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cuddles-and-kisses · 3 years

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So The Cat's Out Of The Bag,,,

Another fanfic for Agapito (an OC that belongs to @yandereaffections) The story starts under the cut. Hope you enjoy!

Word count: 1,908 Trigger Warnings: Subtle yandereness, I can't think of any others

It’s 11 pm. I’ve been avoiding schoolwork all day and I’m in no rush to fix it. I've been writing fanfiction, of sorts, for the past 3 hours. On the bright side, the first draft is done! My back hurts from sitting so long while my butt hurts because I’ve sat on a wooden stool this long. I need to take a break but what to do? Oh, what to do? My weekly planner is wide open on a bookstand to my right. I could be productive, or I could keep avoiding them... So the planner is closed now. I’ve reorganized pens in a pen cup for the seventh time. Is there a limit to how many times a person can adjust a desk lamp before going insane? There has to be something else to do but what? As if on cue, my phone lights up with a text from my Baby. We’ve been official for 6 months so our dates are a lot more casual nowadays.

“Angel, I want attention. Unlock the back door” I’m aware it doesn’t seem like it but this is how he asks to come over. He won’t come over until I respond giving the green light. “Bold of you to assume I’m home and not partying at a random frat house” We both know I’m not doing jack at 11 pm on a Friday. Nonetheless, it’s fun to pretend I have a flourishing social life. “That’s cute. Back door please” Alright, now to get up and- ow, fuck, ouchie, ok, hold on. *POP* There we go!

I should probably pick my room up real quick. I made my bed earlier today so that’s not a problem. The svallerup rug from Ikea collects dirt a lot faster than I expected. Although would he really notice? It’s not bright in here. My dresser by the door looks fine. The futon is in couch mode, so there’s not much left I don’t have to clean up for him. In reality, I’m not cleaning for him, I just like having a clean room. The last thing I do is turn on the fairy lights above my head then light a vanilla candle. I know he’s coming over to cuddle or really do anything involving him getting affection. I might as well make my bedroom reflect that, right?

I half-jog upstairs to unlock our back door. Why the back door? It’s not because I love Jesus. Let me explain. The living room floor creaks way too loud. Also, my parent’s bedroom is right next to that door. The side door alerts our dogs to start pitching a fit. How can they hear it from the opposite side of our house? I may never be able to understand. Moonlight drifts halfway across the backroom. Sparse nightlights cover the remaining needed light. I flick on the backdoor lights followed by opening a few blinds to let more light in. Their orange glow overpowers the moonlight near the backdoor.

For whatever reason, the moon is far brighter tonight. Or my pupils are hella dilated because I’m thinking about my Baby. Either way, moonlight dusts over parts of the backroom and kitchen ahead of me. One last light to turn on. An LED light above our kitchen sink smashes through most surrounding darkness, making it almost impossible to see into the living room. White cabinets outline our kitchen. None of the cabinets match each other in this house. It’s as if this house was built in parts instead of planned out from the start. The counter is occupied with things you’d expect; a bread box, knife set, fruit basket, coffee pot, and an air fryer. Yet, there's evidence real people live here. Crumbs from a snack, mail by the fruit basket, half-empty coffee pot, as well as children’s toys forgotten all about

Everyone else is snuggled up in warm beds, sleeping. I can pick out each person’s snoring pattern when they poke through tonight’s ambiance. There are moments where quiet feels like serenity, others where it feels like emptiness. I can’t decide which one I’m feeling because I realize I’m about to have a visitor. A cup of coffee sounds like the perfect way to waste a few minutes while waiting for my lover.

Coffee cup out of the overhead cabinet. A coffee spoon from beside the coffee pot. Fake sugar off the shelves. Room temperature coffee in the pot from this morning. French vanilla coffee creamer out of the fridge. And just like that, a proper cup of coffee is served. Light reflects off the glossy coating painted over our pale coffee cups. Mom considers it a priority to have everything match or look cohesive. Appearing put together is a source of pride for her. A cup is a cup however matching cups make her happy. My ears perk up at hearing his tires pulling into the driveway. My coffee creamer swirls in the cup as he walks up the driveway. The coffee spoon clings against the inside of my coffee cup simultaneously with the creak of our back gate. All that’s left is to wash off this week’s coffee spoon then put it back. I have only a few more seconds until my Love is with me again. I’m a sappy and hopeful romantic for him, get off my back. He’s learned how to silently open the back door and if I didn’t have good peripheral vision, I would’ve yelped.

Intimate hands snake around my hips as a tender kiss is pressed against my neck. I can feel the tender smile tugging at his lips after the kiss, he had a really good day? His body is pressed against mine as he murmurs “Honey, I’m home~” behind my ear; earning a soft chuckle from me. I turn to face him, wrap my arms around his neck, and greet him with a deep kiss. This time on the lips. “Welcome home, my Love.” He’s so close to me, I can smell the cigarette he had on his way over here. The absence of alcohol or weed stench affirms he didn’t have a bad day at work. I can’t wait until these interactions become a daily occurrence. This man is breathtaking under normal circumstances; but, under the glimmer of moonlight,,, I can’t form a single thought while looking at him. The raw admiration and love this man holds in his eyes? Who could stand a chance against him? Not me. Wrong choice.

His hands linger along the sides of my hips. I hold his arms in an attempt to keep him close to me, just a little longer. “I brought you a few things. I’ll go set them on your desk.” He knows gifts aren’t my thing in spite of that he claims I deserve the entire universe. I breathed out, “Ok, I’ll be down in a minute,” then started moving to get my coffee cup, as well as a few snacks to bring downstairs. He starts heading downstairs content with how flustered I am. WAIT A FLUFFING MINUTE THE FANFICTION IS ABOUT HIM!! I whisper yell ‘Baby’ until his head pops back around the corner. I threaten him to not touch or look at my laptop. It was a pathetic attempt considering what he does for a living. In my defense, I tried. I forgot he’s in essence an overgrown teenager who will do the exact opposite of what he’s told. Wanna know what he does? Grin. I’m so fucked.

Agapito dashes downstairs and leaves me in unadulterated fear. I’m frozen in place, trying to come to terms with my fate as his footsteps fade. It’s not smut or anything, just a simple night and morning routine imagining that we lived together. This is going to be so embarrassing. Please spare me this treacherous fate and undying embarrassment. Deep breaths, just take deep breaths. Get your coffee then snacks then, simply, accept what’s just happened.

With arms full of snacks, I shut my bedroom door as gingerly as I can. Setting the cup on the dresser right by the door to make this a little easier. He’s standing at my computer, reading through the last page. Oh hey, he brought me Rolo’s as well as 3 Musketeers. Nice! Oh wait, he’s done reading. His shoulders aren’t tense; his breathing hasn’t changed; all the same, he’s just standing there. “Why did you write this out instead of doing it?” That’s a good question tbh. My Baby’s voice sounds hurt, despite that, he’s trying to hide it. Ok, he needs a hug. Now to throw the snack on the bed. He needs a rib-crushing hug and you bet your butt I’ll be the one to deliver. I tug at his elbow so he’ll face me then pull him into me. His shoulders are right under my chin when we’re facing each other. I bury my face in his neck while my arms hug him as tight as I can. Except why is he upset about this?

His love for me is nothing to scoff at. He loves me the same way he wanted to be loved when he was younger. We’ve figured out he’s catching up from his pre-teen years and onward. So about 13 years without a stable romantic relationship. When he was trying to court me I had to call him out all the time for manipulation. I know he’s terrified I’ll think he’s not good enough. He has episodes of frantic attempts to meet all of my needs, even if it’s not asked for or needed. What is going through his head? Does he feel like he’s not good enough? That he’s not loving me enough so I have to turn to a fictional version of him? Does he think he’s not good enough for me to do this stuff with him? None of those are true, obviously. I explicitly stated that in the story he just read. It doesn’t mean he won’t get stuck inside his head. I need to tell him the truth. Even if I wanted to lie, I couldn’t, he’s a finely-tuned human lie detector. One more deep breath. Squeeze him a little tighter. Look him in his eyes and come clean.

“The reason I didn’t just act these out is because, I didn’t know how to ask for it.” His expression shifts from confused hurt to understanding. I start rambling, “I want to have these experiences with you. I’d give anything to have that life with you but we've only been dating for 6 months and I just, wasn’t sure, how to phrase it.” I’m choking on my own pulse from emotions. I realize I was shifting my weight left to right when he pulls me in for another hug and kisses my forehead. We stand there in each other’s embrace for a few moments before he suggests I come to his house tomorrow night. We both know what he’s suggesting. I can’t help but adamantly agree. Excitement zips through my body thinking about tomorrow night. A smile pulls at my lips as I ask, “Do you mind if I wear this shirt tomorrow night?”

Tonight is about Netflix, snacks, and rediscovering the curves and contours of each other’s bodies. Though, not before I mess up his hair while calling him a butthead. It’s evident his insecurities are still tugging at him. Funny enough, his insecurities forgot they’re fighting against me for his attention.

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imnotwolverine · 4 years

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The Monster’s Lair - A Belle Tune

Vampire!Henry x Belle - multi-chapter

Chapter 1 - A Belle Tune | Chap 2 >

Disclaimer: Dark adult fairytale - stalking, mild injury, angsty vibes

Author’s note: Here we go dear readers, a whole new series!! As I was setting out the plotline I kept saying to myself; “Let’s make this 3-5 chapters, a short series, okay, Wolfie?” ...Welp... Apparently I have many talents, but writing short series is not one of them. I’ve tried again and again to reshape the plot into a shorter, snappier version, but I just couldn’t. So, here goes; 12 chapters of broody vampire Henry and sweet Belle. I hope you are ready ❤️

Word count: 1.991

Reading music: Agnes Obel - Tokka

(Link to my Masterlist)

It was the first day of Autumn, summer finally past, as a tale of old was sung anew.

The land was cracked open dry and dusty after months without rain, the crops starting to fail just before harvest season. It made the tensions run high amongst the town folk, their worried eyes aiming upwards. The air had been thick for days now, the clouds drifting heavy and grey on dreary skies, foreboding a long awaited storm that just wouldn’t break.

And yet, not all were worried. At this moment the morning air felt slightly cheery too, as a soft tune wove through the ancient pine tree forest that lay like a prickly blanket over the rolling hills.

It was a familiar tune, sung by a familiar woman’s voice, her pale skin and dark braided hair a sight he saw often in these parts of the land. Before her, two mutts sniffled happily, their wet noses pushing through the fallen leaves and shrubs that covered the dry forest floor.

From the shadows of that same thicket, he was watching her, watching her rosy lips curl up in that dreamy smile, her feet kicking her blue skirts with confident strides.

Belle, he knew her name by now, was one of the few who dared to wander so close to his grounds, his domain, her skirts rustling as she conjured a book from the depths of her pockets. Always reading.

At first he had been somewhat surprised to see a woman of her position even owning a book, a proper book. Her father was but a poor horse handler and her family long deceased.

But, indeed, she could read.

With an elegant hand she brushed down her skirts before sitting down on that same fallen down tree that she used everyday; her hide-out whenever the weather allowed. Clicking her tongue she instructed her dogs to lay down, her hand flicking through the book, returning to the page where she had left off a day ago.

