Quincy has lots of foresight and level headedness as Van Helsing says. He is laconic less in the meaning of "Says little" and more with the actual definition of "Gets straight to the POINT". He sees what the matter is and instantly goes for the solution. I think that getting Mina a Portable Typewriter is part of that.

But it is still fascinating that it was him and not Jonathan who bought it. Jonathan might have been too deep into despair to think of a future in the horizon?

I mean, he also does say little as soon as matters get serious, which I think fits his character as well. It's not just Stoker writing him as more background character and forgetting to give him many lines (though I feel sure that's part of it too) but also, Quincey only hams it up when the situation calls for it. He's talkative with his buddies, and with the girl he hopes to marry, but as soon as we get into survival situations then he gets much more quiet and to the point.

Jack says that "In all our hunting parties and adventures in different parts of the world, Quincey Morris had always been the one to arrange the plan of action, and Arthur and I had been accustomed to obey him implicitly." And I think that does seem clear. He tends to think very simply/practically, and while he doesn't take on the role of leader in this group it's easy to see how he would be able to do so in another situation. He doesn't get as caught up in philosophizing or emotion; like you (and Art and Van Helsing) said, he's level-headed. He is pretty good at recognizing the core of a situation and just zeroing in on it, not being afraid to ask the relevant questions even when they might seem absurd or rude. My favorite moment being of course "Where did the blood go?" but there are others as well. And yeah, every time he tries to find a way to act about it. He notices Lucy might love someone else, asks, gets rejected, and then keeps his distance because he doesn't want to get in their way. He recognizes the blood must be going somewhere, asks about it, and then decides to guard against bats because he knows bats are something that could do that. That sort of thing. He also acts preventatively quite a lot (that foresight you mentioned), with stuff like shooting at bats or spying to see which way Dracula might flee or volunteering to ride up the riverbank in case Dracula got off at some port along the way. These are all just-in-case type actions taken to prevent a possible bad outcome.

Him getting the typewriter for Mina is nice in another way because it goes against his tendency to step back when he thinks something isn't his place. He's shown to be pretty hesitant about being somewhere he thinks he would be intruding, from stuff like not coming back to visit Lucy until Art asked him, to not going to see her on her deathbed since she didn't even know he was there, to stepping out of the room when he saw Art having a moment with Mina, to even being weirdly nervous about bursting into the Harkers' bedroom during a life-or-death situation. He likes to wait for an invitation first (not in a vampire way, haha) when it comes to interactions with people. But here, he doesn't. And I think it comes down to the day they met, when Mina saw how he was feeling and offered him comfort and validated his own grief as just as worthy. He was deeply moved and promised to be her friend from then on. Then he vowed to kill her in the name of that friendship. This is a gentler, perhaps less grand but no less meaningful, way he can express how much he cares about her, and try to in some way return the favor by attempting to lift her spirits when she is suffering.

(Mina and Quincey's friendship gets me emotional every time.)

As for why Jonathan didn't buy it... I think it is partially him not seeing the future right now. He has already said that he and Mina don't talk of the future, and while he of course is fully dedicated to hunting Dracula down and ensuring they will have a happy future together, I'm not sure it is anything he can really visualize right now. He is so very absorbed in caring for Mina in her current condition and planning to take care of Dracula in a distinctly different meaning of the word, that he doesn't have room for anything else right now. He's on the edge of breaking down as it is, and is just trying to push through, sort of like it was for him back in the castle.

But also, in a less angsty way, I think it might not have occurred to him as something he could do. He and Mina have only recently come into any sort of wealth, and a typewriter like this would be pretty expensive (I believe someone looked it up last year and it seems like Quincey dropped a pretty hefty sum on this gift). He's become used to using money much more freely of late, but it has always been for the purpose of a specific goal, not purchases for pleasure. It may not be something that even comes to mind as a reasonable act he could do for her, not yet anyway.

In your post about how vampires are drawn to their victims you mention Dracula and Mina but not Jonathan. Arguably Dracula has more attachment to Jonathan since he kept him prisoner for 3 months, right?

eeehh could be but I didn't personally interpret it that way. The way Dracula behaves with Jonathan and the way he behaves with Lucy and Mina are extremely different...partly because sexism but also I think it should also be noted that there's a point where we have to stop thinking of Dracula as a character and consider what he is as a metaphor/narrative tool. He is meant to play on 19th century xenophobic stereotypes, particularly the fear of foreigners coming in and displacing white English men and converting or assaulting white English women. That was a big trope back in the day and Dracula as a novel leans heavily into it with no subversion.

That explains on a meta level why Jonathan never gets fed off of but I often wonder why Drac never fed off Jonathan on a textual level, and I've kind of come to the conclusion that Jon doesn't actually mean that much to him. He's just some lawyer guy who Dracula needs to use to secure property in England. Dracula enjoys tormenting him but he'd enjoy tormenting any human because he a sadist and a dick. At best it's possible he considered Jonathan a candidate to be another Renfield. Someone to be kept as a thrall and then disposed of. This isn't to undermine or minimize Jonathan's trauma but I tend to feel like Dracula doesn't care about him personally until Jonathan escapes. Dracula wasn't even planning to feed on him directly iirc just lock him up until he starves or let the brides have him. In a way that could almost make it worse, that Jonathan went through all that and it wasn't even personal, it was just for Drac's amusement. I think you could argue that when Jon escapes that's when it becomes personal because I can see it hurting Dracula's pride.

Lucy, Dracula preyed on and eventually turned, possibly to add her to his harem of brides but with Mina? That was personal. Mina he wanted to hurt because it would be the biggest blow to the whole group. I'll admit in my AU I do tend to favor Dracula vs Mina as opposing forces because there are points where he's literally inside her head and she can sense him. He has a fixation on her that is built on a deep seated mutual hatred and he feels slighted because he came so close to beating her down and breaking her resolve the first time.

Jonathan and the rest of the group got to fight Dracula on the physical plane but Mina? She had to fight him inside her own mind, that's a horror Jonathan will never know and a violation that my version of the character never recovers from. It cuts her off even from her loved ones because the scar runs so deep under the surface. What Dracula did to Mina was a rape of mind, body and soul. Dracula took so much more from her than he did anyone else, he took Lucy, he took her peace of mind, her dignity, her sense of safety and he almost took her very humanity. I feel like of all the characters there was no one hurt more than Mina and the fact that she kept fighting him and won speaks to the strength of her character.

And when he comes back in the AU she keeps fighting. Mina has an unshakeable conviction and no matter how he tries Dracula can't kill it. It's a characteristic she passes on to her son Quincey, though it grieves her that he lives in a world where he needs to be that strong.

Seward Summary....AGAIN!

It is now 1:43 in the morning, i've had my break, and I am committed to getting this out before the next email, so help me blob.

WARNINGS: violence

They are waiting for Quincey and Arthur to return. In the meantime, Van Helsing is trying to keep their minds busy. Mostly this is for Jonathan's sake, as he's been through a lot and has the white hair and haggard look to show for it.

Jonathan is very energetic, though, his passion might see him through to better days.

Van Helsing tells them about how he's been studying. He is more sure than ever that they need to kill Dracula, because in life the Count was an incredible man. He was brave and noble and, above all else, extremely intelligent and learned, and that intelligence survived his becoming a vampire. However, in some ways he's still comparable to a child, but he is learning and growing and experimenting to gain more command.

Jonathan wants to know what he means. Van Helsing explains that there was much about his abilities Dracula seemed not to know, but he is testing his limits. For example, using Renfield. Another example, he initially hired people to move his boxes of dirt, but then tried to help and found he could in fact move them alone. This is good for him because he can scatter them more discreetly, and only he will know where they are. He is immortal, he can take his time and do everything right.

The knowledge about the boxes comes too late to help the Count, though. If he'd tried sooner he'd be well beyond their reach by now, but as it is they've made all but one of his boxes unusable. Van Helsing expects to reach that one very soon, too, as they have more to lose and so ought to be more careful than Dracula.

Van Helsing expects Quincey and Arthur back soon, but the near-immediate knock on the door is a telegram. Van Helsing accepts it. It's from Mina, she warns them to watch out for Dracula as he hurriedly left Carfax and went south, possibly looking for them.

Jonathan is pleased, because he is very eager to meet the Count again. For murder purposes.

Van Helsing makes an effort to calm and placate Jonathan. They have to hope Quincey and Arthur get back here before Dracula does. They do, and Van Helsing fills them in. He also deduces Dracula's route from Carfax to here as being the longest possible.

They prepare their armaments as they hear a key in the lock. Quincey quickly puts together a strategy and without a word directs all of them, and they all fall into line with ease as this has become habit. Dracula's entry made clear he expected an unpleasant surprise.

