you can’t just call him whenever.” So what if Ian has to count on his fingers to get an idea of what time it is for Tommy, it’s not like he forgets he has to! Though … he doesn’t say anything to reject the implication about his understanding of time zones either.

“Nah, he’s been dodging me too! He goes and claims a princess and suddenly “His Highness” is too good for us.”

“His Grace. Tommy is only going to be a duke by marriage and—”

“Yeah ok, we get that you’re jealous of his royal assent, but seriously Annie couldn’t you at least try to not sound bitter whenever he comes up?”

That’s how things have always been between his siblings. They have a brash, witty sense of humor and even Annette’s found a way to navigate those waters effectively. She can take it and dish it out without sacrificing the austerity she places in her classification. Ian was never as good as her. All he could ever do was smile through it all. As they continue to bicker amongst themselves and Ian starts to wish that Mother let him at least have a glass of wine like Annette got, he sees his father come into the room. He can’t help his sigh of relief.

“Boys, mind the volume. Really, I don’t know why she lets you drink on empty stomachs. You both get so belligerent!” It’s only a gentle scolding on his part, no hints of genuine irritation are found on his face. His brothers know this as well and both take a large swallow of their beers in response. Walter McCallister, the perfect claim for a woman like Clarice, the perfect father to both wrangle and console the children she bore as they needed. Ian’s always felt closer to his father, and for more reasons than their shared classification. He was hoping to get a chance to speak with him privately at some point before dinner was over, but hasn’t gotten to yet. “Dinner is about to be served. Why don’t you all wash up and come take a seat? Your mother is hungry and she is not in a patient mood tonight,” Walter informs before Ian can get a chance to say something. All buzzed except Ian, the McCallister children file out of the room. Ian starts to perk up a bit after his father gives him a gentle shoulder pat on his way out.

Dinner was delicious, and in typical McCallister fashion, it ends as they always do. As soon as Clarice puts her utensil down, Ian, Annette, and Walter all get up from their spots to clear the table. The Dominants will continue to sit and chat for a while. They’ll drink and have fun waiting for the others to bring dessert and coffee if desired. Those three only get dessert as an occasional reward, so none for them tonight much to Ian’s disappointment. There’s a delicious-looking lemon cake in the kitchen just calling his name. He’s even so bold as to try and finger swipe some icing off of it, but Annette slaps his hand away before he gets a chance. Ian is mid pout when a single command makes him go rigid.

“Ian, darling,” Clarice calls out from the dining room. “I’ll be taking my dessert in my study. Be a dear and bring it up to me.” The tension in the kitchen is palpable. Annette and Walter keep cleaning, but even Ian knows they’ve each got a nervously watchful eye on him. Being alone with Mother in her study only means one thing: prepared to get chewed out.

“Yes Ma’am,” he responds, dejectedly cutting a suitable piece of cake for Mother and bringing it up. He has to suffer the typical “Ooo you’re in trouble”’s from his lounging brothers as he walks by. It’s not like they’re kids anymore so he doesn’t understand why they get such a kick out of it, but much like when they were, Ian shrugs away from their scrutiny so hard that it looks like he’s trying to make his head disappear. ‘Turtling’ as Annette so aptly put it, warranting even more joshing at his expense while he hurries to Mother’s study.

A deep sigh at the door and then a knock, Ian’s typical ritual. He can’t remember a time in his life when he left this room feeling good. He enters once prompted and sets the cake down in front of her, then steps back from her desk and stands there, waiting patiently. This is a common routine and Ian’s had plenty of practice, though he does think that her having him watch her eat it is a bit much. It feels like a punishment. Then again, so have their last few chats.

“Mm! That was absolutely divine. I swear, your father’s skills in the kitchen have never once diminished over the years. I do wish you could’ve enjoyed some…” Her voice and expression are cheery, but her eyes seem very cold. Even the way Clarice cleans the fork intimidates Ian. She’s quite skilled at making him feel naked in a not-fun way. “…then again, you haven’t been a very good boy, have you?”

