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sie-werden-nie-vergessen · 2 years

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The Bellows Book - Ethel’s Resignation (Sneak Peek)

I’m so excited to share this one with you all! It’s been in my drafts for months and I finally got around to polishing it up tonight. Obviously it will be much longer than this once it’s fully finished, but here’s a nice teaser for the full chapter. This contains MANY illusions to other parts of The Bellows Book, so don’t be alarmed if some references make no sense at this point. I promise that everything will fall into place once I can get more content ready for publishing. Time has just been a huge problem now, especially because my college classes have recently gotten very intense and I spend almost all of my time writing academic papers these days.

Content Below The Cut

Ephraim was being a coward, and he knew it. Rather than facing Ethel like he knew he ought to, he was hiding away in his room like a scared child. His father and brother were both at work at the mill, and Delanie was off making social calls with Gertrude. Surprisingly, his grandmother could be quite social when she wanted to be.

Sliding his feet off of his bed, he moved to his window once more, just in time to spot Ethel doubled over in some sort of fit. He opened the window slightly and was greeted with the sounds of a hacking cough, followed by a clearing of the throat. As Ethel began her walk down the driveway, he noticed that even her footsteps appeared weak. She plodded along slowly through the snow, nearly tripping a handful of times.

Ephraim wanted to help her. He wanted to rush out of the mansion and take her by the arm and help her home. He didn’t care that it would involve seeing Ruth again, or that it would certainly damage his reputation beyond repair when the world discovered what Ethel had learned. Why she hadn’t told them yet, he didn’t know.

He watched as she reached the end of the path, and then slowly made the turn onto the road back towards town. Another thought of concern flashed through his mind before he pushed it aside.

No! He thought. She’s tainted. She carries it - that curse - in her blood!

He turned around, his back pressed against the velvet of the curtains. He thought of Ethel, and of everything that could have been, of what might have happened if he hadn’t-

NO!

No! No! No!

Sometimes he feels as though he ought to beat himself in the head to push away his thoughts. This is one of those times.

He stood there for a while longer, listening to the ticking of the clock and the chirping of the few birds who braved the snow.

They reminded him of her, braving the snow in an attempt to bring something good to the bleak of winter.

He wanted to beat the thoughts away again.

Finally, once he was fully satisfied that Ethel was gone, he moved downstairs to retrieve the package she had left. Placing it on the foyer table, he carefully opened it. First there was a gingham tea towel, followed by a small batch of sweets and a few canned goods. At the bottom of the basket lay an envelope full of patient files, and a note in Ethel’s writing. Abandoning the basket and the food, Ephraim ascended the stairs with papers in hand.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he glanced back towards the kitchen, towards Sarah’s room. No, he thought. Now is not the time to dwell on old sins.

Slipping back into his bedroom, he slowly closed the door behind himself and moved towards his desk. He placed the files unceremoniously atop a pile of medical books and began to read Ethel’s letter.

To Whom It May Concern,

Regarding my employment at Pennhurst State Hospital —

Resignation.

Ephraim wanted to scream, to throw something, to reach for his belt to have a go at Sarah-

No!

No, that’s what started all of this to begin with!

Shut up!

No!

You murdered her!

It’s your fault that Ethel hates you!

She would have loved you, and you ruined it!

She couldn’t have loved me.

Ephraim was ripped away from his thoughts by the sound of the front door slamming open. Judging by the sound of heavy shuffling, the family had arrived home. He scrambled to hide Ethel’s letter, finally deciding on shoving it under his pillow.

He straightened his tie, smoothed his jacket, and was just about to step out onto the landing when Gertrude brushed past him, her pearls clicking together as she walked.

“Well, don’t you look disgusting!”

“Grandmother, I-”

She waved her hand in dismissal, the other still firmly grasping her cane.

“I may not be able to see it, but I can smell it. You’re having trouble with that little girl from the hospital, and it’s obvious that you can’t control the situation on your own! You’re the talk of the town because of her, and if it doesn’t get settled soon, I’ll have to-”

“She’s resigning, Grandmother. She handed in her letter today.”

Gertrude’s face instantly softened.

“Oh, well that’s good. Very good. More scandal is the last thing we need in this family.”

She leaned in closer, her milky eyes staring directly into Ephraim’s.

“You know that better than anyone.”

Ephraim nodded, although she couldn’t see. Satisfied, she continued down the hallway, her dog following close behind her.

#the bellows book #ethel moore #ephraim bellows #gertrude bellows #sarah bellows #deodat bellows #delanie bellows #harold bellows #ethel's illness makes it's debut

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shapeshiftersandfire · 2 years

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verna, from the other side of the house: come on gertie, don’t you know verna is short for VERNADETTE?

