#stacked prose

[mumblingsage]

Best, the old Greeks Said, never To be born at all. I'd say: Next best Is to lie low With someone You love On a spot like this:

A raft of grass Smaller Than the smallest Battlefield, Bigger than The biggest mattress.

-from "Downtown Tour," Gregory Orr, in The Last Love Poem I Will Ever Write

[oatflatwhite]

finished my bedlam stacks reread.

[jojo-the-bird]

Would they understand why I’ve done it? Why I did it? Would they fully understand that I’ve killed myself? Their daughter? Suicide? Or would they just understand that I’m gone.

[thepersonalwords]

I don't believe books have endings. Not the well written ones anyway...

Love The Stacks Bookstore

[vintageunknown]

i have become an angela carter stan like do not dare come after my queen and her purple prose

[fieriframes]

[Poetry is prose in slow motion.]

[pamplemoose]

I AM ALWAYS SAYING THIS

reading nabokov is maddening because his writing is so playful and evocative and effortless and english isn't even his first language. he's doing things in a second language most people could spend their lives trying and failing to replicate in their first language. makes me feel like this

[conindiundrum]

"I don't know if I should add this, it probably has too many details already."

ADD IT. PLEASE ADD IT. ADD MORE.

Overwriting is about prose; when you get to into it about the colors of flower petals and the intricacies of Victorian era wallpaper. It is absolutely NOT when you include immersive details.

Like a wanted poster while your character waits at the register, only way later does the man on the poster show up.

Fit little things in anywhere you can. No they aren’t imperative but they are though.

Don't spend ages describing the way light reflects off a glass of water. Focus on it a reasonable amount and then move onto to the messy stack of books beside it. Then the hastily folded and stuffed clothes peeking out of the dresser. Show us the dust collecting on a bell at the hotel check in, everywhere except the tip. Show me the heat of her breath hitting to cool air and making a brief cloud of fog. Then move onto the frost eroding tree bark. Half empty salt and pepper shakers in a diner. Wet paw prints on the floor after a rainstorm. Muddy tire tracks leading off road. Anything that doesn't take us completely off quest. Immerse me with the narrative. Drown me in the details. But don’t go all bible-prose on my ass.

It doesn't have to be 'important' to the plot to be important to the experience.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

25 Prose Tips For Writers 🖋️✨ Part 1

Hey there!📚✨

As writers, we all know that feeling when we read a sentence so beautifully crafted that it takes our breath away. We pause, reread it, and marvel at how the author managed to string those words together in such a captivating way. Well, today I'm going to unpack a few secrets to creating that same magic in your own writing. These same tips I use in my writing.

But before I begin, please remember that writing is an art form, and like any art, it's subjective. What sounds beautiful to one person might not resonate with another. The tips I'm about to share are meant to be tools in your writer's toolkit, not rigid rules. Feel free to experiment, play around, and find what works best for your unique voice and style.

Power of Rhythm 🎵

One of the most overlooked aspects of beautiful prose is rhythm. Just like music, writing has a flow and cadence that can make it pleasing to the ear (or mind's ear, in this case). Here are some ways to incorporate rhythm into your writing:

a) Vary your sentence length: Mix short, punchy sentences with longer, flowing ones. This creates a natural ebb and flow that keeps your reader engaged.

Example: "The sun set. Darkness crept in, wrapping the world in its velvet embrace. Stars winked to life, one by one, until the sky was a glittering tapestry of light."

b) Use repetition strategically: Repeating words or phrases can create a hypnotic effect and emphasize important points.

Example: "She walked through the forest, through the shadows, through the whispers of ancient trees. Through it all, she walked with purpose."

c) Pay attention to the stressed syllables: In English, we naturally stress certain syllables in words. Try to end important sentences with stressed syllables for a stronger impact.

Example: "Her heart raced as she approached the door." (Stronger ending) vs. "She approached the door as her heart raced." (Weaker ending)

Paint with Words 🎨

Beautiful prose often creates vivid imagery in the reader's mind. Here are some techniques to help you paint with words:

a) Use specific, concrete details: Instead of general descriptions, zoom in on particular details that bring a scene to life.

Example: Instead of: "The room was messy." Try: "Crumpled papers overflowed from the waste bin, books lay spine-up on every surface, and a half-eaten sandwich peeked out from under a stack of wrinkled clothes."

b) Appeal to all five senses: Don't just describe what things look like. Include smells, sounds, textures, and tastes to create a fully immersive experience.

Example: "The market bustled with life. Colorful fruits glistened in the morning sun, their sweet aroma mingling with the earthy scent of fresh herbs. Vendors called out their wares in sing-song voices, while customers haggled in animated tones. Sarah's fingers brushed against the rough burlap sacks of grain as she passed, and she could almost taste the tang of ripe oranges on her tongue."

c) Use unexpected comparisons: Fresh similes and metaphors can breathe new life into descriptions.

Example: Instead of: "The old man was very thin." Try: "The old man was a whisper of his former self, as if life had slowly erased him, leaving behind only the faintest outline."

Choose Your Words Wisely 📚

Every word in your prose should earn its place. Here are some tips for selecting the right words:

a) Embrace strong verbs: Replace weak verb + adverb combinations with single, powerful verbs.

Example: Instead of: "She walked quickly to the store." Try: "She hurried to the store." or "She dashed to the store."

b) Be specific: Use precise nouns instead of general ones.

Example: Instead of: "She picked up the flower." Try: "She plucked the daisy."

c) Avoid clichés: Clichés can make your writing feel stale. Try to find fresh ways to express common ideas.

Example: Instead of: "It was raining cats and dogs." Try: "The rain fell in sheets, transforming the streets into rushing rivers."

Play with Sound 🎶

The sound of words can contribute greatly to the beauty of your prose. Here are some techniques to make your writing more musical:

a) Alliteration: Repeating initial consonant sounds can create a pleasing effect.

Example: "She sells seashells by the seashore."

b) Assonance: Repeating vowel sounds can add a subtle musicality to your prose.

Example: "The light of the bright sky might ignite a fight."

c) Onomatopoeia: Using words that sound like what they describe can make your writing more immersive.

Example: "The bees buzzed and hummed as they flitted from flower to flower."

Art of Sentence Structure 🏗️

How you structure your sentences can greatly affect the flow and impact of your prose. Here are some tips:

a) Use parallel structure: When listing items or actions, keep the grammatical structure consistent.

Example: "She came, she saw, she conquered."

b) Try periodic sentences: Build suspense by putting the main clause at the end of the sentence.

Example: "Through storm and strife, across oceans and continents, despite all odds and obstacles, they persevered."

c) Experiment with sentence fragments: While not grammatically correct, sentence fragments can be powerful when used intentionally for emphasis or style.

Example: "She stood at the edge of the cliff. Heart racing. Palms sweating. Ready to jump."

Power of White Space ⬜

Sometimes, what you don't say is just as important as what you do. Use paragraph breaks and short sentences to create pauses and emphasize important moments.

Example: "He opened the letter with trembling hands.

Inside, a single word.

'Yes.'"

Read Your Work Aloud 🗣️

One of the best ways to polish your prose is to read it aloud. This helps you catch awkward phrasing, repetitive words, and rhythm issues that you might miss when reading silently.

Edit Ruthlessly ✂️

Beautiful prose often comes from rigorous editing. Don't be afraid to cut words, sentences, or even entire paragraphs if they don't serve the overall beauty and effectiveness of your writing.

Study the Masters 📖

Please! Read widely and pay attention to how your favorite authors craft their prose. Analyze sentences you find particularly beautiful and try to understand what makes them work.

Practice, Practice, Practice 💪

Like any skill, writing beautiful prose takes practice. Set aside time to experiment with different techniques and styles. Try writing exercises focused on specific aspects of prose, like describing a scene using only sound words, or rewriting a simple sentence in ten different ways.

Remember, that developing your prose style is a journey, not a destination. It's okay if your first draft isn't perfect – that's what editing is for! The most important thing is to keep writing, keep experimenting, and keep finding joy in the process.

Here are a few more unique tips to help you on your prose-perfecting journey:

Create a Word Bank 🏦

Keep a notebook or digital file where you collect beautiful words, phrases, or sentences you come across in your reading. This can be a great resource when you're looking for inspiration or the perfect word to complete a sentence.