The Count leaps into the room, to the surprise of all. Jonathan is first to act, blocking the door. The rest gather round. While Seward is busy questioning what, exactly, they're going to do, and whether or not their equipment will work, Jonathan pulls out a big kukri knife and goes for the kill. Dracula dodges back.

The knife misses the man but cuts his pocket and a bunch of money falls out. Jonathan raises the knife again as Seward advances with communion wafer and crucifix; Dracula cowers back.

They have him surrounded, but suddenly Dracula ducks under Jonathan's arm, grabbing a handful of the money on the way, runs across the room, and flings himself out a window.

They all run to see the Count run across the way to the stable. At the door he turns to give a villain speech about how he's only just begun, he has centuries on his side, and all the girls they love belong to him already and will spread his influence. Additionally, he has more places to rest than what they've destroyed.

He vanishes into the stable. The group determines they'll have no luck following. Van Helsing speaks up, to explain that clearly, Dracula is afraid. Why else would he move so fast and take the money? He tells them to follow as hunters while he makes sure nothing left here will aid the Count.

Van Helsing takes the remaining money and the deeds to properties, and then burns everything else int he fireplace.

The younger men all followed Dracula into the yard, Jonathan having gone out the same window, but he'd bolted the stable door and it was too late by the time they got it open. Nobody around had seen where he'd gone, either.

They determine to go back to Mina to protect her. There's only one more box of dirt to focus on finding. Jonathan is miserable about this.

Mina is in good spirits or at least putting on a good show. They have supper together, food and companionship do everyone good, then they fill Mina in on the day's events.

Seward feels some resentment, and imagines he is not the only one to do so among them, toward God for rejecting Mina despite her goodness and strength.

Mina acknowledges that the group is bent on destruction, but it isn't out of malice. They work to free the souls whose bodies they destroy. So, she asks them to pity the Count, and not hate him, because imagine the joy of the real him when they kill vampire him.

Jonathan's not too happy about that, and says he'd condemn Dracula to hell even after they slay him, if he could. Mina doesn't like that, and explains that she's asking that because all she's been able to think about today is that if she turns, she could be in Dracula's position. Some other group of intrepid vampire hunters may have cause to hate her, and she hopes they could take that kind of pity on her.

However, she also knows he didn't really think that through - he's suffering and stressed and loves her deeply. His hatred toward the Count is currently driven by his love for her.

Everyone in the group cries. Van Helsing beckons Seward, Quincey, and Arthur out of the room, to give the lovers time alone.

Before bed, Van Helsing wards the Harkers' room against vampires. He gives them a bell to ring if there's an emergency. Seward, Arthur, and Quincey divide the night into watch shifts, Quincey first and Seward last. All too bed.

OKAY man I was really prepared for there to be more parts but I got through! Today's entry just has one more segment from Jonathan, but it's a far more reasonable length.

It's 2:32 am and my summary is done. Today was the big one. I'm gonna get some rest!

Chapter 04: Rivals - Part 6

◀️ Previous | Next ▶️ | "Plague Rat" Masterpost

I love the parallel of the two groups gossiping over dinner. ^_^ I'm quite proud of those panels.

Wall o' text on dating history and my musings on it for you below the cut, as explained to me by my grandmas and other eldery folks who lived it, along with info from a pile of books I read when I was a teen.

The dating model in the comic is what it used to be like in American society until fairly recently. (Gen X ish) It wasn't polyamory, because "Dating" someone wasn't considered a committed relationship at all, and you may or may not know how many partners your date has. Dating was just doing things with someone who caught your interest to see if you clicked. A Vibe Check, really.

(I'm not poly, but according to my friends who are, the ye olde model wasn't poly because of that reason.)

This is where we get the term "Going Steady" and "Main Squeeze" from. Dating was non-committal, and from a societal standpoint didn't mean much of anything. After a few dates you would keep or discard people from your main dating pool, and slowly whittle down your results. A Main Squeeze was simply your first pick, or your preferred dating partner. Going Steady with someone implied exclusivity, and was usually just a precursor step to getting engaged.

This is why, when reading/watching old media, people are so surprised when someone is single. It was very uncommon for people of a certain age to be single, and why society tends to default to assuming someone is gay, because that wasn't something you talked about back then. Also, if you pay attention, they ask, "Does s/he have any boy/girlfriends?" They ask in the plural.

According to my grandma, it was considered rude to say how many, even if you knew. The polite answer was, "They've got a few," if they had more than one, and to outright tell the interested party if the person was going steady with someone else.

A prime example from literature that many people are familiar with is Lucy from Dracula. She had three boyfriends, but that wasn't seen as strange or wrong in any way. She was from a good family, pretty, sweet, rich - Of course she would have three boyfriends! And we know she went on dates with all of them, and they all knew about each other. We know John didn't have any other girlfriends, and while it's unlikely that Arthur or Quincey had others, it's not out of the realm of possibility.

So why am I going on about this? Because the people I've spoken with who lived it (and still do, in places) talk about what I think is the very best part of it - You learned to deal with rejection and set boundaries at a young age. Being rejected or dumped sucked, obviously, but it wasn't seen as a huge deal from a social standpoint because it happened to everyone, usually many times over. No one made fun of you for it, and once the sting passed, you tried again with someone else. You also learned to say No if you weren't interested, and hopefully how to dump someone nicely. Of course, being pushy was (and still is) considered creepy and bad form.

Compare this to today, and, well... This is why women give men wrong phone numbers and fake names. You used to not have to do that. The vast majority of the time a simple "No, thank you," was enough, and it never crossed your mind that you might get murdered for it. On the other hand, giving someone your contact info (solicited or not) was simply stating interest. Nothing was guaranteed, and that was understood.

I think that's a healthy way to go about it, and my little vision of the future would be better with those attitudes. Obviously the Ye Olde model is based around monogamy, with marriage and kids the final goal. Cal uses that for himself because he's monogamous, but a polycule could form with this model just as easily!

I'll leave you with how my grandma explained it to me, which is a great metaphor:

If you want to enter a rose into the county fair, you don't trim all but ONE bud off the bush and spend months trying to make it perfect! You prune as you go, because some of them might have a bug in there, or be weak, or just not bloom at all. Most of them will be okay, but some will be really nice. Those are the ones you pay attention to, and take special care of. Eventually, one of them will stand out as the best.

Whumptober day 7 (I’ve got you)

Amarillo, TX - October 1979

John listens, a chill slipping down his spine, as Dad's sharp whistle sets all three ranch dogs to howling. Beside him, Carmen clutches her dull stake, white-knuckled, leaning forward. Even though she's only eight, she's already been training with Momma, mastering the basics of holding a stake and protecting her vulnerable neck and wrists. John remembers his own training, Momma showing him how to grip the stake and where to strike.

He pulls Gabe a little closer to him as Dad continues. His little brother is the odd one out from John and Carmen. He seems destined to become the healer in the family. Gabe's been tying bandages on the ranch dogs and the poor unsuspecting barn cats since he's been old enough to understand knots. John's never forgotten seeing the old tom, Julio, racing across the yard looking like an escaped mummy, wrapped in half of the roll of bandages from Momma's first aid kit.

John thinks Abeula Rosa is secretly disappointed it's not John who shares her gift for care and gentleness, along with her Second Sight. Ever since he had his first Seeing dream two years ago, of laying in a grave and watching the dirt shoveled in on top of him, he's been taking lessons with Abeula Rosa to try and understand the extent of the gift he has. But just because John had one recurring vision and has the ability to see through fae glamours doesn't mean he's anything else like his Abuela. Like Momma and Carmen, he's a fighter, a defender. Here to protect people from the monsters. Gabe, he's the one who can fix things. 

John pulls his little brother a bit closer as Dad continues narrating the tale of John's namesake and his journey to the dark, gloomy castle of Dracula. "I got you, don't worry." Gabe's listening wide-eyed, it's his first time hearing the story. Dad's reading the abridged version for his benefit, John knows because he's old enough now to be trusted with the yellow-leather-bound first edition that sits in the office and has great-grandpa's signature in the front. It's a whole lot creepier than the illustrated children's version Dad's reading now. But John knows it's all real, and it makes him proud that someday he's going to be just like 'Quincey Morris', his other namesake.

He's wondered, ever since he had that dream about the grave, if he's destined to meet the same fate as the heroic, doomed Texan whose family line is in his mother's blood. He glances down at Gabe, and a fierce protectiveness surges up in him, even as the echo of his own soundless screams seems to flood his ears, and the smell of fresh earth crowds out the scent of hot chocolate and chili in the room. It always seems like he gets the vision a little stronger around Gabe. But if it means he's going to die to protect his little brother, he can handle that. Gabe's the one who can fix things, after all.