#verna russell #gertrude bellows #listen i may be up to my eyeballs in cats the musical #but verna forever dominates my mind

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thequietabsolute · 11 months

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A poet is what he is in himself. Gertrude Stein used to distinguish between a person who is an 'entity' and one who has an 'identity.' A significant man is an entity. Identity is what they give you socially. Your little dog recognizes you and therefore you have an identity. An entity, by contrast, an impersonal power, can be a frightening thing. It's as T. S. Eliot said of William Blake. A man like Tennyson was merged into his environment or encrusted with parasitic opinion, but Blake was naked and saw man naked, and from the center of his own crystal. There was nothing of the 'superior person' about him, and this made him terrifying. That is an entity. An identity is easier on itself. An identity pours a drink, lights a cigarette, seeks its human pleasures, and shuns rigorous conditions. The temptation to lie down is very great.

— Saul Bellow, from Humboldt’s Gift

pg., 311

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androgynealienfemme · 1 year

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"The denial of erotic categories, coupled with the mythology that we could all get into bed together, served to foster profound doubts in many of us about our ability to be sexual at all. Further, when the internal conflicts got too great and, in an attempt to salvage a vestige of self-esteem, we removed ourselves from the arena of “political correctness,” what we managed to rediscover was so truncated, caricatured, and pejorative that claiming it involved yet another struggle for self-worth. I might wish for a butch lover like Beebo Brinker, but butch in the seventies was a cartoon. Mighty Mo from Rubyfruit Jungle is a “diesel dyke” whose approach is to “barrel down… slam on her breaks… and bellow.” By the 1980s, femmes were named “sellouts” who reclaimed heterosexual privilege and used it to oppress butch lesbians.

Finding the lived reality of butch-femme beneath the stereotypes is difficult. The predominance of lesbian-feminist preconceptions, and their remarkable similarity to the heterosexual myths, means everyone “knows” how to tell who’s butch and who’s femme. Who can fix a car? Who does the dishes? Who makes the first move in bed? Who looks more believable in a skirt? Whose hair is shortest? Butch-femme is a simultaneously both a straight image we apply to ourselves as a joke and a visible part of the lives of historical lesbians (Gertrude and Alice) whose fame we used to justify our existence. As such, it is easy to assume that “real” butch-femme always exists elsewhere. From Rusty Millington, in Word is Out, who is clearly butch but denies it by comparing herself to someone else who is really butch, to everyone who told me I couldn’t be a real femme because I was “too tall/too intellectual/too small breasted/too rarely seen in a skirt,” the message is that one might get away with being “into roles” as long as one doesn’t call them that. I am reminded, ironically, of Joana Russ’s litany of the requirements for “real lesbians,” and her conclusion: “There are no real lesbians; real lesbians have horns.” The speed with which women who reclaimed the words lesbian and dyke say they “can’t relate to labels” never fails to amaze me.

In the past, butch-femme appears to have been an admixture of heterosexual expectations and genuine challenges to the traditional construction of female gender; the shape it takes in the 1990s, one hopes, might break free of the former if lesbian-feminists would stop naming us an imitation. What is most difficult in claiming butch-femme in a “postliberation” era, however, is untangling both the homophobia that defined “real lesbian” as butch and butch-femme’s association, like that Del and Phyl make, with only a heterosexual portrait. Sally Gearhart remembers:

I think the pressure was from society, which made me feel that, if I was not a woman in the sense that the society said a woman should be, then I must be a butch. I don’t think I understood that there could be femme lesbians. I didn’t think I understood that there could be femme lesbians. I didn’t want to do the things ordinary women did, so therefore I must be like a man, and therefore, I think I dressed and acted more butch than I probably was.

Under this equation, femme is not quite a “real lesbian.” Pat Bond recalls: There was a lot of pressure to look butch if you were [butch]. And, of course, you wanted to, ‘cause you wanted to be identified as a dyke. I was never too good at it. I looked really funny trying to look like a man. Men’s pants look funny because I’m very short waisted and big busted. Trying to wear the short haircut with sideburns shaved over the ears, I looked like the missing link.

The standard of lesbian-feminist androgyny are equally intolerant. I’ve heard from more than one younger lesbian reluctance to claim the name “lesbian” because the movement conveys “it means having to give up being a girl” because the movement conveys “it means having to give up being a girl.” For a long time, I thought I couldn’t be femme because I had never been straight. Lesbian-feminism seems determined to portray butch-femme as rigid, even though butch and femme characteristics can be interchangeable, subtle, and allow for more variation than do heterosexual sex roles. Degrees of butchness and femmeness- stone butch, butchy femme, femmy butch, ki-ki- are named points on a spectrum that is shortchanged when portrayed as masculine-feminine extremes. It is difficult to imagine heterosexual patriarchy allowing women to experiment with and choose sexual roles or no role at all. Yet, it is from feminists that I still hear that I can’t wear a skirt, whereas my butch lover Jo never thought knowing how to rebuild an engine made me less femme.