Away from the snarky remarks and jealous whispers of the town folk, here she could read as dawn cracked over the horizon, her presence welcomed by the listening embrace of the forest and its inhabitants. The birds quieted their song and the mice and squirrels halted their squabbling, just long enough to look and listen, bewitched beady eyes watching the pretty woman as she started to read aloud.

It was an old and leather bound rendering of Apuleius’ Cupid and Psyche, an ancient fairy tale, the book nearly falling apart as she brushed her fingertips over the yellowed, vulnerable pages. She had read it a dozen times now, and yet the monster couldn’t help but listen, his lips moving in a silent joined recital. He knew the words by heart at this point.

What exactly she did by the day time he couldn’t tell, his disposition making it impossible for him to visit town when the sun was out. And thus he would just imagine it. Perhaps she worked as one of the chambermaids for the Les Comtes. Perhaps she helped her father in the stables - he had seen the old man during the nights many a time, his rough hands being ever so gentle with the handsome beasts that belonged to the Les Comtes. In fact all was owned by the Les Comtes, the family so rich that almost all villagers worked for their estate and businesses.

Far too soon Belle’s voice would silence again, her finger tracing the page she had ended on, memorising it before gently closing the book, her eyes looking up through the thicket of the tree branches, watching those looming clouds up above. He knew what she thought; it was going to rain and she probably couldn’t return to this spot for a long time.

After the rain would come hail, winds, winter. And as it goes with reading outside, her natural reading nook was simply not able to hide her from the elements, and, with her reading hobby sneered at by the town’s folk, this might very well be her last reading session for this year.

With a sigh she got up, calling for her dogs and making her way back to the village, long skirts kicking, her book hidden back in the depths of her pockets. Oh, how he was going to miss her. Even if it was just for a day. Here in the forest he was awaited by an eternal nothingness. No job, no destination, only empty days that wove into a long string of months, years, centuries.

Returning to the crumbling ruins of his castle, the grande structure long past its glory days, he wandered endlessly through its halls, dust collecting on items that shouldn’t ever run into such disuse. Plates, cups, the fireplace, the beds. For centuries now he could not feel the pleasure of the simplicity of life. The food ashen on his tongue. His eyes, though closed, never truly resting. His skin no longer feeling the comfort of a warm hearth. His still beating heart but a mousy whisper of its once roaring strength.

Watching those heavy clouds above the treetops, he knew that it would be long before he would get to hear her voice again. A storm was looming, the long dry spell finally coming to an end and taking with it the long awaited rains. He knew it was a necessity, the listening critters around him feeling desperate for food now winter was soon to arrive, but he couldn’t help but feel a deep disappointment all the same. Because with the dreary days would come even more dark hours for him, the last sparkle of joy ripped from his life until spring would probably come again.

—

‘Another one dead.’ The hunter growled, heaving the dead dog’s body from his cart, the boneless heap of bled out sinew and fur unceremoniously dropping to the dusty ground. With the ongoing drought, food has become more and more scarce. Crops were failing, wild animals were roaming nearer to the village and despite their best efforts, the hunters had great difficulty to actually catch anything. Something strange was afoot in the forest and rumour was about; it was the beast!

‘So no luck then.’ Arthur said in a hushed tone, his old knees cracking as he squatted down to inspect the remains of the hound. And indeed. Neck cracked, jugular torn, the required strength for such an act belonging to no less than a bear..or beast..of sorts.

‘Twas a mad dog anyways. But still..’ The hunter squinted, looking out over the yellow grassed meadows, to the edge of the forest where that monstrous beast hid away. ‘..we must see to it. The darn thing must be done with once and ..for..’ He blinked, then looked at Arthur with mild confusion. ‘Is that Belle?’ He pointed at a figure that appeared from the tree-line, two dogs at either side of her light blue skirts.

Arthur pushed himself up with a groan and also squinted his eyes, his sight no longer what it had been. ‘If it’s a pretty thing with two mutts, a dress of blue and a smile for days, it must be Belle.’ He said, his vision too blurry to discern anything that resembled his daughter. The hunter gruntled his disapproval, though not denying that it was indeed Belle, his strong, broad shouldered frame turning back to his cart to bring out what few rabbits and pheasants he had managed to catch in his traps. ‘You ought to bring some sense in that girl, Arthur..’ He warned, bushy eyebrows frowning as he looked back at the girl, her skirts twirling as she threw a stick for the dogs to fetch.

‘She is just so very much like her mother.’ Arthur sighed, not fully agreeing with the hunter’s sentiments as his lips curled in an amused smile.

‘Tcould be the death of her, old man. The beast is out there, I know that much. In fact. There’s a meeting in the town hall by sundown, in case you wish to join.’

‘Good..good...’ Arthur nodded, only half-listening now, his eyes finally managing to focus on Belle as she kicked her legs over the wood log fence near the stables he worked, her face all smiles and skirts a muddy mess.

Oh..Belle!

The shutters of the barn-like town hall shuddered, the wind outside picking up and the torch flames dancing wildly in the draft. It was a busy night, the floorboards creaking as the town’s men got up from their benches to express their bewilderment and frustrations, loud “Aye’s” and “Nays” echoing in the air as the discussions roared.

Now the food reserves of the town were running low and people had to ration, the tension was near tangible. Winter was coming and the people felt as restless as the storm that was picking up outside. The pigs needed to be fed, the elderly were struggling, sickness was spreading and all fingers pointed angrily at the direction of that wicked forest. The Beast’s forest.

‘Dear people! My people!’ Old Master Le Comte stood up from the throne-like seat that was situated right at the head of the hall, his fatty fingers balancing a shiny cup of wine. He raised his hand to calm the uproar, old furrowy brows raising up to show two grey, beady eyes. ‘Say AYE and agree, that we must see to the end of this beast for once and for all. He threatens our livestock, steals our hunted bounty and his cursed evil talons bring us only disease and misfortune. This drought? I would not be surprised if it were by HIS design!’ He exclaimed.

The town roared up with enthusiasm, fists raised in the air as a loud ‘AYE’ resounded front to back. In fact only the old man Arthur sat quiet, far in the corner, thinking fingers pulling at his moustache. He had discussed the matter with Belle and all she had to say was; “It is indeed quite practical to make a simple minded animal responsible for all your sorrows. But is it right to kill it because you conjured an image of beastly proportion, fed by your own fears? From what I heard he only has killed those who came too close..far too close.”

‘HELP HELP!! The church! A FIRE!’ The large doors of the hall swung open as a young man burst through, arms waving in despair, the discussions regarding the monster quickly forgotten as everyone made haste to stop the flames as they quickly swept around them, the simple wooden structures of the inner town feeding themselves like perfectly dried logs to the hellish bonfire.

Arthur looked up from his daze and slowly followed the hastened crowd outside, his feet no longer so fast as he felt a sudden, surprising coolness in his neck. A wet coolness. With a question in his eyes he looked up at the darkened sky, feeling another drop on his wrinkly skin. Rain? Did the gods bless them just in time? Would all be well?

A conclusion made prematurely, as a new alarm was struck from the village’s heart.

‘THE BEAST! TIS THE BEAST!’ The loud screams came from the village square, Arthur’s attention immediately drawn back to the people that sped past him. Oh no..oh no...BELLE! She was alone, she was..

*FLUNK*

With a loud thud Arthur smacked to the ground, his eyes blinking in shock as he saw the person who had bumped into him rush passed, the silhouette of the person already fading from his vision as all he could do was claw into the dusty road, eyes seeing all black.

Oh no...he thought, his body now fading out of consciousness. Belle! She must be warned! She was all alone! The beast..Oh Belle..the beast..and...Belle...

With heavy blinking eyes he scratched and cried, trying to gain the attention of people rushing by, but failing. None could hear or see him as the storm drowned out his wails and the night hid him in unblinking dark, leaving him with little else but hope, hope that Belle’s joyful tunes would indeed not be ended at the slashing of beastly claws, like the hunter had warned him for this morning.

Oh Belle, dear Belle..

Chap 2 >

General Tagsquad: @harrysthiccthighss @tumblnewby @magdelen69 @thereisa8ella @mary-ann84 @darkbooksarwin @summersong69 @madbaddic7ed @luclittlepond @maroonmolly

Vampire!Henry Tagsquad: @elinesama @i-cant-remember-my-old-login

If you want to be added to or removed from my tag lists, shoot me a message!

#henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill fanfic #vampire!henry #beauty and the beast au #vampire #beast #angst #adult fairytale #belle #apuleius #cupid and psyche #stalking

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oldmanatom · 3 years

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wrote a whole long post about how i “did” “NaNo,” thought i saved it to my drafts, came to post it tonight and it’s not there. that’s genuinely a bummer since i had other Thoughts™ baked into it, but i’ll take it as an opportunity to write a second draft version instead, now that i have my thoughts more together:

my version of NaNo, much like my version last year, was just to hit a word count goal with whatever writing i could scrape together. this year i set the goal lower than last year, and actually more or less hit it, which was cool and tbh surprising.

i’ve been resistant to writing to hit a word count in the past—seemed like an easy way to psych myself out, plus how i write (jumping all around the story/page/doc) makes keeping track of word counts annoying at best, challenging at worst—but succeeding last month made it far more appealing. i’m going to try and hit it again this month, to see if it might be a good way to keep myself on the writing...treadmill? hike? grind? [insert relevant metaphor here].

for the first time in literally (literally!) years, i’ve completed a first draft of something. it’s objectively not very good, and will need a lot of work—i didn’t know what the hell i was doing for 50% of it, and once i figured out what i was trying to do i didn’t know how to do it for the other 50%, and it took me basically the entire month to put it together brick by brick, so what i have now is about as scattered as you’d expect from that process—but it’s done, which means i can actually do that work and make those edits with a holistic view on what i’m working with, instead of, like, trying to fix the foundation as i’m also trying to build the frame and hang the drywall, so to speak.

thinking also about this post, and about that Terry Pratchett quote about how the first draft is just you telling yourself the story, and about how impossible it is to know and see everything there is to know and see about my story on the very first pass. this idea—that something being done is better than it being good when it comes to first drafts—is something that’s both obvious and easy to understand, and yet has taken me years to realize and more years to actually implement.

why? lots of reasons. one of them: i get stuck in write-edit cycles—write something, go back and edit it, write more, edit that and edit the other part to fit in with the new part, write more, etc etc. it’s a momentum killer. if i do that, i finish nothing, as i’ve proven over and over again over the years as i’ve started a million things and followed through on exactly none of them. trying to break myself of this habit has been a struggle, and mostly i lose, but i’m losing less often and less extensively than i was at the beginning, which i’ll take.

why care about this? lots of reasons. one of them: i am extraordinarily tired of looking at my folders full of bits and pieces stuck in Google docs that get forgotten about and left to collect virtual dust. they might be “good,” but i’m not satisfied with just writing them and letting them sit and do nothing, like some sort of dragon’s hoard of words. i am, regardless of how i feel moment to moment, a decent writer; if nothing else, i’m writing things that i like to read, and that i’d like others to read; i should find a way to bridge the gap and finish these off into something i can share.