Gabe snuggles into him, his curly hair tickling John's nose, and John leans down over his little brother's head as Dad finishes the chapter and closes the book.

"Don't worry. I got you. It's fine. Nothing's gonna hurt you while I'm here."

...

Amarillo, TX - May 1992

When he repeats those words, twelve years later, on the bloodstained floor of an Amarillo warehouse, John wishes he'd understood what his vision really meant.

"Don't worry. I got you. It's okay." He repeats it over and over, like that's somehow going to make it true. Like their roles have been reversed and he's the healer. But as much as he wants it to be possible, he can't change fate.

He just wishes he'd known he saw it coming. 

"I got you." He whispers it over and over, even as he feels blood soaking the brown curls, even as his little brother goes cold and limp in his arms. "I got you." But he doesn't.

When someone comes to take Gabe's body, John doesn't want to let go. He couldn't hold on strong enough to keep his brother alive. He can't make himself let go of all he has left of him. It takes someone trying to pry his hands away, and the searing pain of his broken one when they do, to make him let go.

And when they lower his brother's coffin into the ground, and John picks up a handful of Texas soil in his good hand and lets it fall onto the pine box with an empty thud, he thinks it would have been better if he'd been the one in it.

Gabe was the one who could fix things, after all. And this time, John's the one who needs the fixing. 

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Wessa first kiss oop

Tessa just stared at him. When he had come into her room at the Dark House, she had thought he was the most beautiful boy she’d ever seen, but just now, looking at him—she had never looked at a boy like that, not in this way that brought blood hot to her face, and tightened her chest. More than anything else she wanted to touch him, to touch his wet hair, to see if his arms, corded with muscle, were as hard as they looked, or if his callused palms were rough. To put her cheek against his, and feel his eyelashes brush her skin. Such long lashes . . . “Will,” she said, and her voice sounded thin to her own ears. “Will, I want to ask you . . .” He looked up at her. The water made his lashes cling to one another, so that they formed starlike sharp points. “What?” “You act like you don’t care about anything,” she said on an exhale of breath. She felt as if she had been running, and had crested a hill and was racing down the other side, and there was no stopping now. Gravity was taking her where she had to go. “But—everyone cares about something. Don’t they?” “Do they?” Will said softly. When she didn’t answer, he leaned back on his hands. “Tess,” he said. “Come over here and sit by me.” She did. It was cold and damp on the floor, but she sat, gathering her skirts up around her so only the tips of her boots showed. She looked at Will; they were very close together, facing each other. His profile in the gray light was cold and clean; only his mouth had any softness. “You never laugh,” she said. “You behave as if everything is funny to you, but you never laugh. Sometimes you smile when you think no one is paying attention.” For a moment he was silent. Then, “You,” he said, half-reluctantly. “You make me laugh. From the moment you hit me with that bottle.” “It was a jug,” she said automatically. His lips quirked up at the corners. “Not to mention the way that you always correct me. With that funny look on your face when you do it. And the way you shouted at Gabriel Lightwood. And even the way you talked back to de Quincey. You make me . . .” He broke off, looking at her, and she wondered if she looked the way she felt—stunned and breathless. “Let me see your hands,” he said suddenly. “Tessa?” She gave them to him, palms up, hardly looking at them herself. She could not look away from his face. “There’s still blood,” he told her. “On your gloves.” And, looking down, she saw it was true. She had not taken off Camille’s white leather gloves, and they were streaked with blood and dirt, shredded near the fingertips where she had pried at Nate’s manacles. “Oh,” she said, and began to draw her hands back, meaning to take the gloves off, but Will let go of only her left hand. He continued to hold the right one, lightly, by the wrist. There was a heavy silver ring on his right index finger, she saw, carved with a delicate design of birds in flight. His head was bent, his damp black hair falling forward; she couldn’t see his face. He brushed his fingers lightly over the surface of the glove. There were four pearl buttons fastening it closed at the wrist, and as he ran his fingertips over them, they sprang open and the “pad of his thumb brushed against the bare skin of her inner wrist, where the blue veins pulsed. She nearly jumped out of her skin. “Will.” “Tessa,” he said. “What do you want from me?” He was still stroking the inside of her wrist, his touch doing odd delicious things to her skin and nerves. Her voice shook when she spoke. “I—I want to understand you.” He looked up at her, through his lashes. “Is that really necessary?” “I don’t know,” Tessa said. “I’m not sure anyone does understand you, except possibly Jem.” “Jem doesn’t understand me,” Will said. “He cares for me—like a brother might. It’s not the same thing.” “Don’t you want him to understand you?” “Dear God, no,” he said. “Why should he need to know my reasons for living my life as I do?” “Maybe,” Tessa said, “he simply wants to know that there is a reason.” “Does it matter?” Will asked softly, and with a swift motion he slipped her glove entirely off her hand. The chilly air of the room struck the bare skin of her fingers with a shock, and a shiver passed over Tessa’s entire body, as if she had found herself suddenly naked in the cold. “Do reasons matter when there’s nothing that can be done to change things?” Tessa reached for an answer, and found none. She was shivering, almost too hard to speak. “Are you cold?” Lacing his fingers with hers, Will took her hand and pressed it to his cheek. She was startled by the feverish heat of his skin. “Tess,” he said, his voice thick and soft with desire, and she leaned toward him, swaying like a tree whose branches were weighted by snow. Her whole body ached; she ached, as if there were a terrible hollow emptiness inside her. She was more conscious of Will than she had ever been of anything or anyone else in her life, of the faint shine of blue beneath his half-closed lids, of the shadow of light stubble across his jaw where he hadn’t shaved, of faint white scars that dotted the skin of his shoulders and throat—and more than anything else of his mouth, the crescent shape of it, the slight dent in the center of his bottom lip. When he leaned toward her and brushed his lips across hers, she reached for him as if she would otherwise drown. For a moment their mouths pressed hotly together, Will’s free hand tangling in her hair. Tessa gasped when his arms went around her, her skirts snagging on the floor as he pulled her hard against him. She put her hands lightly around his neck; his skin was burning hot to the touch. Through the thin wet material of his shirt, she could feel the muscles of his shoulders, hard and smooth. His fingers found her jeweled hair clasp and pulled at it, and her hair spilled down around her shoulders, the comb rattling to the floor, and Tessa gave a little cry of surprise against his mouth. And then, without warning, he ripped his hands from her and pushed hard against her shoulders, shoving her away from him with such force that she nearly fell backward, and only stopped herself awkwardly, her hands braced on the floor behind her. She sat with her hair hanging down around her like a tangled curtain, staring at him in amazement. Will was on his knees, his chest hitching up and down as if he had been running incredibly fast and far. He was pale, except for two fever splotches of red across his cheeks. “God in Heaven,” he whispered. “What was that?” Tessa felt her cheeks turn scarlet. Wasn’t Will the one who was supposed to know exactly what that was, and wasn’t she the one who was supposed to have pushed him away? “I can’t.” His hands were fists at his sides; she could see them trembling. “Tessa, I think you had better go.” “Go?” Her mind whirled; she felt as if she had been in a warm, safe place and without warning had been cast out into a freezing, empty darkness. “I . . . I should not have been so forward. I’m sorry—” A look of intense pain flashed across his face. “God. Tessa.” The words seemed dragged out of him. “Please. Just leave. I can’t have you here. It’s—not possible.” “Will, please—” “No.” He jerked his gaze away from hers, averting his face, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know tomorrow. Anything. Just leave me alone now.” His voice broke unevenly. “Tessa. I’m begging you. Do you understand? I’m begging you. Please, please leave.” “Very well,” Tessa said, and saw with a mixture of amazement “and pain that the lines of tension went out of his shoulders. Was it that much of a horror having her there, and that much of a relief that she was leaving? She rose to her feet, her dress damp and cold and heavy, her feet nearly slipping on the wet floor. Will didn’t move or look up, but stayed where he was on his knees, staring at the ground as Tessa made her way across the room and down the stairs, without looking back.

Mistake Two: Quincey

Mistake One. Inspired by @write-it-motherfuckers‘s prompt found here. Approx. 1200 words.

All right. So she wasn’t off to a great start. But she had time. She hadn’t even officially announced herself to Bay City, and most graduates from the Villain Academy started small anyway. Electromagnetic disruptions. Traffic jams. Kicking sand at beach picnickers. But Mx. Fortune was different. She had plans. Ambitions. She was going to be part of the big leagues, and that required a proper coming out.

