#tracey summers

[wonkyreads]

I used to write reviews here instead of just Goodreads. I’m hoping to going back to that, but to be honest, I moved last year and don’t have space for my books. This means I stopped taking pictures for the BPCs, so I stopped taking pictures of my recent reads, so posting here felt pointless. I like ranting here, though. Next year, I will attempt to keep that up.

For this year, take an end of the year top worst and best. (And keep in mind these are obviously just my opinions! This list also doesn’t reflect the books I DNF’d because I don’t consider them read personally.)

Top 10 Worst Reads of 2022

10. The Themis Files by Sylvain Neuvel

- So this is a sci-fi trilogy where a girl accidentally discovers a giant mecha hand buried deep underground and grows up to be a scientist and studies/digs up all of these mecha pieces. The first book is genuinely good, but the arguments and plot lines the author decided to take with the rest of the series progressively pissed me off more and more, though. Not a bad series, just ultimately not one I enjoyed.

9. A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara

- I feel I’m gonna piss a fair amount of people off with this one, but it won’t be the last time in this list. With how popular this book is online I don’t feel the need to explain what the plot here is. The writing of this book was beautiful, definitely, it was the content I couldn’t stand. I’m a fan of angst. This was not angst. This was throwing a shelf’s worth of terrible things into a sack and shaking it up to see what happened. This was actively attempting to make people feel things in a way that felt so over the top and transparent that I found myself hardly caring at all. To me, this reeks of romanticizing queer trauma and just trauma in general. I’m just not here for it. Show me redemption or healing, they’re harder to write anyway since it seemed all Yanagihara cared about was the mechanics behind the story and not the story itself.

8. The Kite Runner by Khalid Hosseini

- This book is kind of a modern classic and it’s just… I’m not sure how I was supposed to sympathize with the main character. This is the story of Amir and Hassan, two boys in Afghanistan in the 70’s. Hassan’s father works for Amir’s, but the book spends a large amount of time trying to guilt you into feeling bad for Amir, our main character. That’s kind of the whole plot (without spoilers) as I remember it if I’m being honest. The writing was fine and I’ve liked Hosseini’s books in the past, I just disliked the main character so much it kind of ruined everything. I disliked feeling guilty for not liking him. It all kind of got in the way of the message for me.

7. The Bodyguard by Katherine Center

- Hannah’s a bodyguard and Jake’s a down-to-earth movie star who seems to have a stalker problem. I adore the concept, but I think my main problem with this book is that I hyped it up for myself and told myself I’d love it. That and the premise felt like a promise of some kind of danger and by the time anything actually dangerous happened it was so ridiculous I laughed at it. It’s the over-the-top kind of romance I tend to not like, though. I fully admit to skimming the epilogue because I also kind of hate romance novels that do that.

6. We Are the Brennans by Tracey Lange

- Sunday Brennan gets into a drunk driving accident and then must swallow her pride and move back to New York where her large Irish Catholic family pretends they don’t need her either. This book is about family secrets, but all I really remember about it is that it did this really bad, gimmicky thing where every chapter ended with the same exact sentence, usually dialogue, that the next chapter began with. When it’s done a couple times to show that we’re in the same scene we just left only in a different perspective, or better yet the two perspectives don’t hear the dialogue the same way, it’s fine. But it was every single chapter. Every one of them. I’m also super picky about domestic drama books like this. Hard pass for me.

5. A History of Wild Places by Shae Earnshaw

- Honestly, I’m not sure how to some this up without spoilers so I’ll just say it’s a cult-y mystery told in multiple time lines. This is the second book I’ve read by Earnshaw and both were promising starts with disappointing developments for me. For me, the book was too predictable to be satisfying and, worse, often it felt like the most boring option was constantly being chosen. The concept was originally very promising, but the closer I got to the end and realized the twist wasn’t going to be fun or interesting, the more reading the book started to feel like a chore.

4. There’s Someone Inside Your House by Stephanie Perkins

- Oof. I don’t know how I picked this book up and didn’t expect it to be a teen slasher. I’ll watch a slasher any day of the week (including the movie made from this book), but reading them is kind of boring. You know the tropes, so when they’re followed it’s anticlimactic. I also found some of the character interactions hard to believe, which didn’t help raise my opinion any. I’m just harsh on thrillers and any books involving “small towns.”

3. Summer Sons by Lee Mandelo

- When his BFF Eddie, and definitely not his boyfriend, dies of apparent suicide, Andrew moves into Eddie’s old house with Eddie’s friends to find proof that Eddie’d been killed. There’s also some supernatural stuff and dark academia themes. This is another opinion I feel will make enemies, and it’s one I’ve actually posted here before. I read this book so early in the year that I’ve forgotten most of the specifics about it. What I remember disliking the most, though, was along the same lines as A Little Life. So much felt like it was just there to romanticize queer pain and what was left outside of that was a disappointingly slow mystery that didn’t really surprise or scare me. I think the conversations this book attempted to have were interesting, I just also think it failed to pull it all off. I didn’t believe or feel these characters. I didn’t care for how much it read like Ronan (of The Raven Boys) fanfic. I was consistently annoyed with smart characters avoiding the plot line or making idiotic choices. Also, I’m still traumatized by how obsessed literally everyone was with Eddie, I’m genuinely avoiding books using that name now. All around, absolutely wasn’t for me.

2. Dating Dr. Dil by Nisha Sharma

- Romance is not my genre. Romance that is so over-the-top crazy unrealistic is super not my genre. This book follows Kareena and Dr. Dil in a retelling of The Taming of the Shrew. Kareena is supposed to get married before her younger sister and her family is pressuring her, also her dad is selling her childhood home. Dr. Dil hosts a TV show and wants to raise money for his community clinic. I disliked Dr. Dil so, so much and Kareena was so inconsistent. The book felt so unedited and contradictory that I was constantly annoyed with it. The balance between show and tell was nonexistent; you can’t tell me what these characters are and not back it up and expect me to like them or believe them. People’s reactions were crazy over-the-top sometimes and if I have to ask of people actually act like that in real life, I’m already frustrated. I adore The Taming of the Shrew. I could watch 10 Things I Hate About You on repeat. I wanted to love this book so, so badly and was so utterly disappointed in what I got.

And last, but certainly least:

1. Verity by Colleen Hoover

- Verity was one of my most recent reads (I, regrettably, listened to it while icing sugar cookies for Christmas) and it follows Lowen attempting to write the end to a book series she’s never read before by snooping through the original authors memoir manuscripts. Or something. I have never read a Colleen Hoover book before and bought this one through audible years ago because everyone seemed to love it so much. This book has a 4.4 rating on Goodreads. I would just like to know how. Honestly. Talk about unbelievable characters! There were so many unnecessary gratuitous sex scenes in this book and just.. laughable suspense. A lot of the “twists” in this book were so predictable, but I do have a few questions; namely, how the fuck did Jeremy’s milquetoast ass get two women to become so obsessed with him so fast? Also, do people actually think like Lowen does? Holy shit. No really, I have SO many questions and I’m fairly certain none of them are the kind Hoover intended for me to have. I could go on for hours but I’m attempting to avoid spoilers and also it’s a fairly loved book and I don’t want to verge into the territory of yucking someone’s yum or anything, I just genuinely don’t understand. 4.4! Jesus Christ!

[ricofurlow]

It's nice to enjoy the beach if you can.

[gusilux]

Sunlight, 2017

(TS Harris)

Oil on canvas 60 × 60 in | 152.4 × 152.4 cm

[strangelovealchemist]

🌞 “When that summer sun comes down

When the season comes around

There will be no end in sight

We will be besieged by light” ☀️

[avalynlestrange]

Opposite

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Reader: she/her pronouns, no house mentioned but are friends with the Slytherin Squad and Hufflepuff Faction <3

Warnings: swearing, mentions of underage drinking, implied sex-no smut. It’s literally a sentence- (Please let me know if I missed any)

Category: Angst, One-Shot, Songfic, ex-boyfriend, on and off relationship, jealousy, no use of y/n

Summary: In which Mattheo has a new girlfriend and she looks nothing like you.