“No Ma’am, I have not,” he says without hesitation. Confessing it out loud hurts so much. In a single sentence, weeks of “good boys” have been erased. Until he gets claimed, there’s only one Dominant who gets to dictate how well Ian’s behaving, and Clarice McCallister’s margins for grading are very clear.

“Huh,” is her only response, those cold eyes of hers repeating every scathing critique she’s voiced recently. There’s no need to rehash them, Ian knows full and well how he’s failed and why he’s failed. “Ian, I’ve been very patient with you. Men in our family attending Lowell has been a great honor for generations. You are the very first to turn that honor into an embarrassment. You should feel embarrassed by your inability to get claimed. It’s no one’s fault but your own.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

“If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I’d be able to reimburse myself for nine years of tuition.”

“I know. I’m—” A single quirk of Clarice’s eyebrow is all it takes for the words to die on Ian’s tongue. He looks down at his feet, unable to handle her disapproving gaze. He feels choked up like a hot coal is burning through his throat. The ground below starts to look blurry as well. Ian is doing his best not to cry. He knows Mother hates seeing that. “I’m trying really hard. I help out and I talk to a lot of Dominants. I have a lot of friends! But I … I don’t know why no Dominant wants me. I do everything you suggest and it—”

“Maybe you should spend less time screwing around with taken locals and put your energies towards getting serious about getting claimed.” He visibly winces at that interruption, because in his heart he knows there’s a lot of truth to it. “At this point, I’m not sure which is more humiliating. The fact that you’ve been there for nearly a decade, or the fact that your highest accolade is getting labeled as the school slut.” That one hurts even more, but he has a tool to use. Luckily, in his increasingly stressed frame of mind, he remembers to take it out of the toolbox his therapist has been helping him build.

“Dr. Addams says—”

“I’m the one paying for your little headcase pow wows with Dr. Addams. The last thing I want thrown in my face right now is whatever Freudian bullshit he told you to spout at me.”

“I-I just—”

“Would you quit mumbling like an idiot? Don’t slouch like that. Stand up straight, hold your head up high. If you have something to say, use your voice, Ian. How many times do I have to tell you this? Appearance is everything. Fix yourself, now!” He lifts his head but has to sniffle. Ian is full-on crying by the end of that and he just couldn’t hold his tears back any longer. Clarice’s eye-roll in response only makes him feel worse. “My sensitive little boy, what are we going to do with you?” she sighs, shaking her head. Ian stands perfectly still, trying to compose himself even though he knows he’s failing. The night has been a lot for him and he’s feeling raw from it all, but he knows what’s coming when Mother stands and walks around her desk. He’s thankful for it.

For all her talk about hating hysterics, she’s very good at dealing with Ian’s. She tenderly grasps the back of his head and brings his face into her neck, embracing her son. Ian wraps his large frame around her in turn, sobbing uncontrollably now that he’s been given the all-clear. He’s incoherent, inconsolable, but Clarice’s soothing touches calm Ian down. When she feels he’s gotten enough of it out of his system, she pushes him back gently by his shoulders. One hand goes to cup his pitiful face, stroking his cheek with her thumb as he whimpers out the last of his outpouring. “Ian, it’s just you. Even Tommy’s grown up and done it now. Not to mention he’s taken our ‘marrying up’ speeches seriously. I mean, he’s claimed into royalty! It’s bad for my image to have you still at Lowell with not even a prospect while all your other siblings have done so well. We need to change that, right?”

“Y-Yes Ma’am. I’ll try harder.” Eventually, she smiles and he smiles through his teary eyes in return. He must’ve finally said the right thing.

“Good boy.” There it is, the two words that uplift him more than everything else. A single phrase is capable of washing away all the cold pricklies and replacing them with warm fuzzies. He’s feeling better already. “But what am I always telling you?”

“My looks are my most important asset?”