It would be loud, and bright, and amazing. Everything that retail work was not. Like most supers, young VA graduates required secret identities before they robbed enough banks to commit to villainy full time. Needles was a popular place to work, especially for queer and nonbinary graduates, like Mx. Fortune -- or, rather, Beck Harkney, as her nametag and various legal documents announced. 

Their boss, Arthur Tran, had once known as the mastermind Needlepoint. He’d come out by wrapping the entire Bay Bridge in yarn back in the seventies, but the decades had worn him down. Eventually, Arthur announced his retirement and opened up a small crafting store in the metropolitan area, but he never turned his back on villainy. Not entirely. 

He was all too happy to let a cat run havoc in the store and antagonize the poor guests that just wanted to attend crochet classes in peace.

The trouble with letting a cat roam freely, however, was that he had the chance to get out. 

Beck flew around the city during most of her breaks, desperate to get off the ground as much as possible. It was easier to think when she looked down on the city, and easier to come up with various plans for coming out. Maybe destroying a few buildings to show she meant business. But her powers were fickle at best, and she’d have to figure out what to do if they decided she would only be able to summon cotton candy instead. At least she could make a sizable mess the city would have to clean up, while she laughed evilly in front of the press.

Still without a definite plan, she lowered herself down to the rooftop of Needles. She’d hidden her civilian clothes just out of view of the street below, but hadn’t so much as unzipped her suit when the door shot open, and an oversized, one-eyed cat bolted out the door.

Shit.

“Quincey!” she shouted. “Come back here, asshole!” 

Said asshole did not come back, however, and made it around the block before any of her coworkers even made it out the door. Beck rose back up and shot after Quincey, attracting more than a few looks as she passed by, far too close to street level to be safe. Around the block, down the street, and into an intersection, where Quincey finally realized the danger he was in. Cars passed by, oblivious. Bystanders gasped and pointed. One person even tried to rush in to at least stop traffic, but city drivers rarely stopped for some idiot standing in the middle of the road.

It was simple enough to rescue him, at least. She simply flew into the middle of the road, plucked Quincey up into her arms, and floated to a street corner while he huddled against her for comfort.

It was getting out of there that proved to be difficult. Quincey hated heights when he was already upset, so Beck was going to pet and coddle him until he calmed down. That one minute gave the bystanders a chance to crowd her, phones and cameras flashing pictures and video as they assaulted her with questions. What’s your name, are you new here, how did you know the cat was in trouble, why are you dressed like a court jester, can I pet him, and so on.

She managed to stammer out a few answers at best: “Uh. I’m Mx. Fortuna. I saw him escape a store. Uh. I just arrived last week.”

Then, most damningly, “Are you a new hero?”

Her face flushed beneath her mask. She only managed to choke out a quick, “Nope,” and bolted into the air, much to Quincey’s horror.

She touched down at Needles again, this time getting into the back room before letting Quincey go so he could crawl into a box and hide. June was back there as well, pacing frantically. She ran up as soon as Beck entered, rambling. “Beck, Quincey got out. I don’t know where he went, but Brandon went out to find him, and Arthur’s angry that you’re late, and --” She ran out of words, but the momentum kept her going until she stuttered out an awkward, “And yeah.” 

“It’s okay. I got him.”

“You did?”

Beck nodded. “Got him when he ran into the street. He’s hiding in a box right now.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” She sighed and ran a hand through her pink hair before poking her head out the door, “Arthur! Beck’s back with Quincey..”

Arthur, working with a few friends at the crochet table, looked up with a smile. “Good. You��re late. Make sure he’s safe, then clock in.”

Beck left June with Quincey as she ran back upstairs to get her street clothes and change. June had been slowly building up a name for herself as Dama Dulce, pastry thief. It was gimmicky, but June had always been a fan, and she had high hopes for one day holding the mayor hostage in a prison of frosting. 

When she returned, Quincey was purring on her lap, and she was frowning at a video on her phone. 

Beck rushed over to join them. “Ooh, did one of the makeup artists do a stupid life hacks video again?”

“Not quite.” She held up the screen for Beck to see.

It was one of the local superhero spotters. Their latest video showed a gaudily dressed super holding a cat in her arms, uploaded less than ten minutes ago by a vlogger with a few thousand subscribers. According to the title, A mysterious new superhero saves cat from mortal danger! One commenter had already recognised her colors. They linked to a recording from the alleged metal concerts. Someone else mentioned how excited they were for more nonbinary representation in the superhero community, and a third commenter criticized her aesthetic.

“Well that’s…” Beck began, and fumbled. “Neat.” She pulled out her own phone. A quick internet search revealed another dozen videos of her as well, and theories starting to pop up from superhero enthusiasts.

“That’s bad, isn’t it?” June asked. 

“It’s not great.”

“Does that mean you’re out then?”

“I don’t know.” 

A coming out was a way to announce yourself to a city. To let the people know you were here, either to do bad or do good. Beck had been planning for something -- well. Something villainous, at least, if not big and flashy. 

But she had saved a stupid cat -- her stupid cat, but a cat nontheless.  You couldn’t get more friendly-neighborhood-superhero than saving a helpless animal. She’d have to practically destroy a youth center to turn people’s opinion around, but most young villains weren’t equipped to deal with the ramifications of actually putting people’s lives in danger. As much as she wanted to join the big leagues, Beck wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t going to go after a youth center just yet.

Spiderverse OC stuff

This is mostly just for my own reference and to get some thoughts out by writing, but I figured I might as well post it in a few relevant tags to get some feedback and/or suggestions.

Eve Earnhart/Spider-Mom

Computer genius

Adoptive mother of 26 radioactive spiders

Can talk to spiders

Has all the standard Spider-Hero abilities (wall crawling, agility, spidey sense, proportional strength of a spider), but lacked web shooters for her first few months of hero-ing

Name TBD

Science genius

Knows a lot about spiders and spider-keeping

Was Eve’s go-to guy for help raising the Spiderlings

Probably found out about Eve’s powers after she asked him if Henry’s bite was a cause for concern

Invented the web fluid Eve uses in her web shooters and helped her develop the device itself

Could possibly get bit by one of the Spiderlings and fight crime with Eve

Might be this universe’s Peter Parker

“What’s with you and spiders anyway?”  “I don’t know. I just feel connected to them somehow...”

Spiderlings

Human-level intelligence range (some smarter than others)

Can understand human speech, but Eve is the only human that can understand them

Each name begins with a different letter of the alphabet and shows the order they hatched in (Abigail first, Zero last)

Founders of a spider intelligence network called the Spyder Web

Names and personalities under the cut

Spiderling Names & Personalities

Abigail

The most mature and responsible Spiderling, perhaps because she was the first to hatch. Basically the team mom when Eve’s not around

Ben

The level-headed peacemaker of the group. Often the voice of reason

Charlotte

Most bookish of the spiders. Loves to read both for learning and escapism. Hopes to be the first-ever spider to become a published author

Dan

The jack of all trades. Remarkably stoic in even the most extreme situations

Emma

The most dexterous Spiderling. Loves to show off by weaving complex designs into her webs

Flash

Named for the bright yellow stripe on his back. Reckless, but has the speed and jumping ability to get himself out of trouble

Gwen

Slow to anger, but terrifying when provoked. Very protective of her siblings. Has the best intuition

Henry

The one that bit Eve. Claims he knew it would give her powers, but no one believes him. Talks a big game, but panics easily

Isabelle

Gentle and kind. The emotional support spider

James

Seems cocky and egotistical on the surface, but deeply cares for his family and friends. Can bluff his way out of anything

Katie

The tactician of the Spiderlings. Keeps detailed notes on the strengths, weaknesses, and overall tendencies of friends and enemies alike. Loves a good logic puzzle

Louie

The “Cowardly Lion” of the group. Constantly terrified, but never lets his fear keep him from doing the right thing.

May

Clever, but naive. Excellent at solving problems on the fly, which is a good thing because she never sees them coming

Nate

Soft-spoken and a bit of a doormat. Surprisingly persuasive when he actually does speak his mind

Olivia

The spitfire of the family. Stubborn and opinionated, but truly wants what’s best for everyone. The first to stand up for her family

Peter

Might get a different name. Manages to have the best and worst sense of humor at the same time. Good at adapting to different situations. Most likely to say “No one makes fun of my brother except me!”

Quincey

Friendly and social. Good at recruiting wild spiders into the Spyder Web

Rodney

Bossy, but well-meaning. Wants to protect his family above all else

Stacy

Strong sense of justice. A bit of a tattletale, but not in a bratty way. Wants her family to do the right thing in every situation and holds herself to the same standards

Tucker

Laid back, almost to the point of laziness. Is often a calming presence, but the more driven and industrious Spiderlings tend to get irritated at his apparent apathy

Ursa

The biggest and strongest Spiderling. Fiercely protective of her smaller siblings.