So y'all are in Hogsmeade now? Guess it's public.  You recall what Annlynn looks like and note that she has a face like that other girl you're in love with. The one in that movie you both watched again and again since it was his favourite. You scoff. ‘You knew I would see that. You knew I would notice.’ You think to yourself.

Request: anon requested

Author’s Note: I hope this is to your liking <3

Word Count: <2k

To The Library (Main Masterlist) To The Kitchen (WIPs) To emails i can't send fwd: Anthology To more Mattheo Riddle fics

You are in the astronomy tower for your evening lesson, and you hear giggling next to you.

“Mattheo says I’m his type.”

Your ears prickle at the mention of his name. 

Oh, so you do have a type? And it's not me.

You brush off the memory of the argument you had with Mattheo the previous year when he would rather drink a shot than tell everyone at the party what his type was. That action stung even to the present day. You remember him defending himself saying that everyone knew you were his girlfriend and that he didn’t need to describe you. It still would have been nice to hear.

“He’s been writing to me all summer.” The same voice spills more tea to her friends.

Oh, so you can reply? Just to not me. 

All summer you had hoped that Mattheo would write to you taking back the harsh words exchanged in your heated break-up a few weeks before the holidays. You sent him a postcard from Paris saying you wished he was with you, but you never got a response. You didn’t think anything of it since it was just a postcard, and he never usually replies to them.

Ever since then, the closest you have ever had to talking was during potions where you asked him to pass the jar of bat wings.

That was a week ago.

You now hear the same group of voices ask about you, to which the girl responds, “He says he’s over her and wants something new. He’s so obsessed with my eyes.”

You can’t tell if she’s speaking loudly for your benefit, but you certainly know that she is aware of your vicinity now as Pansy swears at them and throws them the finger. You quickly grab your friend’s arm and gently move her away.

Despite your better judgement, you turn to look at the person speaking about your ex-boyfriend as you stride to the other side of the room.

‘If you wanted those colour eyes. I could have got contacts.’

“Ignore them. You deserve better anyways.” Pansy tries to reassure you. You nod in agreement, but you can’t shake the uneasiness you feel when you look at Mattheo and he’s looking at her.

⳾*⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*⳾

“Pass me the butter?” Daphne requests. 

Your head feels faint and wobble the butter dish nearly dropping the lid, and the whole butter itself, into Pansy’s hot chocolate.

“That’s not the dairy I want in my cup.” Pansy jokes. She takes the dish off your hands and passes it over to Daphne.

“You look like a panda. Are you feeling alright?” Tracey asks, taking a bite out of her breakfast. She calls your name when you don’t reply. 

Your eyes give the great hall a once over and notice that the person haunting your nights is not at his usual seat with his friends. 

“He’s on a date in Hogsmeade.” Informed Susan. “I heard Annlynn brag about it last night in the common room.”

You saw Pansy glare at Susan.

“What? Ow! Why did you kick me?” Susan reaches down to rub her hurt shin.

So y'all are in Hogsmeade now? Guess it's public. 

You recall what Annlynn looks like and note that she has a face like that other girl you're in love with. The one in that movie you both watched again and again since it was his favourite. You scoff. ‘You knew I would see that. You knew I would notice.’ You think to yourself.

“Guys it’s fine. His loss and besides she looks nothing like me.” You can't really tell, should you be tryna take it as a compliment? It's kinda feeling like the opposite. You see your friends look at each other and then at you.

“Yes girly! Let’s go shopping and show him what he’s missing!” Pansy hypes you up as she raises her teacup and you all clink.

“Hear hear!”

⳾*⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*⳾

Browsing the racks in Galdrags Wizardwear, you have two outfits on hangers in your hands. You head over to the mirror stand by the shop’s main window frame and alternate putting the outfits in front of you. Your eyes look outside, and you catch them holding hands.

With the mirror in front of you, you couldn’t help comparing yourself and the girl he has in his arms.

‘She looks nothing like me. So why do you look so happy?’

Now you think you get the cause of it. He was holding out to find the opposite. From your hair to your eyes to your style. Even when you changed your hair because he said you looked better if you had it styled that way. It’s all the opposite of her.

And you know now, even if you tried to change that somehow, he’d end up with her anyway.

You snap out of your head when Megan scares you from behind. “You’d look cute in either.”

“Get both!” You hear Millicent from the other side of the room.

You smile and it fades when you lock eyes with Mattheo.

⳾*⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*⳾

He was with her longer than you thought they would be. It’s been weeks now. Gazing at the ceiling of your four-post bed, many questions swirl around your mind.

When you argue, does she say nothing so you feel good? When you’re at parties, does she step out of the spotlight so you bathe in it?  When you’re alone, does she get up on top of you more than I would? When you capture her in your sketchbook, does she just love the picture 'cause you're painting it?

“Are you coming?” Your dorm mate calls to you.

It’s the first official match of the year. Slytherin vs Gryffindor. Although you protested not attending and insisted you’d rather stay inside your friends won even though it’s a rainy November. 

You grab your umbrella and raincoat and tread your way to the quidditch pitch. The crowd in the stands were wild in anticipation. Susan beckons you to sit with them, and they’re all dressed devoid of house colours. 

The students cheered for every goal scored and every goal saved. You scream and laugh to your heart's content. The feeling is freeing, and the autumn showers subside. Whizzing brooms and bludgers make you forget about the one boy on the team playing that still held your heart.

At least not until the whistle blows and Mattheo flies toward your stand. The beat of your heart pounds fast in your chest. Is he going to whisk you away like that the first time you broke up? Then your heart falls heavy and your lungs dispel all the hope in your body as you watch him take off with her.

Only it wasn’t Annlynn. But they do have the same features. 

⳾*⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*⳾

It was a bad idea from the start. Studying with your shared friendship circle. But you had missed him. The only time you ever get to interact with him was in group settings.

He was seated beside you for two hours. You’d ask him what he wrote for certain questions, and he’d reply politely. Like he was talking to a stranger, not an old friend. But you take it. You take whatever communication you could get.

You ask once more for his answer to a defence against the dark arts question however, before he could reply, his chair is pulled back, and a girl sits on his lap.

You look away at the public display of affection they share. The nib of your quill ruined by the pressure you place on it.

“Get a room!” You hear Blaise chuckle. 

You whip your head to see Mattheo standing, his arm wraps around her. “Let’s go Harper.”

“Get it boy!” Blaise winks at him. Mattheo shakes his head laughing.

They’ve all looked nothing like you. So why does he look so happy? He really must have been holding out to find the opposite.

⳾*⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*⳾

At the after-party for Slytherin’s win against Ravenclaw, all were present in the great hall. You fill up your cup with whatever fruit blend was in the punch bowl.

“Hey there! Care to Dance?” A quick glance at Mattheo and his date and you take the hand of one Anthony Goldstein.

You danced the night away and had nearly seven cups of the now alcoholic punch bowl, thank you Weasley twins. You tried everything to forget that Mattheo once again was with another girl who doesn’t resemble you. 

Throughout the night your eyes darted to Mattheo and his new girl. The only time their lips were apart was when he would take a swig out of his cup. Every time you saw them, you took a gulp out of yours.

Now, you weren’t drunk per se, but you were feeling a little dizzy after twirling and swaying to the music. You see them walk out of the hall and you couldn’t take it anymore. 

You decide to head outside for some air. You wipe a tear off your face with the back of your hand. 

Whilst opening the courtyard door, you bump into someone. You catch yourself on to the biceps of the person.

“Oh my! You must work out!” The words come out as easily as you sipped the alcohol that caused the bravery.

“Careful darling wouldn’t want your date to think you’re hitting on me.” At the sound of Mattheo’s voice, you curse quietly. You take your heels off and walk away. Footsteps seem to be following you.

“How is Goldstein?” Mattheo asks, pronouncing the name slowly, a hard expression on his face.

You sit on one of the stone arch windows. The cold surface cools you down slightly.

“Oh, he is fine as hell!” You glare at him and with bitterness in your voice you ask, “How is clone number 4?” 

You roll around a gobstone you find on the floor with your foot and kick it a bit too hard toward Mattheo.

“Her name is Maya. Why do you care anyway?” He kicks the stone back to you.

“I care but I don't!” Your volume is lower, your shoulders slouch, and your neck tilts downwards. “Just wondering when… all those times you… you said I'm beautiful. Was I being lied to?”