Use the "Rule of Three" 3️⃣

There's something inherently satisfying about groups of three. Use this to your advantage in your writing, whether it's in listing items, repeating phrases, or structuring your paragraphs.

Example: "The old house groaned, creaked, and whispered its secrets to the night."

Power of Silence 🤫

Sometimes, the most powerful prose comes from what's left unsaid. Use implication and subtext to add depth to your writing.

Example: Instead of: "She was heartbroken when he left." Try: "She stared at his empty chair across the breakfast table, the untouched coffee growing cold."

Play with Perspective 👁️

Experiment with different points of view to find the most impactful way to tell your story. Sometimes, an unexpected perspective can make your prose truly memorable.

Example: Instead of describing a bustling city from a human perspective, try describing it from the point of view of a bird soaring overhead, or a coin passed from hand to hand.

Use Punctuation Creatively 🖋️

While it's important to use punctuation correctly, don't be afraid to bend the rules a little for stylistic effect. Em dashes, ellipses, and even unconventional use of periods can add rhythm and emphasis to your prose.

Example: "She hesitated—heart pounding, palms sweating—then knocked on the door."

Create Contrast 🌓

Juxtapose different elements in your writing to create interest and emphasis. This can be in terms of tone, pacing, or even the literal elements you're describing.

Example: "The delicate butterfly alighted on the rusted barrel of the abandoned tank."

Use Synesthesia 🌈

Synesthesia is a condition where one sensory experience triggers another. While not everyone experiences this, using synesthetic descriptions in your writing can create vivid and unique imagery.

Example: "The violin's melody tasted like honey on her tongue."

Experiment with Sentence Diagrams 📊

Remember those sentence diagrams from school? Try diagramming some of your favorite sentences from literature. This can give you insight into how complex sentences are structured and help you craft your own.

Create a Sensory Tour 🚶‍♀️

When describing a setting, try taking your reader on a sensory tour. Move from one sense to another, creating a full, immersive experience.

Example: "The old bookstore welcomed her with the musty scent of aging paper. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight piercing the high windows. Her fingers trailed over the cracked leather spines as she moved deeper into the stacks, the floorboards creaking a greeting beneath her feet. In the distance, she could hear the soft ticking of an ancient clock and taste the faint bitterness of old coffee in the air."

Use Active Voice (Most of the Time) 🏃‍♂️

While passive voice has its place, active voice generally creates more dynamic and engaging prose. Compare these two sentences:

Passive: "The ball was thrown by the boy." Active: "The boy threw the ball."

Magic of Ordinary Moments ✨

Sometimes, the most beautiful prose comes from describing everyday occurrences in a new light. Challenge yourself to find beauty and meaning in the mundane.

Example: "The kettle's whistle pierced the quiet morning, a clarion call heralding the day's first cup of possibility."

Play with Time ⏳

Experiment with how you present the passage of time in your prose. You can stretch a moment out over several paragraphs or compress years into a single sentence.

Example: "In that heartbeat between his question and her answer, universes were born and died, civilizations rose and fell, and their entire future hung in the balance."

Use Anaphora for Emphasis 🔁

Anaphora is the repetition of a word or phrase at the beginning of successive clauses or sentences. It can create a powerful rhythm and emphasize key points.

Example: "She was the sunrise after the longest night. She was the first bloom of spring after a harsh winter. She was the cool breeze on a sweltering summer day. She was hope personified, walking among us."

Create Word Pictures 🖼️

Try to create images that linger in the reader's mind long after they've finished reading. These don't have to be elaborate – sometimes a simple, unexpected combination of words can be incredibly powerful.

Example: "Her laughter was a flock of birds taking flight."

Use Rhetorical Devices 🎭

Familiarize yourself with rhetorical devices like chiasmus, antithesis, and oxymoron. These can add depth and interest to your prose.

Example of chiasmus: "Ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country." - John F. Kennedy

Even the most accomplished authors continue to hone their craft with each new piece they write. Don't be discouraged if your first attempts don't sound exactly like you imagined – keep practicing, keep experimenting, and most importantly, keep writing.

Your unique voice and perspective are what will ultimately make your prose beautiful. These techniques are simply tools to help you express that voice more effectively. Use them, adapt them, or discard them as you see fit. The most important thing is to write in a way that feels authentic to you and brings you joy.

Happy writing, everyone! 🖋️💖📚 - Rin T

Hey fellow writers! I'm super excited to share that I've just launched a Tumblr community. I'm inviting all of you to join my community. All you have to do is fill out this Google form, and I'll personally send you an invitation to join the Write Right Society on Tumblr! Can't wait to see your posts!

[deikshen]

The idea of Shang Qinghua as a fallen God was hitting me HARD-

I mean, he was some kind of civil God in the heavens, even then recognized for his prose, for the epic tales that would later become a reality, giving him the title of prophet, "The God who sees Beyond Time", "The God Who Inks the Pages of Destiny."

He rose from the lowest ranks as an adjunct god to an important position, becoming one of the most recognized and venerated civil gods of the heavens -he always responded to all the offerings, the one who appeared most in dreams, the one who solved the most situations with his own hands. The civil god with the most temples, the one to whom incense and prayers were given before the imperial exams, the one to whom even those learning to write gave small offerings in search of his erudition to learn faster.

So, something happened. Did he betray the heavens? It was discovered that he had risen to his position through corrupt means? Did he get into a debate with some vengeful martial god? The stories could be many, but the result is always the same: the civil god fell. Where he once had hundreds of temples, now they didn't even offer him incense. And Shang Qinghua, there, bored, was simply... tired. People remembered him for his stories, so he could never know the sweet embrace of death. Turned into a folk tale, his own stories, written in his own hand, being repeated and reproduced in theaters for centuries. When would this martyrdom end?

Never, apparently. And Shang Qinghua writes. He writes stories that are replicated across civilizations. He sees entire demonic races born and die. He writes about an emperor of the three realms, a heavenly demon, with a harem of beauties, a destiny, a prophecy surrounding a sword, and that only pure love could save martyred hearts blackened by fear and misunderstanding.

And after a few centuries, finally finds an artifact that will make him forgotten. He's tired. Fed up. It's been a long millennium of loneliness. Shang Qinghua collects every story he ever wrote, hides them in a deep cave, keeps them away from mortals. He burns his abandoned temples. He burns his stories, making everyone forget that there ever was a God who inks the pages of destiny.

And he dies. Finally.

Half a millennium later, Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe are on a hike. Some silly honeymoon thing, traveling the world and finding rare beasts and beautiful non-lethal plants. It's an area that was never originally described in PIDW, but Shen Qingqiu is curious; the world is vast, exquisite, stretching out with magnificent magic. And he wants to know everything.

Then he accidentally gets trapped in a silly array and opens a cave. Luo Binghe follows him, desperate, but both of them... well, even if they wanted to leave without investigating, they never could!! It seems to have been closed for a long, long time.

That's how they find a scholar's hiding place. Or so they think. Stacks and stacks of scrolls. Paintings, theater robes, masks. In the middle of the investigation, Shen Qingqiu's breath catches in his throat when, in the characters from a scroll, he reads Xin Mo.

It is difficult to understand the characters ruined by time, but the story is clear. There are prophetic legends about Xin Mo, about Luo Binghe himself (without mentioning his name other than "a baby who emerged from the Luo River with a frozen heart"), and so many, so many things... Shen Qingqiu is perplexed. What the hell is up with all this? Why was it hidden? Who wrote it? Damn, Airplane owes him some VERY good answers.

In his study in the northern palace, Shang Qinghua begins to have a very strong headache. He should go to sleep, he probably strained his eyes too much with all the paperwork, but, uh, for some reason, he really, really want to write something. An idea is starting to form in his head, like when he wrote PIDW in his other life! Maybe it'll be his next bestseller!! He has to seize the opportunity and inspiration when it hits him!!

[majestyeverlasting]

𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

Pairing Joel Miller x Daughter Reader

Summary For years, you’ve survived tethered to Joel’s side, haunted by the loss of your sister and scared to step outside of his shadow. So when he bonds with the girl he’s tasked to smuggle, it strains your complicated relationship—until the threat of losing him forces you to confront just how much he means to you [angst, fluff, 5.4k].