As an issue, butch-femme is fraught with ambivalence and denial. When Jo Ann Loulan asked lesbian audiences around the United States if they had ever rated themselves or been rated by others on a butch-femme scale, 95% acknowledged they had. Yet the same percentage also affirmed that they “did not consider butch-femme to be an important concept in their lives.” Loulan points that this is a statistical anomaly; rarely does a group insist that a universal experience is universally unimportant. In a separate but related survey, Loulan found that one-third of her respondents identified themselves as either butch or femme, but that fully three-quarters of those who did so claimed not to demonstrate that identity in obvious ways within the lesbian community. If Loulan’s data is valid, a substantial proportion of one-third of the community is “in the closet” about a butch-femme identity."

"Recollecting History, Renaming Lives: Femme Stigma and the feminist seventies and eighties" by Lyndall MacCowan, The Persistent Desire, (edited by Joan Nestle) (1992)

#the persistent desire #Lyndall maccowan #Joan nestle #lesbian #lesbianism #butch and femme #butch lesbian #femme lesbian #butch #femme #lgbt+#lgbtq+#lesbian writing #lesbian history #lgbtq+ history #lgbtq+ writing #writing #history #long post

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twothpaste · 7 months

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deliriously surreal little 1k fic snippet under the cut. three psychics try to tame the rampaging natural killer cyborg with some gentle telepathic persuasion. but it turns out the creature's mind palace is a very strange place...

(cw: blood, body horror, animal death, general visceral unpleasantness)

Leder's got a library copy of the Inferno. A scrappy, shitty, well-loved old paperback, with dog-ears on half its pages. Kumatora ate it up, during her punkass Satanic phase around age nineteen. Even got a Cerberus tattooed on her back. It ain't any snappin' teeth or serpentine horrors, though, that stuck with her most dearly. Not even the torturous plights of all them sinful human souls. Nah. What's haunted n' captivated her ever since, is the fate of the underworld's overlord. The great reveal, that even Lucifer himself was utterly damned to his Ninth Circle. If y'ain't read it, she'll tell ya: it goes like this. Dante n' Virgil find him down there, at Hell's deepest depths, imprisoned in a lake of solid ice. Frozen just as miserably solid as the wretchedest traitors he held prisoner. Cryin' frosted tears from his three hangin' heads. "Y'can't help but feel sorry for the guy," she'd told Ash. N' Lucas. N' just about everybody else. "He ain't some kinda evil king. Ain't even callin' the shots, really. All he did was stick it to the man - shit, I wouldda, too! N' then he's stuck with the rest of 'em. Freezin' his nuts off, 'til the end o' time…"

… Anyways.

She thinks of that. While she lets loose PK Freeze Ω from her stalwart palms.

An icy barricade seals pig to pit. Clings upon its walls of flesh, like binding chains. Holds it, softly, forcefully, in place. Maybe the cold-numb'll coax it to settle down, wishful thinking suggests. Maybe it'll ease its agony. If just for a short while. Steam billows where ice meets pink-red skin. A hot-blooded protest. Its bellows would put Cerberus to shame. Wet brain meat writhes, sickly swollen, against a half-shattered glass dome.

Claus joins his brother, at the labyrinth's gate.

("He's from a dream I had, you know," Master Porky said. With deathly shrieks still ringing in his nightmare ears.)

(The Capsule keeps screaming.)

(Lucas grips Claus' wrist, as they tread forward. Sticky sap tugs at their boots. Crunching tiny exoskeletons, and brittle wings. He wonders - and therefore, they both wonder - whether fruit flies and mosquitos screech as they suffocate, too. How many death throes we can't even hear. Or if, through some dark, impossible miracle, they're still alive. Schrodinger's smother. Amber crystalizes, turning your whole world gold in retrospect. You can't budge. Can't even breathe. But your mind thrashes evermore against its binds.)

("There's a way out," Claus insists. Shakin' their head. "I know the way. We do. We can show ya.")

("Shhh…" comes Lucas' soft spring breeze. It brushes over both chimeras.)

(The screams grow louder.)

(The heart-splitting sound of a child's untimely demise. Ribs shattered on solid stone. Some could mistake a pig's distraughtest wails for a human's, given the right-wrong acoustics. A tweenaged Butch'd said ol' Gertrude was due for slaughter in a couple weeks. And cracked a joke about makin' bacon. Biff elbowed him real hard. N' said he ain't s'posed to say crap like that in front'a the rugrats. Kid Claus chased a piglet about. Jested that it'd make a fine Christmas ham, someday. Little Lucas scooped the thing up, in the grass-stained arms of his sweater. Covered its floppy ears. N' sobbed himself halfway to hysterics. Claus was laughin' so hard, he could barely wheeze out an apology. He'd be screamin' like hell when it came for him, though. Crucified on the chopping block. Teething his goddamn limbs off. While a ten-year-old Lucas sulked past the old slaughter shed. Exhaled a silent, wintry cloud. And pulled his scarf over his chilled-pink ears.)