Looking up at him, you can’t tell if his expression is soft, or it is because your eyes are starting to water. When he says nothing, you carry on.

“She looks nothing like me. Can't really tell should I be tryna take it as a compliment? It's kinda feeling like the opposite.”

He takes a step forward and you hear him whisper your name. “You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.”

You laugh scornfully. “Then why are you with her and not back with me?”

Mattheo runs his hands through his hair and holds them in his fists. “Because you were right!”

Your brows furrow. He continues, “Darling, I’m not good enough for you!”

“I have never said that!” 

Flashbacks to your argument run through your mind. It might have slipped out. You can’t remember. It was all a blur. You don’t even recall the reason why you broke up this time. Whatever was said you were sure you never meant it. You never meant to hurt him like this.

“But it’s true! You deserve more than what I can give you. You deserve the world darling.” He takes another step towards you.

You look up and his eyes meet with yours.

“I don’t want the world. I want you.”

That’s all it took for his walls to crash down as his lips crashes yours.

[precious-little-scoundrel]

A little devil’s lettuce

Sarge 2nd Gen, Summer 1983

Elvis Presley fanfiction

Summary: In the hustle and bustle of the day before Jesse’s wedding to Donna, Elaine finds time for a little bonding with her eldest boy and then her husband

Warnings: Fluffffyyy Mcfluffy! but really this is just goey soft, warnings being diaper changes, some heavy/smutty flirting between Elvis and Elaine, the sneaky use of marijuana by Jesse and Elaine, stoned silliness talking about mermaid holes and “little scarves” and making a baby at 42

Graceland is abuzz with wedding preparations, every flat surface seems cluttered with tulle or flowers or programs, and every table not full of that sorta rubbish is supporting refreshments for the out of town friends and family swarming the place.

Only Elaine Presley would think entertaining people for a week ahead of a wedding was an easy thing to do.

Despite it being preparations for his own wedding, Jesse finds himself mildly overwhelmed by the sheer abundance surrounding him. Abundance of noise and people and flowers and shit lying about. He made one attempt to squirrel away upstairs in his old room and was summarily dragged away from that attempt by Marie who wanted to take pictures of him and Donna. Then take pictures of him and Jack, citing what a rarity it was to have the whole of them together. Jack had a ugly black eye on him, he cites a bar fight in california but oddly, no story of victory is forthcoming so Jesse assumes he got licked and made no further inquiries.

Donna is now preoccupied with Ella and with Tracey Cooke, laughing and squabbling over choosing boutonniere combinations like it really matters how much baby’s breath gets pinned to a fella’s chest. With Daddy, all large belt and white pants and glowing tan presiding over the floral squabble, Jesse has little doubt that Donna will win by choosing whatever he decides would suit her cheeks best.

Thicker than thieves those two already.

Jesse sees his chance and he ducks out of the living room and books it through the kitchen, receiving a taste test of some icing from Mary as he goes, and finally lets himself out the back door.

He slumps to a seat on the garage steps, and knowing time is precious, he lights up the blunt he stashed in his pocket for times like these. A harmless little pastime he’d probably get decapitated by Daddy for if he found out, but it does the trick and it don’t hurt anyone while he’s homebound and off the road.

A few minutes later the door cracks open behind him and Jesse goes to smash the blunt beneath his boot until in an air conditioned gust he sees it’s just his mama. Elaine smells the stink of grass and makes a little sympathetic noise before closing the door behind her and sitting down next to him.

“But Mama -your shorts!” Jesse protests, her pale blue linen getting soiled by the steps.

“Eh, it’ll brush off.” she grins and bumps his shoulder in that way he knows she’s about to conduct a check up on him. Sure enough after watching him take a few puffs she asks sweetly, “You alright, Butnin?”

He grins at the nickname and his laugh is a cloud of green tinged smoke, “Yeah mama, just tired, took awhile to get to sleep last night.

“What kept ya up?” Elaine asks, knowing with the wedding there might be all sorts of nerves to account for. But Jesse has never exhibited even the slightest hint of unsurety about marrying Donna. He’s had to wait four years and now he’s finally getting what he wants and there’s never been a more lackadaisical groom about his hitching himself to the old ball and chain. Elaine reaches out and ruffles his long hair anyway and smiles at the way there’s a sheen of reddish chocolate amongst the black locks when she tousles them just so.

He hands her the blunt and to be perfectly frank, Elaine has been feeling that old craving for champagne to dilute all the craziness and so she draws on it, letting the smoke burn her lungs and rush to her head.

Jesse’s been puffing for a good bit by now and feeling uninhibited in a way he’d never be even two puffs in -which is sorta the point of the smoke anyway- but it serves to loosen his tongue until he answers her without prevarication, “Mermaid holes.”

It’s true, it’s kept him up. Probably brought on by a chat with Jack and furthered by Jesse’s confusion over his brother’s lack of dating since the Great Gardener Debacle. He knows the kid isn’t embarrassed, not as much as the rest of them, so it serves to reason he’s got a dolphin harem to keep him occupied or else…mermaids. But then, how do mermaids…work?

Elaine glances at the blunt she’s already puffed on and wonders at its strength, wonders if a little relaxation is gonna turn her into seeing pink elephants or talking like an idiot.

“Mermaid holes?” she repeats, the subject suddenly a little more intriguing that it was before her last puff. Her head feels light and her aching toes are a removed sensation and suddenly everything seems quite fascinating, even the beetle crawling up Jesse’s jeans and the curiosity of mermaid anatomy.

This stuff is way better than champagne, she thinks.

“Yeah mama, where do they go?” Jesse insists with his cherubic face puckered up in grave contemplation.

She stares at him concerned while taking another hit before passing it back. “Where normal holes go?” she mutters but even to herself it’s a flimsy speculation.

“Maybe they grow legs n’shit.” Jesse decides. “Like when ya pull ‘em outta the water, maybe they grow legs.”

“Ah that makes sense.” Elaine nods, her face puckered too, and if anyone caught them at this moment it would be like finding carnival twins, so mirrored are they in expression and carriage. “Or maybe it’s higher up!” she suggests eagerly, “Like a belly button.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Or- maybe the scales pull back.” Elaine warms to the theory.

“Ooh,” Jesse draws his exclamation out with admiration for his mama’s sharp mind, “like daddy’s scarf, or some shit.”

“Yes!” Elaine gushes, entirely baked alongside him and utterly unrestrained, “they’ve got shiny little scarfs to keep them safe! Keep out the sand and salt, keep them safe from being aggravated and chafed.”

“Oh lord, mama,” Jesse laughs suddenly, “do you ‘member that time daddy got sand in his scarf? At the beach?”

They both start snickering at the memory from ‘62. “Yes!” Elaine agrees, carefully running a finger below her eyes to collect the smearing mascara as her eyes fill with tears of mirth, “I do but…he caught that frisbee, didn’t he?” she giggles.”And he looked so good in those red shorts. Tiny little things.”

“Mhmm, but at what cost?” Jesse agrees and mother and son lapse into another fit of laughter, not at Elvis’ expense but in that fond way of sensible people who humor their insane beloved ones.

“And Rosalee wantin’ to cut it off so it didn’t hurt him no more!” Jesse wheezes beside her in reminiscence.

“Daisy had a k-bar from Rex, she was ready.” Elaine recalls.

“And Jack was hopin’ it was fatal.”

“He was not!” Elaine slaps Jesse’s arm lightly even as she giggles, “You all act like he was a terrible child but he wasn’t! He was sweet!”

“To you.” Jesse clutches his belly. “To the rest he was pretty fuckin’ scary for awhile there, made ‘Elvis’ shit himself sometimes.”

“Language!” Elaine reprimands without any heat, “Y’all didn’t see all the mornings that little darling would wake up and laugh his heart out with Daddy playing shark under the covers. They loved each other…at times.”

“Hmm, Mhmm, i’guess.” Jesse concedes, “Jack’s a lot more tolerable now he’s got his own thing going.” he adds.

“Yes, always good to establish yourself, especially with someone like that, so headstrong both of them.” she murmurs with a sigh, “No house was built for two Elvises.” and she starts snickering again at that thought or whatever scenario it inspired inside her head.