A/N This is some of my favorite prose I've written recently. Daughter!reader is a new dynamic for me, but it was such a rewarding writing experience. Thank you to the anon who sent this request in. I hope you all enjoy.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆

It’s cold outside today. If the draft sneaking in through the windows isn’t enough to let on, the sky itself is an undeniable sign. There’s no blue, no clouds that can be distinguished from the next. The entire expanse is a pale white sheet. As if the heavens have decided to shield earth from its view because of how far it’s fallen. 

Nevertheless, life in the Boston Quarantine Zone labors on. Day after soulless day, rain or shine. Like a well-oiled machine who’s battered parts of flesh and blood refuse to lay down and die. 

The glass of the living room window is cool against your forehead as you gaze outside. Everything is dull. Brick, metal, concrete, and endless earthtones constitute the expanse of buildings that seemingly stretch for miles. However, after having explored every corner of this walled city, you know it’s finite. A mere portion of a much larger world trying to find its footing again. 

The people walking on the sidewalks below look small from the height of your apartment. All seeming to move on a droning autopilot, clad in worn clothes that likely belonged to ten other people before them. 

With a sigh, you step away from the window and plop back down on the couch. The coffee table is cluttered with stained, old papers and trinkets, but you reach for the stack of Polaroids you’d previously been flipping through. Each photo and caption transports you back to a past moment in time...

tea for two ♡ March 13, 2003 

A day that seems closer than it actually is, now confined to a single, glossy frame. The white border has faded to beige and the picture itself no longer bears its original saturation. In it, you and Sarah are wrapped in each other’s arms, dressed like princesses for the tea party you invited her to. 

You were her three-year-old shadow, and even though you got on her nerves half the time, she found it hard to say no to you. Everybody in the Miller household did. 

lake day!!! July 4, 2003 

A sunny day. You, Sarah, and Joel are squinting into the light but smiling, your backs to the lake. Later that night, according to Joel’s retelling, you cried because of the colorful, celebratory explosions bursting amid the night sky. 

dad’s getting old (jk ily dad) September 26, 2003

Joel’s smile is shy as he sits at the kitchen table with a cone birthday hat on his head. Sarah was the one behind the lens while you clung to her leg, both you and Tommy making goofy faces in hopes of making Joel smile wider. 

He turned thirty-six that day. By that evening, everything had changed. Not just because of the outbreak, but because Sarah, who had been a light in so many of the photos, was gone too. A few months after her fourteenth birthday, no less. 

It feels strange being twenty-three now. An age she never got to see—

The faint metallic clinking of a belt being fastened prompts you to curiously stand to your feet. After setting down the photos, you saunter to the hallway, where there’s a straight view to Joel’s bedroom. The door is cracked, and warm lamplight pours out to light the end of the hall. With each step closer you take, the old, wooden floorboards creak. 

When you make it to the door, you rap your knuckles against it a few soft times. There’s shuffling on the other side. 

You knock again when there’s no response. “Dad?” 

“What’s up?” he doesn’t say it in a clipped, annoyed way so you know he hadn’t heard your previous knocking. 

“Can I come in?” 

He’s quiet for a beat. “I’m finishing up getting dressed. But yeah.”

Inside, the bed still isn’t made. He’s standing in front of the full body mirror leaning against the wall. The paint of the gold trim around it is peeling, revealing the dark aluminum beneath. The glass itself is a bit foggy with stubborn grime that refuses to be scrubbed away. And right in the middle, at the same height that Joel stands, is a sizable spiderweb crack that makes his face look fragmented unless he bends down or shifts to either the left or right. 

Right now, he doesn’t seem to mind the distortion of his face, more interested in assessing his clothes. When you step up behind him, a little to the right, your entire body looks whole. Face and all. 

His eyes briefly flick to you as he continues to button the rest of his olive colored shirt. When he’s finished, he sucks in his stomach and pushes down the waistband of his dark jeans to rest at a more comfortable place on his hips. 

It isn’t until then that you notice a small portion of the back of his shirt is flipped up, the fabric thick enough to hold its place. You reach out to smooth it down. Joel hums in realization. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles. 

“Yep,” you murmur. “I thought you were off today.” 

Turning around and brushing past you, he sits in the accent chair to put on his boots. A grunt escapes him with the effort of leaning down. You watch as his thick, battered fingers fumble with the laces until they produce two neat bows. He sits back with a sigh when he’s done, running a hand through his fluffy, silvering hair. 

“I’m meeting with Marlene,” he says. The way you frown tells him that’s not a good thing, or nearly enough information. “Tess will be there too. It’s looking like we might be able to get that car battery we need to set out for Tommy.” 

You process that information with a slow nod. The idea of finding him feels elusive these days. 

A few weeks ago, Marlene told Joel she knew a couple guys who could provide resources. At various points in the months prior, she claimed the very same thing. Every promise she made fell flat because those said contacts either died or backed out of the negotiation. Yet, Joel held out hope every time. 

It used to be you who accompanied him whenever he went to meet with Marlene, but it’d gotten to the point where you couldn’t bring yourself to believe her or stand seeing her face. 

But Joel still did. For the sake of his own conscience. For Tommy. 

After standing from the chair, he fishes into his back pocket for a red cardstock meal card. When you reach out to take it from him, he doesn’t let go, instead opting to look directly into your eyes. 

“Want you to meet us for lunch at the northern dining commons at noon. We should be done by then,” he says, waiting for you to nod so he knows you’re tracking. 

“Don’t leave before then, alright? It’s getting crazier out there. Don’t know if it’s ‘cause summer’s coming or what.” 

“I won’t,” you insist. 

When you try to take the card again, he holds onto it just for the sake of coaxing a smile out of you. It doesn’t quite meet your eyes, but it’s enough to tie him over for now. He lets go of it just as you’re in the middle of pulling, and the lack of resistance makes you stumble backwards. The sound of amusement he huffs out earns him a light punch to the shoulder. 

“I mean it, though.” He points a finger. “Don’t leave till it’s time, alright? We’ll fill you in on everything then.” 

Rolling your eyes, you follow him back out into the living room. “I already said I wouldn’t.” 

“Well, reiterating is my job.” 

Those are the words he leaves you with before heading out the door.  

A few hours later, when the clock strikes twelve, you’re eating at the dining commons alone. Anxiousness prickles beneath your skin. You soothe yourself as chatter and the clinking of silverware float up all around you…

Everything’s fine. Joel’s alright. Tess is alright. Just finish eating and go home. 

•••

Sunset paints the sky that evening. The clouds that lingered all day have finally made way for an expressionist ombre of blue, pink, and orange. It's beautiful in a way that would’ve been worth photographing once upon a time. 

All you can think about is the fact that Joel hasn’t returned. 

A little past seven, voices arise in the hallway. They’re hushed and somewhat frustrated, one of them undeniably belonging to Joel. By the time keys hastily begin jingling in the door, you’re popping to your feet from the couch. A second later, it swings open with enough force that it hits the neighboring wall. 

“Get inside,” Joel orders. You can’t see him from where you’re standing. 

You can’t see anybody. 

“I don’t have to keep listening to you,” quips a tight, youthful voice. “Whatever happened to stranger danger?”  

“Move, Ellie,” Joel says. “Before I make you.” 

A young girl wearing a backpack trudges into the apartment with a scowl. After looking around the bleak accommodation, her eyes settle on you. The air falls silent. You note the wispy flyaways escaping her short ponytail, the slight redness to her eyes like she’s been either crying or rubbing them. 

Ellie sizes you up in return. You can see it in the calculated rove of her dark gaze, the way she squares her shoulder to match your guardedness. 

She eventually whips her attention back to Joel. “Who the hell is she?” 

“Told you I didn’t live alone.” That’s all he gives her before redirecting his attention to you. He seldom reveals the entirety of what he’s feeling in a given moment, but you can see the guilt weighing down on his shoulders. “I—” 

“You missed lunch.” 

He runs a heavy hand down his face. “I know.” 

The girl looks between the two of you with owl-like attentiveness that borders on amusement. At least she wasn’t the only one having a shitty day. Outside, shouting voices arise in the distance. Glass bottles break. 

“Dad. You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Ellie’s eyes widen at the revelation. 

Joel doesn’t say anything because you’re staring daggers straight into his very being.  