Vern

Smooth talker and very sly. Hoards shiny and colorful objects

Wendy

Techie, loves electronics and robotics. Loves to tinker with tiny machines

Xavier

Loves to learn and has an excellent memory. Has encyclopedic knowledge of most things

Yolanda

Very observant and detail-oriented. The best tracker of the group

Zero

Was originally named Zeke, but insisted on changing it to Zero. The most stealthy of the Spiderlings. Tries to project a spy/assassin persona, but it falls apart because he’s talkative and can’t keep a secret to save his life. The Spyder Web was his idea

Kingsman: The Golden Circle

Got back from the Kingsman double bill a bit ago and am trying to put my brain into words even though I'm very tired and a bit numb and I smuggled five hours' worth of gin into the cinema in an Evian bottle so I'm as drunk as Harry at breakfast time.

OBVIOUSLY THERE ARE SPOILERS BELOW

Watching them back to back like this was interesting because it highlighted so clearly how much better the first one is than this fumbly ridiculous sequel. Not saying it's not good or not worth watching or whatever because it absolutely is worth watching for several reasons I will babble after another teacup of gin, but holy god is this really the best they could come up with? REALLY? A 100% true fact that I believe with my entire heart: YOU reading this, you are a better writer than people being paid obscene money to write films. I could easily name thirty fic writers off the top of my head right now who have an infinitely better grasp on pacing and plot and characterisation and dialogue than the people responsible for this stuff. I've not read any press or fan reviews but I imagine there's going to be a hell of a lot of backlash over so much in this from every angle because it's just so incredibly lazy and sometimes ugly and absolutely cannot stand up to its own hype.

Really good things:

* SPECTACULAR, EH!

* Eggsy/Harry and Eggsy/Merlin shippers, goddamn we have a lot of new stuff to work with. Chemistry through the roof, especially Eggsy/Harry (including possibly the best clingy desperate hug I have ever seen on film in my entire life WE HAVE WAITED SO LONG AND IT'S HERE AND IT'S BEAUTIFUL). That was the heart and backbone of the first film, I'm so relieved that it's not only survived but evolved into something fiercer and often messier. So so good to watch. Pretty sure I've got Harry/Merlin written down the inside of my heart like the words in a stick of rock, and though it's not romantic you get much more of a sense of their friendship here and it's all just a bit shattering and gorgeous.

* Pretty much everything to do with Harry's memory loss and Eggsy and Merlin trying to shock him into remembering was great, Y E S  P L E A S E. And Harry's matter of fact comments about his loneliness, fuckkk. Angst writers, go forth with all this new information and break my heart some more! Fluff writers, fix him!

* Lots of beautiful intricate fight choreography which is literally all I need in my action films, so even if I did think the rest was complete balls (which I don't entirely) then I'd still be happy. Nothing comes near the vivid glorious gutpunch of the church scene as a standalone set piece, BUT there's so much Harry & Eggsy teamwork and please just inject this directly into my veins, it's amazing. Prepare for several years of me writing many more elaborate fight scenes than I already do.

* Part B to the above: Whiskey is a lot of fun and his fighting style is full on hardcore pornography to me.

* Merlin in a flawless Kingsman suit, RIP me.

* One of my Bespoke WIPs is about Merlin and Eggsy getting into the habit of going to the pub together sometimes and rolling home completely drunk with a kebab in each hand then trying to get in the house really quietly because Harry's asleep but they end up waking him because they think it'll be really nice to cook him breakfast in bed and Harry comes stomping downstairs in his dressing gown like "it's four o'fucking clock, put those frying pans away and drink some water!" while Merlin and Eggsy side eye each other and try not to giggle. So maudlin singing drunk Merlin was very nice to see :P

* Eggsy and Roxy bromance. There’s such lovely chemistry between them as well, it feels so natural and real, and it’s so good (and miserably rare) to see platonic friendships that aren’t shoehorned into some shitty boring love triangle.

* Eggsy and Tilde were seriously adorable. It ended up not at all satisfying as a romance plot arc because it was like CUTE - fight - marriage, it needed so much more screen time. Like all the important stuff was there, but it was just so abrupt. Include a satisfying romance or don't include one at all, fuck your lazy bullet points. But it started so well and I hope there's a ton of fic that treats them better than the script did. I appreciate the anti-Bond-ness of it all, that Eggsy's genuinely in love and wants to settle and is figuring out how that and his job can possibly fit together, especially with the complications of marrying into royalty. Interested to see where they take that if there's another film. Until then, soo much scope for fic.

* I'm shipping Harry/Elton like burning.

* Poppy was terrifying in a vaguely Umbridge-ish way. That sort of characterisation is always freaky, Julianne was great. So glossy and cheerful but absolutely dead in the eyes. And I'm ambivalent on Charlie, but I ABSOLUTELY want lots of brutal older woman villain/pathetic younger male minion smut. Please provide asap.

* T H E   M Y T H I C A L  B R E A K F A S T   S C E N E   I S   R E A L

Really bad things: well where the merry fuck do I start haha.

* I will never ever understand why they thought it was a good idea to wipe out all the locations and almost all the existing characters at the very beginning. It's lazy shitty writing. If you feel like you need to shake up your fictional world you don't just knock it all down and start over. It's cheap and very shallow angst.

* I only have two middle fingers but I need about seventeen million to even begin to profess my disgust at them killing Roxy. I knew it was going to happen, it was the only spoiler I asked someone for ahead of time and it was not at all a surprise to find out for sure. Still utterly infuriating. The way people responded so positively to her in the first one is a real indication of how ridiculously low the bar is for female characters in action films ("good at something" and "not the hero's love interest" are literally the only two requirements), and JG/MV didn't even think enough of her to follow through on the absolute base level achievement they made before. Fuck everyarse involved in this decision.

* Absolutely revolting honeypot mission scene. Not really the fact that it exists, just the entire way it was handled and shot - so predictably male-gazey and laddishly "waheyyy!" that it kind of turned my stomach. Horrible and completely unnecessary.

* A million new characters and not enough time spent on any of them to care. Tequila was barely more than a cameo. Champ and Ginger hardly had anything to do. All the Statesmen (except Whiskey) were completely two dimensional and it's such a jarring contrast to the obvious care taken over Eggsy, Merlin, and Harry. It's not even because we already know them, I don't think? It's weird to try and explain. The Statesman characters just feel so rushed and shallow, there's no substance to any of them. Kill off Roxy and replace her with paper cut-outs, ok that makes loads of sense!!! Whiskey’s a level up from the others because he gets loads more screen time and some beautiful fight scenes, but his ~emotional plot twist fell completely flat. I don’t know what it was, the pacing or a boring cliche backstory or what. It was just dull as fuck. WE HAVE HEARD THIS EXACT STORY FIVE MILLION TIMES.

A bad thing that's somehow not really a bad thing even though I'm fucking numb and want a hug:

* I've been raving for ages to people about Roxy being killed off and trying to figure out a way to satisfactorily explain how I feel about a character dying for a reason and a character dying because a writer is a lazy bastard who wants some quick angst. Merlin's death was an A+ wonderful death along the lines of my dear fictional boyfrends Quincey Morris and Lee Scoresby and a million others. Maybe it comes from all the swashbuckly historical adventure stories I grew up loving, but I'm a desperate sucker for a good noble death. Characters brave and self-aware enough to look at the bigger picture of an impossible situation and realise that their death means a better outcome for the people they love? This is ABSOLUTE CATNIP to me. Characters who go down fighting to the very end. If a character I love with my entire soul has to die, this is how I want it to happen. Give them some agency and a proper goodbye.

I mean I fully expect him to be magically resurrected with fancy prosthetic legs if there's another film because we saw those wedding set photos of him in the nice neon green cgi stockings, so really I should be saying "death". I totally reject this one. (I reject Roxy and JB's deaths as well, but the big difference is I really can't see the filmmakers bringing them back. Eyeroll.) Maybe that's what's making it easier to deal with? A not-real noble courageous self-sacrificing death. That's about as good as it gets. All three of them get Oscars for this whole sequence.

Anyway the tl;dr of it is:

This film is a very beautiful, very patchy mess. The good stuff is absolutely gloriously perfectly incredibly wonderful. Most of said good stuff is the interaction between Eggsy, Merlin, and Harry, which is written and performed with real care and heart. Nearly everything else is relatively lacklustre filler, misogyny, and shitty nonsensical decisions. These people cannot write women.