“Maybe he’s chilled out ‘cause of the mermaid harem.” Jesse suggests because Jack is still Jack and having his shit straight ain’t in his wheelhouse. Not all of it, at least. Something’s gotta be up, Jesse can feel it, clear as the kid’s black eye.

“Those dimples would make any mermaid grow legs.” Elaine giggles.

“No mama, it’s a scarf, we decided it’s a shiny scarf.” Jesse reminds, nearly falling off the stair that he’s seated on from his wooziness.

“Yes a little scarf.” Elaine recalls as the door behind them opens and Jesse’s soon to be wife, Donna, steps out and observes them and the skunk grass fumes wafting around them.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me -Ms. Elaine!” Donna gasps in glee at this little rebellion in her otherwise entirely circumspect mother in law.

Elaine spins round with the blunt still between her painted lips and pulls it out in a gust of smoke, a wavering grin on her face. Donna’s not sure she’s ever seen her look so young, though she gets that way around Jesse, like he takes her back to her early mothering days.

“Don’t tell daddy!” Elaine vacillates between a beg and a threat but her smile grows and Donna wonders how the stoned lady intends to keep this a secret but she makes a motion of zipping her mouth anyway.

“Won’t hear it from me!” she swears, “But Elvis is asking for you, he’s halfway through a diaper change and can’t find any wipes. He swears you’ve got the disposable kind somewhere. Johnny tried to find them but he’s given up, too.”

“Oh lord, little Desi uses them to ‘remove her makeup’ so- who knows where they might be.” Elaine refers to her eldest grandchild, Ella’s little girl who likes to mimic her grandmother in all ways. Elaine stands up with a wobble that is steadied by Jesse’s shoulder and Donna’s waiting hands. “Wait, who’s getting their diaper changed?” She asks, suddenly confused by the request, “Did Danny soil himself? Thought we were past that.”

Danny is three and potty trained and as independent as he is loving, and much as Elaine is proud of her toddler’s successes, she misses having a baby, a true baby, in the house.

“It’s one of the neighbor kids, Danny’s friend-“ Donna explains, “-they brought their baby sibling along, no more than a year old I bet. The mom’s at work or something.”

“Oh, alright then.” Elaine shrugs, accustomed to strangers in the house, and she opens the door.

“You’re going in?” Donna asks in some surprise and a little alarm.

“Yes, Elvis needs me.” Elaine answers and that’s not something anyone can argue against and so Donna steps aside and makes certain her mother in law doesn’t trip over the threshold in her heeled sandals.

“Do you really give a damn about those boutonnieres?” Jesse asks his girl as soon as mama has closed the door

“Oh not really.” Donna murmurs, “They’re gonna be gorgeous either way. Elvis is seeing to that.”

“Then don’t go back inside.” Jesse suggests with a drunk grin and his blue eyes beg with such softness as he pats his lap that Donna has no choice but to plop atop his legs and stay with him in the muggy heat.

Miss Mary watched Elaine sashay through the kitchen with narrowed eyes, she’d not seen such a hip swinging gait to the lady of the house in years. A decade perhaps, not since the house used to rock with parties and before the champagne had been used like medicine.

“Lordy Miss Laney, you alright there?” she asked carefully, amusedly watching Mrs. Presley stand atip-toe and rummage in a cabinet, pushing aside spray oil and vanilla.

“Yes, grand, just needing that emergency stash.” Elaine assured over her shoulder and Mary paused in whipping the icing lest she be needed to catch a teetering boss lady. “Aha.” Elaine pulled out a package, “Of these!” she explained as she turned round, presenting the new fangled package of disposable wipes.

Stashed behind the cooking oil. Sure, why not.

Miss Mary grinned back and shrugged, “You’ve got dirt on your behind, Miss Elaine.” she pointed out and the elegant lady of the house was swatting at her plush derrière with a bashful grin as she traipsed out of the kitchen in search of Mr. Elvis, still swaying and jovial.

Entering the somewhat crowded dining room, Elaine found a group of people congregating with outstretched hands and feebly helpful concern around her Ella’s Johnny who had Rosalee standing on his shoulders, switching out a bulb as if they couldn’t afford ladders.

“ ‘Lee?” Elaine questioned it with even less reproof than usual, fully used to such bizarre occurrences and entirely baked by this point, Jesse’s weed having turned everything to middling interest and zero concern, even the picture of Rosalee a good ten or more feet in the air and swaying precariously with feet planted on Johnny’s broad shoulders.

“The bulb’s out!” Rosalee explained with a face red from straining to reach the high mansion ceiling despite her human stepstool and her inherited long limbs.

“Oh, the bulb’s out.” Elaine repeated softly, processing as she stared out the dining room windows at the bright sunshine glaring through.

“Hey Mrs P!” Johnny, tried to turn his neck to face her but Rosalee wobbled from the movement and so he went back to parade rest. “Elvis was looking for ya, needed the wipes for a diaper. I couldn’t find them anywhere, I swear Desi buries them in the potted palms or somethin-“

“Oh I’ve got some right here.” Elaine smiled and waved her package in front of his face enthusiastically.

“Oh. Great.” Johnny’s frown lines deepened in confusion at her enthusiasm. “I uh, I tried looking behind the dog food, Elvis said you keep one there.”

“This one was behind the cookin’ oil.” She whispered conspiratorially and Johnny gave his brief, aborted giggle that had made Elaine like him the instant Ella paraded him through the doors.

“Behind the cooking oil. Naturally.” He quipped and Elaine swatted him with the package causing Rosalee to shriek and beg for stability. “Hey Ella. Mama’s found some wipes!” Johnny called to his still searching wife.

“Where were they, mama?” She asked, coming into view and pushing her hair from her face, not even surprised by the bulb changing.

“Behind the cooking oil.” Elaine tapped the side of her nose and giggled while Johnny and Ella shared a bewildered look between the two of them.

“Where’s my fella?” Elaine purred, looking around the semi crowded room as if it were possible to overlook Elvis Presley. Only at Graceland, during one of Elaine’s parties and surrounded by a horde of children was it possible for Elvis to be anything but the center of attention.

“He’s in Rosalee’s room, mama.” Ella informed her, which in turn had once been Gladys' little lilac refuge. It had taken ten years for Elaine to ease Elvis into using it but eventually a long succession of single, halfway liberated teenage children ended up sleeping in it before moving out to seize life by the horns and pave their own lives and pay their own rent.

It would be quite a few years before Marie had need of it, if the sweet little girl ever even needed it, so devoutly home enjoying as she was, Graceland or Circle G, Texas or California, it all was the same to Marie so long as she was with family. Graceland would sooner be seen giving Marie Presley the boot than Marie Presley voluntarily taking leave for good.

Elaine moved her way through her crowded home with a pleasant smile on her face and a discrete hunch to her shoulders that enabled her to slip past the various conversations wishing to clutch at her, an old art of being able to get from one end of a crowded place to the next when needed by husband or child, that she had honed to perfection.

She felt dizzy and tasted a strange surge of anticipation the closer she got to the tucked away little room downstairs, it might seem silly, but she missed him. Everything had been so very busy the past few days that she had seen her own husband about as much as everyone else had, across crowded rooms or smashed together on sofas, wonderful instances that were topped off every night with a bed crowded with children and grandchildren and adopted God sons and daughters.

There had not been a moment's peace practically, and in a girlish moment of someone newly assured of affection, Elaine felt her fingertips tingle when she reached for the knob and opened the door.

He had pulled the shades and the blindes, which with the glare of the rest of the house was hardly a surprising choice, and only the lamp was turned on in a room that was now no longer Gladys’ soft lilac but now Rosalee’s light sage painted walls, copious English ivy plants spilling over the tops of wooden bookshelves lining the walls. The floor was a plush ivory carpet and Elvis sat on it with one leg tucked in and the other stretched out, his white linen shirt and pale blue slacks looking perfectly at home in Rosalee‘s habitat, blending well with the academic and whimsical atmosphere. Elaine leaned on the knob and appreciated the sight of a stranger's little baby, no more than a year old surely, laying on its back in the vee of his long legs, disposed of diaper safely out of reach, midway through a process that had been stalled by lack of wipes.

