#under milk wood quotes

[litandlifequotes]

I am a draper mad with love.

"Under Milk Wood" by Dylan Thomas

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Gilly Johns

* * * *

"It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobbledstreets silent and the hunched courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.” Dylan Thomas - Under Milk Wood, 1954.

[Ravenous Butterflies]

[twicedailyquotes]

Time passes. Listen. Time passes. Come closer now. Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night. Only you can see, in the blinded bedrooms, the coms. and petticoats over the chairs, the jugs and basins, the glasses of teeth, Thou Shalt Not on the wall, and the yellowing dickybird-watching pictures of the dead. Only you can hear and see, behind the eyes of the sleepers, the movements and countries and mazes and colours and dismays and rainbows and tunes and wishes and flight and fall and despairs and big seas of their dreams. From where you are, you can hear their dreams.

Dylan Thomas

from Under Milk Wood

[majordemonblockparty]

also, on the subject of sam winchester's two canonical obsessions (serial killers and esoteric podcasts):

wouldn't it be funny if sam and jess met at like. true crime trivia night at their local dive bar. and they get put on the singles team with other people who came without an established trivia team, but it becomes pretty clear pretty quick that they're gonna be the stars of this show.

jess raised on a steady diet of pulp crime paperbacks and crime reporting television, who has all kinds of gory shit rattling around in her head, who can identify what hideous once-in-a-century murder is depicted in grainy grayscale crime scene photos in under thirty seconds, who can quote verbatim from over two dozen ransom notes, who's obsessed with people who disappeared mysteriously, never to be seen or heard from again. and sam, who's been raised... well, who's been raised the way he's been raised.

they get on like a house on fire. (the irony of that is lost on both of them.)

finally, somebody who doesn't think it's weird to have real theory about what happened to the sodder children, none of that sicilian mafia nonsense. someone who can speak intelligently about the prevalence of killings in national parks and protected forests. someone whose eye will snag on headlines like "couple found slain; county sheriff to hold conference today" and "charred corpse still unidentified" and flip through to find whatever column inches have been allotted to the day's worst happenings. someone who can name drop cold cases and milk carton kids like a memorized major league roster -- the boy in the box, the babes in the woods, the lyon girls, the des moines register newspaper boys; angie samota, bobby dunbar, alfred beilhartz, charley ross, dorothy ann distelhurst, everett ruess, glen and bessie hyde, marjorie west.

(jess who's so hyped to show sam an article she found about the twentieth anniversary of a mysterious fire where a young mother died and her two young children vanished, presumably with her husband in the aftermath. "isn't that crazy?" she tells him, brandishing a xerox, all cheshire-cat meet-in-the-back-of-her-head grin. "they had the same last name as you!"

"crazy," sam echos and stares down at the blurry black-and-white photo of a house he barely remembers.)

lifelong true crime junkie jessica moore and lifelong true crime victim sam winchester.

[invisibleicewands]

A new film voiced by Michael Sheen chronicles Dylan Thomas’s relatively unknown journey through Iran on assignment to write a film script for an oil company.

Many people are familiar with Dylan Thomas as a popular Welsh poet whose most famous work was the ‘play for voices’ Under Milk Wood, produced just before his death in 1953.

But he is perhaps less well known for his film work.

During his life he wrote 23 film scripts – 14 of which were documentary wartime and post-war propaganda films.

In 1951, his work took him to Iran where he was commissioned to write a propaganda film for the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company (now known as BP) – a project that was eventually completed but for which Dylan Thomas never penned the script.

This, relatively unknown chapter of the writer’s life is now the subject of a short film written and directed by Dr Nariman Massoumi, a Senior Lecturer in Film and Television at the University of Bristol and voiced by the award-winning Welsh actor Michael Sheen.

Sheen described his involvement in the project, saying: “I think it’s a beautiful and fascinating film about a chapter of Dylan Thomas’s life I knew nothing about. It was a pleasure to be a part of it.”

Entitled ‘Pouring Water on Troubled Oil’ – a direct quote from Thomas to describe the dangerous or futile nature of the job he was assigned to do, the new film is screening at a number of international film festivals and recently came runner up in the The British Association of Film, Television and Screen Studies (BAFTSS) Practice Research Awards

It will get its Welsh premiere on Monday 20 May at the BAFTA-recognised Carmarthen Bay Film Festival and screened at Cinema Rediscovered festival in Bristol in July, as well as appearing at festivals in Germany, Italy and Brazil. [...]

[s1m0nth3swag]

Lockwood & Co – Anthony Lockwood X GN!Reader

Summary; Lockwood takes too long reading in the library so you decide to surprise him to get him to bed.

Pronouns used for Reader; None, 2nd person view

Notes; Fluff, established relationship, lots of cuddles and kisses

Authors note; Decided to write some fluff as first post since I'm way too deep in the Lockwood & co brainrot.

It had been a while since you had gotten ready for bed, comfortably fitting into your pyjamas pants and a shirt from your boyfriend. Your teeth were brushed clean and you had freed your hair from the style you had it in the whole day. You quietly sat on Lockwoods bed, legs tucked under the blanket, staring at your phone as you sighed.

Lockwood was sat in the library. You knew that. You also knew he'd forget the time and stay reading for way too long. Nothing could actually make him get out of the deep library chairs, it's almost like he was glued to them the second the clock hit 10pm. Worst part, he'd stay glued there until about 2am, after which he took another hour to eat a 'late night snack' before taking another half hour to get ready for bed. Ultimately, he'd actually get into bed at about 3:45am, where you were long asleep and sort of pissed at him for staying up too long again. He knew you didn't like it, but it was his escapism so you couldn't actually do anything against it. Without his late reading hours Lockwood would have to start facing his shit and well, he'd never actually do that. So it was you alone in bed while Lockwood forgot about his problems in shitty gossip magazines. You sighed again.

Soon later you found yourself wander down the stairs, your bare feet tapping against the wood. First you take a short trip into the kitchen. The thinking cloth, full of random scribbles of which most you fail to even remember why they exist, was also dirtied by crumbs and patches of tea – no one in the house really cared, though there was a designated cleaning day every week. But it brought an idea. You knew Lockwood loved tea, seriously, he downed that like it was the only thing keeping him alive, but he had a secret sweet tooth. Grinning to yourself, you quickly collected everything you needed from the shelves. Milk and some chocolate, together with smaller ingredients and just in a few minutes you had the perfect chocolate milk. Lockwood had said for weeks that he wanted to try your 'honestly most awesome chocolate milk' (quote taken by George and Lucy who both already had had the pleasure to taste it as you always made it when one of them felt bad) and now you'd use it to get Lockwood get to bed just a little bit earlier.