“Exactly!” she praises. “You’re such a beautiful boy. Though, you could probably benefit from shedding some weight. Did you have to get so bulky?” Ian’s used to criticism being attached to Mother’s compliments. Her standards are extremely high. “I don’t expect you to be able to come up with a solution, which is why I’m going to help you. When Harrison was at Lowell, I did something for him before the Bachelor Auction. I’ve decided I’m going to do the same for you.”

He starts to wipe his face and continues to compose himself when Clarice turns around to her desk. He can’t see what she’s scribbling out, but after hearing some paper tear he figures what she’s doing. “Now, I know I’ve expressed my hesitation about doing this before, but Ian the auction has only ever resulted in you being a glorified whore for a night. How many times were you purchased by someone who had actual intentions of claiming you?” Out of eight times, the answer is none, and the pause it takes for him to mull this over is long enough for the rhetorical nature of Clarice’s question to be apparent. “My point exactly. This year, you’re taking matters into your own hands.”

Ian looks at the check, amazed at the amount. He’s never held that much money in his life, and it means the world to him that Mother has faith in his ability to do this.

“But Ma’am—”

“No buts, just promise me you’ll spend it wisely. Don’t waste this opportunity. Choose a Dominant carefully, one you have a shot with. It’s okay to think of a game plan too. In fact, you should ask Annie for tips. I’ve never seen anyone wrap a Dominant around their finger quite like her.”

Ian nods, sniffling still but smiling nonetheless. “Thank you, Mother. I won’t let you down. I’m gonna get a great date and I’ll get claimed. This will be my last year at Lowell, I promise.” Clarice smiles and dismisses Ian with a nod. He holds the check to his chest, feeling like he’s living a dream. Mother is right, this year he’s not leaving anything to chance. He’s going to make the right choice and finally get claimed.

The next couple of days on campus, Ian tried to keep his ear to the ground and figure out who he’d focus his bidding efforts on. Annie gave him some tips for how to plan the date in a way that’ll keep a Dominant interested, but that doesn’t help him choose. It’s not until he gets some alone time in the game room that he makes up his mind. Feeling the green of the pool table reminds Ian of a memory he hasn’t visited recently, only because he failed to find the need. But now … it’s giving him inspiration. “It’s settled then. I know what I’m going to do,” he says to himself, resolute in a way that’s almost uncharacteristic. Ian isn’t sure if he’s going to be able to live up to his promises by going for who he’s thinking, but he’s sure that it’s the best option given his predicament. “The Bachelor Auction is just around the corner. I have to make sure I’m ready. I’m going to land a Dominant, bring him home, and Mother will be so proud she’ll call me a good boy a whole bunch. I’m sure of it.”

#family dinner;;#self para

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tact-and-impulse · 4 years

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behind the scenes

I was so busy, but this blog is 5 years old! To commemorate, I’ll share notes and thoughts on some of the stuff I’ve written, like a behind the scenes look. Also, I’ll do anything to not think about my apartment right now.

Eating Together, Drinking Alone

Originally, Hiko was going to be responsible for some of the foreigner killings, but I thought this was too close to Kenshin’s past and it made more sense for his backstory that no one could personally be blamed. It’s easier to blame a specific person, something less abstract, and a different kind of personality would result from that trajectory. For Hiko, who removes himself from the world, the world itself had to be at fault. A natural disaster seemed to fit.

I expanded on Tae’s personality, since I think what we see in canon is her customer service face. It’s the nicest, most self-effacing version of oneself. She’s still pleasant of course, but she’s also brave and lively and that’s the side I wanted to showcase more. Not drastically different from her public face, but a different face regardless.

I never intended for Hiko and Tae to kiss. Sorry! Part of it was that a lot of period dramas don’t necessarily have kissing, and part of it was while I was writing it, I wasn’t really thinking of them together in a physical sense. I was more focused on their emotional connection and actually getting Tae to fall for him. Also, with how intensely private Hiko is, any intimate scenes would be fade-to-black.