Not to be thrown by such unforeseen occurrences, Elvis had waited it out until his Tink came for him as he always expected she would, and in the meantime he was making earnest conversation with the infant about the Christmas list, even though it was currently summertime. They were weighing whether or not a chainsaw could be made to size for such little hands, Elvis’ own lean, tan and long fingers squished a doughy bicep playfully and insisted that the child was almost capable.

“Awww looooook at youuu.” Elaine cooed, leaning heavily on the door knob and clutching her chest at the sight, the raucous outside the room having disguised the sound of her opening the door to Elvis’ ear.

He looked up with a disoriented look as if having quite forgotten the world outside him and the baby’s Christmas plan until his eyes landed on Elaine in the doorway and his grin flashed, the old natural one, all cheesy teeth and lips tucked in. “You got my wipes?”

“I do.” She preened.

“Well, hand ‘em over woman, I’m bout ready to gag over here.” he beckoned, rings still glittering on his hand and Elaine didn’t doubt that one day the baby would tell stories about how Elvis Presley changed their diaper without even taking off his bling for it.

Elaine closed the door behind her and traipsed over to him on jelly legs, her heeled sandals sinking precariously into the deep shag of the carpet, she steadied herself on his shoulder and handed down the wipes.

He looked her up and down with curious amusement, as if something was amiss but he couldn’t place it, yet with diaper stench so close he didn’t spend time on it. Elvis took the wipes and began to complete his task, Elaine sank down to her knees beside him and put her chin on his shoulder, watching him work, wrapping her arms around his waist like a clingy little koala to his back.

“Who is he?” she asked her husband about the baby he was tending so naturally. It wasn’t uncommon, their house being constantly full of strangers and friends of friends and their children’s buddies. She had seen Elvis caring for a kid or two like this before, or else baths or a good hosing off or, without fail, he provided them snacks at the least suggestion of hunger or even boredom. But she didn’t know this little one and something about seeing Elvis at this task when their Danny was too grown for it -it made her sentimental and she held on a little tighter, squeezing her appreciation for the sight into his flesh.

“Kid brother of Clarke, the kid two blocks over?” he explained, “The one Danny invites? Yeah, apparently their mama’s workin’ double shift today and the babysitter stepped out and Clarke thought he’d come on here since the house was empty. Poor little feller must’ve been scared stiff.”

“You mean little Clarke walked all that way carrying a baby?” she gasped.

“Yeah,” Elvis grunted. “I sent Sammy H. to go stay at the house and let the mama know her kids ain’t been stole by that trash sitter. Poor woman.”

“Poor woman.” Elaine echoed, neither of them ever quite getting used to the tales of hardship they were uniquely situated to hear of day after day. “Well, you tell her Elvis, tell her we’ll watch him from now on, Clarke too. Danny needs more friends his age besides. -What’s his name?” she asked after a minute of babbling to him herself.

“Dunno, but he responds well to buddy.” He shrugged, “Ain’t that right, buddy, huh? I ain’t forgot about lettin’ you play the piano, Buddy, no I haven’t, Uncle Elvis keeps his word, yes he does.”

Elvis could feel her grin grow behind his back and like clockwork her anticipated finger came and scritched at his right sideburn with her nail. “I’ve missed seeing you with babies.” she whispered with a giggle.

“We have a baby.” Elvis let out that staccato, huffing laugh of his.

“Danny is three.” Elaine pouted.

“And you’re four—ty…twooo.” Elvis goofed as he propped the newly changed and docile little boy up on his roly-poly legs.

“I’ve already had a baby as a grandmother.” Tink mused and she cocked her head to the side and watched the baby wobble towards Elvis with his entire little hands clutched onto Elvis’ index fingers like handlebars. “But I married such a pretty boy.” she sighs as if out of nowhere and drags her hand admiringly right down the length of Elvis’ bicep, in appreciation for the flexed muscle beneath linen.

Elvis let’s out a little squeak of surprise and turns on his ass to give his wife a more searching once over. She stays grinning on her knees, long tanned legs tucked beneath her in those light blue shorts that coordinate with his trousers, loopy grin on her face.

“Lord have mercy,” he falls back a little, taking the baby with him in his scramble till they look like little lambs being watched by a ready to pounce cat, “Aunt Delta spike the punch again?”

It’s not that Elvis doesn’t appreciate when Tink gets…admiring…but she sure does pick the queerest times for it, in his mind. The hell was so dreamy about wiping shit? He’s yet to understand her in many ways but from over twenty years of marriage, he knows those glossy eyes ain’t from eye drops.

“No, nobody’s touched the punch.” she giggles and begins to crawl closer, dyed auburn hair falling forward in large, barrel rolled curls.

The baby boy begins to laugh, thinking she’s playing tiger. Effortless Elaine switches into the role he wants and raises a hand like a claw and makes a dive for the baby's round little belly and Elvis ducks and rolls, taking him with him.

“Careful, careful, Laney, there’s a diaper -“

-somewhere.

He’s not sure where, it’s a mercy his back doesn’t squash it or his head thud in its foamy fullness as he rolls away from his wife, a stranger's kid giggling like mad while braced to his chest. He throws a halfhearted karate kick at her and the angle is awkward with being mid roll and on his side, she grabs his leg anyways and proceeds to tickle his ankle and he aims his kicks in earnest in response. Elaine straddles his leg as he lays on his side and she crows like it’s some victory, then sways in confusion, like she’s second guessing her own success.

He can practically see the slow as molasses thought process in her airy little head. The hell did his wife take? There’s no liquor on her breath and she swore -they made vows to each other, each giving up the drugs and booze that had gotten them estranged from each other and themselves. He knows she wouldn’t. “What now?” he asks her in dry amusement and after much thought and no production, she shrugs and slips off his leg, landing with a wince inducing thump by his side.

“I dunno.” she admits and closes her eyes, small smile on her lips as they lay panting on the floor, the clink of Elvis’ rings the only immediate sound as the baby plays with them between the married couple. “I just missed you.” she says.

“Well, I missed you too.” he melts, throwing his arm out and running his fingers through her splaying hair. She leans into the touch, grin fully breaking out.

“Our boy is getting married.” she murmurs, as in the production of the whole thing, the significance has dwindled except for the quiet moments.

“Strangest thing, that it’s time for that.” Elvis agrees, softly. “I ‘member him just this age, rollin’ ‘round with me on the floor in Bad Nauheim, got more carpet burns than him. Now…Gettin’ married.” he let out a long whistle and scratched at Elaine’s scalp. “I don’t feel that old.” he admitted after awhile.

Whatever mood Tink was in, whatever goofy laziness had imbued her with such sangfroid about her duties and her guests, it served for a much needed little heart to heart and Elvis snuggled closer to her on the shag carpet and let the baby climb over his shoulder and pull at his hair, wincing at the small tortures but determined not to be a wimp.

“I don’t feel old either.” she agreed and her eyes popped open, the grin suddenly going from dreamy to having a decidedly vampiric quality. Elvis had often seen that look on his wife right before he got eaten alive.

“Sweet Jesus -no, simmer down, simmer down. Tink!” he tried to avert the plans swirling in her glossy eyes.

“Doesn’t my pretty baby wanna make me happy?” she cooed to him and between the actual baby tugging at his hair and the wife patting his cheeks it was all a guess to Elvis whether he was a father of a twenty something son or Elaine Presley’s pretty boy, ever at her disposal.

“Mamas, if you needs…some…tenda lovin’ care…” he gave her a significant look of expectation to understand his child-proof code, “then we can go find ourselves a little space in this house and uh…tend to it. Bed’s been real full, I know.” he soothed.

Elaine clutched her heart dramatically again and sighed, staring at the ceiling before propping up on an elbow again and gripping his chin with her hand, she put her face next to his and whispered with throaty care, “What I want, pretty daddy, is to maul you.”

And with that she laid back down beside him, after having watched her words register and the punched out moan of his gust over her lips. She stared back at the ceiling and sighed. “It’ll have to wait, but…soon.”

Elvis licked his dry lips with a tongue that had suddenly gone equally arid. “O-o-okey mamas.” he stuttered out in a whisper that ended with a wheeze as the baby hoisted themselves to dance on his belly like it were a trampoline.