»Anthony?« You called, two steaming cups decorated with whipped cream and sprinkles. »Mhm?« Lockwood hummed, not looking up from his magazine yet smiling wholeheartedly. Not many called him Anthony, it was a little weird when getting to know him on last name basis only. It took you a pretty long time to get used to it yourself. »Made you something.« You chuckled, leaning against the doorframe to the library. By now the faint smell of steaming chocolate had carried over to your boyfriend and you watched him hurriedly turn his head. »No way. I thought I'd only get that if I'm feeling down and communicate?« Lockwood laughs softly, finally putting away the magazine and slowly getting up. »Well.. I'm feeling down. You've not come to bed yet.« You answer, smiling softly. »Now come on or it'll get cold. I'll wait for you upstairs. Maybe.« You winked playfully, watching his face light up immensely and scramble over to you. »I'll be right there sweetheart.« He whispered, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek before getting to the bathroom. You in return went back upstairs, carefully placing the tray on the bedside table and sitting down on the bed as you waited for your boyfriend.

A few minutes later Lockwood casually walked in, now wearing more comfortable - and too big - clothes. The shirt was a normal oversize while the pants hung lightly on his hips, not that you minded the sight of him in day to day clothing rather than the dress shirts and suits he was almost always wearing. You grinned at him cheerfully as he lunged over the bed towards you, capturing you in a soft hug after knocking the air out of your lungs. »Seriously?« You chuckled »Trying to kill me or something?« »For you to come back and haunt me? Never, love.« Lockwood replied, his voice muffled due to his face being smushed against your shoulder. You hummed softly while Lockwood propped himself up onto his elbows, smiling down at you before sitting up and grabbing his cup of hot chocolate – now more like a warm chocolate. You grinned, taking your own cup and getting a big sip before watching your boyfriend's reaction to the sweet drink. His dark eyes widened, evidently taking in how great it tasted, and looked at you. He hummed, probably trying to voice how he liked the drink without actually speaking, which ended in different tones of humming instead. You laughed at yourself, smiling stupidly at Lockwoods antics. »It's the greatest thing I've ever tasted.« Lockwood said once he gulped the entire chocolate milk down – he couldn't be bothered stopping for just a second to tell you that before he finished. »Glad you liked it.« »You gonna finish yours or..?« You laughed out loud, handing your half done chocolate to Lockwood and watched him down that one too. It was truly incredible. »This.« He started, placing a kiss against your cheek. »Is why I love you.« He ended, mumbling the last bit softly as he looked into your eyes. »So I'm only a way of getting chocolate milk? Wow, we're breaking up.« You joked, kissing his forehead. Lockwood laughed in return, an honest, full laugh, snuggling against you apologetically. »Sorry Love, didn't mean it that way, I love everything you do.« He spoke, his voice muffled as he pushed his face against your neck. »Well then, let's go brush our teeth and sleep, sleepyhead.« You huffed, feeling Lockwoods steady breath on your skin. Your words earned you a soft hum from the boy, who evidently didn't plan on moving one bit from his current position.

»You're a dork.« You mumbled, chuckling at Lockwoods antics.

»am your dork though.« Lockwood answered, smiling against your neck.

[kurthummeldeservesbetter]

Glee Kids and their Preferred Mike Schur shows

(note, only doing what are considered the ones hes known for, aka creator/co-creator, aka Parks and Rec, B99, and The Good Place).

Parks and Recreation

Blaine (is a a perfect mix of Leslie and Ben, possible soul child? can quote the Patton Oswalt's star wars filibuster)

Quinn (likes how it acknowledges its an idealised version of government while also just being an idealised version of government, also women in power)

Mercedes (loves that its a perfect mix of seriousness, humor, and romance, without it being too much of only one quality)

Sam (same reasons as Blaine, but idolises Ron Swanson to the point of creating a mini wood carved statue of him)

Brooklyn Nine Nine

Puck (though his whole attitude suggests he wouldn't like a show about cops, he thinks its bad-ass and hilarious. also big Terry Crews fan)

Finn (thinks its just funny and Amy reminds him of Rachel)

Santana (loves it for the representation, also #1 Stephanie Beatriz fan)

Mike (only cop show hes ever loved *shoves law and order dvds under his bed* and particularly enjoys the arc story-lines )

Tina (#1 Melissa Fumero fan. Likes that the show isn't stressful or hard to watch while also still being well-written)

The Good Place

Kurt (though still isn't sure about the afterlife in general, likes the idea that it could just be about being a good person)

Rachel (likes how it makes you think, even though the almond milk thing gave her anxiety for a week)

Brittany (has an obsession with Ted Danson, also claims to have been to The Good Place)

Artie (also has an obsession with Ted Danson, as well as a crush on Kristen Bell. (and a secret one on Manny Jancito))

Other

Sue enjoys re-runs of Sue's Corner and Cheer-leading competitions.

Will likes The Office (USA) but only the seasons after Michael left and only likes the seasons Andy was manager

Emma likes all the nice baking and cooking shows (she hates sound effects and those tend to not use them).

[jayhorsestar]