("These… These aren't your memories.")

(The Commander had stared into the Natural Killer Cyborg's vessel. Only to find its own reflection, cast back on the glass.)

(The boy named Lucas had tried to quell it. Ended up with his hands at his own throat. Gaspin' the same strangled breaths as every other chimera he'd ever bashed into submission.)

("It ain't like that. I swear, we don't wanna hurtcha. Y'can let us in.")

(They're up to their knees, now. At the Capsule wall, where ice stings flesh. It's searing hot to the touch. As if all the red and guts smeared to its surface are still broiling, and seething, with live mammalian body temperature - and a rage that spans far beyond. Lucas tends the fresh burns on his brother's hand, when they wipe it clean. Claus does the same for him.)

("M'sorry. M'so, so sorry. Y'didn't deserve any of this.")

("We're gonna make it up to ya. We promise.")

(Their pity earns them boils, and lesions. Skin charred black, like an overcooked waste of meat. A persistence that speaks volumes of burned pages. The two of them find the window, prying with peeling fingers. Wipe away the human carnage that sullies its pane.)

(They show it the Sanctuary. Straight from their minds' eyes. A sleepy sunset, over the palms and coral trees. It's mellow-warm. Summertime's brink. When they last left, the Hippo Launchers'd already taken to the tides and puddles. N' the Rhinocerocket herds were nappin' peacefully in the shade. Where all creatures've got a right to life - just as they always have - and all 'cause they've made it so. The real world's a beautiful place, they tell it. It's out there. Waiting for you.)

(A porcine nose twitches between the crimson smears. Between vicious screams. Close breath fogs up the pane. Somewhere, on the very fringe of consciousness, Kumatora's valiant struggle seems fainter than before.)

("Easy, now…")

("That's it…")

(A set of tusks glints perfect white.)

(The beast bashes its full weight against the Capsule's interior.)

(It rolls forward. And crushes them both.)

The Natural Killer Cyborg activates a PSI Counter Device.

They snap back sputtering. The older twin reaches, outta sheer muscle memory, for his cane. The younger lifts an arm, to summon a Shield. Tries to, rather. It's with shivering shock that they realize they've been sealed stiff - in a gnarling ridge of PK Freeze spires.

"Agh! God, damn it!" Kumatora yowls. Clamped up right beside 'em.

Ninth Circle indeed.

#osha's eleven #2thprose #posting snippets from this chapter without the full chapter's context is hard but y'all can have just this one #it's like lord of the flies meets jurassic park meets dante's inferno meets nausicaa in here. listen #i have to make my writing more surreal and scrapbook in pieces of realass literature or i'll die

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hanakogames · 3 months

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Great American Novels

Time for another of those "look at a list of Great Novels and see how many I've read" things - though my memory does begin to fail me a bit, especially when it comes to 'worthy' books that I may have heard *of* a lot but not actually read.

The Great Gatsby

Yes, for school. Was I particularly taken with it? No. Never bothered watching any movie adaptation and can never remember what it was about in detail, I always have to look it up.

An American Tragedy, Theodore Dreiser

Author name sounds familiar, but I dont know what this book is without looking it up… nope, have not read this. It's public domain now so I could, I guess.

The Making of Americans, Gertrude Stein

I've heard of her. I have not read this book.

Death Comes for the Archbishop, Willa Cather

I have heard of Willa Cather and may have read something by her but probably not this.

A Farewell To Arms, Hemingway

Obviously know who Hemingway is but cannot tell you whether I've read this or not. I don't know, sorry.

Passing, Nella Larsen

No familiarity.

The Sound and the Fury + Absalom, Absalom, Faulkner

I don't like Faulkner. This opinion likely stems from ahving been forced to read something he wrote in school and being annoyed by it. However, I can't tell you what I read. I've read about both of these and may or may not have read some part of one of them at some point.

Nightwood, Djuna Barnes

No familiarity, but now that I look it up on wikipedia, I need to actually go find that for research purposes, this seems relevant to my interests.

East Goes West, Younghill Kang

Never heard of it, I assume it has to do with the Chinese in California? Oops, no, Korean, sorry.

Their Eyes Were Watching God, Zora Neale Hurston

Heard of it. Haven't read it.

USA, John Dos Passos

No familiarity.

Ask the Dust, John Fante

No familiarity

The Big Sleep, Raymond Chandler

I've heard of it but mostly because there's a movie, which I also haven't seen.

The Day of the Locust, Nathaniel West

I thought I'd heard of the author but it appears probably not. No familiarity then.

The Grapes of Wrath, Steinbeck

Had to read it for school.

Native Son, Richard Wright

Heard of it.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers

No familiarity.

A Time to be Born, Dawn Powell

No familiarity.

All the King's Men, Robert Penn Warren

Heard of it.

The Street, Ann Petry

No familiarity.