(feeling like nothing’s ever done enough to share is its own point which i’m still trying to figure out, and which might be the next meta “thing” i tackle on the first edit/second draft of this piece. how much can one oneshot teach me? is it wise to make this into The Little Story That Could? i guess we’ll find out.)

one thing i’ve been learning as i’ve been trying to put this idea into practice, which will absolutely sound sappy but keeps proving itself true: my story’s going to teach me as i go. it’s going to tell me what needs to happen with the plot and characters and everything else, and it’s going to do that regardless of whether or not i have a 19 page scene-by-scene outline or a conversation i like, an image in my head of the scene, and a vague idea of what i want to happen next. and, whatever i miss on the first round i can pick up and work on in the next rounds. but it only teaches me if i keep writing it, unfortunately.

basically: it doesn’t have to be good, it just has to be done. that’s it. that’s the only requirement of a first draft: that it be complete. just keep writing until the damn thing’s finished. polish comes second. i keep repeating this like a fucking mantra, like something you’d chant to yourself to get through a root canal or the last hour of a truly terrible shift, and honestly that’s what it feels like half the time, but it worked once, so who’s to say it won’t work again.

i think there was a third point in my original post, but i can’t remember it so i guess it can’t be that important. i’ll end with a few quotes from this past month of NaNo, entirely from that draft, which is partly because that was 80-90% of my writing this past month and partly because the other 10-20% is stuff that i’m likely going to be posting soon (yes, i do have plans to post something soon, sorry @ my poor neglected writing sideblog). without context, because i think that’s funnier—

To your eternal shame, you can't actually manage to look up at the woman you know is standing in the doorway, one sandaled foot through the threshold and leaning heavily on the Death First to Solicitors and Thieves doormat. Instead, you glance partway over and see weak, yellowish light spill out from inside, cascade over the porch steps, and reach with dim and blunted fingers out towards her soaked half yard. You trace the watery edges of it with your eyes instead of looking at her, and it's a coward's move but that relief is back again, so.

"Harrow?" she says, barely audible over the pounding water around you.

You remember, then, when you told her ages ago that her vintage standing lamp needed its bulb replaced and the two of you had gotten into a nice little row over well, it's not dead yet, now is it, and where the hell am I supposed to find another weird filament bulb like that, and who exactly decided to get the damn antique showpiece thing anyways. It's entirely unsurprising that after all these years it's still the same almost-flickering bulb stuck in it, that it's somehow still alive and managing to bleed light out onto this miserable scene.

Being shorn down to your shirts and jeans and socks makes you wrap your arms around yourself again. No longer having five pounds of wet denim on your shoulders lets your body remember what warmth is, and more importantly reminds you that you have none, and so what had been a vague shaking for the last hour turns into full-on shivering, teeth clacking and everything. You ask, not for the first time, for some reasonable God to show you mercy and cut you down.

Instead, Ianthe covers her smile half with her hand and says, "Oh, look at you, Harry, you poor thing. Soaking wet and I didn't even have a hand in it."

"Shut up," you try to say, but your chattering teeth and jaw make it come out more like "s-s-s-hhhht 'p," and Ianthe doesn't react regardless, just shakes her head and throws you another towel.

"Harrow, please. It's late and I've never been fond of your insistence on bullshitting when I have your back against a wall. Besides, ending up huddled on my porch in the worst storm of the year is a little much, even for—"

"Even for me," you interrupt, "as though I was the one who slept in front of our front door for three nights so that I wouldn't 'run out on you with the rent' after you lost an argument."

The corner of Ianthe's mouth twitches, but it's the only slip of her otherwise curious, focused expression. "To be fair, it was an argument about the rent."

#posts from beyond the wifi #how do you fic #i was tbh on the fence about both writing all these Thoughts™ and about posting even these quotes #but the damn idea won't leave me alone so...*gestures vaguely* y'know?#also just want to thank whoever on the tumblr team finally made multi-nested lists functional. i DO love my tiered bulletpoints

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redwallthoughts · 4 years

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Redwall Midwinter Miracle: Day 3 part 3

As always, huge thanks to @raphcrow for her help with beta-reading and editing

*looks back at previous chapter*

Ch. 6 might be a little bit longer in coming...

I promise I didn’t actually mean that it would take three years. That was an accident.

However, I don't anticipate new chapters of RMM returning to the original once-a-month schedule. You see, during the three-year break, I have begun working on a piece of original fiction. It's still in the early stages of development (first draft hasn't been completed and there's still a lot of world-building to do), but I've been trying to work on it diligently. I'll be posting small updates on it at the end of new chapters from now on, but if any of you lovely readers would like to see more in-depth info on it, please feel free to follow the blog I've started for it, Moiranvall-official.

FF.net, AO3, DA

[Ch. 1] [Ch. 2] [Ch. 3] [Ch. 4] [Ch. 5]

Rose followed Martin through the cellars and up the passageway toward Great Hall. He was talking animatedly about the collection of books, new and old, in the Redwall library. Rose smiled as she listened to him talk. When she first met him on the northland coast they hadn’t had time to discuss books and reading. They’d been far too focused on the rescue of the other slaves to be bothered with such mundane activities. Now she wished that she would have shown him her father’s books. Perhaps Urran Voh would not have reacted so strongly to him then.

“I'm hoping Vurg and the others will be up there,” Martin was saying as they walked up the sloping passageway that led to Great Hall. “I think they'll enjoy meeting you.”

Rose shook herself, recalling her mind back to the present as she placed a steadying paw on the wall of the passageway. Her footpaws were feeling a bit sore. “Who?”

Martin grinned at her over his shoulder, matching his pace to hers as she slowed down. “Vurg, Denno, and Dulam were all good friends of my father when I was a baby. They came back to Redwall with us after we found them in the North two summers ago. Though I should warn you that it may be a bit rowdy if Beau is up there too. He and Vurg are always engaging in friendly arguments.”

Rose giggled. “Sounds like Rowanoak and Ballaw,” she said, smiling at the thought of her two friends. Wanderers though they were, they had become quite fond of Noonvale, even coming to call it home.

“Do they argue often?” Martin asked.

Rose rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “All the time. Oh!” She nearly ran into Martin as he came to a sudden stop at the end of the passageway.

“Sorry,” Martin murmured. He peered around the corner into Great Hall looking both ways before he stepped out of the passage. He held up a cautionary paw, still looking around the hall.

Rose peered around at the empty room. There was nobeast in sight. “What are you looking for?”

“Dibbuns.”

Rose rubbed a paw in her ears, not entirely certain she’d heard right. “Dibbuns?” As far as she knew, all the abbey youngsters were engaged in the scavenger hunt.

Martin nodded. “Call it habit,” he said, “You never know where they're hiding. Normally it wouldn't be a problem, but they’ve figured out that I usually award the prize for the scavenger hunt. A few of the rogues have taken to trying to find it in my pockets before the game’s finished.”

Rose grinned. “So that's why you've got those candied chestnuts with you. Tintin said he saw you pocketing them on your way through the kitchens this morning.”

Martin nodded. “Aye, and I don’t want you getting caught in the crossfire if they spot me.” He peered around once more and began across Great Hall.

The sandstone floor of Great Hall was warm from the heat of the kitchens below. Bright spots of color danced about on the stones, cast by the sunlight streaming through the colored glass in the windows. Rose could hear dibbuns laughing somewhere in the distance.

Martin, it seemed, had heard them too. He turned back toward the steps that led down into Cavern Hole, staring briefly into the shadows of the passage before grasping Rose's paw. “Hurry!” He hissed, walking faster

Rose did her best to keep up, but her footpaws were beginning to ache.“Ow!” Rose's footpaws twisted beneath her and she nearly fell to the ground. Martin caught her before she hit the ground, his face creased with concern. Looking over his shoulder Rose saw the shadow of a great cat climbing the stairs from Cavern Hole. She struggled upright, her left footpaw still twinging painfully as she pointed at the approaching shadows.

“Hold on!” Martin hissed in her ear. Looping an arm about her waist, he swung her up and carried her into a nearby alcove.

Rose froze as Martin pressed her against the pillar, keeping her close as he peered around the edge. They were in no real danger, but the short, sudden run and the intensity in Martin's eyes had startled her, to say the least. Martin still had a paw around her shoulders, pulling her close. He had gotten taller, Rose realized with a start. They'd been nearly the same height when she first met him at Marshank. But now, pressed close as she was, she realized that he was at least half a head taller than her. She caught his eye as he glanced away from the dibbuns, and found herself captivated by the soft grey stare. He did not look away. She felt as though her heart might beat out of her chest. Martin's stare intensified, and for a moment Rose thought she saw a faint trace of recognition in his gaze. If her heart had been pounding like a drum before, then Rose thought surely it must be doing a decent impression of a percussion ensemble.

“Hoi, what's all this?” The moment was shattered as Tintin's voice carried across the hall.

Rose found herself shaking as Martin looked back to the dibbuns. He whispered in her ear. “We'd best make a run for it while your nephew has them distracted.”

Rose was about to remind Martin that she couldn't run, when he threw one arm around her waist and the other behind her legs, swinging her up once again as easily as if she were a dibbun herself. She barely had time to grab hold of his shoulders before the warrior mouse took off toward the stairs, grinning broadly.

It took only a pawful of moments to reach the stairs. Martin did not set Rose down until they were sufficiently hidden from view of Great Hall. “Sorry about that,” he said, still grinning as he caught his breath. “I had to take the chance while we had it.”

Rose leaned against the wall, the rush of the moment having left her breathless. Now in the relative safety of the stairs she could finally catch her breath. A sudden burst of giggles overtook her, and she clamped a paw across her mouth in an attempt to stifle them.

Martin looked at her in confusion. “What?”

It took a moment before Rose could answer. “Look at us, two grown mice running away from dibbuns.” She broke off as the giggles returned.

Martin soon joined her, chuckling at the supposed danger they had just escaped. “I suppose if dibbuns are the only thing I have to run from for the rest of my life, it'll be more than enough for me.” He held out a paw for Rose to lean on, and the two of them continued up the stairs, still laughing.

Brome froze, temporarily robbed of breath. The silence of the infirmary hung in the air nearly as tangible as a sheet of dust brushed from something long forgotten. He swallowed, trying to think of a coherent sentence. How had the abbess known? Taking a shaky breath, he forced a smile onto his face and shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

Abbess Germaine smiled knowingly at him, her dark eyes shadowed by sadness. “Come now young one, there is no need for secrets.”

The smile fell from Bome’s face, and he stared at his paws in shame. She was right, of course, there was no need to keep her in the dark. “How did you know?” he asked.

“I may be old and hard of hearing,” the Abbess said, leaning forward with a smile, “But I still have my wits about me, and my eyes have yet to give out. I saw you and your sister the night you joined us here in the abbey, when Martin came into Cavern Hole. Any other creature who had not seen a dear friend for some time would have run to greet him, yet you did not. I also saw the look on your sister’s face when Gingivere told of how Tzarmina broke Martin’s sword before throwing him in the dungeon. Many passing travelers have heard that tale, and many of our own. And yet, until that night I had never seen a creature whose face, upon hearing the tale, so perfectly mirrored the agony our warrior must have felt at the loss of his sword.”