I liked it? I will definitely see it 900 more times, mainly for wet terrified Harry and gorgeous fight scenes. But ffs, how can it possibly be this difficult to pinpoint the reasons why people loved your extremely successful creation and consider including them in future plans?

I'm feeling fairly zen about everything. I kind of trained myself ages ago to think of sequels as just another bit of fanfic, so it's going to make absolutely no difference to the cheerful fluff porn and fight scenes I like to write. What I'm annoyed about isn't so much to do with ~new canon~ limiting what we're allowed to create for ourselves now, because that's just silly. It's more about being pissed off at the shoddy state of action films, particularly women in action films, when it seems like it should be SO EASY to take these astronomical budgets and create something groundbreaking. I'm so tired of this unimaginative lazy narrow-minded bullshit.

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers three options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger or an interview on their most recent book, or a combination of these.

The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Stephen Claughton

grew up in Manchester, read English at Oxford and worked for many years as a civil servant in London. His poems have appeared widely in magazines, both in print and online, and he has recently published two pamphlets: The War with Hannibal (Poetry Salzburg, 2019) and The 3-D Clock (Dempsey and Windle, 2020). He reviews regularly for London Grip and blogs occasionally at www.stephenclaughton.com, where links to his reviews, poems and pamphlets can also be found.

The Interview

1. What inspired you to write poetry?

I can’t remember what originally inspired me. I began writing poems in my early teens, but didn’t really get going until I retired from the Civil Service ten years ago. I like to think that I was held back by lack of time, but really it was a lack of confidence. Poetry was too important to me to risk failing. Then, once I’d reached a certain age, I realised I’d got nothing left to lose. You can’t write without taking risks; you have to accept every time the possibility of failure.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

As an English teacher, my mother was very keen that I should like literature. I remember one wet holiday, when she insisted on reciting part of The Song of Hiawatha to me, but I wasn’t a bookish child and — much to her dismay — resisted her attempt to interest me in it. The 3-D Clock, my pamphlet about her dementia, reflects what always remained a difficult relationship. Poetry — and literature more generally — was something I had to discover for myself, encouraged by some excellent teachers at my school. It was, of course, a great help then to have books in the house. (I read Hiawatha again recently and for the most part I concur with my youthful judgement.)

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

English was my main interest at school and the subject I went on to study at university, so I was aware of the poetic tradition. But it was 20th century poets who first sparked my interest — Eliot, Auden and Dylan Thomas from school anthologies — and then the usual influences on my generation — poets such as Ted Hughes, Thom Gunn, R S Thomas, Philip Larkin, Seamus Heaney and Robert Lowell (all but one of them Faber poets). Robert Graves was also an influence, although I think The White Goddess made more of an impression at that time than the poems themselves.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I’m ashamed to say that I don’t really have one. In the past, I tended to write when I felt like it, provided nothing more pressing needed doing. It probably explains why I got so little done! These days, although I’m retired, I have a number of other calls on my time — as a town and borough councillor and (before the pandemic lockdown) helping to look after our young grandson. It’s meant that in order to remain seriously committed to writing, I have to be more careful about managing my time. I’ve been surprised by how productive it can be just to sit down and apply yourself, although it can also be very frustrating. I work best in the late morning, late afternoon, or early evening.

5. What motivates you to write?

I can’t really explain the need to write poetry, other than that it’s been a compulsion I’ve had for most of my life. Even when I wasn’t publishing any poems, I was still planning them in my head and producing various, unsatisfactory drafts. There has to be something that sparks a poem off — an idea, a line, an image; I couldn’t write one to order. I’ve recently started reviewing, which is something I do for enjoyment. It helps that I have some say in the books I review and don’t have to work to deadlines. I like to take my time, so that I’m not influenced by any particular mood I’m in — I worry about being fair. Fortunately, I haven’t had to write any unfavourable reviews so far, although I do say what I think works and doesn’t work.

6. What is your work ethic?

Professionally, I used to have a strong work ethic, but when you retire people don’t expect it of you and you don’t expect it of yourself. (Thom Gunn stopped writing poetry after he gave up his academic job — he no longer had the motivation.) I get twitchy, if I haven’t been working on a poem for a bit. I wouldn’t want to write out of a sense of duty, but having started late, there’s always the sense of having to make up for lost time.

7. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

I think it’s more in terms of subject matter than style. The War with Hannibal has two poems about Larkin, one occasioned by The Guardian reprinting an old article, “Poet on the 8.15”, and another about Larkin’s famous last words (‘I am going to the inevitable’), which I’d hoped to write as a cento, consisting entirely of lines by Larkin. That didn’t work out, but the poem includes references to several of his poems. Some of my early influences were unhelpful — Eliot in particular. I read him when I was too young to understand what he was doing and just thought that good poetry had to be obscure. It took me a long time to find my way out of that blind alley. I wrote one poem, when I was fourteen, that seemed to come out of nowhere and was highly praised, but after that my teenage career went rapidly downhill. I recently came across one of the poems I was trying to write then, still in the plastic writing case I used to use. It was so awful that I binned the lot without a second thought. ‘Inspissated’ is the only word to describe my style then.

8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

There’s a long list of poets I admire and I’m always finding people I should have read years ago. Ciaran Carson, who died last year, is an example. Perhaps because of my early tangle with Eliot, I’m most attracted to poets who write accessible poems in a conversational style (though Eliot himself could, of course, adopt a conversational mode). Hugo Williams, in particular, helped me get back on track. Reading about the way he rewrote poems as a whole rather than line by line was an eye-opener. Before that, I’d put poems together in the painstaking, bit-by-bit way of the fictional poets, Gordon Comstock (in Orwell’s Keep the Aspidistra Flying) and Anthony Burgess’s Enderby. Some of my more recent poems have come easily, but a lot have been through multiple drafts — usually to try and make them sound more spontaneous! There’s something of the obsessive-compulsive about me.

Another, less well-known, poet who inspired me was Gareth Reeves. I particularly liked the moving series of poems about his father, the poet and critic James Reeves, gradually losing his sight. It intrigued me that you could convey so much in such a simple-seeming way. Of course, it’s only when you try to do it yourself that you realise how difficult it is. I also like the poems of Reeves’ Oxford contemporary, Grevel Lindop. Both are or were academics and Lindop has written biographies of De Quincey and Charles Williams, as well as producing an edition of The White Goddess.

9. Why do you write, as opposed to doing anything else?

I can’t really explain why I’m compelled to write poetry, except to say that my life would be very empty without it. Poetry is a way of capturing something alive. What you do with it when you’ve caught it is another matter and one that’s always open for debate. For me, it’s principally a way of finding meaning and structure in an increasingly crazy world. Also, I like the concentration that’s required by any kind of writing. The same is true of reading, of course, but writing gives you the prospect of having produced something at the end of it. It’s mostly an unconscious process. The only real control I have is when I’m acting as my own editor. Writing and reviewing have given me a sense, for the first time, of doing something that feels ‘right’.

10. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

I’d say the usual things — practise your craft and read as widely as possible. Like most things, the more you do the better you become at it. As for reading, I’m lucky to be within striking distance of the National Poetry Library, which is an excellent resource, but other libraries are available. Most of all, don’t be afraid of failure. You can’t get anywhere without being prepared to take risks. And lastly, don’t give up: as long as the impulse is there, keep on writing.

11. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

There are a few poems I’ve been working on about my mother’s dementia that didn’t make it in time for The 3-D Clock, although I hope that, when they’re finished, that will be it: I don’t want to keep writing about the same subject. I’m interested in ekphrastic poems. The War with Hannibal has two: one about a watercolour sketch by van Dyck and another about Munch’s “The Night Wanderer”. I’ve written others since and perhaps I’ll have enough for a small collection one day. I’m also toying with the idea of doing a ‘version’ of some incidents from The Aeneid, which I studied at school. And it’s hard these days not to write about the current pandemic, although it may not produce anything useable in my case. I don’t know if anything will come of any of these projects. I depend on poems approaching me rather than me them.

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Stephen Claughton Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.

Luna Aura Aims to Set Fire to Society’s White Picket Fences in “English Boys” [PREMIERE + Q&A]

Photo: Quincey Sablan 

Luna Aura is cutting as she is cunning. A woman dedicated to living life unapologetically, Luna Aura has gone through a wide variety of life experiences, both euphoric and painful. The result is an artist who exited the other side with a deeper understanding of herself and the world around her. 