In a Lonely Place, Dorothy B Hughes

Heard of the author.

The Mountain Lion, Jean Stafford

No familiarity but the tiny amount of info on wikipedia makes me think this might be a children's adventure book.

The Catcher in the Rye, Salinger

Heard of it, sure, but never read it

Charlotte's Web, E B White

Yes, I read this!

Invisible Man, Ralph Ellison

Nope

Farenheit 451, Bradbury

Obviously familiar with the general idea but never read it.

Maud Martha, Gwendolyn Brooks

No familiarity.

The Adventures of Augie March, Saul Bellow

No familiarity

Lolita, Nabokov

Yes, I read this of my own free will in college (and I'm glad of it, because the impression I had of the novel before reading it was very far off what the book actually was, so at least now I have an informed opinion)

Giovanni's Room, James Baldwin

No familiarity.

Peyton Place, Grace Metalious

Name sounds familiar though I suspect it was made into a miniseries or something. (checking - yeah, tv show, movies, etc)

Deep Water, Patricia Highsmith

Didn't she write The Price of Salt? (checks) Oh, and also Ripley. But I don't know this book.

No-No Boy, John Okada

No familiarity.

On The Road, Jack Kerouac

Heard of it.

The Haunting of Hill House, Shirley Jackson

Heard of it, and read some Shirley Jackson, but I don't think I read this.

Catch-22, Joseph Heller

Heard of it.

A Wrinkle in Time, Madeleine l'Engle

Yes, I read this and several other of her books, but this wasn't my favorite.

Another Country, James Baldwin

Not familiar.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Ken Kesey

Familiar with it but didn't read it.

Pale Fire, Nabokov

DOn't know this book

The Zebra-Striped Hearse, Ross Macdonald

No familiarity (checks) Apparently it's a detective book

The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

Heard of it.

The Group, Mary McCarthy

No familiarity

The Crying of Lot 49, Thomas Pynchon

I've heard of the author.

A Sport and a Pastime, James Salter

Is this a baseball book? (checks) Oh, I guess it's about sex. No familiarity.

Couples, John Updike

I've heard of the author.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, Philip K Dick

I've read several things by Dick but probably not this one and I still haven't watched Blade Runner.

Divorcing, Susan Taubes

No familiarity.

Portnoy's COmplaint, Philip Roth

I think I've heard of the author

Slaughterhouse Five, Vonnegut

Heard of it.

Are you there God? It's me Margaret, Judy Blume

Pretty sure I read this as a kid.

Desperate Characters, Paula Fox

No familiarity.

Play it as it Lays, Joan Didion

No familarity, but I think I've dimly heard of Joan Didion.

Log of the Ss the Mrs Unguentine, Stanley Crawford

No familiarity

Mumbo Jumbo, Ishmael Reed

No familiarity

Sula, Toni Morrison

No familiarity

The Revolt of the Cockroach People, Oscar Zeta Acosta

No familiarity

Oreo, Fran Ross

No familiarity, though I can guess what it's about.

The Dispossessed, Urusla K LeGuin

I literally have a copy sitting on my to-read stack. I'll get there.

Winter in the Blood, James Welch

No familiarity

Corregidora, Gayl Jones

No familiarty

Speedboat, Renata Adler

No familiarity

Ceremony, Leslie Marmon Silko

No familiarity.

Song of Solomon, Toni Morrison

see previous

A Contract with God, Will Eisner

I've heard of the author

Dancer from the Dance, Andrew Holleran

No familiarity

The Stand, Stephen King

I'm familiar with it but did not read it.

Kindred, Octavia E Butler

Yes, I've read this

The Dog of the South, Charles Portis

No familiarity

Housekeeping, Marilynne Robinson

No familiarity

The Salt Eaters, TOni Cade Bambara

This sounds familiar. I don't know if I've read it, a piece of it, something inspired by it, or someone talking about it, but the plot description is very familiar.

Little, Big; Or the Fairies Parliament, John Crowley

No familiarity.

Oxherding Tale, Charles Johnson

No familiarity

Machine Dreams, Jayne Anne Phillips

No familiarity

Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy

Heard of book and author, someone I know was going through a McCarthy phase

A Summons to Memphis, Peter Taylor

No familiarity

Watchmen

This should not be on this list, it's not an American novel.

Beloved, Toni Morrison

Heard of this book specifically

Dawn, Octavia Butler

Read it, it's on my shelf

Geek Love, Katherine Dunn

No familiarity (and it's the circus kind of geek)

Tripmaster Monkey, Maxine Hong Kingston

No familiarity

Dogeaters, Jessica Hagedorn

No familiarity

American Psycho, Bret Easton Ellis

Familiar with it. I didn't watch the movie but I read about both it and the book.

How the Garcia Girls Lost their Accents, Julia Alvarez

No familiarity

Mating, Norman Rush

No familiarity

Bastard out of Carolina, Dorothy Allison

Very familiar with it. Watched the movie. Don't think I've read the book but not sure.