“I’m very wet right now.” Elaine began again after he thought they’d shelved it.

“Laney!” he begged.

“I am!” she hissed petulantly, kicking up a leg and shaking her foot at the ceiling, “It’s making sticky noises when I walk.”

“I-I-I highly doubt that.”

“It is!” She insisted.

“Alright. It is. If you say so…ok.”

“Nothing to do about it though.” she sighed.

“No.” he agreed warily.

“What would you name him.” she asked suddenly, turning on her side and offering her hand as stability for the baby balancing on Elvis’ stomach. Good thing he had muscles of steel or else he’d be a mess right now with the digging little footsteps.

“Name who?“ Elvis sputtered, bewildered by the changes in topic.

“This baby. If he was ours.”

“Oh.” He sniffed. “I dunno, actually. Baron, maybe?”

“Hmm..” Elaine was unenthused.

“Who says we’d have another boy though?” he argued suddenly, “I mean who says this hypothetical baby we ain’t gonna make -no we ain’t mama’s, you’re crazy- would be a boy. What if it was a girl.”

“I’d name her Peace.” Elaine didn't skip a beat.

Elvis pondered that, fingers back to stroking the curls splayed on the carpet, “Mm. Shiloh.”

Hope y’all enjoyed! I’ve missed these babies and I’m grateful for y’all’s patience. Your “bugging” and “screaming” is music to my ears, fuel to my fire and keeps me writing, please never hold back -this is a safe space for feral little Elvis loving rodents…like you and me. 💋

@prompted-wordsmith

@powerofelvis

@crash-and-cure

@elvisabutler

@heartbrake-hotel

@stylespresleyhearted

@thatbanditqueen

@crazymadpassionatelove

@myradiaz

@ash-omalley

@steph-speaks

@burningloverdoll

@angelface-555

@lookingforrainbows

@missmaywemeetagain

@coolgirl462

@kingdomforapony

@18lkpeters

@richardslady121

@from-memphis-with-love

@lillypink

@artlover8992

@pennyroyalcreep

@notstefaniepresley

@ellie-24

@waiting4brucewayne2adoptme

@presleyenterprise

@marriedtopresley

————————-

@dkayfixates

@vampireindistress

@ashtag6887

@i-r-i-n-a-a

@obsessedvibee

@peskybedtime

@goth-cowgirl-03

@stephthestallion

@fav-fanficssss

@loving-elvis

—-

@honeyorangess

@soloangel

@xenaspace3-blog

@60svintage

@dragonkingsdaughter

@presleysgirl6

@that-hotdog

@mydarlingelvis

@presleysweetheart

@50sexyshadesfashionista

@sexystarfish

@whatstruthgottodowithit

@suraemoon

@lialocklear

@elvispresleywife

@presleysgirl6

@ipostwhtifeel

@jaqueline19997

@queenheartz

@starryschoolgirl

@elvisalltheway101

@azzypog

@ab4eva

[rye-bread08]

Finally finished my Gravity Falls OC

(If theres any questions about her, please do leave them in my inbox, I will do my best to answer them, since im practically crafting her story as I go, so things I say here might not be canon in later revisions)

And to my least favourite part writing: (TLDR; Childhood friends, Stan got kicked out, years passed they met again in Vegas, Dated, Stan 'died' in a Crash, 30 years later, met 3 & 4 in the woods, went to find Stan, reconnected)

Camila "Millie" Rosaline Garcia was born and raised in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey. As a child, she spent nearly every day at the beach, this is where she met the Twins, Stan and Ford. Being just a year younger than the two, she naturally went along with them really well, and they quickly became friends.

Millie attended the same school as the twins and developed a deep infatuation for Ford. Her feelings were met with a rejection, as Ford was aware that his twin, Stan, had crush on her. Despite this, their friendship remained strong throughout high school. When Stan suddenly left without a word, Millie was understandably upset. Ford simply told her to not worry about it and to continue with life.

After Graduating, Mills pursued her passion and attended an art school neighboring Backupsmore University. Her and Ford interacted a lot in the beginning and almost started dating, but Ford prioritized his studies, and their interactions happen less and less. They eventually stopped talking and just focused on their own lives. After graduating from University, Millie traveled across America, seeking opportunities in the film and theater industries. She eventually settled in Las Vegas, where she sold paintings and worked as a background actor in films. To make ends meet, she also took a job at a local diner. One day, a familiar face randomly appeared. It was her childhood friend Stanley Pines. Despite the years apart, they hit it off almost instantly. Quite Little has changed, he's still the Big goof she knew since childhood, and still had his athletic physique and strong personality. But now, he's ever so slightly more charismatic? One thing led to another, and their renewed friendship soon turned into romance. Their relationship led them to create new memories together. For a year or two, their relationship seemed like a second chance at happiness. They enjoyed every bit of time they were together and found comfort with each other’s company.

However, their rekindled romance was short-lived. During a risky illegal venture involving Stan, he fled, leaving Millie to face legal trouble. She was arrested, and after being incarcirated, the atmosphere of their relationship drastically changed. Even after they parted ways following a heated argument, their true feelings for each other still remained.

-

Millie’s life was a mess after finding out about Stan’s tragic death in a horrible car crash. But she pushed through, throwing herself into her art, traveling across the Americas, selling her creations to fund her travels. Her journey took her to various countries, and she continued to support herself through her art for years.

Summer of 2012 While traveling through the Pacific Northwest, coming from British Columbia, Mills encountered two children taking refuge from the rain in a cave near her campsite. The two looked very identical. The only way you could be able to distinguish them from each other were the numbers in their cap, reading "3" and "4". The two, who introduced themselves as Tracey and Quattro, were visibly distressed and confused. She quickly took the two of them in. Providing them with raincoats and other necessities she bought at a nearby truck stop.

As she spent time with the two, their stories began to reveal hints of the supernatural. Millie was not estranged to the paranormal and the bizarre. Frankly, she had her own encounters throughout the years, and was very intrugued with the stories they told her.

tho, a familiar name surfaced in their tales: Stanford Pines? They havent talked ever since she graduated and left New Jersey. Mill figured that since shes still in the area, It would be nice to visit an old friend. With 3 and 4 guiding her, she drove to Gravity Falls, Oregon.

"Welcome to Gravity Falls" she read Driving through the town filled with debree and on going construction, It was clear that something happened ,any questions made were met with the same phrase "Never mind all that"

She finally drives up to the Mystery Shack, and saw Stanley? ... something something, insert plot, something, Im too lazy to right it now. Im going to bed. ... If you finished reading through that, Thank you. Im not usually the type to write, this alone took me a whole night to do and revise. I will definitely make more content of her in the future, interacting with other characters, writing more backstory, those sorts. For now If you have any questions feel free to ask and I will do my best to answer them.

[writterings]

do you ever think about tracey chapman's fast car and get fucking emotional like i feel that now that summer is rolling around that it's tracey chapman's season

[twopoppies]

Greetings from Hampstead - as of 9:30-ish British Summer Time (Sunday 30 April) - young Harry Styles was in London. Spotted heading towards Kenwood House, assuming on his way to swim at the Men’s Pond but that is just an assumption.

In non-1D travel news, also landing in London this weekend was New York Times bestseller Deborah Harkness (A Discovery of Witches).

And some Everything But The Girl news is they have a new album out and I keep spotting Tracey Thorn coming out of Kenwood House.

No recent sightings of Mel C.

But did meet Jason Issacs and David Nichols amongst others at a World Book Night event.

GHF x

Hello, darling. Thank you for the updates!! Super glad to know H is in London so we don’t have to worry about the Met Gala. I saw a rumor that Louis was spotted at the airport as well.

[nikatyler]

Download: September Townie Makeovers

As always, don’t claim these particular makeovers as your own, but other than that, they’re townies, so. Do whatever with them, I suppose?

Download links, CC links and outfit overviews under the cut. You can also get these guys from the gallery (veronika2212)

CC List here.

Summer Holiday

Watch the makeover here!

Download

Paolo Rocca

Watch the makeover here!

Download

Marissa Tracey

Watch the makeover here!

Download

Jay Robles

Watch the makeover here!