I fully believe that kids aren’t a requisite for a happy ending, and I hint that Tae would probably have fertility struggles anyway because her sister and mom did. However! If they did have a kid together in an AU, I imagine it’d be a daughter who’s ambitious and confident and the epitome of “hi I’m here to ruin everything”.

The line “You’re not business, Sekihara” caught me by surprise when I was rereading earlier this year, because I don’t remember writing that? But it’s so swoon-worthy? Damn, good job, past me.

In the epilogue, when Keita mentions “Aoshi and the girls”, that was supposed to be a setup for a work about the kids. So, Aoshi and Misao have three daughters, who are rowdy and energetic and exactly what their dad deserves lmao. They’re a bit on the younger end, closer in age to Keita and Sumire. Their names were Narumi, Ruriko, and Sorano!

The Master and Her Pet

The master of the other dojo in the tournament, Ishii, makes a cameo in At Arm’s Length, in one of Koshijiro’s teenage flashbacks!

From what I recall, the alcohol that Sano sent them is sombai, which is a strong liquor with herbs. I’ve never had it, I just read descriptions of the taste. It seemed to be suitable because I imagine he’d be in the part of the world it comes from, and since it’s a rice based liquor, it would be palatable to them.

One of the reviews thought that Hitomi is pregnant but she’s not. Tbh she’s down to smash any time, but Kazumasa would never have sex before marriage. Also, it’s funny that while the guys are in the parlor, having a deep conversation about what it means to be a good husband, the girls are upstairs talking about the logistics of 69′ing.

With These Hands

Things may seem off in regards to Kaoru’s residency, but that’s because I used the Japanese version, which is different than here in America, and because I was younger then, so I didn’t know as much about the process. I’ll probably rewrite and fix things around when I have time!

I kinda threw Soujiro under the bus, but I wanted to use him as a stand-in for what someone told me. Over the years, I’ve also realized that while it may be true, I’ve been more receptive to the same advice when it comes from a woman, because it’s a matter of firsthand experience. Otherwise, it just sounds like the person is contributing to the problem, despite their intentions.

There’s an in-story reason why Kenshin is so forward towards Kaoru, and it’s not necessarily romantic (at first), but yeah, it’s on purpose!

At Arm’s Length

To be honest, I don’t put a lot of stock in Freudian psychology, but it’s not coincidental that some of Koshijiro’s personality is similar to Kenshin’s. They’re both introspective, protective, idealistic, peace-loving. It’s the kind of personality that would believe in Kamiya Kasshin and its success.

Hayashi rice was a thing around this time, and the wine in it would have been off-putting to Koshijiro.

I wanted to explore why Koshijiro would fight for an end to the shogunate’s oppression, and the logical conclusion was that his mom was a commoner. Also, it made sense for his name. Miyo had just turned 20 when she had Koshijiro, and Keiichiro was in his 30s. I do have an idea for an omake about how they met, once the main story is done.

I’ve dropped some hints but Kyoko has lupus. When I was first starting the story, I didn’t really have a good idea on what her affliction was, but as I learned more, it really fit what I wanted for her (chronic, fatiguing, possibly explaining why Kaoru’s an only child, and eventually fatal at a young age in historical times).

Kyoko fell for Koshijiro when he said he wouldn’t forget her name. She’s used to being shut away and isolated, so that little reassurance meant a great deal to her. It was a crush that deepened when he got the books for her, and she cried a lot when he had to leave.

Kyoko’s parents are supposed to be a contrast to Koshijiro’s. Her parents have fallen out of love and now hardly tolerate the other’s presence, but aren’t able to separate without harming Kyoko in some way (though their staying together makes her tense too). Meanwhile, Miyo and Keiichiro can’t physically be with each other, but they’re still immensely fond of and attracted to the other. Koshijiro is just awkward around them because he doesn’t know how to deal.

I’ve written the last line already, like in 2017? So, yeah, there’s no way I’m dropping this story.

Life’s Blood and Burning Sunsets

Akane’s cousin in the WWII AU was intended to be Kagari. RIP.