re.JMB RO upd, [a] apparently management into political influences, and liked the way i was writing of the 2012 G4S cash in transit, where they were getting the boys on armored fist vans, from - the kind of men timberland, working in the woods, cutting off trees.. Romanians liked tales of treasures hidden in the darkest forests, since always. [b] 3rd attempt in 2 yrs at BRV 'juneau kronstadt, budget allocated to buying trees for fencing sort of the land property where shop resides. at 2022 contract was made over 400 'tuia, small tiny evergreens, planted 80, then shop manager left for Ploiesti south, permanently. [c] we currently planted 'yurta ltd 102 trees, at appx 4,000 USD bill, of which 600 USD paid from her own pocket by Shop manager. not evergreens, but all seemingly Japanese wild-cherry, Japanese wild-cranberry, Japanese crying-leaf, everything Japanese.. [d] replaced several injured employees, broken left arms, three of them, independent events, same time. [e] 'meal coupons elections and adjustment, increase from 30 into 40 RON each day of presence in_situ, on site. idea also copied from admiration into old 2012 Group 4Falck Vallahia, auxiliary jobs undertaken out of G4S main Corp affairs onto RO. complicated.. [f] increase of meal coupons was Law by early january-february 2024, yet applicable mainly Govt jobs, less required private affairs Jobs to align to those guidelines. just like the E.U. Directives.. as barrister, you have to cite and quote into your claims and justifies at Court in front of the Judge, but only to resume then to Local Official bulletin, which is in fact the Mandatory Law. [g] law enacted increase of CAS fee, the health coverage tax upon the 'meal coupons forfeit monthly estimated amount, which NEVER implemented before 2024. so Govt during elections year decided taxing the meal coupons, which were exempted from any fees or taxes since 2004 when 1stly implemented onto RO (after the Revolution of 1989-1990, t'was seen as a commi feature, not a Capitalist feature). [h] increase from 10 into 20% over the fond of meal coupons, meant GREECE working inside of EURO, had to insure w Bank RISKs over such forfeit NOW becoming tax bearer, account! so they were allowed and permitted entering gambling of Risk insurances EURO vs RON lei currencies, ontop of the FROZEN commodity called 'meal coupons!! frozen turkey shelf life insured policy imports from Brazil - at 2015 Rewe Group Austria. or MILK ice-cream foreclosure when Moldova kicked in, at 2012-2013. [i] JMB employer put a public written paragraph to tell employees, THEY were willing to cover and support the CAS fee health insurance paid to Govt budget, over the employee meal coupon, and paying 840 RON instead of 630 RON if 21 working effectively on site, under Labor Law. [j] it be a note w/out the round stamp, no signatures whatsoever, either. because Athens and shareholders and AGOA of the 2015 will eventually have to settle over such decision, early during january 2025!! before paying any Dividends, then thereforafter.. m

[charlenasaxen]

Under the Pendulum Sun - Favorite Quotes

On the dawn of the first day of the seventh week

But then, given how sheltered I had been, the French were never quite real

Stone leaned against stone in a bizarre edifice, with nothing but scorn to the very concept of aesthetic consistency and structural purpose

“Little name for little gnome.”

learnt to drink contentment like you would a poison. Drop by drop, day by day. Until it became tolerable.

he had the soul of a soldier, a statesman and an orator.

those that languished in the grim empires without word of the Redeemer.

How could I limit an infinite God with finite words?

clung to the arc of its gleaming fins, trailing thin wisps of seeming light. Tail whipping back and forth, its scales shimmered, iridescent in its own light.

There were more suns and more worlds than I could dream. My mind would always be more finite than that of God.

as though I would tear the papery skin that held the coals of my soul in check.

but it is only Cook who could have realised that getting lost is intrinsic to journey.

how wrong is a falsehood told to support something true?

It depicted the lineage of Jesus, with David in the centre and each of the ancestors upon the petals of the rose

ethereally light and frothed around the needles

We’d drop all arguments when the right bird sang.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

The joyful sound proclaim

Till each remotest nation

Has learned Messiah’s name.

...

Redeemer, King, Creator,

In bliss returns to reign.

I longed to hear my brother’s sermons again. He had a passion that surged under the measured cadence of his voice

“All the parishioners? I thought you were the only convert.”

“Me is all. All is we. We is me.”

a great work, though not one I imagined myself capable of being part of.

Is just their way of being made wrong. It’s in her nature.”

“That…” I swallowed. “That seems quite sad.”

The ornate stonework set the simple brick chapel to shame. Stone vines and stone rosettes framed each window.

“The bells call to the faithful,” I said. “We should wait.”

It’s easy to give hope to those who have lost. Who are lost. They were searching. He found.”

so guileless, childlike in its desire, that I smiled back.

its milk-pale, moonstone eyes lingering for just a moment

golden eyes seemed to soften as it regarded me, and then with an abrupt blink they turned blue.

“Diogenes? My dog?”

“I don’t know where your dog is.”

Laon whistled, piercingly, and the great black animal came loping back.

I couldn’t help the tears as I watched the mists swallow him. He was very so close.

and that is, the spirit of love.

The absence of that mysterious bond

to give one a more thorough appreciation of the blessings of Christianity

“Catherine!”

His walking stick clattered to the floor.

Strong arms enfolded me and cut me off

The food and castle… and the lantern that night. Thank you.”

She smiled a flame-red, lipless smile and her features lit up.

consumes secrets and digests them into less informative fragmentary whispers.

dripping with willow trees. An impossible river curled itself around the wooded island and caressed the water with its whispering leaves. I thought of uttered secrets, and an odd shiver crawled up my spine.

There was no humour in it. “Because she is most human.”

but it’s far less predictable than that. I’ve had distances given to me in numbers of daydreams and revelations, as though I’d only arrive somewhere after I’ve had an epiphany or–”

when we would lie under the apple tree and we could not tell what words were uttered and what words were thought; they were all intertwined

flung a gesticulating arm around us, causing Diogenes to let out a whine

assures me that his navigator is truly terrible and it would be no time before we are sufficiently lost as to be within sight of the Faelands.

afraid of the costs, the sacrifices. He wrote as a man haunted, counting the worth of his own soul.

I recognised the handwriting in the margins and I knew them to be my brother’s.

shattered the image of the endless fire into a broken sea. Livid, vivid red, like the stained glass images of Risen Christ

his were on me. I could feel his gaze on my skin and I ached to touch him again.

“Like the real moors? They choose for it to be empty.”

He nodded and turned to look out of the window with me.

glanced at him and our eyes met. He gave a half smile that brushed against the welkin blue of his eyes.

“That they have in them, captive, an oceanic fragment.”

I heard it first in my bones. Low and mournful

I could still see my brother’s long, beautiful fingers on that skin, stroking her cheek

“It is rather plain that he is very dear to you.” Her smile seemed sharper. “I trust you will prove a Balm of Gilead to your brother’s wounds.”

Tangled, flowering vines made up the handles, with tiny butterflies perched on each flower.

but for Christ, from whom gold thread radiated. Christ’s hands and feet had little red knots to symbolise His wounds. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”

when the dark earth here swallows me and I earn my martyr’s crown.

petals of rose windows, where each light curves to a flame-like shape.

I read the first sentence my eyes settled onto: “And Tamar took the cakes which she had made, and brought them into the chamber to Amnon her brother.

There was a sweetness to our unspoken truce, and I glimpsed again the days of old

said Laon, the edges of his mouth threatening a smile. “You can’t just point out Light rhymes with Sight and then call it your proof.”

“I’m reading next.”

After, my brother insisted that he walk me back to my room, despite his limp and the stairs

“It’s not about that… It’s not that I need you, it’s that I want–”

and he squeezed my hand. He beamed at me and then he leaned over, his lips brushing against my ear

He was waiting, a dark, beautiful silhouette against the pendulum sun. He reached his hand to mine and our fingers tangled.