“I’m immune to the virus,” she speaks up. There’s a hint of pride in her tone, like she’s looking past the present to some undefined future in which she saves the world.  

“He’s gonna take me to the people who can find the cure. Then you guys are gonna go find Timmy or whatever—Tommy.”  

It’s an oversimplification, but Joel doesn’t have the energy to expound right now. Not when you look like you would lunge for him if it wasn’t for the girl.

••• 

Later that night, he sees the first shove coming. Your eyes darken until you’re no longer able to constrain your frustration to a mere look. It frustrates you all the more when he doesn’t budge. So you do it again, pushing both your hands straight into his chest. 

All he does is take a single step backwards to create distance, hands raised in surrender. The fact that he isn’t reacting makes more heat consume your face. 

Until, finally, he grabs your wrists. 

“Are you done acting like a child?” he asks.

“As soon as you quit treating me like one,” you bark. “All you do is give orders and break promises, and I’m supposed to keep following you around like a dog.” 

“I don’t see any shackles.”

“Because it’s you,” you retort, attempting to pull away from his light hold. “You’re the shackles, the prison guard, and the key.” 

Those words make him drop your wrists as if you’ve stung him with poison. He takes a seat on the edge of his bed and drops his head into his hands with a heavy sigh. The mattress creaks under his weight. In the new silence, you stand and stare at him as your breaths even out. 

Neither of you are aware that Ellie has her ear pressed to the other side of the bedroom door, listening. 

When he lifts his head, only then are you aware of how tired and worn down he looks. His hair is more disheveled than it was this morning. The same hair you used to playfully run your fingers through and litter with sparkly hair clips. Except now, his face is void of a smile. 

“I’m sorry about lunch, alright?” His dark eyes search yours for any inkling of forgiveness. He knows he scared you. That’s what’s beneath your anger. “I didn’t know I was gonna get held up like that.” 

Joel Miller was a lot of things, but a pushover wasn’t one of them. 

If he really wanted to, he could’ve at least come to the dining commons to explain. Or ignore Marlene’s request entirely, and force her to find someone else to smuggle the girl. Even Tess had refused to involve herself in the escape plan because she feared it would be all risk and no reward.

“What happens if these guys turn out to be dead too?” You ask Joel, voice softer than before. “What if this is yet another exchange that falls through?” 

He knows you have a point. He also knows he has a brother out there miles away who recently sent him a signal. 

“If there’s a chance, I gotta take it,” he says. “And if we get out there and nobody’s waiting for us, we’re heading to Wyoming anyway.” He meets your gaze. 

You swallow and blink in surprise. “Really?” 

“I’m done waiting around for the right time,” he says, voice low but firm. “It’s never gonna come. Gotta forge it ourselves.” 

He sounds sure. Right now, you could use something to believe in. And if nothing else, a change of scenery from the city walls you’ve been confined within for far too long. 

•••

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑

𝐈.

The Capitol Building is empty when you arrive, no sight of the men who were supposed to take Ellie and give you and Joel the supplies you need to carry on. For a while, the three of you linger hopefully on the inside, where grass grows through the chipped marble floors. The only people who eventually arrive are ridden with the virus, their rotting bodies infested with fungus from the inside out. 

You promptly flee the scene after swallowing disappointment like a pill. 

𝐈𝐈.

The front door of Bill and Frank’s house is unlocked when you arrive in the desolate suburbia. Dead grass and tall weeds constitute the yard. The flower beds out front have long wilted. That’s enough for you to know that they’re either dead or gone. Joel pushes into the house anyway, with you and Ellie trailing behind. Bill left a note behind. They’re dead. Ellie asks questions about them that Joel thoughtfully answers.

The three of you take turns showering, then leave.

𝐈𝐈𝐈.

By early August, the trio feels more like a unit, having been bound together by shared letdowns and long nights under the stars. Some days, you don’t know where you are until coming across specific landmarks or recognizable cliffs. You and Joel teach Ellie how to shoot because she wouldn’t stop begging. Most days, as you’re making progress towards Wyoming, it’s the two of you trailing behind Joel, who often shoots unreadable glances over his shoulder to make sure you’re keeping up. 

Sometimes he lets down his walls to offer a small smile. 

•••

𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋

All around, tall trees stretch towards the sky, bearing vibrant leaves beginning to change colors. Every so often, a breeze rolls through and ruffles them. The same mourning dove has been calling out into the wind with no response in return. It’s a tune that filled the mornings of your childhood back when you were on the road to Boston with Joel. You hadn’t heard it much since. 

Twigs and leaves crunch beneath your boots as you squat to lower your fingertips into the creek. The water is cool against your skin, and clear enough to see the rocks at the bottom. When you stand up, you startle at the sight of Ellie standing a few yards away. She takes a few apologetic steps back, almost tripping over herself. 

Further away, Joel sits with his back propped against a tree as he reorganizes the contents of his backpack. 

“Jesus, El,” you sigh, pressing a hand to your chest over your heart. 

Ellie no longer seems sure of her reason for approaching you. There were times when she didn’t look her age—whether it be her stare or the way she carried herself—but this wasn’t one. Now, an air of self-consciousness surrounds her, like she’s caught between knowing nothing and everything all at once. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you heard me,” she rushes out. There’s a pang of guilt when you realize she thinks you’re angry. 

“No, it’s fine,” you insist, softening your tone. “I’ve just been in my head.” 

She nods and feels more comfortable to step up alongside you. 

“I’ve seen those pictures you’ve been looking at.” She continues when you don’t say anything, “Was that your sister?” 

Neither you or Joel have brought her up, but your silence is an answer. 

“What was she like?” 

“I don’t remember much.” 

Only bits and pieces. The larger gaps have been filled in by Joel over the years. He never talks about Sarah at length, but sometimes he’ll see something or you’ll make an expression that reminds him of her. That usually prompted him to tell a short story. Oftentimes, without meeting your eyes because he was too busy trying to busy his restless hands. Talking about her always makes him fidget. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know what it’s like to lose someone.” 

Ignoring her, you ask, “Did Joel say when we were gonna start back hiking?” 

Embarrassed, Ellie clears her throat and shakes her head no. “Why do you use his first name like that?” You almost hadn’t realized. 

“Force of habit.” Her brows have furrowed in confusion, so you explain, “Half the time, people in the QZ only listened to me when I threw his name in the mix. It holds a lot of weight among certain groups these days.” 

“Like he’s the boogeyman or something?”

You allow a small chuckle to escape at her words. She feels like it earns her a place back in your good graces. Pride glimmers in the grin that stretches across her face. 

“Something like that,” you agree. 

The familiar crunch of leaves rises as Joel makes the short venture over to the two of you. When he sees the fleeting smiles on your faces, he clears his throat and waits to see if he’ll be invited into whatever small moment of amusement had arisen. He seems to have just missed it. 

“Speaking of the devil,” Ellie says, 

Joel frowns, remaining quiet as he walks up to the edge of the creek. He stares into the bottom for a few thoughtful seconds. Both of you watch as he squats down to splash his face with water, humming with refreshment. 

Ellie no sooner moves to copy him. She laughs, a bubbly surprised sound, as she stands with her face dripping and eyes squeezed shut.

“Wait, how do I—” 

“Use your shirt,” Joel quips lightly. 

“Oh, yeah!” She uses her shirt to dry her eyes just as he had.

The chuckle that rumbles through Joel’s chest is a sound you haven’t heard in a while. It makes you stand up straighter, unconsciously shifting his way as if the sound has the power to heal that part of you that misses him even when he’s within reach. Misses how things were before he grew hard and consumed with the need to survive. 

You didn’t fault him for it, though. 

What’s become increasingly clear, however, is that need was born as much out of spite as it was out of the pure, unadulterated will to live. The end of the world took Sarah, and to Joel, ensuring the two of you endured no matter what was his fuck you to the universe. His proof that everything he cared about couldn’t be ripped from his hands. It was a muddled labor of love. 

But right here, right now, he’s laughing. Not urging silence or trying to instill a survival lesson. He’s letting the moment wash over him for what it is. There you stand watching the two of them like a mere onlooker frozen in place. The entire scene is reminiscent of a different time. A different Joel. 

Something heavy and bitter settles in your stomach at the sight of their twin smiles. 

“Are you gonna try it?” Ellie asks like she’s referring to some grand experience.