I was originally going to write a spinoff about Aya, as an Inspector investigating Akane’s sudden disappearance and finding out that Kougami was her dad, but it looks like canon is going in a different (less angsty for the OTP) direction and I’m on board! Aya’s name is written as “truth”, though I imagine it’s a popular name for her generation, except written as “color”. Also unintentional, but I didn’t realize until recently that her name has the A from Akane and the -ya from Shinya. Lol.

Storm Clouds of a Faraway Sky

In Chapter 3, the rice riots really were a thing! The chaotic atmosphere fit the riots from Season 1, so it made sense to set the story in that specific year.

I stayed up until 2 am to write the last prompt and man, I don’t regret it. I still reread it now and then.

Puzzle

Originally, my gut reaction to this scene was “They’re married! They’re married!” But logically, that’s probably not the case. This was to just reconcile the two lines of thought. Having Arata as our narrator made sense because he’s an outsider, he doesn’t really know either of them, so he’s working from the ground up. And of course, there’s room to speculate.

Stouthearted

I don’t know how many people will catch this, but the way I write Tomoyo for most of the story is that she’s essentially wearing a mask. More specifically, the mask of Satoru. In my mind, she’s internalized him so well and for so long, it’s difficult even for her to drop it. Her true personality is very straightforward and direct. It comes out in little moments like when she’s crying at night, or the scene when she says “I didn’t like it when Shinya started, and I still don’t.” I was going to reveal this via a flashback when she met with Professor Saiga at some point, and he notices this, which instigates her strong dislike of him. But I couldn’t find a way to naturally put it in. Maybe as a separate oneshot someday?

#personal #writing #rurouni kenshin #psycho pass

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thestarshiphope · 5 years

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Bad Blood

Ouma...just tell us one thing.

*Shuichi presses his fist against the airlock’s glass*

Why?! Why did you shoot Kaito into space!?

Why, you ask?

Well, I guess it’s not really all his fault. I mean, yeah, he was stupid, reckless, selfish, and terminally ill, but it’s not those are reasons for him to be shot into space.

Stop talking about him in the past tense. Kaito’s still alive out there.

It’s the vacuum of space, Maki-Roll. He’s as good as dead.

Ouma...I really don’t understand you. You talk like you want to help us, but then you keep going on about things like that.

You’re not making any sense!

...you still don’t get it, do you? I would’ve thought it was obvious.

What about any of this is obvious?!

Other than how dead you are when we get out of here?!

I don’t think of you could really get it.

You might know what loss as like, or at least you have some sense of it. But only one of you really know what it’s like to have everything you love, everything you care about, ripped away from you.

All because of him.

Him?

You’re a detective, Saihara. You’ve seen all kinds of horrible people do horrible things, right? Right?

Yes. I have.

Then let me ask you this: have you ever met someone pure evil? Someone who embodies all of the horrible things about mankind?

No. Even now, I don’t think someone like that really exists.

Oh, but they do. They absolutely do.

I should know. I lived with him for most of my life.

...Your father, I’m guessing?

Ding ding ding! Correct!

Don’t tell us you’re about to share your tragic backstory and expect us to feel sorry for you.

What? No, I’d never do something that cliche.

After all, what my father said about me is true. I am the embodiment of evil.

This isn’t about pity, unresolved feelings of inadequacy, or some Freudian excuse.

I guess you could say it’s about revenge.

Revenge for what?! And what does that have to do with shooting Kaito into space?!

Oh, silly, silly Maki Roll. Why don’t you look me in the eye?

I can barely stand to look at your face.

No, really. Look me in the eye and you’ll get your answer.

...

...no...no way...

What? What is it?!

No worries, Chabashira-chan. You wouldn’t get it anyway.

But Maki-Roll can see what I mean.

After all, she’s probably the only one who’s been close enough to see the resemblance.

Resemblance?

Wait...a-are you saying-

Yep! That’s exactly what I’m saying!

What is it?! Tenko doesn’t get it!

Alright, alright, I’ll make it easier for the slow people in the audience.

Who else on this ship has purple eyes?