And then suddenly, it was pitch black.

The clock had started.

what I had thought to be trailing ribbons were but bandages around her wrists.

said Mr Benjamin, leaning over to me. “Baptised or otherwise.”

“Otherwise, I assume.”

snow-white feathers and even whiter fur. It trailed for yards behind her

He stood before the lectern, an unreadable calm upon his features.

Who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bought it.”

he said, “But unlike all others who have asked that question, I have before me a parliament of owls.”

...

Laon had found a place for the fae in the Bible in the very parables of Jesus.

It was a bite of forbidden food that cast Mankind from the garden, perhaps it is only right that a bite of the sacred should return us.

placed a taloned hand onto my shoulder as they walked me

when Laon had inherited them I had sewn on the green ribbons on an extravagant whim. I had worn those ribbons in my hair running through the moors. I remember him trying to snatch them from me as we rolled about in the heather.

its branches replete with stout candles. Drab nightingales flitted about, perching on the pendants

the window had been partially frosted over. The ice was like fine lace on the glass.

“But what are you doing?”

“On the Pale Queen’s orders,” it repeated firmly and closed the window with finality.

pulling out a pair of spectacles from its pocket and balancing them on its beak.

dipped it into its pot of shimmering blue ink. With its tongue lolling out in concentration, it began slowly drawing fine, fern-like frost onto the window.

“Important soul business, I am sure.

Silver willow trees sprung up within the castle, breaking apart the flagstones

He needed me to pick up the pieces of him. He needed me more than ever, though he did not know it yet.

end with us smiting each other a great many buffets on the helm.

“That’s a bed?” In a land full of strange and profane creatures, it was apparently this that strained my credulity.

held the snowflake to my eyes. Icy fronds bristled from a curved spine. It was shaped like a tiny feather.

My eyes lingered on one that had been cut from a vast tapestry

On its branches was an enormous eagle with a parcel at its feet. The bird regarded us with its round, orange eyes

“You- You’re…” he hesitated before finishing, “You’re quite pretty.”

The knot within my heart tightened.

reached up behind Laon to manipulate his neck before my brother turned sharply.

“Whatever are you doing?”

“I had thought the missionary had a wife, not a sister.”

“I have no wife.” Laon was staring hard

“Cathy, do you think me handsome?” asked Laon as we watched the dancers wheel around us

his large blue eyes and long brown lashes, the proud curve of his mouth?

“Beauty is of little consequence, brother. It hardly matters,” I said, forcing myself to look away.

I stole another glance. “I know your piercing gaze, Cathy.”

men unfolded into centaurs, backing away from the edge of the painting before galloping towards us and leaping

“I don’t know, the eye-blood-hand fae could be water aligned,” said Laon dryly.

will ever be as lonely as I have been.

Laon Helstone, private journals

placing a possessive hand upon her companion’s naked shoulder.

adjusting her brother’s unravelling toga

were no longer human in shape. A fox was tangled with a snow white rabbit. A lion stood on its hind legs, its front paws clinging to a skinless clockwork doll.

He was staring at me intently. The hunger in his eyes was both alien and achingly familiar.

He was the last real thing within these borders, under this unreal sun. No eyes could watch us here.

the waltz wheeled us around and around. Our feet flew across the marble floor, across the glass shards of a thousand broken mirrors

If all the fae are indeed animals, then that had some profoundly disturbing implications for our work

moreover, what of its fae inhabitants? After all, birds and beasts have no souls and do not need converting.

“Thank you for telling me.”

She grinned, less wide than usual with a touch of melancholy

Through them all, the sincerity of Elizabeth Clay’s faith shone brightly.

she wrote with an undeniable ferocity.

Roche, at times, seemed more enthused about his future bride’s theological education than any other attribute.

She will hunt, so she needs some fae to hunt. It needs to be one of us. And I thought, it can be Benjamin.”

No foxes, no deer. Just us. Us fae.” He gave a half shrug, his bony shoulders sharp under his clothes.

Surer than sure. It is what I need to do.”

“But, Mr Benjamin, we can’t possibly allow…”

“Please, Miss Helstone. Allow me the martyr’s crown.”

I have read the book. Christ has spoken, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”

Verily I say unto thee, Today shalt thou be with me in paradise. Come with me to chapel. You read to me before I die and we sing

“But no path can do this. No other path.” His voice was somewhere between his usual accent and that Oxford Voice he liked so much

“Allow me the martyr’s crown. With it you can buy Arcadia. Open the gates. Walk the paths.

Your life is not mine nor my brother’s to spend. But I will go with you to the chapel.”

It was like finding pebbles under sun-warmed dirt.

Would I see him again in paradise?

For all the wear upon my well-read Bible, for all the times I had turned to it for strength

Did they also feel this helpless, watching their own fall to plague and sword?

“If Christ can ransom the world, perhaps I can buy back my own kind,”

He smiled as though at his own joke. “Tell me the story I will be part of. The story of our sin and our salvation.”

from his entering of Jerusalem to the moment of his execution. The name of this castle, Gethsemane, took on new meaning.

without taking his eyes off the altar.

“You are staying here?”

“As long as I can,” he said. “The hunt will begin soon.”

we could not outrun the will of Mab.

“No,” I said, quite quietly. “Render therefore unto Caesar

“I am not angry about that. I am angry that you were not there to pray with him, to sing with him, to hear his last words. He prays now, alone, because you were not there.”

“Cathy!”

“You should go to him.”

You need someone and it should be me. You should not be alone here.”

“I want you here. More than anything.”

If only I could run fast enough, far enough.” Crumpled over, I had never seen my proud, beautiful brother look as defeated.

There is no sin in the slaying of one without a soul.”

“Oh but what is a soul, dear sister?”

Was this how His apostles felt at the eve of Christ’s execution?

I did not want to witness this. I remembered Mr Benjamin’s trusting eyes and his myriad questions

imagined how bare words would one day try to recreate this moment and I could not. The first fae martyr. If nothing else, I should witness this.

it bolted. Its brown hair and torn clothes streamed as it dove into the undergrowth.

It ran on two legs, not four.

It was Miss Davenport.

that briefly formed hands, fingers, lips, before melting again into the mist. It flowed like water,

“Good, Cathy,” she whispered, voice tremulous.

“Take my horse,” I said. “You should be able to get away.

“I had suspicions. And the Pale Queen knows. I’ve seen your human, the real Catherine Helstone.”

as though a part of me always knew the truth. It suddenly made sense: my discontentment, my ambitions, my feelings for Laon.

pushing them back into my hands as she shook her head. “You have to kill me.”