Brome nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall each time he thought of how Martin must have felt when the sword snapped. “Rose knows how much that sword meant to Martin, and how much it cost him to retrieve it.” He stood, and moved to sit next to the abbess, staring out the window at the snow-covered wall beyond. “Many of the creatures I travel with believe it a good thing that the sword was reforged. They feel that remaking the blade has removed the tarnish on it from the seasons spent in the paws of a warlord. I only hope Martin would agree. He doesn’t remember us, but he doesn’t remember the seasons he lived as a slave either, and I can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a curse.” He fell silent, waiting for the Abbess’ response, still watching the sun play upon the snow on the wall.

Dust motes floated gently through the air, dancing through the sun like specks of gold while the silence stretched on.

Finally, the Abbess spoke. “Perhaps it is not for you to decide. Martin may not remember anything from his time as a slave, but that does not mean that he does not know that he once was one. Scars may fade over time, but they do not always disappear. It is a noble thought to try and spare him unnecessary pain.” She sighed softly, and, turning to her, Brome saw the hints of a smile playing across her mouth. “But a part of me wonders if perhaps it is akin to my wish to spare new mothers the pain of childbirth. Sometimes a bit of pain makes the joys of life that much brighter.”

Brome nodded, turning the thought over in his head. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“I cannot blame you for that,” the Abbess said. “You’ve only just recently learned of Martin’s lack of memories. Two busy days is hardly enough time to consider all the different ways you might approach the problem.” The smile fell from her face. “A part of me worries, though, that if you leave without telling him his past then he may never regain those lost memories. Martin is a strong creature, and quite brave. But even the strongest and bravest among us have their struggles.” She paused, as though considering her next words. “I cannot tell you what you should do, that is something you will have to decide for yourself. But I do hope you will consider telling Martin what you know about his past. In the past few seasons he has begun to stress over his lost memories far more than he had previously. After the events of this past summer I fear it has begun to affect his health.”

“What happened last summer,” Brome asked, his chest suddenly tight at the thought of his old friend suffering in any way.

Abbess Germaine smiled reassuringly. “Oh, not to worry, he’s perfectly fine now. Had a nasty summer cold that turned into a fever and had him bedridden for the better part of the season.” She laughed quietly. “Although I wouldn’t be surprised if part of that was because of the dibbuns that kept sneaking in to play with him. I had to threaten to have him moved up here to the infirmary before he agreed to tell them to leave him alone so he could sleep.”

“He does seem to be quite popular with the youngsters,” Brome said with a chuckle. He wiped his eyes briefly with the edge of his sleeve. “I’ll ask Keyla and Yarrow what they think we should do. They spent a good portion of their dibbun days together with Martin, and know better than I do what all he’s forgotten.”

Abbess Germaine nodded. “Very good. You might talk to Gonff as well.”

“Gonff?” Brome asked. “The Mousethief?”

“He was largely responsible for helping Martin remember their journey to Salamondastron. He might have a few tips on how you could jog Martin’s memories now,” Abbess Germaine said with a smile.

Brome considered her suggestion for a moment before nodding. “I’ll do that.”

“Thank you, Brome,” Abbess Germaine said. She lay back against the pillows. “Would you please tell Bella that I’ll be taking a short nap up here before dinner? To much celebration and not enough sleep wears down on these old bones of mine.”

Brome nodded, standing and walking toward the door. “I will. Sleep well, Mother Abbess.”

A hush lay across Cavern Hole as Gonff emerged from the kitchens later that afternoon with a bundle under one arm and munching on a honey biscuit. Dibbuns sat clustered in groups of three and four around the hall, some huddled around adults, others off on their own as they pondered over scraps of parchment and slate.

Gonff spotted Columbine sitting with a group near the stairs to Great Hall and made his way to her.

“How goes the scavenger hunt, my Dearest Darling?” he asked her when he got closer.

He was answered by a round of shushing from the nearby dibbuns, and one baby squirrel who glared sternly at him.

Columbine stood quickly and beckoned for him to follow, guiding him onto the stairs. Her eyes shone with laughter.

Gonff looked back over Cavern Hole, whispering, “Goodness me, Columbine. What did you give those babes to make them so ferocious?”

Columbine laughed aloud then, shaking her head at him. “They’ve nearly solved their riddles for the prize,” she said. “You distracted them.” She looked at the bundle under his arm. “Have you finished moving Martin in from the gatehouse?”

Gonff nodded and patted his bundle. “Aye. Found the last of Brother Scrittum’s measuring tools too. Figured I’d bring ‘em up with me and save Martin the trip.”

“How very kind of you,” Columbine said, smiling at him. “If you happen to see Martin, could you let him know the dibbuns are nearly finished with their quest?” She didn’t wait for his response but kissed him briefly on the cheek before returning to her group.

Gonff smiled after her for a moment before continuing on his way upstairs.

He found Brother Scrittum in the library, in the company of Sister Amyl. The pair were pouring over some old text on the desk in front of them with extra quills, ink, and parchment arrayed on either side.

The library was a cozy little room situated on the western end of the second floor of the Abbey. Afternoon winter sun streamed in through the single window above Brother Scittum’s desk, tinting the air with a warm, golden glow. Candles supplemented the fading sunlight and banished shadows from the corners of the room.

Soft murmurs sounded from one of these corners, and Gonff turned to see Martin and Rose sitting together pouring over a book. He recognized the book immediately not as the Legend of Sheodin, which he had expected, but rather as the hefty tome Denno, Dulam, Vurg, and Beau had written on the last quest of Luke the Warrior. They looked so natural sitting there, with Rose wrapped in a blanket and snuggled next to Martin while he held the book so they could both see, that Gonff almost would have thought that they did this regularly. Martin had a soft, quietly content smile on his face. A smile Gonff had seen before, but only rarely. He cleared his throat softly, making his presence known.

The pair looked up quickly with matching quizzical expressions. Gonff couldn’t help but laugh.

“Shall I have the kitchen send yor supper up ‘ere?” he teased. “You two look comfortable enough to stay there for hours.”

Martin scowled at him, although Gonff knew the look well enough to know that there was no real weight behind it and merely continued to grin. A moment later Martin’s resolve cracked and he began to grin as well. “Is it that late already?” he asked.

Gonff shook his head. “Not quite. But Columbine wanted me to let you know that the dibbuns are nearly done with their scavenger hunt. They’ll be wanting their prizes soon.”

“I s’pose I should head down to hand them out, then,” Martin said. He set aside the book and stood from the pillows he and Rose were seated on, stretching languidly. Turning, he retrieved the book and offered Rose a paw to help her up. “I hope I haven’t bored you.”

Rose shook her head as she stood. “Not at all.” She smiled at him. “I enjoyed it immensely. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Martin stared at her for a moment before turning sharply on his toes to put the book away, his ears practically glowing red.

Gonff let out a hearty laugh and patted Rose on the shoulder. “Ahaha! I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybeast fluster ‘im so quickly.” He turned to Martin. “Don’t hide yor face, you great lump. The maid’s being sweet, you’ll make ‘er think you took it the wrong way.”

Slowly, Martin turned back to them, his ears still red. He glanced around for a moment before motioning to the bundle Gonff carried. “What’s that?”

“What, this?” Gonff held it up. “Dinny found th’ last o’ Brother Scittum’s writin’ tools for you. I figured I’d bring it up ‘ere.”

“Thank you,” Martin said. “I’m sure you can leave it with Brother Scrittum and Sister Amyl.” He turned to Rose. “I’m going to head down to Cavern Hole to give the dibbuns their prizes, would you like to come along?”

Rose sighed and lifted a footpaw. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid I need to fetch my crutches first.” She shooed Martin toward the door. “You go on ahead and don’t worry about me. I can still walk, I’ll just have to go a bit slower.”

Martin nodded slowly, reluctantly making his way to the door. “Gonff, could you-”

“I’ll stay with ‘er ‘til she gets ‘er crutches,” Gonff said. He mimicked Rose’s shooing. “Now off you go, those dibbuns won’t wait forever.”

Martin nodded. “I’ll see you both downstairs in a bit, then,” he said and left the room.

Gonff watched him leave before returning the measuring tools to Brother Scrittum. The elderly brother patted his paw several times and tried to offer him a candied chestnut.

“No, no, really, I don’t need anymore,” Gonff said, waving his paws.

“What he means--” said Sister Amyl, taking the candied chestnut and placing it back in Brother Scrittum’s pocket-- “is that he’s probably already filched a few from you.”

“Oh yes, I see,” said Brother Scrittum, winking at Gonff. He patted the mousethief’s paw once more. “You take care of yourself now, lad.”

“O’ course, Brother,” Gonff said, carefully extracting himself and returning to Rose. He doffed an imaginary hat and swept into a deep bow. “Might I have the pleasure of escorting you to Great Hall, miss?”

Rose giggled and bobbed a curtsy. “Why thank you very much, my kind sir.” She took his offered paw and they swept out of the library, both still giggling.

Once out in the corridor, Gonff allowed Rose to set the pace as they meandered their way down to Great Hall. She was humming a happy tune to which Gonff began to whistle once he caught the pattern. After they’d repeated the tune three times, Gonff turned to Rose and said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a beast turn Martin red that quickly. You’ll have to tell me yor secret sometime.”

Rose giggled. “I’ll be sure to tell you when I discover it for myself,” she said with a wink. “It was a good story.”

“You didn’t get all the way through, I assume,” Gonff said. “It took Denno most o’ the night to read the whole thing to us when we found ‘em on the Arfship.”

“No.” Rose shook her head. “We only just made it past the part where Luke left on his voyage.” The smile faded from her face and she stopped walking. “It explains a lot, really.”

Gonff cocked his head to one side. “Y’mean like where he got ‘is sense of honor an’ such?”

Rose nodded slowly, her eyes looking through Gonff to some distant past. “And why he didn’t believe me the first time I told him he was a warrior.”

Gonff scratched his ear. “I must’ve missed that conversation.”

Rose shook her head, opening and closing her mouth a few times.

Gonff didn’t press her, but simply stood in the silence, waiting for her to speak again.

Finally, Rose let out a long sigh and looked up at Gonff resolutely. “I-”

“Rose, there you are!”

Both mice turn to see Brome making his way up the stairs. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, “And Gonff.”

“Is something wrong?” Rose asked.

Brome shook his head. “No. Were you on your way to somewhere?”

“I’m escorting Miss Rose to Sister Amyl’s room to retrieve her crutches,” Gonff said, standing up straight and striking a pose.

Rose and Brome both giggled at him.

“Shall I join you, then?” Brome asked. “We can talk while we walk.”

Gonff nodded, once again offering his arm to Rose. “Very well. Now, why’re you looking for us?”

Brome fell into step on the other side of Rose. “It’s a bit complicated.” He turned toward his sister. “You recall that I was helping Abbess Germaine in the infirmary this afternoon?”

Rose nodded. “I remember.”

“She’s a rather sharp old mouse,” Brome said.

Gonff chuckled. “That she is.”

“Anyways,” Brome went on, “she told me that she’s figured us out.”

“I see,” Rose said, nodding slowly.

“Figured out what?” Gonff asked, dropping his usual joking manner.

Rose turned to him. “Figured out that we knew Martin before he came to Redwall,” she said quietly.

“You’re not surprised?” Brome asked when Gonff didn’t react.