Purple...

WH-WHAAAAAT?!!

Y-y-you mean you’re...

Yep! You got it!

#danganronpa #v3 #danganronpa v3 #kokichi ouma #shuichi saihara #maki harukawa #tenko chabashira #Starship Hope #DR #ndrv3

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terminus-ut-exordium · 6 years

Text

I'm sorry for everything I never did

I'm sorry about all the things I've never said

I'm sorry I've been such a hassle for you all to string along

I'm sorry that I'm not proud

I'm sorry that I feel like I belong in the ground

I'm sorry the concrete feels more like home

I'm sorry that everyday I feel more alone

Just one of those days

I'm sorry that every second I feel more weak

I'm sorry I'm caught up in all that I'll never be

I'm sorry that I always talk too much

I'm sorry that nothing was good enough

I'm sorry that I'm a has-been, with his smile dimmed

Just a nuisance who can't take a hint

I'm sorry that I could never help

I'm sorry for feeling sorry for myself

Just one of those days where I just want you to stay

I swear to god I tried my best

But the world won't stop beating on my chest

I swear that it's cracked my skull

And made everything I feel so dull

I swear to god it's not your fault

I just never learned how to fall

But I promise that I gave it my all

I swear it's not your fault

I'm sorry I'm not always okay

I'm sorry that I'm always the one to blame

I'm sorry that I always make you upset

I'm sorry, I hope you can forgive and forget me

#personal #pointless post #villians #yuth forever

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inhalareexhalare · 6 years

Text

Dianne Is so Awesome but She Might Freak If She Saw Me Post About That/Whatever the Hell Is Happening to Me

I managed to speak with more confidence over the phone with my boss, Dr. Seth. And then I initiated a long conversation with Ms. Dianne that lasted for almost an hour until my boss arrived so we each had to return to our work hahaha

So many stories! I admire her capacity to be patient with people and her capability to keep conversations bright without sacrificing her own feelings. She is driven to be truthful to people, and not just the if-I-am-asked kind; she has the initiative to tell you things that she feels bothered about in you, but with genuine compassion that you don’t feel attacked at all.

She knows how to balance yourself with other people. She knows how to balance teamwork with self-improvement. Most of all, she never allows an external, material, temporary thing to be a basis of motivation. She believes in having a real sense of purpose.

She is the kind of girl who lives in the company of people. She thrives in it.

I admire how she can balance the energy of a conversation (I made sure to let her know this). She doesn't extinguish the negative parts, but she balances it out with her own positive energy. Allowing other people to remember to heal themselves in the process. Spreading a remembrance of hope.She does all this, and she does it without knowing. I can tell she enjoyed trying to really answer why and how she does it.

I don’t have to thrive in it, but I’d like to be able to at least develop it as a skill, so I can also bring people up.

She believes in positive reinforcement, in motivating people to get better by themselves, rather than punishment that might work short-term but in the end kills what matters most.

That is true. I should do my best too.

2019-01-15 10:08 Philippines Friday

To Karu:

i have a letter for you and it contains a bigger perspective to whatever the hell it is that is happening to me

i'm so sorry

After sleeping alone two nights in a row, (the first night with my blood vessels boiling, figuratively, from who knows why, after Karu announced he’ll be away to a beautiful place) I just heard from him (he called me just now) and I felt so...cold. Like, dead cold. I was bitter. Monotone. Indifferent.

I can very easily tell you about my loneliness, reader, and although I won't expound on it I can very easily give some trusted friends a primer about it, but Karu is different. Somehow I feel so restrained to do that, and it's something I'm doing to myself.

I feel so desperate to hide it. It reminds me of how I maintain an icy poker face when others used to bully me (and gave up soon enough because I was indifferent). Is Karu a bully to me? I don't think so. But it's there. The fear of revealing more than I am comfortable to.

So here’s what I found out, in letter form for Karu to read (o my lord i am so sorry you ended up with a person like me who has low understanding of her own emotions):

Why am I so bitter to you

when we speak?