The Secret History, Donna Tartt

Heard of it and been told it's good.

So Far from God, Ana Castillo

Not familiar with it

Stone Butch Blues, Leslie Feinberg

Definitely aware of it, it was referenced a lot in some of the 90s lesbian fiction I did read, but I haven't read it.

The Shipping News, Annie Proulx

Heard of it.

Native Speaker, Chang-Rae Lee

I thinK i've heard of it?

Sabbath's Theater, Philip Roth

Still think I've heard of the author

Under the Feet of Jesus, Helena Maria Viramontes

No familiarity

Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace

Heard of it

I Love Dick, Chris Kraus

No familiarity

Underworld, Don Delillo

No familiarity.

The Intuitionist, Colson Whitehead

No familiarity.

Blonde, Joyce Carol Oates

Heard of the author.

House of Leaves, Mark Z Danielewski

Head of it

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier&Clay, Michael Chabon

no familiarity

The Last Saumrai, Helen DeWitt

wasn't that a tom cruise movie (no this is apparently about a single mother)

The Quick and the Dead, Joy Williams

wasn't that a western (well, this is something else, but wikipedia isn't telling me what)

Erasure, Percival Everett

No familiarity

I the Divine, Rabih Alameddine

No familiarity

The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen

I have heard of the author

Caramelo, Sandra Cisneros

No familiarity

We're past the year 2000 in publications now and I'm starting to strike out hard. I've never even heard of any of the books or authors past this point save for N.K.Jemisin and maybe Patricia Lockwood, so it got pointless to list them.

#books #fiction #hit list

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pilibdc · 2 years

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JOMP BPC June 17: Female Author

I may have gotten carried away with the amount of books. However I felt that I should demonstrate that female authors run the gamut of genres and time periods. The authors range from the 970 AD to the present day. Bellow is a list of the books

Pile 1

Darkover Landfall: Marion Zimmer Bradley (I am aware of her personal life and issues)

Deryni Rising: Katherine Kurtz

The Word for World is Forest: Ursula K LeGuin

The Shadow of Murder: Charity Lee Blackstock

Oroonoko: Aphra Behn

Ice: Anna Kavan

Frankenstein: Mary Shelley

Kallicain: Karin Boyle

The Mysteries of Udolpho: Ann Radcliff

The Alexiad: Anna Komnene

The Bloody Chamber: Angela Carter

The Haunting of Hill House: Shirley Jackson

Circe: Madeline Miller

Pile 2

The History if England: Jane Austen

Thyra: Anne R Bailey

The Secret Lives of Married Women: Elissa Ward

Choke Hold: Christina Faust

Around the World in Seventy-Two Days: Nellie Bly

A Woman in Arabia: Gertrude Bell

The Heptameron: Marguerite De Navarre

The Book of Margery Kempe: Margery Kempe

The Wonderful Adventures of Nils Holgerrson: Selma Lagerlof

The Book of the City of Ladies: Christine de Pizan

Revelations if Divine Love: Julian of Norwich

The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon: Sei Shonagon

Mary and Maria: Mary Wollstonecraft / Matilda: Mary Shelley

Selected Writings: Hildegard of Bingen

Pile 3

Murder in the Mews: Helen Reilly

Dragonwyck: Anya Seton

Gate of Ivrel: C.J Cherryh

The Pale Horse: Agatha Christie

Daughters of Earth: Judith Merril

Assassin’s Apprentice: Robin Hobb

The Wayfarer Redemption: Sara Douglass

Seraphim: Michelle Hauf

Kushiel’s Dart: Jacqueline Carey

#jompbpc #justonemorepage #booklr #books #female author

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xetiwoxoj · 2 years

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Preface to shakespeare pdf hamlet

PREFACE TO SHAKESPEARE PDF HAMLET >>Download vk.cc/c7jKeU

PREFACE TO SHAKESPEARE PDF HAMLET >> Read Online bit.do/fSmfG

preface to shakespeare questions and answers hamlet full text with translation preface to shakespeare quotes hamlet pdf hamlet introduction pdf preface to shakespeare slideshare preface to shakespeare summary preface to shakespeare - wikipedia

From “The Preface to Shakespeare” and “Notes on the Plays,” in Te Plays Hamlet, and in his brief preface he claimed to have made changes simply because.Shakespeare: Hamlet - May 2004. However, as you have access to this content, a full PDF is available via the 'Save PDF' action button. The text comes from The Plays of William Shakespeare , ed. The play of Hamlet is opened, without impropriety, by two sentinels; Iago bellows at William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616) wrote Hamlet (c. 1599—1601) when he was approaching what would be middle-age for an Elizabethan. In 1596, Shakespeare's only TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. CHARLES AND MARY LAMB. PREFACE. The following Tales are meant to be submitted to the young reader as an introduction to the study of SCENE II. A room of state in the castle. Enter KING CLAUDIUS, QUEEN GERTRUDE, HAMLET, POLONIUS, LAERTES, VOLTIMAND, CORNELIUS, Lords, Hamlet is without question the most famous play in the English language. Probably written in 1601 or. 1602, this tragedy is a milestone in Shakespeare's. An essay on the pictorial aesthetics of 19th-century productions of Shakespeare, 'The Cambridge Companion to Shakespeare on Stage', eds. Stanley Wells and Sarah