“It’s just water,” you say flatly. 

Face falling, Ellie looks to the ground as if the bridge connecting you two had been burned yet again. Something protective flares in Joel’s chest. 

He gives you a pointed look. “You feelin’ alright?” 

“I’m great. Grand even.” 

The air shifts, levity disappearing like a vapor. All three of you can feel it.

“Let’s keep moving then.”

For weeks, you keep it moving. Through rain, shine, and snow. The closer you get to Wyoming, the further away you drift from Ellie and Joel. Like you’re the corner piece of an island that’s been chipped away from the larger landmass. 

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑

Arriving at the Jackson commune does little to mend things back to the way they were. Some days pass by with more conversation and laughter between the three of you than others. Coming here had been the very thing you longed for, right alongside Joel. But tonight, as you fold clothes at the secondhand store where you volunteer, you wonder what there is to dream about now. 

You don’t know what you like or want. You were so young when the outbreak began that Joel’s practices and motivations became your own. You don’t know where he ends and you begin, and the inability to distinguish makes a part of you resent him. 

The bells above the door jingle as Ellie enters with her backpack slung over her shoulder. Half of her hair is pulled into a ponytail, while the other falls in loose waves just past her shoulders. For once, it looks like she brushed it properly. 

You see more of her than Joel these days. 

“Hey, I’m gonna go over to Dina’s,” she says as she pads over to you. “Joel’s not home yet so I figured I’d come tell you.” She absentmindedly runs her hand over the cashmere sweater you’d folded minutes prior to her arrival. 

You set down the pair of jeans you just finished folding. “He’s not?” 

“No,” she says, unphased. “Probably went straight to the dining hall.” 

A dull, gnawing sense of worry arises in your chest. Ellie can’t see it or feel it herself, still tending to believe Joel was somehow invincible. That every time he went out for patrol, he was bound to return because that’s what he’d proven to her so far. 

“Be safe, okay?” you tell her. “Thanks for letting me know.” 

When she leaves, you head to the store owner in the back room. He’s rummaging through a huge box of donated items. 

“Hey, Stewart?”

There’s a click as two glasses knock into one another. “Goddammit—what?” He straightens up to turn around and face you. 

He has a head full of wiry gray hair and his glasses are crooked on his nose. There’s a light sheen of sweat beading on his forehead. 

“You alright back here?” you tease lightly. He grumbles and waves you off. “Would it be okay if I clocked out early? Natalie and Craig are out there, so you’ll still have help until closing.” It’s been pretty slow this evening anyways. No chance a random rush would occur. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you want, kid.” He huffs and looks back down at the box. “I’ll see you on Thursday.” 

“You’re the best, Stew.” You flash him a playful smile. 

Outside, you shiver at how cold it’s grown. Crossing your arms over your chest does little to alleviate the creeping chill. The first snow of the season has yet to fall, but you can feel it lingering in the crisp air. Nevertheless, Jackson Hole is buzzing. People of all ages flit in and out of shops and gathering spaces. Everywhere you look, there’s a friendly face, if not an actual friend. 

This time of year, the entire commune is reminiscent of those cute Christmas village displays. Plush wreaths with red bows hang on wooden posts, and colorful fairy lights shine all around. The most activity buzzes over at the dining hall. Families talk and laugh on the benches outside, and you can see people walking around inside through the windows. 

As you head that way, the two men standing on the patrol office porch capture your attention. It was probable that Joel was inside either logging or assessing his hours. 

When you make it to the building, you recognize the taller man as Cameron, someone who often partnered with Joel because they had the same, collected, no-nonsense way about them. They automatically nod to you in greeting, but their lips are set in firm lines like they have news you don’t. 

You offer a shaky smile back as a lump forms in your throat, “Evening.” 

Your heart rate speeds up as Cameron opens the door for you. Inside, six men stand circled around Tommy, who’s tone is firm as he talks with his hands. Some have rifles slung over their shoulders, and others have pistols on their hips. Standing among the group is Lyle, a younger guy who was scheduled to be Joel’s partner today. 

The only person missing is Joel. 

You allow your eyes to rove over the plaques, portraits, and retired weaponry decorating the walls as you await the end of Tommy’s lecture.  

“Let what happened out there today be a lesson—” Tommy stops talking when his eyes fall on you, and other heads turn to look your way. A few throats are cleared, necks are scratched. 

“Hold on a second, fellas.” He breaks out of the circle and heads towards you, cowboy boots clunking against the wood floorboards. There’s a rifle draped across his body like he’s ready for action. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. He doesn’t have to say anything for you to gather what this meeting is all about. Everybody has discretely turned to look at the two of you. 

“Tommy…” 

“Why don’t we step outside for a second, yeah?” He places a gentle hand at the small of your back to guide you back out into the cold. Cameron and his buddy slip inside out of respect for your privacy. 

“What’s going on, Tommy?” 

He wrestles with how to answer. You see it in his dark eyes, the way he shifts his stance. His cheeks are a bit flushed. 

“Joel hasn’t made it back,” he breathes. “Lyle made it in without him around an hour ago. Said they ran into some disgruntled nomads and got split up,” he says. “Got a few people out looking for him now, and I’m about to go out myself.” 

How foolish you’ve been acting these past several weeks hits you all at once. Everything from purposely distancing yourself from Joel, to occasionally ignoring him whenever he tried to ask how you’ve been—you’d made a point to be away from the house as much as possible. Most of all, it’d been foolish to pretend he wasn’t one of the only people in the world you wouldn’t be able to live without.

A stinging sensation pricks in your eyes, but no tears form. You don’t have it in you to cry. Helplessness crashes down on you in the form of frustration. 

“What do you mean came back without him?” you ask. “What good are patrol partners if they’re just gonna leave you behind—” 

“Hey. Hey.” Tommy looks at you intently. His eyes are so much like Joel’s that you look away. “This ain’t the time to be pointing fingers, alright? When you’re out there like that and shit hits the fan, you don’t know how you’ll react.” 

“Definitely not by leaving my partner behind.” 

Joel had never left you behind. Things had gone sideways time after time again, but you managed to remain by each other’s side. 

Worry radiates off of you in waves. 

“I’m worried out my ass too,” Tommy admits, trying to assure you. “But judging other people ain’t gonna bring him back any faster,” he says. 

When you release a heavy exhale and slink your head down, Tommy steps forwards to wrap his arms around you. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” he promises. “You eaten dinner yet?” 

“I’ll probably throw up if I do.” 

He pulls away to look at you under the soft glow of the porchlight. “Let’s at least try to get a little something in your system, okay? I’ll walk you over to the dining hall.” Tommy guides you that way, and everything around you seems to fade in and out as you walk. 

Tommy’s words manage to break through to you, “I know my brother. He’ll make it back one way or another,” 

He always did. Maybe a bite to eat didn’t sound so bad. 

•••

The unyielding weight of your nerves forces sleep to find you when you make it home. Not in your bed, but on the couch as you sit and wait for Joel’s return. Worrying has taken a lot out of you. 

Creaky footsteps arise out on the porch. Then the lock clicks. Neither of which you register. By the time Joel is walking in through the front door, your eyes flutter open. There’s a slight sway to his stride like he’s favoring one leg. Other than that, he’s still in one piece. You’re on your feet in an instant, ignoring the crick in your neck. 

“Oh my god, Dad—thank god.” 

Joel stops in his tracks as you hurry over to him. He lets you look him over as if he’s a child who just fell off a bike. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” there’s a rasp to his voice.  

Relief is written all over your face. It’s the most interest you’ve shown in him in weeks, but he’s grateful for it anyways. He’s grateful for any mind you’re willing to pay him. 

There’s so much you want to say—I thought I lost you, don’t scare me like that again, I love you—but none of it comes out. Instead, it’s all packed into the way you step forward to throw your arms around him. 

But even hugging him doesn’t bring you close enough. 

Luckily, he’s so tall and broad that you settle for the feeling of being safe, cocooned in his arms. He squeezes you, not in the playful way that used to be a means of making you smile, but in a way that solidifies his presence. Assures you that he’s never going to let go. That you don’t have to worry about living without him.

As your tears wet his shirt, he doesn’t ease up or pull away. He remains constant like he’s been throughout your entire life, even on the days you thought you wanted him to disappear. 

He presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head and you’re overcome with warmth.  

“I love you to pieces,” his voice is low and thick with sincerity. “So much it hurts.” 

It’s you who reluctantly pulls away to look up into his eyes. 

“I love you too,” you murmur, cheeks glistening with tears. 

The tears gathered in his eyes finally spill over. He doesn't turn away or tilt his head back in an attempt to fend them off. They simply roll down his cheeks at your words. You can’t recall seeing him cry since Sarah passed away. Guilt, sympathy, and gratitude swell in your chest. For the years he’s been strong for the both of you, for everyone who’s ever leaned on him in a time of need. He never made it look hard. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For everything. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—” 

“As long as you’re safe, I can handle being ignored.” He manages a small, sad smile. “It ain’t easy growing up during the end of the world.” Few things ever were. 

“It’s a little easier with you.” 

“Just a little?” He asks lightly. 

Both your smiles grow, and as you step back into his arms, every gripe and the chaotic events of the evening fade away.

- 

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. I promise I see them all. 

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[thydungeongal]

I'm really interested in the mechanics of tabletops, which makes me want to know about the mechanics of disco elysium, but instead of a detailed mechanical analysis I can only (understandably!) find narrative commentary. As a Very Smart Cookie, I would love to hear what you have to say on topics such as... How does disco elysium work? What makes it different than other games? Is it *just* the quality of the writing? How do the mechanics synergize with the quality of the writing?

So okay, it's not just the quality of the writing, although to be fair; the writing is like really good.

But as for the mechanics: Disco Elysium is ultimately a video game. It is clearly inspired heavily by tabletop RPGs, even more so than most CRPGs are (like, Disco Elysium is pretty much a masterclass in terms of how well it manages to make a CRPG feel very close to a tabletop RPG in terms of player expression and the marriage of fiction and mechanics). Disco Elysium's actual game mechanics are not all that remarkable, but the game uses them in such a way that pretty much necessitates it being a video game.

At its core, Disco Elysium's resolution mechanic is based on a roll of two six-sided dice plus a skill rating, trying to roll greater than or equal to a target number determined by the difficulty of the action, and it uses a very traditional type of Pass/Fail method of determining results based on those rolls. It is, at the end of the day, unremarkable as a resolution mechanic. There is something to be said for the distribution of results on the 2d6 and how even a single plus can actually skew the probabilities in the player's favor and how this combined with the fact that the game makes various individual +1 bonuses from drugs and clothes and whatever easily available to the player is a great example of ludonarrative harmony. But ultimately the system isn't one that would exactly make tabletop enthusiasts hoot and holler.

But the game still uses that very simple mechanic effectively, not only because of the aforementioned stacking of bonuses (which is really easy to do in a video game but in a tabletop context often results in tedium) but also because the game is actually doing lots of hidden and rapid fire checks under the hood ALL THE TIME. When in a tabletop RPG you probably shouldn't want to stop the flow of a scene where everyone at the table is jamming and narrating together for the sake of rolling a knowledge check, Disco Elysium is doing that for you all of the time. That is something where the game is making the most out of the fact that it can offload that stuff to the program, to be handled in the background at a rapid fire pace.

There is definitely stuff that can be taken away from Disco Elysium for the sake of tabletop RPGs, but its prose is hard to imitate without sounding pretentious or insincere, and its mechanics would be hard to replicate in a tabletop format because they ultimately rely on a lot of book-keeping that may be tedious to do manually as well as doing LOTS of rolls in the background that could potentially introduce unnecessary friction into gameplay if replicated at the table.

[softending]

Sickos Selection #2 is live, and my oni book is part of the bundle!

Sickos Selction features over 500 pages of smutty comics, prose and art from 21 amazing creators, all for $20 USD!

It's kind of an amazing deal (genuinely, this bundle is stacked with some incredible stuff), and we've already hit the first $5000 stretch goal-- help us unlock the next one! ✨ itch.io/b/3018/sickos-selection-2 ✨

[monsterblogging]

Fuck JKR: Her “Genius” Writing Style Is Very Simple & Easy To Replicate, Actually

An inevitable consequence of criticizing Harry Potter on the Internet is getting told by numerous people that, in essence, JK Rowling must be some kind of literary genius because her books are so popular and so there must be something really great to them. It's an understandable line of reasoning, if flawed.

See, there is something that makes her books pretty captivating, but it doesn't actually take any extraordinary level of skill or great genius. It's the way she builds a sense of atmosphere and environment with simple, yet high-impact prose, and the way she uses this type of prose to give you very vivid impressions of her characters. The effect is kind of like the literary equivalent of cartoon animation. Not everyone is into it, but it has a certain effect that arguably works fairly well for certain things. And you can learn to do it, too.

So how’s it done? Let’s look at some samples of her writing.

When Harry visits Gringotts, he sees a goblin weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals. It’s a very evocative choice of words – first, the the mention of a pile of rubies has us imagining a tantalizing pile of gleaming red gems, but the words as big as glowing coals makes us imagine they’re actually glowing. It’s not a complicated image, but it is an appealing one.

At the bank, Hagrid pulls out a tiny golden key. Again, the description is very simple, but the mention of a little tiny golden object makes our monkey brains pay attention.

When Harry looks inside his own vault, he sees mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

The metal (and therefore color) of each coin is specified, and each type is described with different words – mounds, columns, heaps. The smallness of the Knuts is also mentioned here.

When Harry walks into the bookshop, he sees that the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all.

There are no colors mentioned here, but various sizes, shapes, materials, and contents are mentioned. Also, the small books aren’t just small – they’re absurdly tiny, which makes them even more attention-grabbing.

When Harry buys potion supplies, colors, textures, and scents come into play (also note how a number of things are shiny and glittering):

Hagrid wouldn’t let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron, either (‘It says pewter on yer list’), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the apothecary’s, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor, jars of herbs, dried roots and bright powders lined the walls, bundles of feathers, strings of fangs and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry, Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

Now let’s look at how Harry gets his wand. After trying out several wands (where their sizes, materials, and textures are all specified!), Ollivander suggests the holly and phoenix feather wand, and:

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls.

Temperature, color, light, and movement all come into play here, and “red and gold sparks” shooting “like a firework” the kind of thing that grabs your attention.

Now let’s look at how the Great Hall is introduced:

It was lit by thousands and thousands of candles which were floating in mid-air over four long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. These tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. At the top of the Hall was another long table where the teachers were sitting. Professor McGonagall led the first-years up here, so that they came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to avoid all the staring eyes, Harry looked upwards and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars.

Thousands and thousands of candles. Glittering gold plates and goblets. Faces like pale lanterns. Ghosts shining misty silver. A velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. Nothing here is highly detailed, but it does paint a vivid outline with a lot of attention-grabbing details.

And then take a look at how a number of tantalizing foods are specified at the feast:

The dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup and, for some strange reason, mint humbugs.

…

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the remains of the food faded from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the puddings appeared. Blocks of ice-cream in every flavour you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate éclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, jelly, rice pudding.

At Transfiguration, when students are attempting to turn matches into needles, Hermione’s needle had gone all silver and pointy. Simple, specific words that paint a simple, yet vivid picture.

And here’s how the potions classroom is introduced. Note all of the details here – location, temperature, and objects that add interest to the scene:

Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main castle and would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.

A here’s how Hagrid’s hut is introduced. Note the details – objects, materials, size, locations, etc:

There was only one room inside. Hams and pheasants were hanging from the ceiling, a copper kettle was boiling on the open fire and in a corner stood a massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it.

The Weasleys’ garden is full of interest with all of the specific details described:

...there were plenty of weeds, and the grass needed cutting – but there were gnarled trees all around the walls, plants Harry had never seen spilling from every flowerbed and a big green pond full of frogs.

And here’s how the Slytherin common room is described. Note how dimensions, colors, textures, and sound all come into play:

The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling, from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately carved mantelpiece ahead of them, and several Slytherins were silhouetted around it in carved chairs.

Take a look at this description of Magical Menagerie:

A pair of enormous purple toads sat gulping wetly and feasting on dead blowflies. A gigantic tortoise with a jewel-encrusted shell was glittering near the window. Poisonous orange snails were oozing slowly up the side of their glass tank, and a fat white rabbit kept changing into a silk top hat and back again with a loud popping noise. Then there were cats of every colour, a noisy cage of ravens, a basket of funny custard coloured furballs that were humming loudly, and, on the counter, a vast cage of sleek black rats which were playing some sort of skipping game using their long bald tails.