Gonff shrugged and pulled some pieces of paper from his pocket. “Nearly had it figured out m’self after finding these.” He handed the sketches to Rose, who in turn handed them to Brome.

Brome examined the sketches of himself and Rose before handing them back to Gonff. “Martin’s work, I assume?”

Gonff nodded.

“So he hadn’t completely forgotten us,” Brome said.

Rose shook her head. “But he doesn’t seem to consciously remember us, either.”

The trio had reached the bottom of the stairs as they spoke and entered the bustling noise of Redwallers and travelers preparing to descend to Cavern Hole for the night’s feast.

Gonff motioned Rose and Brome off to one side. “I take it you want my help in jogging Martin’s memories?”

Brome nodded. “Aye. Abbess Germaine said you were the one who helped him regain lost memories after the war with Tzarmina was over.”

Gonff frowned. “I was. But that was pretty soon after he lost those memories, and he still doesn’t remember everything we went through. Gettin’ ‘im to remember now will likely be a bit harder.”

Rose’s face fell.

Gonff smiled at her. “Now, now. Don’t give up hope. I didn’t say it was impossible.” He looked back and forth between her and Brome. “Tell you what, I’ll think this over for the evening and we can meet again after brekkist tomorrow.”

Brome grinned and held out a paw. “We’ll gather the rest of the Players together and let them know what we’re trying to do. Thank you for your help.”

They shook paws and parted ways, Gonff heading off to Cavern Hole, and Brome and Rose to find the rest of Players after retrieving Rose’s crutches.

Gonff found himself distracted during the night’s performance, trying to watch both Martin and the Players as the feast progressed. He did, however, notice that Martin was in unusually high spirits, joining in the laughter and applause with far more energy than he had the previous two nights.

“Are you quite alright, Gonff?” Columbine asked him as they prepared for bed in their little room. “You’ve been a bit quieter this evening. Tummy ache?”

Gonff shook himself and pulled his wife into an impromptu dance. “Wot? Me, quiet? Never!” He spun her around the room until they both collapsed, giggling, onto the bed.

“Hahaha-hu-haha-hush, Gonff!” Columbine gasped. “You’ll wake Gonfflet.”

Gonff smiled at her, cupping her cheek with one paw and planting a kiss on her nose. “The little rascal’s already fast asleep. No need to worry about ‘im.”

Columbine giggled again and sat up. “Maybe not, but you still haven’t told me why you’ve been quieter this evening.” She put her paws on her hips and fixed a stern expression on her face. “Now you’d best tell me before I’m forced to tickle it out of you.”

“No! No tickles!” Gonff cried, throwing his paws in the air in mock horror. “I’ll tell.” He sat up, taking Columbine’s paws in his. “Just a conversation from earlier today that I haven’t quite figured out an answer to yet,” he said. “That’s all, nothing to worry about.”

“You’re sure?” Columbine asked.

Gonff nodded. “I am. Now-” he grinned and flung himself backward onto the bed- “We’d best get to sleep ourselves to make tomorrow come sooner.”

Columbine giggled and joined him. “If you insist, my Prince of Mousethieves.”

“I do.” He blew out the candle next to the bed and they both went to sleep.

#Redwall #Redwall Midwinter Miracle #Martin the Warrior #Rose of Noonvale #Gonff Prince of Mousethieves #Brome #Abbess Germaine #Redwall fanfic

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dustydreamsanddirtyscars · 5 years

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I don't blame you at all for keeping quiet about the show. I just can't understand how the people running the CW can look at what Dabb is doing to this show and go, "Eh - good enough." It's NOT good enough. It is demonstrably terrible, and at this point I desperately hope there will be a new show runner next season who will reveal the last 2 seasons were all a dream because one of the boys was in a coma. I don't know how else to fix things without acting like the Dabb era just didn't happen.

Not sure my ask went thru… What’s up Girly-girl! Long time no comment, edit, review, rant, observation, bitch session… we miss you! You still watching? Curious as to what you think about theses past 5 episodes. Looks like Dabb in his ultimate suckitude as a Showrunner has screwed Jensen over again and handed off his DeanMichael storyline to another. Shocker. I’ll be really pissed if he has. And it definitely looks that way.

Hello dear!

I assume these two might have been written by you? And probably some time ago as well. I’m sorry about replying so late, but tumblr hasn’t really been a prioriy these past months. Thank you for your message though. :) I think tumblr is working perfectly alright without me though, but thank you for being sweet and saying you missed my rambles.

That being said, I don’t think there will be any rambles, specs or metas posted on my page in any foreseeable future - though I could probably just schedule the around 200 meta-, gif- and edit-posts that are still sitting in my drafts, but then again… they have collected some dust by now.

To be completely honest, it’s a combination of things why I have been silent on here. One being that my daily life with work has been pretty demanding and doesn’t leave me with a whole lot of energy after I get home, but it’s also that I simply don’t have as much to say about SPN anymore these days.

I joined fandom in the middle of S7 and my personal highlight times on here has been from S8 to S11 - those were the good old days of meta, really they were golden and I cherish that time dearly still, but fandom has changed since then (and what people deem most important as well), the show has changed and I don’t feel like I am having a place in this fandom any longer. While I also always love editing, my primary focus on tumblr and with my blog has been analysis and meta and I feel like the kind of meta I strived for, loved reading and wrote myself theme wise is no longer of any interest to the majority of people - which doesn’t really bother me, I would continue to post my views regardless, but these past 3 seasons under Dabb’s reign have been hard on me. He turned the show into something I can barely recognize as the show I fell in love with. The storytelling is a mess and so much other stuff as well that I have been very vocal about up until a few months back, but I didn’t want to be just negative any longer so I took a break hoping that maybe SPN would inspire me again to write, but Dabb’s version of SPN is so shallow, so foreseeable from miles away that it has simply not been the case.

To put it plainly, Dabb has made me fall out of love with SPN these past 3 years as he turned it into a show that has nothing in common with the show I love. Of course all of our tastes differ, but my personal favourite seasons past Kripke were the Carver years as he imo knew how to craft story, craft emotion, craft characters and he knew how to play subtle, how to set up a story and follow through, how to make your heart ache in the best way possible. His style of storytelling and showrunning is what I adored and Dabb’s style has hardy anything in common with that so the past three years watching the show, seeing canon thrown out the window, replacing deep emotion with cheap melodrama and stories that built up and had a climax to millions of stories that go nowhere has left their mark on me. It’s been a tough three years, years that were frustrating, yes even painful, it was like a relationship that you always hoped would blossom again but never did. It’s like a relationship that had all the raw potential but ended up hurting you more than it made you happy.

Don’t get me wrong, I will always love this show and there will never be another show that will have this impact on me and my life and I can guarantee that there will NEVER be a character that will mean as much to me as Dean Winchester, but Dabb era has been painful, because I cared so much about the show. I was mourning it and it’s characters while they were still there on my screen but treated with such careless hands that I needed to take a step back and to be honest, I think it was the right call. For one because no one needs a negative voice all the time, but even more so now that J2M have revealed that S15 will be the last.

I see a lot of people very broken up about it and I’d have been the same way after S8 or 9 or 10 or 11 if it had ended then, right now I feel relief - and I don’t want to hurt anybody with saying that - and strangely enough for the first time in a while interest again (I have been watching the episodes btw, but like I said… nothing that would need to be written about - aside from Jensen rocking it with his Michael struggle, which like you said now has been given to someone else, once more) and a faint bit of hope and even happiness, because this way they should be able to craft an ending that is planned from the get-go. And that is something that could be very good for the storyline - then again, sadly I doubt that someone like Dabb could pull it all together. But here’s to hoping. All I want at this point is for them to make it count, make it worth it - I’d love nothing more than seeing the first episode of S15 and feeling like writing meta again.

So, what does it all add up to? I know this is a long ramble, but I felt it was overdue given my silence on here. I don’t know how often I’ll be on here from now on, I’ll check in here and there, but I doubt I’ll be posting much. To everybody who is hurting due to SPN coming to an end: HUGS. Really selfishly I can say I truly don’t hurt or feel broken up, I feel more like resolution is finally on the horizon and potential for a wonderful ending. And something that I will always be grateful for is the people this show has brought into my life, people who’ll stay in my life way past this show, that’s what makes the show count: just like the character will transcend, keep living, so will these friendships for life and that’s how this show will become “immortal”. Not through the storylines, not through the 15 seasons it aired, it had impact through and due to the people who watched it and who found like minded people through it they can consider close friends and even family now.

Anyway, if I could have one wish fulfilled, it would be to get all of the good writers back on the show for this last hurra, Ben Edlund, Jeremy Carver, Sera Gamble, Raelle Tucker, Robbie Thompson and Adam Glass for example and of course Eric Kripke. Let them pen the ending to the show that famously once said “endings are hard, but nothing ever truly ends, does it”. And yes, I still stand by my sceanrio that I have written about many a times before in terms of endings. I’d love it if the ending scene was a shot of the Impala on some stretch of the road (the brothers may have died fighting the good fight or finally retired or whatever else) and some guy who looks to be lost, but a good soul tries the door and it swings open. He sits down, rumages through the car to find the keys and finally looks into the glove compartment where a thick envelope sits that reads:

“For you”

And the guy picks me it up and opens it and inside there’s a leather journal, reminiscent of John’s but not his and a folded piece of paper and the keys to the Impala. And you can see in Dean’s handwriting there’s written:

“May she be as much of a home to you as she was for me and my brother. Treat her well, or I swear I’ll haunt your ass.”

And the guy laughs and turns on the ignition, “Back in Black” starts blasting from the radio so that he turns down the volume and fumbles for the journal, opens it up and looks at the first page that says:

“My name is Dean Winchesters. And then is my story. Buckle up.”

#Ask #Anonymous #Supernatural #SPN #SPN meta #Supernatural Meta #SPN nostalgia #Possible unpopular opinion #SPN criticism #But also SPN appreciation

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ernmark · 7 years

Note

an ugly idea: juno's mother found out about him being a werewolf and, in an effort to use it against him, she accidentally put ben in the way

This one’s been sitting half-finished in my drafts for a while. It’s a challenge, partly because I didn’t have a very clear image of what kind of person Juno’s mother was, and partly because it’s a hella dark situation compared to the surprisingly fluffy rest of the series.

Blood and child abuse ahoy, so… yeah.

When Sasha and Mick find him, he’s quiet. The blood and snot and tears have all dried; he’s even stopped shaking. All he does is stare straight ahead. The only sign he can see them at all is the way that he flinches when they approach. He doesn’t answer when Mick demands to know if somebody hurt him. He doesn’t resist when Sasha searches him for injuries.

She’s the one who figures it out first. “Juno–”

He can sense the question she’s going to ask, and he curls into himself like he can hide from the answer. She grabs him by the shoulders and forces him to face her.

“Juno, whose blood is this?”

It takes him a long time to form the words. In the end, only one of them makes it out.

“Ben.” He looks like he might cry again, if there was anything left in him. His voice is faint and raw. “He’s dead, Sasha. I killed him.”

It’s Mick who sits with him for the next several hours while Sasha collects herself. It’s too soon after what happened to Annie, her nerves are too raw, it hurts too much.