“I won’t. Please, Ariel.”

She smiled. There was a softness to her smile

that familiarity I had of her turning into affection.

he didn’t care. He worried about my soul when I had none.”

The sound of the hunting horn broke her reverie.

“You have to kill me. Don’t let your brother do it.”

To make them sin. To make them fall. Protect him for me. I beg you. Promise me.”

You haven’t changed. You are who you are–”

“But I’m not her.”

“You’re still my sister.”

It had been so red earlier, so vivid.

How was there still blood on me?

“She loved you, you know,” I said. “Davenport. The fake one. She loved you.”

“I know.”

I chased his kisses with my own, and he wound his fingers through my wet hair. We fumbled at his clothes until his pale skin was against mine.

He was so very real.

At the base of it was affixed a small, slender bone. A finger bone.

I choked back a bitter, acid mouthful.

finally leaving and adding, quite quietly, “Good fakes are same as real.”

“You used to make little animals out of my bread. You would ask me to give them voices and we used to tell stories about them.”

I didn’t correct him about my name. I supposed that Ariel shared her name with the real Ariel Davenport.

I wondered if perhaps she could be Catherine and I could be Cathy.

my corrupt heart, as it is, cold to the spirit and warm to the flesh

All that and you worry about us?”

“You are my sister.”

“I’m not; I’m not even real.” A delirious laugh rang out

it was difficult to believe.

And there was so much blood.

The shawl that Ariel had gifted me was draped over the back of a chair in the middle of the room, where I could see it at all times if I choose to look.

then again for a little while after her father’s. I remembered counting the threads in the quilt, willing my world to be just that warm, soft embrace. He had taken care of me then.

it grew to be further littered with curiosities he had brought me: a music box with a trilling bird; his old sketch book and half-faded paints; spools of bright thread and yards of linen.

“What is it?”

He shrugged. “Dusty, mostly.”

awkwardly returning the embrace.

He leaned his head against my shoulder, allowing himself to be enveloped. It was a closeness that made me ache.

tapping his finger affectionately against my nose.

I frowned at his levity.

And then it struck me.

it was just an excuse, you would fall asleep so quickly when you clung to me.”

“You were warm,” I muttered in half confession.

“And your bed smelt nice.”

“My bed smelt of me.”

My voice grew smaller and my fingers agitated. “Exactly.”

He grinned.

“And you promised not to ever bring it up again.”

Catherine Helstone’s brother laughed, his blue eyes far brighter

His fingers brushed against mine and we laced hands together

I could feel his heartbeat through his hand.

“Sea whale ambergris could smell like cheap wine.”

“You on Saturday night, then?”

obsessed with the idea of the whale as fate, that Jonah tried to escape from the sight of God and the will of God, but he could not.

And since there is nowhere beyond the sight of God, his prayers are heard and he is saved.”

“Did Roche not want to come to Arcadia?”

Jutting out his bottom lip, he huffed his own hair from his eyes. It was getting rather long.

We gazed into the water. Transparent roses grew at the bottom of it, each illuminated by a pale red light. Slowly they bloomed, soft petals opening like a mouth

their fins and tails spread gloriously. Underwater, their sickly pallor became the most translucent of shimmering whites

“Lands we never thought we’d see,” I said, a touch wistful for our old games. “What did we call their leader again?”

He answered immediately

He was standing very close to me and all at once I was all too aware of him.

Each memory seemed to lead me inexorably to this point where I was standing before him, slightly too close and far too afraid.

why I felt this ache whenever I saw Catherine Helstone’s brother

He was simply there, too close, too real and too beautiful.

“What do you mean?”

his mouth twisted into a smirk before he leaned over in a kiss

indeed like writing the newsletters and journals for our tin soldiers. More than once, we wondered at what our little tin Duke of Wellington would make of this place

You will always be my Cathy and you will always be my sister.”

I raised an eyebrow at that, and he had the decency to look sheepish.

“And other things, true,”

you shouldn’t think of yourself as less real. And I do have to call you something.”

I doubted you because of my own weakness. You are the sister I grew up with, the sister I have loved and love now. And that’s all that matters.”

In the light of that fire, we mourned the loss of that strange world we glimpsed but did not quite understand and further laboured to record its fleeting image

Still, for all the weight upon my heart, those may have been my happiest days, lost in our work and in each other.

Blackwood’s Magazine, December 1846

“Making the seasons happen. Am sure he’ll get to the leaves on the trees next.”

“Doesn’t that just… happen?

“So it doesn’t forget what it is?” Catherine Helstone’s brother said, pausing

It would give great comfort to me if I could read from its bones the identity of my devourer.”

The resemblance between Catherine Helstone’s brother and I had brought me great joy in the past. It was our closeness, our history written upon our flesh

he would look in the mirror and see my eyes gaze out at him. I wondered now if he would see her eyes instead of mine

He gave a preening smile, and I wanted to laugh at his vanity

“I don’t…” I swallowed, unwilling to admit ignorance. “We’ll find out.”

He met my gaze with a smile. “Together.”

“It’ll be worth it.” He smiled winningly. His cloudless blue eyes sparkled.

“Because you would never be lost.”

My hand closed around it, trying to bury the pain of his confession.

gems that looked like iridescent animal eyes, tiny castles hanging on strings

Pretty penny, pretty trinket! Ugly penny, ugly trinket!”

“Real mermaid tears! Fake chickens’ teeth!”

Catherine Helstone’s brother wrapped an arm around me and drew me closer.

I had pinned it to Catherine Helstone’s sister at her funeral. I remember it glinting at me

Catherine Helstone’s brother pinned it to the front of my dress, and my fingers played over its familiar details

“Are you selling doors?” I asked.

“I also sell locks, if that helps,” said the long-faced fae

she eyed him. “And you really should.”

He took a step forwards, an edge of confrontation in his voice as his hand tightened protectively around mine

“I can pay you,” said Catherine Helstone’s brother.

“But what?”

“Name a price.”

“I suppose you would need something to keep your bits in. I probably have a bearskin somewhere.”

“Would that make me a bear?”

“Don’t know. I suppose. You could always take it off? Humans are so fiddly sometimes.”

Catherine Helstone’s brother was considering the deal far too seriously.

You call them eyes, right? If I could take them and an arm and a leg? Is that fair?”

I’m not greedy, I wouldn’t ask for all of you. You want half of her back, so I ask for half of you.”

“Half of her?”

“But I am not real,” I said, firmly. I could not abide by his delusion.

“Real to me.” He gave my hand a quick, affectionate squeeze.