Setting the fact that this is definitely not an ethical petshop aside, there’s a wealth of evocative descriptions here. There’s color, sound, movement, shiny things. “Gulping wetly” and “oozing slowly” also create very specific images.

Now look at how the Great Hall’s Halloween decorations are described in PoA, and note how color and movement comes into play:

It had been decorated with hundreds and hundreds of candle-filled pumpkins, a cloud of fluttering live bats and many flaming orange streamers, which were swimming lazily across the stormy ceiling like brilliant watersnakes.

Now let’s look at what Harry sees when he goes into Honeydukes. Color, flavor, and whimsical magical effects come into play here:

There were shelves upon shelves of the most succulent-looking sweets imaginable. Creamy chunks of nougat, shimmering pink squares of coconut ice, fat, honey-coloured toffees; hundreds of different kinds of chocolate in neat rows; there was a large barrel of Every Flavour Beans, and another of Fizzing Whizzbees, the levitating sherbet balls that Ron had mentioned; along yet another wall were ‘Special Effects’ sweets: Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum (which filled a room with bluebell-coloured bubbles that refused to pop for days), the strange, splintery Toothflossing Stringmints, tiny black Pepper Imps (‘breathe fire for your friends!’), Ice Mice (‘hear your teeth chatter and squeak!’), peppermint creams shaped like toads (‘hop realistically in the stomach!’), fragile sugar-spun quills and exploding bonbons.

When Hagrid blows his nose in a handkerchief in GoF, the text describes it as a large, spotted silk handkerchief, specifying its material and pattern.

Now let’s look at how the house that Horace Slughorn stayed in is described. We see the overall impression of the house described, followed up by some specific items that give us a few specifics:

It was stuffy and cluttered, yet nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of chocolates and plump cushions.

Now let’s examine a few character descriptions. Notice where colors, shapes, etc. come in, and how they use simple, yet vivid descriptions overall:

First, Albus Dumbledore’s introduction:

He was tall, thin and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and high heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice.

Next, McGonagall’s:

Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun.

Now Remus Lupin’s:

The stranger was wearing an extremely shabby set of wizard’s robes which had been darned in several places. He looked ill and exhausted. Though he seemed quite young, his light-brown hair was flecked with grey.

And let’s look at Sirius Black’s introduction:

A mass of filthy, matted hair hung to his elbows. If eyes hadn’t been shining out of the deep, dark sockets, he might have been a corpse. The waxy skin was stretched so tightly over the bones of his face, it looked like a skull. His yellow teeth were bared in a grin.

Now let’s look at how Madame Maxime is introduced:

A boy in pale blue robes jumped down from the carriage, bent forwards, fumbled for a moment with something on the carriage floor and unfolded a set of golden steps. He sprang back respectfully. Then Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from the inside of the carriage – a shoe the size of a child’s sled – followed, almost immediately, by the largest woman he had ever seen in his life. The size of the carriage, and of the horses, was immediately explained. A few people gasped.

Harry had only ever seen one person as large as this woman in his life, and that was Hagrid; he doubted whether there was an inch difference in their heights. Yet somehow – maybe simply because he was used to Hagrid – this woman (now at the foot of the steps, and looking around at the waiting, wide-eyed crowd) seemed even more unnaturally large. As she stepped into the light flooding from the Entrance Hall, she was revealed to have a handsome, olive-skinned face, large, black, liquid-looking eyes and a rather beaky nose. Her hair was drawn back in a shining knob at the base of her neck. She was dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers.

And Fleur Delacour:

A long sheet of silvery blonde hair fell almost to her waist. She had large, deep blue eyes, and very white, even teeth.

Rowling’s character descriptions are cartoonish, in that they emphasize a few key details in vivid language rather than describe a fine-detailed picture. As long as you’re not creating a hateful or degrading caricature, it’s generally fine. Not everybody’s going to be into it in the same way not everyone’s going to be into cartoons, but there’s nothing wrong with cartoons.

All right, so let’s recap: Rowling’s writing doesn’t go into a lot of descriptive detail, but it frequently mentions colors, materials, patterns, shapes, sizes, textures, sounds, temperatures, smells locations – anything that would immediately stand out to the senses if you were there. It uses evocative words that call up vivid mental images.

She’s not some kind of genius for doing this; it’s extremely easy to do and plenty of other writers have done it. The main thing is just getting into the habit of giving attention to your characters’ surroundings. I suggest that when you begin writing a passage, take a moment to think of a few things that can be seen, a few things that can be heard, a few things that can be felt, a few things that can be smelled, and a few things that can be tasted. Also, think about what you could mention to create the kind of atmosphere you want or to create interest.

Here are some examples:

The old-fashioned kitchen had been done up in cream and yellow, and the smell of cinnamon from the French toast sizzling on the stove filled the air.

She was thin, and wore a bright pink knee-length dress and a pair of neon green sunglasses. Her hair was in tight blond curls, and when she grinned she revealed a mouth full of gleaming shark teeth.

The temperature inside the old house felt ten degrees colder than outside, and he could hear what sounded like the moans of the dead coming from beneath the dust-covered floorboards.

Just play around and experiment with this for awhile, and you’ll find that it doesn’t take a huge amount of effort to write prose like this – which means you can basically give yourself the same mood you got from the books with literally anything you want.

[heliosunny]

I have a request for a lovesick fyodor. How he would be with a darling that he loves so much and how possessive he would be of her.

LOVESICK

The first time Fyodor Dostoevsky walked into the library, you hardly noticed him. He was just another visitor, albeit one with a quiet, almost unsettling aura. You were busy organizing a stack of books, your hands moving with practiced ease as you shelved a collection of philosophical works. But then, his voice broke through the silence-low, smooth, and deliberate.

“Do you have anything on Nietzsche’s unpublished letters?”

You turned, and there he was, dressed immaculately, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made you pause. There was something magnetic about him, something you couldn’t quite place.

“We do” you replied, motioning toward the far corner of the library. “Second shelf from the top. Let me show you.”

As you walked him to the section, you felt his gaze linger on you, not in an overtly intrusive way but as if he were trying to commit every detail to memory. When you handed him the book, your fingers briefly brushed, and you caught a fleeting smile on his lips.

“Thank you” he said, his tone almost reverent. “I’ll take care of this.”

The next time he visited, he approached the desk with a question that caught you off guard.

“I’ve been reading ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra’” he began, setting the book down on the counter. “Nietzsche’s prose is… evocative, but don’t you think his aphorisms feel like riddles that only he understands?”

You looked up from your work, surprised by the directness of his question. “That’s part of his style” you replied thoughtfully. “He wanted readers to wrestle with his ideas, to find their own interpretations rather than being handed answers.”

His lips curved into a small smile. “You’ve thought about this before.”

“I’ve had plenty of time to think about Nietzsche.” you admitted, gesturing to the shelves around you. “Working here gives me access to more books than I could ever hope to read.”

“And yet,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “you choose to spend your time pondering Nietzsche. What is it about his work that fascinates you?”

You hesitated, then said: “It’s not just his work. It’s the way he wrestled with questions of meaning and morality. He didn’t shy away from difficult truths, even when they made him an outcast.”

Fyodor’s gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall away. “An outcast” he repeated softly. “I suppose that’s something I can relate to.”

From that day forward, Fyodor’s questions became more frequent and more probing. He asked about your favorite authors, your thoughts on Dostoevsky’s exploration of guilt and redemption, and whether you believed in the idea of a “superior man” as posited by Raskolnikov. He listened to you with an intensity that was both flattering and unnerving, his dark eyes never leaving yours as you spoke. To you, he was a curious, enigmatic patron. To him, you were the center of his world.

One afternoon, he approached the desk holding a copy of ‘The Brothers Karamazov.’

“Do you think Ivan was justified in his rebellion against God?” he asked, setting the book down gently.

You glanced at the book, then back at him. “Justified? Maybe. But was he right? That’s a different question. Ivan’s rebellion is more about his pain than his logic. He wants a world where suffering doesn’t exist, but that’s an impossible ideal.”