Yet, at times this world can be unforgiving to some of its most poignant inhabitants. Growing up amongst the Mormon community, Luna Aura became well versed in the flagrant injustices and inconsistencies that plague women in our society today. Thousands of years of mass accepted oppression does a number on the psyche of all those involved. Therefore, to truly combat this we must question how we as a community have internalized and personify this discrimination, women included.  

Luna Aura’s latest single, “English Boys,” takes the ironies of self-inflicted oppressive behaviors and, in Luna Aura and her gang of female choristers’ own words, “burn(s) it down.” Synth-driven and visceral in nature from the get-go, JT Daly's (K.Flay, PVRIS) production chops shine effervescently, getting that head banging violently before the finish of the first bar. About 20-seconds in Luna Aura enters with prowess, setting the stage that she intends to destroy. 

“My English boy / He calls my name / He breaks my heart / But I’m to blame,” Luna Aura sings as she transitions into an explosive chorus, reminiscent of the children’s choir present on Pink Floyd's “Another Brick In The Wall,” a fitting comparison considering both artist’s fervent penchant for social justice.   

It is this feminist-focused fight for equality that encapsulates the themes of Luna Aura’s highly-anticipated debut EP Three Cheers For The American Beauty, due 2020. From her previous single “Crash Dive” which explores freeing women’s sexuality, focusing on the fact that women masturbate too and shocker, they like it. Now onto “English Boys,” each song on the EP champions a different feminist theme in punk-rock fashion, holding nothing back and grinning widely at the face of disapproval. 

Luna Aura’s grin is defiant in nature, incorrigible if you are so inclined, and how could it not be? We had the chance to catch up with the rising rockstar on everything from transitioning out of the Mormon church peacefully, how the loss of her younger brother has affected her relationship with music, and her continual riposte to those who attempt to silence her.   

  OTW: Can you share the birthing story of the artist persona Luna Aura?  

Luna Aura: The name Luna Aura comes from a Marvel comic book character named Luna Maximoff. I was inspired by her power, which is the ability to see and feel what others are feeling and manipulate those emotions. It really spoke to me as an artist and stuck. 

OTW: What made you decide to move from Arizona to LA to pursue music as your career?  

Luna Aura: I chose to move to LA for the opportunity to grow as a songwriter and creative mind. I love Arizona, I go back frequently, but there is a level of community and opportunity that exists in Los Angeles that you really can’t get anywhere else. I also just wanted to be challenged. 

OTW: Tell us about growing up Mormon. What elements of that part of your life do you hold onto and what have you relinquished?  

Luna Aura: The Mormon faith has beautiful teachings. Forgiveness, family, love. It was never the teachings that turned me off of the Church. The Mormon community consists of some of the best people I’ve met to this day, but I’m not someone who does well with organized religion. There were things I was being exposed to as a young woman that didn’t align with the person I wanted to be. Some practices and teachings felt archaic, especially as a woman. 

OTW: In January 2015 your brother passed away from a tragic accident. How does his spirit inspire you in your music and how you live your life?  

Luna Aura: My brother taught me the greatest lessons I will ever learn. Life is not promised to you, and every day spent breathing is a gift. As my little brother and friend, he taught me what it meant to love and care for somebody, and his passing taught me to never let a day go by without doing what I love. My music is a direct reflection of that.    

OTW: You are a well-versed and accomplished performer, having shared the stage with the likes of The Killers, K. Flay, Chance the Rapper, P!nk, Run the Jewels, and more. How did you develop your performance style? How do you prepare for your performances?   

Luna Aura: I’m working really hard on building a solid health routine! These shows we’ve been playing are no joke, and your girl loves to Netflix and chill with a saucy burrito from time to time. I’ve been getting better about respecting my body and making sure I’m in the best shape possible, so I can deliver the high-energy show that people deserve. I used to be trash when I first started performing, but I got better by learning from my mistakes and never giving up.  

Photo: Sam Katz 

OTW: Can you expand on your recent sonic transition? What made you decide to move from pop to a more rock-based sound? 

Luna Aura: I LOVE a good pop song, and I truly had an affinity for it growing up. I got into pop because I enjoyed it but, as an artist, I didn’t know who I was yet. My voice, my sound, what I wanted to say. None of that was figured out when I started this whole music journey. You build your identity off of your experiences, and it took me a while to figure that out. But here I am, and I’m proud as hell of it.

OTW: You’ve been working very closely with the producer JT Daly, best known for his work with K.Flay and PVRIS. How has working with JT shaped the sound of the new EP? 

Luna Aura: JT was incredibly instrumental in shaping my new sound. He heard a song I wrote called “Baby Be Cool” and wanted to work with me to my disbelief. I couldn’t find a single producer that understood my vision, and/or wanted to be a part of what I was trying to create. He just let me be who I was, and didn’t stand in the way. He completely elevated this project to something I never thought it could be. 

OTW: We know there is some ironic symbolism present in your latest single. What does “English Boys” represent? 

Luna Aura: I was going on a trip to London a couple years ago, and I remember having conversations about how excited I was to meet and marry an English Boy. There I was, about to travel out of the country for the first time and I was talking about meeting a guy. I sounded brainwashed, kind of made me sick. I realized it was stemming from the whole white picket fence fraudulent dream that gets put in every little girl’s head at one point or another. This song is my recognition of that in myself and choosing to let it go, even if that means setting it on fire I guess.

OTW: Is that a choir we hear on the track? Can you tell us about the creative process of this single in particular? 

Luna Aura: My friend Matt Keller was able to find and record a group of young female singers who work with an amazing vocal coach named Satyam in Phoenix. That element was extremely important to me and it added a lot of dimension to the song sonically. 

OTW: We know that your upcoming EP Three Cheers for the American Beauty is based on various feminist themes. Were there any specific events that inspired the project? 

Luna Aura: I just got to thinking what it meant to be an American woman. I researched the societal pressures of young women in American culture and realized I was looking into a mirror. I hated that. I want to create a world where all that conditioning gets thrown out the window, and women take back the life that belongs to them. In my world, it’s not just about fighting against those who stand in the way of female advancement in American culture, but also the war we fight within ourselves. 

OTW: Who are your Ones to Watch?

Luna Aura: I’ve been listening to girl in red, Slaves, and Fidlar a ton lately!  

Thirsty for more Luna Aura? Quench your thirst with her performance of “Crash Dive” for our sister site The Noise. 

something to be proud about

[Fraser has some good news to tell Vecchio. Set during season 1. The asexual Fraser fic I keep claiming I’m going to write.]

Humming to himself cheerfully, Fraser entered the Chicago PD station. He greeted the various officers and civilian workers by name as he headed up the stairs. Some of them greeted him back. He bumped into Elaine just outside the bullpen. It seemed like he was always bumping into her, in the literal sense. He took a small step backwards.

“Good afternoon, Elaine. Is Ray here?”

She sighed. “Yeah, he’s assaulting the coffee machine. Hey Fraser, how come you never come here to see anyone else?”

Fraser wasn’t sure what she was getting at, exactly, but he smiled to be polite. “I come to see everyone, but I have some good news to tell Ray, specifically. I’m happy to see you, of course.”

She rolled her eyes expansively, so he tried smiling slightly wider. Elaine groaned and left. Nonplussed, Fraser shrugged and went to the break room.

There was Ray, as promised, having apparently lost his fight. He was sitting at one of the plastic tables, wearing an extremely loud shirt, and glaring at the offending coffee machine like it had personally insulted his mother. Good old Ray. Fraser felt a surge of affection for his friend.

“Hello, Ray. Do you have five minutes? I’ve got something to tell you.”

Ray sighed heavily. “Yeah, hey, Benny. Sure I got five minutes. I was going to spend my break drinking coffee, but since that damn machine keeps eating my money I guess I’ll just listen to you instead. Coffeeless.”

Fraser stepped over to the machine and regarded it, then carefully inserted an American dollar bill into it.

“Oh sure, it’ll take your money! Of course!”

Fraser handed Ray the coffee and sat down across from him.

Ray blinked, then grinned. “Hey, thanks!” He drank half the cup in one gulp, then frowned. “Wait, since when do you carry actual legal American tender? Or is that thing secretly Canadian?”

“I had some cash left over from this weekend. I was helping out a boy from my building and, among other things, ended up at a coffee shop and –“

Ray held up a hand. “Benny, you know I love hanging out with you instead of doing my job, but I am on kind of a time limit. What’s the thing you wanted to tell me?”

“Ah, right.” Fraser composed his thoughts. This was very good news and he was eager to tell someone, but it was a little bit intimidating when it came down to it. “Ah, well, Ray, as you know, Pride was this weekend. Or, did you know that Pride was this weekend?”

“Sure, it’s a big parade. Wait, are you tryna tell me you’re gay or something?”