Download

[invisibleicewands]

“In every room I go into, every office, every institution, people tell me, this is what we’re doing to encourage more working-class writers.  They reel off all the things they’re doing, and it sounds impressive, it sounds amazing. And you think: if all these people are doing all this, WHY ARE THINGS NOT CHANGING FASTER? WHAT IS GETTING IN THE WAY?”

Under the hot, bright lights of a packed-out auditorium at the 2024 London Book Fair, Michael Sheen is getting angry. His is an unthreatening, crowd-rousing kind of angry, but still, in an appropriate way – he’s mad.

The actor and philanthropist is speaking on a panel convened to discuss A Writing Chance, the programme co-founded by the actor with New Writing North and Northumbria University that helps working-class writers enter the writing industries. So far, the programme has been successful. The theme emerging on the panel is, if changes have been made in some areas, what’s holding things back in others? And what cultural changes might have to come before we solve the problem?

“You have to admit there’s a fundamental conflict between the system that’s set up, and what we’re trying to achieve,” says Michael. “I don’t know what the whole answer to that is, other than revolution.”

It says a lot about the mood in the room – and, we suspect, the rest of the country – that the laughs prompted by this conclusion feel rather approving. We firmly believe that elites have been hogging and hoarding opportunity for too long now. The support for A Writing Chance confirms that many, many people agree.

The initiative was launched in 2021, with 11 unpublished writers awarded places on a programme of support and mentoring. One, Tom Newlands, publishes his first novel this summer; another, Maya Jordan, signed a deal at the book fair. A new cohort will be selected soon, with the programme now supported by the Joseph Rowntree Foundation, the Esmée Fairbairn Foundation, Michael Sheen, the Charlotte Aitken Trust, Faber & Faber, The Daily Mirror, Substack, Audible, with research supported by AHRC, Northumbria University, Bath Spa University and York St John University.

For the London Book Fair panel, Michael is joined by Professor Katy Shaw from Northumbria University, plus Tracey Markham, head of UK at Audible, Farrah Storr, head of writer partnerships at Substack, and the Huddersfield-based novelist Sunjeev Sahota. Katy and Michael begin by reflecting on the successes of the first completed programme: writers emboldened and published, policymakers in the Houses of Parliament briefed and, most importantly, great writing exemplifying the talent out there waiting to be discovered. “What came in was just way beyond anything we had hoped for really,” says Michael. “And there was a sense of revelation, the feeling you were seeing into worlds that have just been closed off, into experiences I had never thought about.”

Ideas about how to give working-class writers more confidence and access to publishing are peppered through the hour-long conversation: a creative curriculum in schools; intervening with gifted people at younger ages, like sports coaches; encouraging more people to take advantage of digital platforms, even if printed-book authorship remains the ultimate goal. Around halfway through, Sunjeev makes a brilliantly clear-eyed analysis of what being working class really means, and how it relates to identity politics. At the same time, he provides a devastatingly simple explanation of why working-class writers need support.

“Publishing is an elite space, but it’s quite a diverse space in terms of people’s racialised or sexualised identities. However, it’s not at all diverse it comes to people’s economic backgrounds, or family income. Indeed, many of the non-white people I encounter in publishing are often from just as comfortably-off backgrounds as their white counterparts.

The creative industries, he says, have tended to treat class as being another cultural identity, as if class should be considered in the same way that we might talk about race, gender, or sexuality. “But I think a more universal, class-first politics will do more for the weakest members across all identities than any identity-first kind of politics. I find that taking an identity-first approach just tends to benefit the elites within the identities.”

Lest anyone doubt the existence of a market for work originating outside the elites, the extremely upbeat Tracey is on hand to reassure them. Audible attracts a notably diverse audience, with large black and Asian listenerships, and a high proportion of young men. To satisfy this audience, the old-style audiobook, with its middle- and highbrow titles and Received Pronunciation narration, has been overhauled in favour of books more suited to audience tastes, and accents.

“Our customers really want accents! We spend a lot of time working with voice agents to widen access to the audio-narration industry. I think what’s super-important now is that your accent is not prohibitive – if you have a Welsh accent, say, that doesn’t mean you can only read stories set in Wales.”

Tracey stresses there is “so much more to be done” to widen socio-economic diversity in the whole publishing industry. But although it might still be a case of taking “baby steps”, a wonderful thing about books is their power to drive change elsewhere. “You know, it’s hard to explain to someone that’s not from the UK how much your accent kind of signifies to people when they first meet you. And with voice, we can kind of break down a lot of those barriers, and actually encourage it and welcome [diversity].”

There’s a similar note of flexibility and responsiveness to audience needs in Farrah’s account of what Substack offers. The relationship between digital and print is always evolving, and in her vision, it’s a question of the one complementing the other. Printed books still have more prestige than publication on digital platforms, but the latter can help offset the material challenges associated with the former, she argues. Echoing Sunjeev, she points that “the problem for people from a working-class background is that your advance gets paid in separate lump sums. People feel, I don’t have a regular income, I can’t make this work, I might end up falling out of the writer ecosystem.

“So, on Substack, we say, well, okay, you’re writing the book, but you’re probably going to have thousands of words leftover. So just put them on Substack and talk about the novel at the same time.”

Lots of people she works with end up making liveable incomes and building readerships for their work, which ultimately is what keeps them in the game. It’s a reminder that we shouldn’t necessarily define “writing” as the production of traditional forms such as novels and plays.

No one at this event – the queue for which was so long that dozens were unable to squeeze inside – believed all the barriers facing working-class writers would be dismantled any time soon.  Few, though, can have left without believing that A Writing Chance has begun the job – and that that job is worthwhile.

Wrapping up, Michael recalls someone from the inaugural group who told him that in their community, becoming a writer seemed about as likely as becoming an astronaut.

“They said that there was no chance of it. They said, ‘I didn’t know anybody else who lived where I live who was a writer, so I didn’t know how to begin, or where to start. It was like saying I want to go into space.’ But that changed for them.

“And of course, now, there are all these wonderful spacemen.”

[disneytva]

Walt Disney Pictures Unveils Trailer and Key Art Of Night At The Museum: Kahmunrah Rises Again.

Same Shift, Different Night

The 10-day countdown to the debut of the Original Movie Night at the Museum: Kahmunrah Rises Again is on, and to celebrate, Disney+ released the trailer and poster for the all-new animated adventure. Based on the popular film franchise, Night at the Museum: Kahmunrah Rises Again debuts exclusively on Disney+ on December 9, 2022.

Every night at the American Museum of Natural History when the sun goes down. Nick Daley’s summer gig as night watchman at the museum is a challenging job for a high school student, but he is following in his father’s footsteps and is determined not to let him down. Luckily, he is familiar with the museum’s ancient tablet that brings everything to life when the sun goes down and is happy to see his old friends, including Jedediah, Octavius, and Sacagawea, when he arrives. But when the maniacal ruler Kahmunrah escapes with plans to unlock the Egyptian underworld and free its Army of the Dead, it is up to Nick to stop the demented overlord and save the museum once and for all.

Night at the Museum: Kahmunrah Rises Again features the voices of Joshua Bassett (High School Musical The Musical: The Series),Jamie Demetriou ( Warner Bros Barbie,Dead End: Paranormal Park),Alice Isaaz (Savage state), Gillian Jacobs (Invincible),Joseph Kamal (Call Of Duty:Blac Ops III), Thomas Lennon (20th Century Studios Night At The Museum Trilogy), Zachary Levi (Tangled Franchise), Akmal Saleh (Tracey McBean), Kieran Sequoia (Netflix’s Daybreak),Jack Whitehall (Jungle Cruise), Bowen Yang (Fire Island), and Steve Zahn (20th Century Family’s & 20th Century 2000 Pictures Diary of a Wimpy Kid Trilogy)

Night at the Museum: Kahmunrah Rises Again is directed by Matt Danner (Legend Of The Three Caballeros) the writers are Ray DeLaurentis & Will Schifrin (Nickelodeon’s The Fairly Odd Parents); the producer is Shawn Levy (20th Century Studios Night At The Museum Trilogy); the executive producers are Emily Morris, Chris Columbus, Mark Radcliffe, and Michael Barnathan; and the music is by John Paesano (20th Century Animation’s Diary Of A Wimpy Kid Franchise).