Fyodor’s lips quirked upward, a rare and fleeting smile. “You’re not afraid to challenge his ideals. That’s rare.”

“Books are meant to be challenged” you said simply. “That’s how we grow as readers… and as people.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, he seemed almost vulnerable. “You’re an intriguing person” he murmured. “This library doesn’t deserve someone like you.”

You blinked at him, unsure of how to respond. Before you could say anything, he inclined his head and walked away, leaving you to wonder what he had meant. Despite your kindness, you only saw him as a regular patron—someone who frequented your quiet sanctuary. For him, though, you were so much more.

That day was the beginning. Fyodor became a regular visitor, often lingering in the quiet corners of the library. At first, he asked you questions about obscure texts, theories, and historical anecdotes. But over time, his questions became less about the books and more about you. What you liked to read, your thoughts on the world, what you thought about solitude. You found yourself drawn to him despite the unsettling air he carried. He listened to you as though every word you spoke held profound importance, his eyes never leaving yours.

What you didn’t know was that Fyodor was becoming obsessed. To him, you were a masterpiece of calmness and intellect, a rare light in a world he found insufferably chaotic. He loved the way you moved through your days with quiet grace, the way you brought a sense of peace to even the most mundane tasks. You had become his anchor in a world he wanted to destroy.

-----

One day, he stopped coming. At first, you told yourself it didn’t matter. He was just a visitor, a fleeting presence in your quiet world. But as days turned into weeks and weeks into months, you couldn’t help but wonder where he had gone. You missed his conversations, the way he seemed to hang on to your every word. You missed him.

Then, one rainy afternoon, he returned. He was different. Pale and gaunt, his usual composed demeanor was replaced by exhaustion. His clothes were slightly disheveled, and there was a faint scar on his temple that hadn’t been there before. His hands trembled slightly as he clutched the edge of the counter where you worked.

“You’re back!” you said, your voice filled with surprise and relief.

He gave you a weak smile. “Did you miss me?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Where have you been? You look… unwell.”

“I’ve been away...” he said vaguely, his tone soft but evasive. “It doesn’t matter now. I’m here.”

Despite your better judgment, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of concern. You led him to the library’s small lounge and insisted he sit down. He looked at you with something akin to awe as you fussed over him, bringing him tea and insisting he rest.

“You’re too kind.” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t deserve this.”

“Nonsense” you said firmly. “Just rest. We can talk later.”

What you didn’t know was that during his absence, Fyodor had been embroiled in battles with the Armed Detective Agency. He had faced danger, orchestrated victories, and emerged triumphant. But it had taken a toll on him, both physically and emotionally. Through it all, thoughts of you had kept him going. You had become his reason, his anchor.

-----

For weeks, he stayed close to you, his visits more frequent and his presence more consuming. He seemed calmer, softer even, when he was with you. But there was something beneath the surface, something he wasn’t telling you.

Then one day, while organizing a new shipment of books, you stumbled upon a note. It was hastily scrawled, a list of names and locations that meant nothing to you at first glance. But the tone of the note was dark, and the implications sent a chill down your spine. When you confronted Fyodor about it, his reaction was not what you expected.

“Where did you find this?” he asked, his voice cold and measured.

“In one of the books” you said. “Fyodor, what is this?”

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“What does it mean?” you pressed, your voice trembling. “What have you been doing?”

He stepped closer, his presence almost suffocating. “It doesn’t concern you” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “What matters is that you’re safe. I’ve made sure of that.”

“Safe?” you repeated, disbelief coloring your voice. “Fyodor, I don’t even know who you really are.”

He smiled then, a cold, haunting smile that sent a shiver down your spine. “You know enough. You know I love you. Isn’t that enough?”

You shook your head, fear and confusion swirling in your chest. “I don’t understand. What have you done?”

He cupped your face in his hands, his touch surprisingly gentle. “I’ve done what I must. For us. For the world I want to build. And now that you know, there’s no turning back.”

-----

You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened ever so slightly. “You don’t need to be afraid” he said softly. “I’ll protect you from everything. Even yourself, if I must.”

Despite your fear, a part of you couldn’t deny the pull he had on you. He was dangerous, yes, but there was a vulnerability in him that made you hesitate.

Fyodor’s lips brushed your forehead as he whispered, “You’re mine now. And I’ll make sure the world knows it.”

From that day forward, your life was no longer your own. Fyodor’s love was all-consuming, his possessiveness absolute. He would do anything to keep you by his side, even if it meant tearing down the world and rebuilding it in his image. And though you fought to hold on to your sense of self, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was already too late.

[dostoyevsky-official]

The Courts Can’t Stop the Trump-Musk Coup

Many of Trump’s orders are illegal, and unconstitutional, and brazenly so. Most good-faith lawyers can see that, but “good faith” does not describe the current state of the federal judiciary. Trump and MAGA have captured and corrupted the courts: They have seeded the lower courts with federal judges more loyal to Trump and his white-supremacist movement than they are to the law. They have stacked the Supreme Court with justices hostile to civil rights and equality. This doesn’t mean that cases brought by the ACLU, AFL-CIO, or Democratic state attorneys general are destined to fail. Their cases are righteous (and, legally speaking, right) and must be brought. Some might even succeed.

But the courts will not “save” us. They will not be the backstop protecting us from the Trump-Musk takeover, and any person who tells you otherwise, especially if that person is an elected Democrat in Congress, is selling you an excuse for inaction and complacency. Trump and Musk are barbarians at the gate; calling in the lawyers to tell them they’re trespassing isn’t going to halt their advance. Courts are not known for their harm prevention—they’re best used when trying to hold someone accountable for the harm they already caused.

The most obvious reason for this is that the courts move slowly. They are designed to move slowly. [...] If we’re very lucky, in a year or two we’ll get final rulings on whether Trump is allowed to do the bad things he started doing two weeks ago.

[...] The quickest tools the courts have at their disposal is the “temporary restraining order” (aka “TRO”) and the “nationwide injunction.” You’ve likely heard these terms before. These are temporary orders issued by a court that purportedly prevent the implementation of new laws or policies pending a full trial (or hearing) and ruling on the “merits” of a legal challenge. Often, these temporary orders themselves are appealed all the way to the Supreme Court (which potentially delays the timeliness of these emergency actions), with the administration trying to lift the temporary stops so it can implement its policies while the courts sort out whether the policy is legal.

[...] In theory, these orders should be effective stopgaps. The problem is that the court has no enforcement mechanism. It has no army, no police force, no power to impose its will. Instead, the executive—in this case the president—is supposed to enforce the court’s orders. But what if Trump doesn’t? There is little reason to believe that Trump will enforce an adverse court ruling against himself. There is no reason to believe he’ll enforce one against Musk. He’s clearly not interested in enforcing the court order (and, you know, the entire piece of legislation passed by Congress and signed by his predecessor) against TikTok.

[...] Consider the constitutional crisis unfolding right now. Musk has reportedly seized access to the private information of every US taxpayer, and the payroll information of every government employee. He has no right to this information but… he has it. Who’s going to undo that damage? A court order released Thursday afternoon purportedly limited Musk’s access to Treasury files to two “special employees” with “read-only” access to the data. Musk has reportedly agreed to follow those rules. Who is going to make sure he does? Who is going to lead the crack team of forensic digital investigators to make sure that Musk is in compliance with this or any future court order? My guess is “no one.” Musk currently has a stranglehold on the government, and enforcement of his limitations is going to run on the “trust me, bro” system.

[...]There are any number of Trump orders that this Supreme Court is going to rubber-stamp, all while promoting the conservatives’ “unitary executive theory” that grants the president powers more commonly associated with those of a king. As we’ve already seen with the court’s decision to grant Trump immunity from criminal prosecution for official acts, Roberts and his co-conspirators have pre-decided that the best way to handle Trump is to ride it out, generally give him what he wants, and accrue as much power for themselves as possible. Power that they’ll be happy to redeploy once he’s gone and they are again dealing with an executive who will faithfully enforce their orders, like literally any sad-sack Democrat who ever manages to win election again.

I’m not saying that the courts do not matter. As I said, some good decisions will squeak through. [...] But the courts will not save us. Even a friendly court is not designed to save democracy from a democratically elected president, and most courts are not our friends to begin with.