It’s like I don’t want to show

the loneliness inside me

in front of you

I fully enjoy everything

else that is happening

but your voice reminds

me too much of something that I long for

and, in self-dialogue, the second part:

that makes sense.

bitter is a plant

that is taken cared of poorly

but you’re not a plant, are you?

you’re the number one care you have

so be okay with being lonely

be kind to yourself

water yourself as often as necessary

you don’t need to fear yourself

anymore

Also me, to Karu:

(he needs help to prepare gig clothes for tomorrow, so i’m probably the one available to do just that. he also said he’d be there with me tonight, but even that possibility is something i’m avoiding right now. i’m too scared to hope when i’m on bitter/sulk mode.

i usually enjoy doing stuff for him but i’m still transitioning from feeling bitter... it takes work. i won’t give up!)

is it oki if [lobo] gets some snack later? i know it's not good to indulge but i might get pissy and stuff doing laundry and getting pissed for no reason haha

From Karu:

Yassss! Although the only thing that needs manual washing is the white button down

To Karu:

unless i get too lazy to bring laundry bags to the laundry shop of course hahaha i honestly think that's more likely to happen XD

my sulky mode needs a lot of working on, and i won't give up, so that might change but this is my mood right now haha still trying to transition properly

From Karu:

It's okay. I can take the stuff to the shop. If I get home early, I should also be able to cook

[Karu] gonna take care of sulky [Lobo]

Will gib hugs toooooo

To Karu:

:< thanks

From Karu:

It all gud. I just have to get home hahaha

That’s exactly the hope I’m avoiding right now I’ll just let him read this entry later...

From Karu (cont’d):

Do we haz laundry funds?

[Karu] is gonna get paid tomorrow ehehe

We will also try to start surviving on 200 pur dei

To Karu:

yes

okiii

From Karu:

Awesome heeheehee

Pork steak, yes?

To Karu:

....*•-•* nod

To be honest, I only ever use this awkwardly-self-made-but-too-accurate emoji with Karu. My poker face has zero capability to do this face (or any other emotional face) but the feeling tends to only apply to Karu.

From Karu:

I'll go see if we can go that route today If not, I'll just think of something else hahaha

Upper limit for food is 250 and lower limit is 150. So I guess we eat less now when we get carinderia food hahaha

Lez get you some art materials and get me some goddamn lessons and yaw yan

Would you like some paint to play with?

Oh fuck I gotta change my strings soon btw. Maybe April or June :)

To Karu:

let's find pout i guess. eating less will probably help me appreciate food more. anything in excess makes us feel sick.

Yaw Yan's good.

painting materials are crazy expensive though

From Karu:

Pout?

To Karu:

out

punintended

freudian slip

lof yu

From Karu:

We can save up for art stuff :)

To Karu:

morp

I notice that Karu isn’t using the “:))” today. Change of brain?

or maybe it’s just the mood.

I’m stopping here, it seems to be irrelevant now lol

2019-01-15 10:50 Philippines Friday

Feeling these things, I was about to do a last-minute ditch a.k.a. escape from my (previously initiated) informal lunch date with the big group of secretaries today, until Dianne reached out her hand to me.

She actually didn’t, but I swear, that was what it was like to me. All she did, really, was beckon. I don’t even think she did it consciously/purposefully. But that. That evaporated all the doubt that I had left of joining them for lunch.

Her hand in my mind, reaching out for mine. And I took it.

It is good to have good friends. She knows a little about my social anxiety since I told her about it this morning to celebrate and explain my celebration, of my progressing confidence in front of Dr. Seth.

That was what led to us having a long conversation. Halfway, I was almost losing attention, but I willed it on. It was just my fear that was trying to pull me out.

And I made it okay. We made it okay. Her hand, my hand.

I can’t give up now.

This is also training so I can reach out to people who might have similar struggles as myself.

2019-01-15 13:49 Philippines Friday

Aaand he's not home.

Well, I expected as much. It still stings a little though.