“No, but a young man who lives on the floor below mine wanted to go to the parade, and I agreed to accompany him for moral support and potentially physical support as well. Additionally, I was curious because I’ve never been to any kind of gathering for the queer community before.”

“What, don’t they have queer people in Canada?” asked Ray, apparently unable to resist ribbing him.

Fraser sighed, patiently. “Of course we do, Ray, but.... well there aren’t many people of any sort where I was working last,” he admitted. Ray laughed.

“Anyway, while I was there I met a lot of very interesting people –“

“I’ll bet you did.”

“Ray.”

“Sorry.”

“One of the people I met was a nice young man named Quincey and we had a long discussion about the complicated nature of sexuality.”

“I’ve never thought it was that complicated, you know, once you get past the Catholic Guilt,” said Ray and finished his coffee.

“I’ve always found it to be very complicated, and interesting, but unfortunately the libraries my grandparents worked at never had many well-rounded books on the subject. Even when I was younger I thought the books I did find left out a lot of subtleties. For example, I could never find where I fit in.”

He paused in case Ray wanted to say something to that, but Ray just looked at him.

“During our conversation, I told Quincey this and he suggested several possibilities, and ah, it turns out I’m asexual, Ray.”

“Okay, I’ll bite, what’s that?”

“It means not feeling attracted to anyone, generally. And given that I’m over twice the age at which people are supposed to start developing attraction to people, it seems safe to say it’s not going to happen to me, which is, it turns out, perfectly fine.”

“What about that, what did you call it, that ‘inner ear imbalance’ from way back when?”

“Complicated and... not relevant,” said Fraser, and stared over Ray’s head until the other man shrugged and leaned back to throw his empty cup away.

“I realize this is a lot to drop on you out of nowhere, but I had to tell someone and, well.” Fraser stopped, not wanting to admit the obvious: that Ray was the only person close enough.

“Hey, Benny, it’s fine. It’s great! What do I do now, buy you a beer? I’ve never had anyone come out to me before. C’mon, I’ll buy ya a beer. Or –“ He grimaced at the clock. “Give me like an hour.”

“Sure, Ray, you can buy me a beer,” said Fraser, grinning, as they headed toward Ray’s desk.

“Hey you know, you don’t smile much, Benny, you oughtta smile more.”

“What? I smile plenty.”

“Not like that, you don’t.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Fraser.

Sharp, Pointy Things, Part 2

Saki wonders why I asked him to write the first part of this chapter in our lives. Well let me tell you: It’s because misery loves company. If my cabal had to suffer through the rest of this goddamn murder mystery then so do you. And that means endearing our precious Acanthus to you so the events hit you just as hard as they did us.

Me, petty? Whatever do you mean. I’m just aiming for emotional authenticity here. You should be thankful I’m so dedicated to realism.

I believe Saki left off when he and Sisi dragged me away from Mr. Dreamboat Vampire. And after the description of it that Saki gave, I feel I must defend myself. You have to understand that I’m from a rural town in the middle of Nowhere, Vermont. There is NO ONE to bang. NO ONE. I’ve known them all since childhood and that’s just weird, you know? Plus my dad was suuuuuuper protective the entire time, so it wasn’t like I could head out to the city for some fun or anything. I love my dad but he can be… smothering… when he gets worried.

Anyways.

We went back to En’s to rest up for the next day of investigating. When we got back Fisher told us a friend of of the victim had been killed too, apparently by a large wild animal. Or at least that’s what people assumed when they found him shredded to bits in his backyard. Of course you and I and everyone else who’s clued into the supernatural would think “werewolf.” Except what’s the likelihood of vampire AND a werewolf fatalities in the same city within 24 hours of each other? Not very high.

I thought that maybe someone was staging the deaths to draw attention to Quincey’s supernatural community. The others seemed to think it was a good idea. Lipsy decided to spend the rest of the night researching other possibilities. I actually joined him, and through our combined efforts we eliminated some possibilities and found others that were more plausible. Lipsy found out that through a combination of the Prime and Matter arcana someone could make tangible illusions, which was as good a thought as any to work off of.

The next day we headed off to the home of the most recently deceased to see what was up. We couldn’t find much with our mage sights, but then the house was in a tidy little culdesac and we couldn’t actually get close without raising suspicions. We had a hard enough time pulling the “group of friends out for a walk with their dog” image we were using as a cover. One of the dead guy’s friends actually showed up and called us out. We managed to avoid a confrontation. Barely. So instead of scoping out the house, we took a side road that went behind the houses so Lipsy could works some magic of his.

Lipsy did the same thing here that he had with Dead Big Bro’s ghost: used some funky death arcana ritual to summon it and make it talk. Lipsy had no trouble with this one; he spilled the beans about his woefully short life pretty quick. Apparently he, Dead Big Bro, and the friend we met outside the house were all part of the same meth ring. If that doesn’t scream “reason someone might off you” I don’t know what does. It didn’t get us any closer to the killer, but it was finally a solid angle to work.

Seeing as we’d heard what we needed to from the ghost, Edgar decided to have it for lunch. Apparently that’s how he sustains himself. Eating souls, I mean. It’s creepy, right? Not that I’m judging or anything. Edgar is a good boy (even if he hates that phrase), and he does right by Lipsy. I think the two of them worked out something where Edgar only eats the really evil souls. I don’t know for sure though, since it’s not something that’s really polite to ask about.

Our next order of business was tracking down the rest of Dead Big Bro’s meth slinging friends. After some stellar e-stalking on Lipsy’s we managed to find pictures of them all. He also found out where they all like to hang out - a sports bar in a busier neighborhood of Quincey - so we headed there to try and pry more information out of ‘em.

Seriously, Lipsy is a fucking champ. We’d be lost without our precious little anger baby. He wasn’t feeling so hot after all that though. Apparently Edgar eating the dude’s soul really took him by surprise. I honestly thought he’d stay back at En’s place, but Saki managed to talk him into coming with us.

So to the bar we went. And here, friends, is where things went totally south.

First of all, the place was packed to all hell and back. We decided to split up to look for the meth dealers. This was our first mistake. We couldn’t really keep an eye on each other. I managed to find one of the guys we were looking for. We’ll call him Dave cuz I can’t remember his actual name. So I’m there with eyes on Dave, trying to find the best moment to approach him. Meanwhile, Lipsy and Sisi are on the opposite side of the bar, where who should appear but Mr. Dreamboat vampire. He started getting all flirty with Lipsy, so SiSi stepped in to tell him to back off. I managed to notice and went to check on them both. Lipsy was fine.

So I’m sure you’re thinking “What about Saki?”

What about Saki indeed.

SiSi tried to scry for him. She saw him in the bar’s basement, with a dark haired man in a white suit stalking behind him. The vision only lasted a second. We made a break for the door to the basement. I wish I could describe the fear that we all felt in those moments. It would pale, though, in comparison to what we felt when he burst into the basement to find Saki gone. There was nothing in the room but a few specks of fresh blood and one of Saki’s tarot cards. Sisi tried scrying again. She couldn’t find him. It was like he’d vanished not just from the room, but from our plain of existence entirely.

I don’t know if any of you have ever lost family like that. Suddenly, with no warning or reason. I hope you never do. You know it occurs to me I was complaining earlier about my dad being overprotective when I went back home…I probably shouldn’t have said that. Hindsight, I guess.

The worst part is that we didn’t have time to search for him. A fight broke out upstairs. We ran to see what it was about and found a motherfucking mummy strangling Dave to death. It was like something out of an old horror flick. I leaped at the thing and gave it a good, solid punch. It flew backwards and crumbled to dust when it hit the floor. I had no clue what was going on. Next order of business was bringing Dave back to consciousness to find out. I must have caught him just before he snuffed it for good. Thank god for healing magic, man. That stuff’s the shit.

When Dave came too he was staring behind me, totally freaked out. Which was fair. I mean, I’d be freaked out to if a giant bandaged corpse tried to crush my windpipe. But he wasn’t looking at the mummy. The mummy was gone. I turned to see what he was actually looking at, and standing there in the crowd of screaming bar patrons was the fucking little kid. Sam was there, glaring at Dave and me. After a few seconds he booked it. I sent Lipsy after him, but he got away. Slippery little brat.

Talk about a shit show. The kid we were trying to protect, trying to help, was out trying to off people with some sorta magic. Saki was missing. All we had was a half dead meth dealer who was too scared out of his mind to be anything resembling coherent.

So yeah. Things were looking pretty bad. They didn’t get much better, either. But that’s a story for another night. Remembering this makes me all sorts of depressed and I think I could use a drink.

Peace out, friends. See ya next time.