“I won’t let you do this.”

“Why not?”

“It’s your eyes!

“But it might help.” He gave me a gentle, mournful smile. His hand brushed against my cheek; I pulled away. “I love you.”

“No, there are no more words.”

“What–”

“Cathy, I love you.”

“No, Laon!” I called after him. “Laon!”

He turned.

He waited. I watched his throat tremble as he swallowed.

we were alone. He was the only real thing here. “Because,” I said. “Because I love you.”

Which of us closed the distance between us didn’t matter, only that we became entwined.

We laughed, momentarily forgetting where we were.

The mists did not forget, though. They danced around us, luridly realising what we both wanted.

I felt his breath against my neck as our arms entwined. I breathed to him the words that I had so long denied the both of us.

Translated from Enochian by Rev Laon Helstone and Catherine Helstone

Sunlight woke me and I was beside him.

Blushing, I remembered how we had tumbled into the bed

kisses were exchanged between the scribbled sheets and the ink of our words was blotted onto my skin.

Sunlight flattered him. It gave his skin a warm glow and made his eyelashes cast shadows upon the planes of his cheeks.

But it was a very sweet dream.

His eyes opened and he smiled at the sight of me.

remembering how I had once teased him for being inappropriately Byronic in his demeanour.

“Byron would–”

“Oh hush, you are nothing like Lord Byron. Your poetry is abysmal.”

“Exactly like him then.”

Laon grinned rakishly at that

hands fluttering between my mouth and the page. “This is their genesis.”

picked up each of the birds. I felt their little trembling hearts as they beat their brittle wings against my hands.

I woke screaming.

We did not try to leave the door open again.

They were as beautiful as the blushing dawn, as the twilight sky

reassured Laon, his blue eyes wonderfully soft

There was a comfort in ancient, beautiful words, I supposed.

“Almost sounds like when we sang in past,” said Mr Benjamin, a little wistful

“The Reverend is here, I speak often of the Reverend. And to the Reverend,”

He caught my hand and gave each of my fingers a light, punctuating kiss. His eyes flashed dark

“Two impossibilities doesn’t make a new reality.” His hair fell into his eyes, and he raked his fingers through it.

“True, but… I want to try.”

Laon nodded. “Then we try.”

could not really be commanded. However, the moon, being a fish, could sometimes be lured over, given sufficient bait.

taking a deep breath, I rang it.

An ethereal tinkling

empty eyes and long, curved teeth, yellow as ivory. I could see the bleeding, exposed gums at the roots of its teeth. It was swimming far too close.

The corridor was indeed gilded silver by the moonlight.

Laon and I walked down it, hand in hand.

“I told you it was a good present,” said Laon proudly.

The double doors opened

by Rev Laon Helstone and Catherine Helstone

I knew who the woman in black was.

“Laon.”

My own voice sounded distant, as though it came from another’s throat. I wondered why my mind hadn’t shattered.

the towers of books enclosing us reminded me of the many times we hid from Tessie in the far corners of the library.

nothing would hurt more than the truth and the fae would do anything to hurt him.”

Bede and poetry and a book about lost time.

Laon offered me his hip flask and I took it.

once a Khazar princess slept with letters inscribed upon her eyelids that killed as soon as they were read.

“What did he do?” There was fear in Laon’s voice now.

“He needed someone for them to break.

It was all falling away. “The colour of the nightingale’s blood upon the whitest rose… No, not that either…”

I pulled away from his anchoring presence. He was too real.

“He has to be a good man. He needs to be.” He turned away. He took a deep, trembling breath. “He must be.”

the letters vague and black before me, too large to read, too large to be of any sense. I remembered myself feasting on its secrets, drinking in the dark, dark ink.

“I can’t say…”

“She was here. The three of you sang hymns together. Then she did something. It inspired you…”

“So, miss,” said the gnome, quite determined now. “Will you bring Benjamin with you?”

“Of course.”

Relief broke

and by worthy communicants truly received.

That they don’t see themselves as people, but as parts of stories. That they play again and again the roles they were born to.”

taking a hesitant step closer. He was clearly horrified to see anyone in such a state. “Betha? Is that you?”

“I’ll give it to you, Elizabeth,” I said, prying her cold fingers away and unpinning it

“How can you not know where you are? What this place is?”

smearing the fresh blood upon it.

“Laon,” I forced from my throat. I could barely breathe. “I know.”

I will love them both. I will bring her dolls of flesh to save her from that pain.

spoke words for the human woman alone, pleading, loving words

“Is there not milk?” I asked. She blinked. “I thought you were a changeling.”

But he didn’t realise that the truth they will break with is the truth of his own self. Mirrors are terrible things.

barking out a single sharp, abrasive laugh. “They didn’t salt it.”

“Why?”

“She trusted.

from there he saved human souls. “That’s why she’s trying to kill herself. To escape.”

Salamander was pacing around us, licks of flames coiling. “Suicide is the worst sin.”

“It is mine to commit.

“I need this to end. Please.” She cast her beseeching eyes upon me. “Let me die.”

For the first and last time, bells rang

The Salamander enfolded Elizabeth Clay in her fiery embrace, cooing a lullaby to her as we ascended the steps.

did not have such scrutiny, such creation. Our patchwork world needed to be made piece by stolen piece.

Because–” I stopped.

And then all at once we both knew the terrible truth.

“They brought you here for a reason,” said Laon, a dark calm in his voice cutting through my panic. “Mirrors are terrible things.

Our love had been the last pure, real thing that I had clung to and it was slipping away.

“You’re crying,” he said.

My hands flew to my face. It was wet with tears

“Laon!” Tears were rolling sticky wet down my face. There was too much I wanted to say; it welled up inside me

filled me with gut-wrenching revulsion.

He laughed, threw his head back and just laughed.

“I thought you were an apparition to tempt me.” His beautiful mouth twisted cruel.

my own sister. I thought–”

“Laon, no…”

“You’re my sister,” he said again.

He did not push me away.

“My grand scheme.” She made a gesture towards the clockwork that framed her throne. “The sins that I have set in motion

it was all you…” muttered Laon. There was little defiance left in him, only a dark despair.

He glanced over at me, that guilt heavy in his eyes.

“I wish it still.”

“Very well.”

And one of those thoughts would have broken me, but here I was still standing.

The last sanctuary before the end

a love letter to humanity, a portrait drawn by someone too besotted to understand what they saw.

We had not the purity of ambition, the strength of spirit, the firmness of faith. Our minds would cloud and our hopes would waver.

And yet, I wanted to go.