In the end, though, that’s why she comes back: because she still doesn’t know exactly what happened to Annie. And goddammit, she can’t go the rest of her life not knowing what happened to Ben.

There’s no crime scene, no line of police tape to cross. Juno carried his brother’s body to the hospital long after it had gone cold, but it’s too soon for the cops to have found the right place– and that’s assuming they’d even look. After all, people die in Oldtown all the time. Some of them are kids. And when they’re already past saving…

She swallows back bile.

It happened at an abandoned house not too far from Juno’s place, one with heavy chains over the boarded up windows and doors. During Juno’s cycle, one of the sets of chains is held together with an old-school combination lock, so she and Mick can sleep without having to worry about anyone getting in there while Juno’s feral… at least, that was the idea. But the chains over the side door hang limp, and the lock lies in the dust beside them.

It was Ben’s lock, from back when he was in his retro tech phase. He would have known the combination to open it.

The irony hits her like a punch in the gut. She has to take a minute to steady herself.

She can do this. She has to do this. For Juno’s sake. For Ben’s. For Annie’s.

She takes a deep breath and pulls open the door.

This is one of the old buildings, back when they were made to last, with plaster over concrete walls. It looks like Juno found that out the hard way: the rotting carpet and imitation hardwood is ripped to shreds, and the walls are scored with clawmarks from months of frantic digging. Every flat surface is covered by several months’ worth of thick red dust, interrupted only last night.

There are multiple sets of tracks here, but it’s not hard to pick out Ben’s from Juno’s human footsteps. His feet are– were– too big for him, so much that he skipped right past wearing Juno’s hand-me-down shoes and started having to wear their mothers’. Sasha follows the footsteps carefully.

He was running, that much is clear. The tracks turn sharply to the left, and then zag to the right, toward the basement door.

The doorknob is free from dust where it was recently grabbed.

The moment she opens the door, the smell hits her, coppery and thick enough to make her stomach turn.

She runs away. It’s a secret that she’ll take to her grave, but she’s out the door and vomiting in the alley before she knows what happened. She stays there until she stops crying, until her heart stops trying to ram its way out of her ribcage, until she can actually breathe again.

And then she spits out the taste of acid and marches back into the house.

Because it’s awful– it will never stop being awful– but she has to know. Juno has to know. And if this gives her even more nightmares… well, the old ones could use some company.

And so she marches down the hall and into the basement.

It’s strange. There’s so much blood– and so little. There should be more– or there shouldn’t be any at all, but if the universe has to take someone like Ben out of this world, then at least it should have the decency to give him the kind of sendoff he would have gotten excited about. Instead it’s just there, a single pool, cracking and curling as it dries, interrupted by a few smears and a handful of bloody paw prints.

She feels queasy again, but there’s nothing left in her to throw up, and so she looks harder. Once she gets over the initial wrongness, a new kind of wrongness sets in.

Because she remembers what happened to that poor rabbit that ran into Juno in the sewer. She found traces of blood everywhere– on the walls, on the ceiling. This is too clean. Even if Ben had died in one bite, it would still be too clean.

She turns on the flashlight of her comms and looks again, and this time she spots what she missed before: the dust on the stairs looks strange, wiped away in patterns that are too unsteady to be deliberate. On the edge of one step, two thirds of the way down, there’s a small splash of blood.

And the puzzle pieces click into place.

Ben running, going through the door– maybe he didn’t even realize it led to a flight of stairs– and then he fell. He hit his– with all that blood, it must have been his head. That’s where he landed. That’s where Juno circled him once, as a wolf, and then… laid down next to him?

God, Juno.

The human footprints leading up the stairs are incomplete, the blood clinging to the soles already half-dried.

But that can’t be right. Because Ben was obviously running from something, and so fast that he didn’t bother to look where he was going. What, though?

She climbs the stairs again, looking more closely at the footprints. There’s her trail, going to the basement and back and back again. There’s Juno, with the holes in his sole where he used his shoes to climb over razor wire. There’s Juno’s paw prints. And there’s Ben, running to the stairs and doubling back before–

No. Wait.

The footprints are the same size, the same brand, but they’re different. One of them has the tread mostly worn off the sole, while the other looks fairly new.

The worn shoes only go one way. The newer ones make it as far as the basement, then back up to the wall and go back the way they came.

Ben was chased.

And Sasha knows who did it.

Sasha climbs in through Juno’s window, her feet bare to avoid making a sound on the cheap linoleum. There’s no need to be so careful, though. Sarah Steel is passed out over the kitchen table, an overturned bottle of scotch in her hand, her dust-stained shoes still on her feet.

She leaves her there.

The important part is letting Juno know what really happened. It’s up to him to decide what to do with her.

#ingridlake #the penumbra podcast #writing prompts #fanfiction #in which I demonstrate why Dark Matters snapped up Sasha at the first opportunity

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naomi-l-tiessen-blog · 7 years

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Tips on Breaking Out of Your Writing Hiatus

Helllllooooo everybody ~

Happy Thursday Blogday!

Well, we’ve all been there. We didn’t mean for it to happen, but it just…did.

We stopped writing.

Life got busy. I’ve never been a fantastic multi-tasker, and back in the summer of 2016, it seemed like suddenly everything was happening at once. I was playing roller derby, and had practice 3 times a week. I was still working full-time at the hospital. And on top of it all, I was in the process of moving to a different city, soooo packing, packing, packing. As much as I didn’t want it to, writing sort of went onto the backburner, and then it slipped off completely. And I let it. I didn’t even think twice about letting it not be a priority. One week became one month, then two months, then three months, and then I stopped counting.

So, when the time came that I finally decided to pick up the pieces of my nearly finished manuscript, I was sort of at a loss of what to do. I had stopped in the middle of a chapter (ouch), and said chapter was a heavy duty one (double ouch). I had no clue what to do. I knew that I had overcome the hardest part by accepting the fact that I had screwed up, but somehow, it didn’t seem as simple as sitting down and writing again. In truth, I didn’t feel worthy to write. I almost felt like I needed to confess my sins, plead for forgiveness from my abandoned novel baby, and join a Seven Steps Program or something.

All this sound familiar?

I have done a good chunk of research, and have come up with ten useful tips on how to overcome the mountain that is known as Hiatus. Some of these may work for you, and some of them may make you cringe so hard it looks like you’re seizing. But whether all of them apply to you or not, they are still little gems to put in your writer bank!

1) So, first and foremost, allow yourself that pity party your brain is begging you to have. Eat junk food, wallow in guilt, maybe cry a little (ahem *points to self* moi), and procrastinate a bit more. Get it out of your system. And then, when you are finally ready to face the music (…manuscript?), move on. I know, I know, weird tip right? “But Scarlette, everyone else tells me to stop beating myself up immediately!” Ooook. Well, you’re going to feel guilty regardless of whether I tell you to or not. So let’s all just be real about this. You’re a human being. You feel things. You’re going to feel guilty about abandoning your baby and letting it collect dust. You’re going to want to beat yourself up about it. Use that to push yourself forward. Do it. Do ittttt. And then carry on.

2) Start slow. Maybe do some writing challenges or exercises. Do a writing prompt or two...whatever it takes to get the brain juices flowing (ugh...that sounds nasty). For me, I went back momentarily to fanfiction. Writing fanfiction was my safety blanket for a long time, and it felt nice to be on familiar ground while I more or less tried to un-rust myself. And really, much to my relief, it didn’t take long to get my groove and confidence back. One thing to keep in mind is that it's not a race; you need to figure out what works best for you to get back in the swing of things. It may take a couple writing prompts, or it might take an entire fanfiction. Go at a pace that is good for you. Your novel baby knows you are working hard. It’s not going anywhere. It’ll be there when you are ready. It’s not a race. Unless you have an epic deadline….then this is super awkward…may I refer you to my previous blog regarding motivation?

3) Do research. And by research, I mean reading. A lot of it. And I don't know about you, but sometimes when I'm reading, I'll find myself thinking, "Well fuck, I could've written this better." Yes. Hell yes. Use that. DO THAT. GET WRITING.

4) Once you are actively writing, allow yourself to get into the groove, and don’t stop. Unless you desperately need a pee break, sustenance in the form of snacks and liquids, or it’s a family emergency, don’t stop. Whether it’s for a page, or thirty minutes, or 500 words, or an entire chapter/scene, write your little cynical, introverted heart out. You’re going to force that groove out of its hiding place, the stubborn bastard.

5) Set a concrete, measurable goal. “Write.” is not gonna cut it, trust me. I’ve done it before where I’ll get home after work, look at my Honey-Do List and see WRITE in big, aggressively bold letters staring back at me. I’ll then toss the list aside, grab my video game controller, and say, “Well, technically I wrote all day. Charting on patients counts as writing, right?” No, no it doesn’t. Give yourself something to work towards, such as a word count, page number, or set a timer and tell yourself that you’ll write for the next hour without stopping.

6) Don’t edit as you go. For the love of God, don’t edit as you go. Accept the fact that you are going to be rusty, and move on. Right now, all that’s important is getting words out of your noggin and onto paper. Save the editing for later. That’s what drafts (and drafts, and drafts) are for. The minute you start analyzing what you are writing, you’re going to only focus on how awkward and rough things are sounding, and you’ll lose your gumption to push forward. Instead of thinking, “Writing, writing, writing,” you’ll be thinking, “Shitty, shitty, shitty. Oh God, make it stop.” No. Bad. Don’t do that.

7) Accept the fact that your writing style has most likely changed. It's going to be almost comical re-reading and editing my first draft of HBE, considering I started writing it in 2014 and have grown so much since then. And by comical I mean I'm going to cry. A lot. But that’s the harsh truth of going on hiatus in the middle of a project. Things are bound to change. You aren’t the same writer you once were when you first started. Maybe this change is for the better, or maybe it’s for the worst. But guess what? You won’t actually know the answer unless you START FRICKEN WRITING.

8) Maybe start somewhere you were once really excited about. Now, I don't normally recommend this...I’m a fan of writing in chronological order, but if you are stuck on a killer scene and are dreading going back to it, especially now that you are feeling a bit out of touch with your writer side, maybe start somewhere a bit lighter, easier. Maybe there’s a scene you’ve been dying to get to, and you know that you could totally make that scene your bitch. If the only reason why you haven’t already pounced all over that scene is because of a fear of breaking out of chronological order, then you’re being stubborn and silly. Come on. Try it. Give in to my suave charm and give it a shot. It could be a confidence booster! And then, when you are feeling ready, go back to that killer scene and kick its butt.

9) Build up your habit/restart your ritual. Some people throw dance parties right before they get to writing. Some people like to read right before they dive into their own work as a way to be inspired. I personally like to clean my entire house about 15 times before I finally decide to sit down and write (DO NOT RECOMMEND). What was your previous ritual? Did it work for you? If it didn’t, switch it up! Instead of waiting until nighttime to write, perhaps get to work in the morning when your mind and body are refreshed and not weighed down and jaded by the day yet. Maybe try location writing. I know, I know, the idea of getting out of the house might seem awful and panic-attack inducing, but it might help stimulate your brain juices (ugh…said it again), and inspire you. Find a quiet little coffee shop, or hunker down in the corner of a book store. Get your favorite coffee/tea/cleverly disguised alcoholic beverage (no judgement), and write until closing time. Find a ritual that works for you, and perform it until it becomes a habit. Think of it as your bedtime routine. The moment you start doing this ritual, whether it’s brushing your teeth, washing your face, or putting on your PJ’s (this doesn’t work for me, considering I wear my PJ’s all day), something triggers in your brain, telling it, “Hey, it’s time for bed! Hooray!” The same will happen with your writing routine. The minute you initiate the writing ritual, your brain is going to register what is happening and jump into Writer Mode.