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marlasomething · 3 years

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Piles Of Nonsense Bingo: Storaged Fire

Hi there! This is my first individual contribution to the @pilesofnonsense 2021 Halloween Bingo. My idea? To fill the marked column (bellow) adding an extra one in each entry.

As I am only useful as a writter, here it is my first fic:

"Boxes" filled: Artefact Storage and The Desolation.

Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Original Non-Human Avatar

Pairings: Jonmartin, background Tim/Sasha and Lonelyeyes

Additional tags: Season 4 AU, Archivist!Sasha, Web!Jon, Web!Martin, stablished (new) relationship, original statement (from Gertrude Era), Gerry gets mentioned bcs I love him so much, other characters also get small mentions, fluff, slight angst and intrusive thoughts, monster animals, she/they pronouns for Nikola, no beta we kayak like Tim

CW: Arson, identity crisis, mistrust issues, mentions of death

Ranking: Teen and up (it is not heavy but maybe a bit harsh for younger audiences)

Word count: 1941

Summary: Jon and Martin are hanging in the Artefact Storage when a dog appears...and this time is not Martin's doing

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34845676

Jon couldn’t hate spiders anymore. It would be rather…contradictory. Fire, though; fire was his new greatest foe.

He would never forget the day he died. The day he and Martin died.

It has taken all they had in them to force Tim to stay instead of going with them to destroy The Circus, all the compelling capacities both him and his…boyfriend (it is still felt weird, in a good way; but bizarre nonetheless) had started showing or, more accurately, finally accepting, even if doing so with reluctance.

If things went south (as they did), Sasha would need some anchor. And that ought to be him.

The Circus…it was maddening, there were no words in any dictionary to describe it otherwise. They knew the explosion was likely to kill them but…they had to do it. Especially after they had realised that Sasha was losing it completely and they lost complete track of both Daisy and Basira (the first one not even making it out of the place).

They had hold hands for a second before detonating the thing, for all of them, but also for Tim’s brother and the many other victims of Nikola and their troupe.

“I also liked you” he had said, seconds before giving use to the lighter Sasha had received as a present.

“What?”

“Before we begun to get close, when Sasha started getting, er…paranoid. Before all that, I already liked you, I just…”

“…was an ass about it” once he had confidence with someone, Martin was way bolder. Especially with him, the crush turned into real love for the whole flawed individual. “Yeah, I started realising it now…you were terrible to me, though. Good thing I have fallen for you.”

As every single time Jon had to put out any short of feelings, it cost him greatly to find the words.

“I have too.”

The explosion was brutal, the pain so great he could still feel it in his sleep.

It should have killed them. Ripped them from the inside out due to explosion itself as their exterior melted from the heat and fire.

And so it did, but The Mother had other plans…

…Jon didn’t envy the poor forensic examiner that was about to open them when they started vomiting spiders and clumsily woke up, their worst burns covered by permanent cobwebs.

And, now, nobody completely trusted them.

Not that neither of them could truly blame the others for it.

It got tiring, though. They needed some time when other people’s stares weren’t suspicious (or, also pretty annoying, full of pity when they saw the forever burnt tissue).

So they started hiding in the Artefact Storage Room from time to time. Also, quality calm time alone with each other was a treat they might have wanted even if things hadn’t gone the way they had.

Here they were, playing some allegedly cursed game that was supposed to trap its players on the game’s orders in real life (although it obviously had no effect of them, apart from a slight headache probably provoked by their annoyed Patron). If felt kind of…good.

“HA!” Jon screamed. “Won! Again.”

Martin sighed.

“Remember when you pretended to be this very serious, professional academic? I guess he wouldn’t have been this competitive.”

“Nah, but he would certainly have pointed out MANY TIMES how bad you are at it. I only did it this one time.”

The taller man rolled his eyes.

“The bar is that low, uh?”

“If you ask the rest…” he tried to sound even humorous, but came as bitter as he tried not to feel.

“Hey, they will get used to it.”

“Sure thing. Look, not being liked, that is usual, nothing new in the horizon. Neither is being looked at as some kind of…nature mistake but, for some reason, this time is hitting me harder” maybe because if it wasn’t for the fact that I had to make peace with the man I love being the same as I have become, I’d hate myself even more than they hate me.

Instead of trying to answer him, Martin hugged him, and he just let the smell of tea relaxed him…

…until a cheerful bark interrupted them.