Not worthy of you, of this,” he said. “I should go home, where God can judge me. I’ve run away from my sins for long enough.”

made us face our own worst selves. Face each other’s. They cannot do more.”

“Brother, look at me.”

He turned to me.

Despite his tempestuous thoughts, his blue eyes were still pools

He placed his hand over mine.

“There is redemption yet, brother.”

“There is a world that has been deaf to the Word of God, hidden from His eyes

But you and I,” I gave a grim smile, “we have nothing to fear.”

“Because there is nothing more they can do.” He held my hand now painfully tight

“Either way,” said Laon, beaming now. I returned the smile and I knew what he was going to say next. “We should find out.”

[antonia-gergely]

Vitamin P - New Perspectives in Painting

Artists I like from the first edition of this book series.

Francis Alÿs

b. 1959 (Antwerp, Belgium)

Best known for Paradox of Praxis I, 1997, where he pushed an ice cube through the streets of Mexico City. Fluxus and the performance art revival of the 1990s comes to mind, but I'd rather focus on his comparatively underrated paintings. 'Francis Alÿs blurs the boundaries between melancholy and humorous story-telling by means of seemingly naive paintings and drawings that form the basis for small animated films addressing socially critical actions and studies relating to everyday life on the streets of his chosen home, Mexico City.' https://www.sammlung-goetz.de/en/exhibitions/francis-alys/

Francis Alÿs, Paradox of Praxis I, 1997 (still)

'Francis Alÿs is best known for his films, installations, and performances called paseos in which he wanders through urban streets. For the past three decades, however, the Mexico City-based, Belgian-born artist has also been quietly painting en plein air, sometimes in extraordinarily remote or conflict-ridden locations. Alÿs completed some of his works when he was embedded in northern Iraq with Kurdish Peshmerga fighters who were driving ISIS out of Mosul.

[Sally] Tallant tells artnet News that Alÿs makes what he calls his “tiny paintings” everywhere he goes, but has never shown them before as an exhibition. Alÿs did, however, include a small preview of this body of work in a powerful video shown in the Iraqi Pavilion at last year’s Venice Biennale. Called simply (Untitled, Mosul, Iraq, 31 Oct 2016), it showed the hand of the artist attempting to paint a battle going on around him. Later, he wiped all the pigment away.'

from Artnet in 2018 (https://news.artnet.com/art-world/francis-alys-three-decades-paintings-liverpool-biennial-1245461)

Francis Alÿs, Outskirts of Mosul, 2016

'He consistently directs his distinct poetic and imaginative sensibility towards anthropological and geopolitical concerns centred around observations of, and engagements with, everyday life, which he has described as “a sort of discursive argument composed of episodes, metaphors, or parables”. His multifaceted projects include public actions, installations, video, paintings and drawings.'

'Francis Alÿs presents a selection of postcard-size paintings from the 1980s to today under the title Age Piece. Executed in the tradition of classic plein air painting, these works allude to the condition of global tourism in the contemporary art scene. Many of the paintings were done while scouting new locations for future film projects, often in conflict zones such as Israel and Palestine, Afghanistan and Iraq.'

from Liverpool Biennial website (https://www.biennial.com/artists/francis-alys/)

Francis Alÿs, Le Temps du Sommeil. 1996 – present, series of 111 paintings (ongoing). Oil on wood, 11.5cm x 15.5cm

'Accompanied by instructions and postcards which resemble a diary, the work relates in an oblique way to visions of games and exercises seen in many of his actions and films. This series is being shown at IMMA before it travels to Tate Modern, the first stage in an international retrospective of Alÿs’s work.'

IMMA (https://imma.ie/whats-on/francis-alys-le-temps-du-sommeil/)

As I have mentioned, I'm integrating text into my work, and this shows me a very new and bold way to do so. Scrawling, scribbled letters alongside a stamp that would remind anyone who grew up in or before the 2000s of their primary school notebooks or the expiring nature of things like milk sitting in the fridge door. There's something about Alÿs. " My work is a succession of notes and guides. The invention of a language goes together with the invention of a city. "Each of my interventions is another fragment of the story that I am inventing, of the city that I am mapping" quoted in IMMA article.

'Upon entering the room, a seemingly endless sequence of small pieces, alternating between text and paintings, line the walls. The small dimensions require the viewer to approach closely and encourage engagement with the work. Almost all paintings are composed in the same way with a red background and a small, circular setting of olive-coloured grass and a dark green sky where different scenes unfold. Alÿs has compared this technique to the early Renaissance Veduta.  Veduta are detailed paintings or drawings of a town or city where a distant scene was inserted into a landscape.  In later years, however, all artists who employed the Veduta feature were also involved in the painting of Capricci, defined as imaginary scenes, and this would seem an equally appropriate reference for Alÿs’s visions, where figures are repeatedly engaged in seemingly absurd and surreal activities.

While scenes within the green oval are executed with precision, the images also contain splatters of paint and sketchy, white drawings suggesting speedy execution, suited to the  capturing of fleeting thoughts.'

'Rather than serving as an explanatory piece for each painting, the texts accompanying the visual add to our understanding of the narrative. Many of the texts recount journeys undertaken in the past.'

from Paper Visual (https://papervisualart.com/2010/04/20/francis-alys-le-temps-du-sommeilirish-museum-of-modern-art-26-february-23-may-2010/)

I like his visual methods. Very airy, dusty, often warm tones with subtle yet existent brush marks. Representational work, with slight abstracted elements outside of the Veduta feature he alludes to. Magritte comes to mind in his Temps du Sommeil series.

[littledeathmachine]

ARTISTS

Jake Chapman born 1966

Dinos Chapman born 1962

MEDIUM

Aluminium, steel, wood, glass, plastic, rubber, paper, leather, soap and coffee

DIMENSIONS

Displayed: 1384 × 742 × 943 mm

COLLECTION

Tate

ACQUISITION

Presented anonymously 1997

REFERENCE

T07272

The process of making Little Death Machine was empirical. The Chapman brothers assembled various objects they had in their studio and experimented with different systems to make them work. On a wooden surface two brains, cast in latex, and a rubber dildo are linked by plastic tubing and a crude system of wheels and pulleys to a hammer and a milk bottle. The whole mechanism is mounted on a metal framework and encased in a perspex box. Six bottles of liquids simulating milk in various stages of decomposition are displayed on the perspex base underneath the machine. Originally, before becoming 'castrated', the machine operated as a closed circuit. An electric pump directed liquid soap, simulating milk, from the milk bottle to the first brain. A blow from the hammer would then cause it to be pumped from the brain up into the penis, which in turn would ejaculate the liquid into the second brain. From here it would return through the tubing to the milk bottle, whence it would be recycled. The artists disconnected the mechanism in order prevent it from destroying itself. Initially displayed without a cover, the piece has accumulated a layer of dust and dirt, which now seems intrinsic to it. Now under a perspex box and ageing noticeably, it has acquired the look of an archive exhibit.