Night at the Museum: Kahmunrah Rises Again is produced by 20th Century Animation & Atomic Cartoons in association with 21 Laps Entertaiment and Alibaba Pictures with Walt Disney Pictures being the distributor.

[godzilla-reads]

Goodbye, August 🦋 Welcome, September 🪲

This last month I finished 9 books, bringing my yearly total to 96 books read! My Top 3 Picks were Werewolf, Brass Dragon Codex, and Dragon Soup! Anyway, here’s the list:

🔥 Godzilla: Here There Be Dragons by Frank Tieri and Inaka Miranda

🌈 There is more than one way to be…. Strong by Clara Anganuzzi

🐺 Werewolf by Richard Corben

🔺 Brass Dragon Codex by R.D. Henham

🧌 Giants by David Larkin and Sara Teale

🪱 Rise of the Earth Dragon by Tracey West

🌻 Summer: A Folio Anthology edited by Sue Bradbury

🍜 Dragon Soup by Arlene Williams and Sally J. Smith

☀️ Saving the Sun Dragon by Tracey West

What was your favorite book of August?

[slytherinboysappreciation]

Flower Crown - P. P. x M. R.

A/N: This is my comfort ship and is the softest story I have ever written for Pansy and Mattheo. I may do more with the whole camping idea in the future. Please don’t mind the whole potentially unrealistic location thing 😬 It’s just a cute story. Fic is unedited with no use of Y/N

Written for week 3 of @thatdammchickennugget and @finalgirllx’s Jinxed July challenge, using the picture prompt of flower crowns

CW: literally just fluff, Mattheo is a dick when grumpy, Theo is mentioned to be drinking beer, brief kissing, Mattheo is in love, implied Blaise x Luna, implied Enzo x Astoria, mentioned Theo x Daphne, mentioned Theo x Tracey Davis, Mattheo and Theo play-fight/wrestle

967 words

“Come on, Mattheo,” Pansy calls, smiling. “They’re just flowers.”

“Flowers are girly.” Mattheo doesn’t budge from his seat on the camp chair. He’s smothered in sunscreen, a floppy hat on his head, and sunglasses perched on his nose.

Theo throws a daisy at him. “Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not! Flowers are girly!” Mattheo gestures to the group of girls in annoyance. “Look at them!”

They’re out for a day trip during the summer, camping in the woods for a weekend. The girls; Astoria, Daphne, Luna, and Tracey Davis, with Pansy as their ringleader; are sitting in a circle weaving flower crowns.

Enzo’s hovering on the edges of the circle, clearly wanting to join but too nervous to do anything but pass them more flowers.

“You’re just jealous they stole your idea.” Theo picks up the thrown daisy and twirls it between his fingers.

Mattheo falls silent, grumpily. It’s not… exactly wrong. He was the one to suggest they make flower crowns in the first place. But his would be way more manly; with thorns and grasses, built to withstand anything.

The ones the girls are making look too delicate and pretty.

Blaise strolls over and watches for a moment. Then he wedges his way in between Luna and Astoria. The girls giggle and scoot over to make room for him.

Mattheo’s mood sours further.

After a moment, Enzo finally gets the courage to join the circle as well. He sits next to Astoria, smiling awkwardly but genuinely as she starts showing him what to do.

“Stupid lovebirds,” Mattheo mutters. Theo gives him a look.

“Mate, you are going to sour the vibes of this whole trip if you don’t chill out.” Theo leans back in his own chair and opens a beer. “Just join them.”

“Easy for you to say,” Mattheo shoots back. “Daphne and Tracey are all over you. They’re like rabid dogs sometimes, I swear.”

Theo chuckles at the comparison. “Your jealousy’s showing. Besides,” he smirks. “I’ve seen the little looks you and Parkinson give each other. You’re pining and you know it.”

“I am NOT—“ The girls look over and Mattheo cuts himself off. The girls giggle. Blaise gives Mattheo a knowing look.

Mattheo scowls and lowers his voice. “I am not pining over Pansy.”

“Sure, mate.” Theo takes a drink of his beer. “Keep telling yourself that until it’s true.”

Mattheo crosses his arms and maybe sulks a little. He’s not pining over her. Pining is soppy and gushy and weak.

Pansy’s pretty. Sharp and witty, yet soft as a Hufflepuff underneath. Maybe her hair shines nicely in the sun and maybe her skin looks good all freckled and warm.

But that doesn’t mean he’s pining. It just means he appreciates her beauty.

As if right on cue, Pansy stands up. And for a moment, Mattheo forgets how to breathe. She looks radiant in the sunlight.

Her tank top shows off her toned shoulders and the lines of her collarbone. Her shorts show off her legs, long and smooth and—

“You’re drooling, mate.” Theo sounds deeply amused.

Mattheo hastily wipes his mouth and straightens up as Pansy approaches. He lifts his sunglasses, squinting from the bright light.

“I made you something.” Pansy smiles at him. “Here.”

She lifts the floppy hat from his head and replaces it with a flower crown.

Mattheo blinks. He can feel his cheeks warming and just knows he’s blushing like a damn fool.

He puts his sunglasses back on to hide the undoubtedly soft way he looks at her. “Uh, thanks, I guess.”

Pansy laughs and toys with a strand of his hair. “I hope it’s not too girly for you.”

“No, no,” Mattheo can’t think straight when she’s gently tugging on his curls like that. “It’s fine. Great. It’s amazing even.”

Pansy’s smile blossoms into something sweet and warm.

If he weren’t already blushing…

A moment passes. Mattheo realizes he’s staring. He coughs and looks away, clearing his throat. “Besides, it’s like a knight’s favor. You know, like princesses would give to their knights before battle?”

Pansy laughs softly, and it feels like molten sunshine in his chest. “Are you my knight then, Sir Mattheo?”

He sits up proudly, adjusting the flower crown on his head. “That I am, princess Pansy.”

He does a little mock bow, careful to keep the flower crown from falling off.

Pansy laughs again. “Then here. An extra favor from your princess.”

Before Mattheo can say some flirty thing back, she’s pulling up his chin and gently planting a kiss on his lips. Just a quick peck, something soft and sweet.

Mattheo really does forget how to breathe.

Pansy pulls back and strokes his cheek with her thumb. Mattheo could melt away and wouldn’t even care. He just gazes up at her.

Theo coughs next to them and the spell breaks. With a laugh, Pansy steals his sunglasses and sets them on her own face. “Thanks for the shades, oh handsome knight.”

Mattheo can’t even be mad, still dazed from the kiss. He watches as she walks back over to the flower crown ring and sits next to Daphne. They whisper to each other for a moment before bursting into giggles.

A smile creeps across Mattheo’s face.

Theo coughs again. “Told you, mate. You’re pining.”

Pining is soft. Gushy. Soppy. And Mattheo feels all three of those things.

He reaches over and punches Theo’s arm. “That’s for ruining my kiss.”

“Ow! Come on, I didn’t ruin it! That was all you!”

The two boys descend into tussling, knocking over the camp chairs as they do. The girls laugh and roll their eyes as they watch.

But even as Mattheo wrestles and tussles with Theo, he can’t help but admit.

Maybe he’s a little more whipped for Pansy than he’d initially thought.

[ellorypurebloodculture]

Hi!!! For the fsf can you do a Hogwarts yrs Neville and Draco get married (for whatever reason) over the summer and now have to go back to Hogwarts.

"Heir Malfoy, I was wondering--?"

"Heir-Consort Longbottom," Draco corrects sharply, one blond eyebrow cocked haughtily as all conversation in the compartment dies instantly.

Miss Tracey Davis's mouth opens and closes soundlessly several times before she asks, "What?"

Draco buffs his nails against the Slytherin crest on his robe, thrilled at so wholly being the center of attention, and states as casually as if it is common news she has somehow, embarrassingly missed, even though it's not yet been announced to society solely because Draco wanted to see people's faces when they found out, "Lacerta is Heiress Malfoy now; I bonded with Neville over the summer--my correct title is Heir-Consort Longbottom--I won't be lenient if you forget it."

Heiress Pansy Parkinson snorts and holds out her hand demandingly, "I told you that you wouldn't last until graduation before crawling in Heir Longbottom's bed, Draco; you owe me fifty Galleons--pay up!"