10) Revamp that outline. It's going to help remind you of all the hard work you’ve already put into your manuscript, how far you’ve come, and the fun things to come. Set aside some time to laze out on the couch with a glass of wine, and read your outline from start to finish. Not gonna lie, chances are it’s going to make you cringe a little *once again, pointing to self*. You might find plot holes, or god-awful ideas that sounded so good at the time but what the hell were you thinking? Were you wondering why I mentioned an alcoholic beverage earlier? This is why. You need to sift through all the bullshit and find the reasons why you fell in love with your novel baby in the first place. Get excited all over again. Review it, revise it, love it.

Bonus Tip: When you are done writing for the day and about to pack it in, set yourself up for success. Organize and prepare for your next writing adventure so that it isn't like pulling teeth when you attempt to convert brain vomit into word vomit. Personally, I like to stop in the middle of a sentence. I might know how I want that sentence to end right then and there, but I save it for the next day. So, when I open up my manuscript and see that half-done sentence just begging to be finished, I can easily do it. BAM! First sentence done. Piece of cake. I’M ON FIRE! Now onto the next one. It's a bit of a mind game, I know, but it's also a confidence booster for me.

And that’s it! See, jumping back into that novel doesn’t seem so terrifying now, does it? And keep in mind to take these with a grain of salt; some of these will work for you, and some of them won’t. Everyone is a unique, delicate flower, and not every drop of water from the watering can is going to make its mark on you. God. Cheese please. It sounded so much better in my head.

With that said, I post new blogs every Thursday, and if there is anything you’d like me to discuss, feel free to message me on here, or tweet me @ @ScarletteStone

Until next time, my beautiful, delicate flowers:

Happy writing!

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fountainpenguin · 7 years

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Once Act 2 of Origin of the Pixies is over, I can finally delete the Google Docs file for it. For kicks and giggles, here are some deleted scenes that have been sitting at the end of the Acts 1 and 2 document all this time-

H.P. talking biology with Mr. Thimble:

Four and a half centuries after that, just before I was to begin my real work as an employee in the family business of Wish Fixers rather than Ambrosine’s unpaid little tagalong, I returned to Spellementary School to seek something from Mr. Thimble that I had never wanted in the months following my nymphhood: His advice.

My timing was perfect, as it tended to be. I arrived as his latest batch of students was filtering out for recess. He crouched on the floor with a dustpan full of pottery chunks and crumpled flowers (someone, it seemed, had finally put that twisted orange and brown monstrosity on the bookshelf out of its misery).

"Someone broke your vase?" I asked as he stood.

He shrugged and started for the waste bin. "One of the will o' the wisps brushed it with her wing. It doesn't matter- they were just daisies." Then he glanced over at me for the first time. “Ah. Fergus Whimsifinado. You look more like your father every day.”

Mr. Thimble considered this. “If you want to say you’re a pixie, then I see no reason why you can’t. The early will o’ the wisps and brownies began in a similar way. Here. You remember this old collection of tablets, perhaps. I would suggest you find some blank ones and create a copy for pixies, containing information such as wing design, particular magical abilities, sexual tendencies, and aggressive behaviors that outsiders ought to be aware of.”

I stared at the heap of tablets with my stomach curling in and out of knots. I wanted to be called something, but I didn’t want it that badly. I thanked him for the tablets and even began my work, but I lacked the attention and drive for it. The project was shelved.

This scene was originally going to appear after the lunch conversation with Ambrosine in “Love Struck Out”. In this early draft of the story, H.P. wasn’t so bogged down by feelings of “not being a real fairy” and “my mutation makes me ugly”, and he was actually going to call himself a pixie from the get-go. He approached his old school teacher, requesting to fill out the tablets to get his species placed in the school textbooks. Because of course he can do that.

I felt like this concept took a LOT out of the story, though, which is one reason why the scene was tossed and I went back to the drawing board (other reason being, it disrupted Chapter 3′s flow). I did really want to make a joke about him hating paperwork in his youth, but after ditching this scene I never really had the chance.

Also, you may notice that the mention of the vase was moved to “The Art of Starting Fires” instead. I was pretty proud of how it was written, and designed the Wish Fixers scene around it (after tweaking the scene as necessary to fit Karowel’s personality, of course). Fun Fact: In Act 4, H.P. owns a vase that looks exactly like this one even though he called it ugly in his youth.

Academy Party:

Sparkle wiggled his brows. “Are you sure you don’t want a sip? It’s orange.”

I studied the drink, then brought it to my lips. “Maybe just one.”

It runs in the family, the sugar addiction. I was at the top of my game one moment, leaning back in my comfortable seat and surveying my kingdom with fingertips pressed together. Shortly thereafter, Polly was leading Sparkle and I down the hall by our ears, both of us with our words bumping together like raindrops. I find it necessary to state, however, that soda is no longer a weakness of mine and should not be expected to work against me again.

Although this snippet has some merit, I removed it from “School’s In - Not Much of a Musical” because I realized I didn’t want to timeskip the entire party (I played with the idea of having two parties at first). After this, I wrote the second “party” as something rather boring. H.P. was just playing snapjik with Sparkle and Polly in the basement somewhere. Brown walls and quiet people in the study area, yep. There was... no excitement whatsoever until Ambrosine showed up. It just seemed like the kind of place H.P. would hang out.

Then I remembered he’s canonically a rave-lover and grinned a wicked grin.

H.P. meets Pip

I jolted upright, wings flared. “What the- Ow!”

A blue and black shape hovered above me with a horrified stare etched across her entire face. “Of all the places to spill my hot spaghetti sauce, it had to be on a fairy in diapause.”

“What?” I mumbled, rubbing my eyes. “I wasn’t… what?”

She bore no crown, and her bat-like wings were feathered along the edges. An anti-cherub, then. She stared at me, stiff, with a bowl of pasta in her hands.

I took a few steps, but swayed heavily and began to sag. “Take it slow, big fella,” she said, tailing me. “That’s it. Keep walking forward. Forward.”

“I know you’re trying to walk me off a cliff. This is where I live. I know this valley.” I rubbed my entire face with my palm. “Was I seriously in diapause? The last season I remember was the Winter of the Scarred Caribou. What year is it now?”

“Autumn of the Flightless Bird. That would be about…” She tipped her head. “Twenty thousand years, I think?”

I blinked several times. “You remember that?”

She coughed into her fist. “Years are kind of my thing. It’s in the job description. You learn to pick them up. Anywho, no one wants to hear about my boring life.”

“Hey, I’d be more grateful in your position. You would have been eaten by predators if I hadn’t waited around until some angels found you and decided to give you a proper burial.”

“They buried me alive?”

“It wasn’t their fault. You still had dust on you and you looked pretty dead.”

“And that was twenty-thousand years ago.”

“Yep.”

“You’ve been stalking me for twenty thousand years, and you’re only just now waking me up.”

“Yep.”

“Why are you like this?”

“I dunno? I come around this area every century or so to listen to that fluttery sound of your core deep underground, and I finally got curious and just decided to do it.”

I checked myself over through bleary eyes, but all my clothes were still in place, well-worn by the elements and damp with ice.

“Identify yourself, or I shoot you with a seven-day blindness hex.”

“Easy, easy!” she protested, flapping her wings.

“Who are you? Why are you here?”

These diapause ideas were scrapped because of the conflict with Baby, You’re a Rich Man, when H.P. tells Sanderson he met Pip about five hundred years before he was born. I used Mortikor to wake H.P. from diapause instead.

The first one was definitely supposed to show Pip’s quirkiness. In that version, H.P. fell into diapause in his little cave, and she snuck in to rob him. Hot spaghetti sauce is, evidently, warm enough to wake someone from diapause. The other three all take place outside in the snow.

H.P. trying to communicate with humans

“You want me to paint?” I tried to infer. I dipped my fingertips in the red powder, then stared at the wall. What to draw? I had never painted anything before, or if I had, it was when I was very young and the memories had been shuffled beneath millennia of more important work.

I looked at Tall, and then I knew exactly what to create. First, I drew two crude angels, to symbolize the concept of ‘more than one’. Then, more carefully, I drew a third figure floating over their heads, with wings spread. After setting my paints on the floor, I faced the pack again. Shiny had her head to the left, but no one really seemed to get it.

“Pack kills animal,” I said pointing to the picture that Tall had drawn. Moving my finger to the next, I pressed, “Pack gives food to the fairy and cares for them.” The third image, “Fairy lives happy life.”

They weren’t getting it. How were they not getting it?

Oh, well.

I stared around the cave. Then I took up the feathers that had been plucked from the meat, and tucked them into my hair. I took up a large bone like a wand. I brushed clumps of purple dust from my left shoulder down to my hand, and clenched my fingers before they could begin to wriggle back up.

One chance. One chance.

I threw my handful of dust to the floor and silently pleaded for them to shoot up white sparks (It was only a small amount of dust, after all). With a sound like a ping, they did. I leapt into the air as I flared my wings, and held.

I clung to my wand. They seemed to understand. They respected me like I was the greatest. I was a king.

“Okay. For my first order of business, I require an escort to Great Sidhe.” I pointed out the cave and started to leave it, but after a minute of hovering outside the entrance, I came back. “Escort? Why is no one moving?”

The first and third are okay, but I’m not fond of the second. Anyway, like the scenes with Pip, these take place in “The Wanderings of the First and Alone”. I timeskipped them all instead because they weren’t necessary for the chapter, and I was having trouble making them all flow together anyway.

Additionally, I wanted the first time H.P. is seen naming something to be when he names Sanderson (Hence why the story points out he never named his pet fish or the living cardboard boxes). I also played with the concept of H.P. sticking with this group of humans for decades, observing their mortality, but that idea was quickly discarded when I realized it would give him parental experience, and I wanted Sanderson to be the first child who truly looked after.

Social services are trash

The word- it was the wrong word. That word didn’t belong in conversation.

“Dead!” she exploded, visibly resisting the urge to sink her thumbs into my windpipe and strangle me. “The Fairy Elder’s orders! They’ll kill him to prevent the continuing spread of-”

I flashed for the door before she finished, tying the ribbons of China’s coat with all the wrong loops only to tear them apart and redo them correctly. I barreled through two streets, swerving around more than one magic carpet and knocking half a dozen Fairies to the cloudstones.

Originally, H.P. went out to lunch after dumping Sanderson on social services in “Grand Father”. However, he shouldn’t have friends at this time, so I couldn’t figure out how he ended up talking with this lady. Or how “I just illegally abandoned my son and I feel great” could come up in conversation.

In the final version, he goes to the post office instead, and finds out from the Keepers that Sanderson was on the chopping block. The final version works well because it’s a good way to remind the audience that the Refracted exist, and it shows that despite everything, H.P. feels guilty about dropping off Sanderson with little fanfare, and so brings him the scarf.