Little Death Machine … was like a do-it-yourself libido … It doesn't look like a libido but in its action, from the end of the penis to the upturned brain, between those two points, the representation is actually quite correct. It's uncanny that an apparatus so unlike the human can produce something that is mechanically like this splutter from the genitals.
(Chapmans quoted in Hilty: 'Dinos & Jake Chapman: Shock, Boredom, Modernism', Art Press, no. 234, April 1998, p.40.)

The title of Little Death Machine (Castrated) refers to the French term for masculine post-orgasm flaccidity - le petit mort - meaning literally 'little death'. It proposes an endless cycle of self-involved and enclosed cerebral-sexual activity leading to death. Reducing human (particularly sexual) activities to their most mechanical and banal is a Chapman speciality, graphically illustrated by this work. In its state before becoming 'castrated', the machine suggests the sterility of masturbation, as opposed to the possible fertility of real intercourse with another body. Mechanically disconnected, it represents a double-death. With its aged and preserved appearance Little Death Machine (Castrated) recalls the mechanical objects of the surrealists. The inclusion of a paper McDonald's cup containing coffee residues connects the work with Coffee Mill 1911 (Tate T03253) by Marcel Duchamp (1887-1968), a painting depicting a mechanical device for grinding coffee, and simultaneously brings it back into the late twentieth century.

Further reading:
Chapmanworld, exhibition catalogue, ICA, London 1996, [pp.45-6]
Stuart Morgan, 'Rude Awakening', Frieze, no. 19, Nov.-Dec. 1994, pp.30-33
Unholy Libel: Six Feet Under; exhibition catalogue, Gagosian Gallery, New York 1997, reproduced (colour) fig.ii, [p.82]

Elizabeth Manchester
May 2000

[mt-shahparan]

The concrete jungle wherein lain supine On the periphery of Earth— lull— ruptured— Therein, behind the colossal Haritaki trees The lucid sun of Autumn— round— mustered—

Sinks silently unto the mire of moon, only an owl Seated on a Pipul tree drones on, solitary, The revered spectacle of the gold-cladden sun And the debauchery of moon, silverine.

Under the unkempt bows of Haritaki: decrypts The molten beams of diamonds and lurid Rapture of limpid water; brief silhouettes of humanheads— chronic silence— caper smells of wooden leaves— Madhukupi grass.

Some women in the spirals of Goddesses Their men; courteous youths, ever-apt Strands mantled in buns, the nascent clouds Of Inferno-wake; under the drifting stance of legs, Hong Kong foliage.

Therein, cached water disrobes the arid shrine, Ionising into diamonds, the brisk layering of leaves Begets no freighting ire, yet they discern the still hedonism of Cannons beguiling Shanghai.

Therein, some women languishing chariots, rekindling the utopia of senses under the mellow bosom of Moon All men, native and alien, shall no longer soar onto catapults And the milking affinity of inflation.

Scarlett kisses chromatise these tranquil fields These submerged cushions and humane sleep dull the unhinged taste of being; Through the swells from the pastures of this grotto— to thee ambiance of ruptured soil— To Poseidon.

Ghastly path drags to the Haritaki woods, to the mire of Moon; the sober sunbeamed days of traffic and strike now lie ceased; In buns the cogent clouds of Inferno-wake, Under the drifting stance of legs, Scorpio— Cancer— Libra— Pisces.

[Personal translation of Jibanananda Das' গোধূলিসন্ধ্যার নৃত্য]

Note: To quote Tarkovsky's father Arseny "Poetry cannot be translated". And I agree with him. For me, a fruitful translation lies not in the act of being faithful to the original text, but in the hijacking of the original author's "being-there-then" into the translator's own. You can guess from the words and his expressions and metaphors and all that jizz, translating Jibanananda Das proves to be quite the hardle. But that's why it's so fascinating; after all, what is sweeter than the fruit of labour?

Nachtstücke #4 / Scorpio, cancer, libra, Pisces. (4 Jul 2023)

[redlovewitch]

all poorly underlined extracts from my battered and much loved copy of 'under milk wood' by dylan thomas

[existential-celestial]

The coming of the end of the Spring day is already reflected in the lakes of their great eyes.

Under Milk Wood, Dylan Thomas

[soracities]

It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black

Dylan Thomas, Under Milk Wood

[nitewrighter]

I really love your Cinderella retelling and the way you incorporated the fae. But also I’m I sucker for barely leashed feral people, so now I wanna read one where Cinderella is the fairy.

Maybe her parents had trouble conceiving or she was swapped at birth but that doesn’t mean they don’t love their little changling child any less for not being there’s by blood and bone. It could even be that her mother wasn’t human, that her essence was that of a certain witch of hazel

She can’t retaliate against her step family, perhaps due to a promise to her father in keeping with your quote of kind isn’t always good (1) or it could be something more traditional like her name. As noted by the fact that she is referred to by a nickname or the line “nevermind what they call me” from 2015 Cinderella.

But not retaliating doesn’t mean she can’t use her charm in other ways. Doesn’t mean she can’t curdle butter and sour milk because really, she’s the only one it inconveniences. And it it means that their toast is a little plain, well the jams right there isn’t it.

And as to her attendance to the ball. It doesn’t really matter why does it? Not while theirs air under her feet and dances to be had. There is no fae gathering without a dance after all.

(1). “You're so nice/You're not good/You're not bad/You're just nice/I'm not good/I'm not nice/I'm just right/I'm the witch” - last midnight, into the woods 2014

Oh I love concepts of Cindy as something kind of beyond human. And I think the concept "Dangerous Supernatural Being Only Barely Contained by Domestic Labor" is a fascinating trope. Like, you see it with Lorna in Over the Garden Wall and I also recently found out about a being in Estonian folklore called a 'Kratt' which is kind of a... magic robot made of animated hay and household objects which has to continually be given tasks or else it will kill its creator.

Then you also have the folklore of Brownies and Domovoi which are very much tied to the house and can fuck your shit up if they aren't paid the proper respect.

I think in my telling, I kind of like the idea of Cinderella as kind of a 'ghost' of her parents, the rightful owners of the house, but as far as making Cinderella a supernatural being goes, you can take it in a lot of different directions!