It seems he forgot it's Friday again. I get out of work an hour earlier than usual every Friday.

Actually, I don't even think he's coming for dinner tonight. I'm tired.

Guess I'm getting my own food and doing the laundry, then play some mind fucking games later. That should prep me up for tomorrow's story writing.

2019-02-15 18:04 Philippines Friday

Then again, life is only filled with uncertainties.

If I can't even embrace this, I've no right to pursue something as weird as psychology.

(Though I'd only apply this mindset to myself. Tough love works with myself most of the time. If it's my own voice HAHA I'm such a prideful creature.)

Speaking of psychology, what if I happen to unconsciously use Karu at this point in time as a hiding place from myself? My bitter/sulk mode as well as my nighttime separation anxiety are both based on fear of being alone to myself.

Alone with my thoughts. My ultimate chaos. My infantile order. I can't escape order for too long and hide in my mess of chaos. Order is in order. It won't do to just have chaos. I have to systemically know myself.

I didn't know Karu before, but I already had these things a long time ago. I always knew it never was Karu's fault or mistake, but could this be something closer to the truth?

I truly love him, but sometimes I feel weir. Maybe in those "sometimes," I use the warmth of our togetherness as a form of escapism.

Remember the letter I wrote earlier today?

"You don't need to fear yourself anymore."

The last line. I was worried at first that it didn't fit in my poem, especially that my head and hand just sort of spat it out there unconsciously. I seriously considered whether to delete it,

but I couldn't.

A slip of the pen?

I feel like I am closer to my personal truth. If you feel or think though, reader, that something's amiss or inconsistent with my observations and analysis, by all means please share your insight.

For now, I'll keep note of this.

To begin with, when I first was infatuated with Karu, my intention was just all him. He interested me very much. He is my first love. (I'm really lucky to be with someone as willing and patient as him. He isn't patient at all for most things, but he is when it matters.) (I always had a hard time being in love with others. I was indifferent a lot before. I had a sexual crush on my adopted older brother at age 5, and then a mutual crush with a high school close friend that I turned down because I got bored when he confessed. I know, I'm fucked up. But those are tales for another day.) Annnyway. And then I transitioned into the kind of sober love, where it felt like a deep ocean where my infatuation before was just a puddle.

But it never changed the fact that my intention was to make him happy. To love him. To give him affection, attention, and care.

I mean, who enters a relationship thinking, "I want to be with you to become a better person."

NO ONE does! But we all should!

With the all-for-the-other mindset we have, we risk destroying ourselves and even the other in the process.

It's all very romantic and courageous and admirable to have so much passion in caring for another, but forgetting yourself is setting both of you up in a pretty ugly loop.

Point is, getting into any kind of relationship just so you could celebrate not being alone anymore... Sends quite an important message.

You're uncomfortable with being alone with yourself.

You are who you end up with until the end of your life. Might as well learn to love this self.

It's important to take care of your social life, but you need to be doing it for the right reasons.

But don't worry, and don't punish yourself. It wastes time. When you find yourself in misalignment, reconfigure, and start over.

It's never too late, as long as you have breath and you have mind.

Stay Alive, everyone! Never stop learning.

I have feelings. That are unpleasant. That I look for other things that might take it away. But they're never taken away. Only hidden.

It's only now I realize (again), I've been trying to banish something important in me. These unpleasant feelings were treated poorly by myself. I didn't give them enough time. I'm too impatient, too afraid.

But now I remember. To let things go, you've got to let them in first.

Change usually involves more of involvement rather than stepping back.

And besides, learning to be comfortable with who you really are? I'd think that's the true, real love.

2019-02-15 19:13 Philippines Friday

I got to open up a bit about how I am sad to Karu last night.

Also, it's been a while, so I knew he was bursting. I helped him release.

Of course, that made it easy to thaw my ice. But I'd like to be able to learn how to show him more of my loneliness with more willingness.

#chrono7 #social #dianne #balance #self #reflection #quote #progress #mission #marriage #poetry #bitter #sulk #sad

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