The draft version was a little too panicked and emotional considering that technically, Origin IS supposed to be written for the pixies and H.P. wouldn’t normally let something QUITE like that slip in. I mean, for the sake of storytelling, I haven’t been writing the way I imagine he truly would, but that’s why he has an editor whom he hates.

I’ve been waiting for the right time to bring the magic carpets up again, but I think I missed my chance, so that might just end up a Frayed Knots thing.

Anti-Sanderson meets Sherri

The door opened, and a slim figure headed across the grass for the showers with a bucket in one hand and rag in the other. A damsel. A cherub damsel. Anti-Sanderson looked at me. “Watch this.”

He went bouncing and sliding down the tree, ricocheting off a tangle of branches, and at the bottom ran over to the cherub. "Can I help you carry that, twizzlerbit?" he asked, and she let him with a smile.

The pair had nearly reached the showers when the cherub made the mistake of holding her eyelids shut, or perhaps darting her gaze away, and Anti-Sanderson lunged for her face. She screamed against his lips and slapped at him with her hands and snapping wings, but with his arms wrapped around her, even the yoo-doo doll struggled to tear him away. As the cherub scrambled off, we all dropped to our knees. We knelt there, hands behind our backs, glowering at one another, until finally Venus stormed in and grabbed the offender by the elbow.

"That's it. I have hit the roof with you. You can spend the next five hundred years in solitary confinement."

I REALLY like the phrasing of jumping down the tree, but had to toss it due to the scene change to the ballroom in “Snowflake”. Shame.

(By the way, Sanderson was mentally nine in “Bells and Whistles”, and is mentally eleven by this point in the story. Once he hits twelve, he’ll be mentally twelve for a looong time until his lines catch up with his mental age. After that, he’ll start aging with his line count. So I guess aging with lines is like a puberty thing? That makes sense to me. Let’s do that. Pair it with a wing moult and other features like an adam’s apple or something, yeah.)

H.P. meets Wanda

“Wanda Fairywinkle.”

“You’re the damsel who traveled back in time to kill the dinosaurs.”

She took the folds of an imaginary skirt and curtsied.

That’s it. That’s the scene. That’s as far as I got before I realized I would MUCH prefer to write “Rain Dance” instead, and I didn’t want to accidentally write myself into a corner.

This scene, and the next one, would take place during the war.

Chatting with Schnozmo

Robin leaned across the table. “They say some lunatic called Doubletake snuck a cú sith into the camp.”

I sipped my coffee. “That in itself was against the Fairy Elder’s orders, isn’t it? Poor sucker didn’t stand a chance, I suppose.”

“I dunno about that. Maybe.” He shrugged. “All I know is, people are sayin’ how Doubletake got himself sugar-drunk and killed Shiverwand. Just stabbed him right in the back, no warning or nothin’. His own bunkmate, while he was sleeping! Got the dust everywhere. How’s that for juicy?”

I rotated my mug between my fingers. “And the cú sith took him on the grounds of dishonorable killing?”

“Sure did! The mangy yellow thing snapped his soul up before you could steal a peach cobbler off a windowsill.” Robin slapped his knee and leaned back, both hands wrapped around the edge of the bench between his knees. “Wish I coulda seen it. Two words: Night patrol reeks. Anyway, they say Doubletake’s body’s new driver is a charming fellow. So, if you wondered.”

“Thank you.”

He flashed his jagged teeth. “Hey, that’s what the Hooded Robin’s here for.”

“And Doubletake in the cú sith’s body?”

“Got away into the trees. They’re trying to round him up. I dunno if they’ll try to get him back in his own body, though. I mean, he was a loopy fellow. A couple years in hot fur might cool him down.”

Mmhm. Originally, H.P. didn’t take Sparkle with him when he left the Academy at the end of “The Fallen Angel”. The rebellion in “A Grain of Truth” didn’t even exist. I’m still trying to decide WHAT H.P. and Schnozmo are going to talk about during this scene, or if the entire scene needs to be removed.

Additionally, the soul-swapping scene worked well for Chapter 6, because it drives home exactly what fairy dogs can do, and justifies H.P.’s reactions in “School’s In” and “Bells and Whistles” sooner rather than later.

Anyhow, those are the deleted scenes, and they’ll be deleted for real when I finish the Act 2 finale and discard this document!

#Origin of the Pixies #ridwriting #Deleted for reasons #I'm wasp dad trash #Original draft

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tanmath3-blog · 7 years

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I’m going to start this interview a little differently. This is the blurb for Andy Graham’s new book. Enjoy!!!

You’re eighteen. Bored. Dad’s away a lot. Says its business, but you’ve seen the lipstick stains. Mum’s home. Too much. Keeping the world gin market afloat on her own. There’s Ariel, the family maid. She’s cool. The one piece of this messed up world that makes sense. And then there’s Raph.

Raph’s the leader of your gang of two. He gets off on doing those things to the animals you both catch: the slicing, crushing, and maiming. Buried a few alive, too. His relationship with that hammer of his is sick.

You run with Raph because, well, nothing else to do out here, right? Except if your folks found out what you’ve been up to, there’d be hell.

Then you find it. Whatever it is.

It can’t be what you think it is. Those things don’t exist. But it’s staring at you. Asking for help. Is it dying? Can these things die? You need to do something for it. Raph wants to do something to it.

Time to choose. Do you run with the human devil you know, or take a chance on this thing that fell from the heavens?

An Angel Fallen is a tale of divine retribution from British author Andy Graham. On a day when the world is struggling to stay sane, and is being ravaged by biblical plagues, what price will two teenagers pay for their past?

Please welcome Andy Graham to Roadie Notes…….

1. How old were you when you first wrote your first story?

Mid-teens. It was a mash-up of LOTR and D&D, written in a red exercise book I’d nicked from school. I don’t know what happened to the original story (it may be gathering dust in a box at the back of my Mum’s loft), but some of those ideas resurfaced recently in some of my short stories, e.g. a spiral staircase that always turns left, whether you’re going up or down it. I then had a long break from writing when the teenage years (and hormones) kicked in. I wrote a lot of short stories when I was working as an EFL teacher, and even looked into publishing them, but didn’t start writing properly until a few years ago.

2. How many books have you written?

Three novels. One set of short stories. One novella.

The novels are my main work to date. The Lords of Misrule is a series of dystopian political thrillers set in an alternate world based on 21st Century EU/ US. They are dark, ambiguous, and the events are very, very possible. That is proving to be both their strength and weakness with readers. Some people like the ‘greyness’ and moral flexibility, others prefer their stories and characters more black and white.

My short stories and the novella explore the dark themes of human psyche in more detail than my longer works. Purely by nature of the stories being shorter, the nastiness is much more concentrated.

3. Anything you won’t write about?

Sparkly vampires with a heart of gold. It’s a crazy idea, it’ll never work. Apart from that, I haven’t found anything I won’t write about, yet. I think most subjects are fair game, it’s the way they are handled that’s important. G.R.R. Martin, for instance, tackles the theme of incest in ASOIAF, but doesn’t go into intimate detail (thankfully). I don’t want to deal with that particular topic, but if for some reason it came up in a story, would I go there? If it revulses me, would it revulse a reader? Is the ‘duty’ of a fiction author purely to entertain? If so, does provoking an emotional response count? I guess if it serves the plot, yes. If it’s there just to be cringe-worthy, then no.

4. Tell me about you. Age (if you don’t mind answering), married, kids, do you have another job etc…

I’m in my mid-forties (as a friend of mine pointed out – ‘over half-way’), married, and have two kids who are still at the wonderful age when they want to spend time with me, and I with them. My wife, fortunately, also still wants to spend time with me. I do various things outside writing: I play bass in a band, teach sports massage, and I am a qualified osteopath. It’s a little manic at times trying to keep up with all of these things, but I like the variety, and it gives me plenty of material to use in my stories.

5. What’s your favorite book you have written?

Ahhhhh. Pass… Not sure. The first proper novel I wrote (Franklin – The Lords of Misrule: Book 2) is probably my favourite story. I Died Yesterday (the titular short story from my compilation), is the one that haunts me most. An Angel Fallen (this novella) is the one I’m proudest of.

6. Who or what inspired you to write?

It’s always been something I wanted to do. Not entirely sure why. Maybe because I grew up in a house full of books, or because I was a shy kid, happier with words than people. As I mentioned before, it took me a long time before I actually started writing properly. Eventually, it was a case of just making time for something I’d really wanted to do. It’s something I’d encourage everyone to do – if you really want to do something, make time for it. Otherwise, it’s never going to happen.

7. What do you like to do for fun?

Make things up and write them down. Outside of that, I play my bass, run around with my kids, and go to the gym (though that’s more like therapy, to be honest).

8. Any traditions you do when you finish a book?

Drink. Wine. Beer. Slivovice. Then start writing the next book.

9. Where do you write? Quiet or music?

I write wherever I can. That’s one of the beauties of the job – you just need a keyboard and imagination. I’m happiest in my front room, sitting in an armchair. I can’t write with music on, it gets in the way of my plot (and spelling).

10. Anything you would change about your writing?

Yes! I seem to have an allergy to punctuation. I’d love to be able to clean that up, it would help the editing process in particular. I tended to get carried away with some of my descriptions in my earlier books. That has improved, I’m much more concise now.

11. What is your dream? Famous writer?

Revenge: to watch my kids struggling with their own children as I struggled with them. Otherwise: Fame? No, not too concerned. Money? Yes, being financially secure would be great. (Anyone who says money’s not important is either lying or loaded.) Success as an author would be fantastic. But, without wanting to be too pretentious, my main dream is for my kids to grow up happy and healthy in a world which is not full of people being such f*****s to each other. But, then, if we did live in such a world, I wouldn’t feel as inspired to write dark fiction.

12. Where do you live?

At the moment in Prague, but we’re in the process of moving to a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. Mixed feelings about it, to be honest. Prague’s a great place, we have good friends, the kids are happy, but the opportunity to ‘go native’ out in the sticks and get ready for the apocalypse is too good to miss.

13. Pets?

The kids have two budgies, initially called Bertik and Pirko. (The latter means ‘feather’ in Czech.) Through sheer bloody-minded persistence and repetition I’ve managed to get them renamed Bucket and Pivo. (The latter means ‘beer’ in Czech.)

14. What’s your favorite thing about writing?

Being judge, jury, and executioner. I get to control who lives and dies, who gets vengeance, and who gets what they got coming to them.

15. What is coming next for you?

I want to finish book four of my main series (The Lords of Misrule). I’m about a third of the way through the first draft. I’m finding it tough going at the moment because there’s so much else going on. I’d like that published by the end of the year. I also have a collection of short stories set in that world coming out in a few months’ time. Then, who knows? I have a few ideas knocking around to build on An Angel Fallen, also supernatural horrors, and similar in length. I have rough plans for a few supernatural thrillers, or I may dip my toes in Joe Abercrombie’s pond and go full, epic grimdark.

You can connect with Andy Graham here:

http://www.andygrahamauthor.com twitter – @andygraham2001 FB – andy graham author.

Some of Andy Graham’s books:

Getting personal with Andy Graham I'm going to start this interview a little differently. This is the blurb for Andy Graham's new book.

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