“This time it wasn’t me I swear!” Martin said, as they turned to see a white extremely hairy dog with a friendly expression (for a dog) staring at them while shaking its long tail rhythmically.

At first, it could have passed as a regular dog, but, the more Jon looked at it, the more something felt off…and then, he noticed the paw marks.

The floor the dog had stepped on was burned.

“Martin, don’t touch it.”

“Oi! As a proud cat-dad I thought you would be more sensitive than to call an intelligent animal an it.”

“First, cats are far more evolved than dogs and second…look at the floor.”

“Shit.”

“Shit precisely” the dog’s face was now less amicable, as if it had realised it had been caught.

Jon pointed at the animal’s neck, where a paper covered in what he guesses was fireproof plastic laid.

Counting with far longer arms than his boyfriend, Martin reached at took it before the dog could even move. He was far quicker since…since the change.

It was a statement, a quite short one, but still an statement. Signed as having been register by Gertrude.

“May I…?” maybe The Web had claimed him, but his need to KNOW had gone nowhere.

“If you insist…” they shared a nervous smile; the dog-like-creature still staring, as if thinking what it should do with them.

He wondered for a second why he didn’t approach them more, but he didn’t like the implications of any of his theories, so he decided to pretend he didn’t have them and let it be.

He started reading the paper out-loud, his voice echoing in every corner of Artefact Storage.

Statement of Michael Smith, regarding the destruction of his house after the irregular adoption of a stray dog in April 2014.

Statement begin.

My family has always been big on adopting animals. Just as a kid, I remember it was basically the only topic my parents could speak about without my kitchen becoming a battle camp.

That is why; when my oldest son came home with an apparently adorable fluffy dog I didn’t question his decision for a second. He named him Zuko after a character in a show he was obsessed with at the time because he said “he burned a squirrel when I found him!”

I thought he was exaggerating, or straight-up lying, he was eleven and had decided that, if you believe something enough, you can make other people believe it too…

…I wish I could do that with what happened next.

The…ok; I am going to call it Thing because it doesn’t deserve any better.

Well, the Thing never came into the house and, curiously enough, only walked on watery parts of the garden. It was odd enough, but I had had other abandoned animals before, and you just cannot phantom the kind of trauma those poor creatures get exposed to and the long-term consequences it has.

It only let my son, whose name I’d rather left out of this statement, touch it and, when he did, he always had marks of what seemed to be burns later on.

However, stupidly enough, I attributed said marks to his own clumsiness and his eternal hyperfixation with house-made chemical experiments.

Reading it now, in front of me, I can’t help but feeling stupid…

…especially, because there was a pretty clear sign I didn’t catch upon: every single time we left the house, the Thing would tentatively approach our home, sniffing doors and windows, as in the search of something…

That something, if you haven’t guessed it yet, was a way in.

And, eventually, It found it.

I don’t know exactly what it wanted from our house; I am just a DHL deliver man, and my wife is a journalist stuck with weird rather unbelievable short stories due to her sort of pretty sexist bosses. But, whatever it had been, it was successfully destroyed.

The Thing burned our home to the ground, everything on it perpetually lost.

Everything we owned was in there; we had just gone for a walk around the neighbourhood with the dogs that actually wanted to do dog things.

At least, the not-dog is gone for good. According to our neighbours, just as the fire started calming, a couple of wardrobe-sized men went in and took the Thing, putting it inside their van and driving away without a word.

The insurance has found a way to blame it on us and, therefore, now we have to life with my wife’s father. Three kids, four dogs and two adults in their not-that-big house.

It is terrible but, worst part? When I looked at my oldest son’s eyes while he gazed at our destroyed home; he seemed…fine with it.

I have been finding small piles of ashes since then.

And now there is no monster-dog to be blamed; at least, not directly.

Statement ends, I suppose.

Archivist’s notes: everything Mr. Smith tells in his statement matches with the official statement. Regarding the reason the dog was sent to this family; it might be interesting to consider it related to a small article his wife wrote that mentioned Jude Perry in not very nice terms…she is rather revengeful.

The other option is, of course, that the eldest son of the Smiths is actually attracted by The Desolation himself; the thing that seemed to be a dog somehow making its way to him. If this is the case, I might pay a visit to the Smiths quite soon…

The… not-dog itself is now among our artefacts, since it apparently doesn’t really need any nutrients to just survive. It was given to us by Breekon and Hope, as a peace offering after some…private business I had with Miss Orsinov. It is to be well kept inside its cell, for there is no stopping It if It gets lose.

At least, with the research my acquaintance Mister Keay had done it apparently is not. And he is quite trustworthy and completely professional.

Signed,

Gertrude Robinson.

“No way to stop…”

“Well, we’ve both met Gerry and there is a reason that ghost and you have such a good relationship: both of you think too much and are oblivious to the obvious solution.”

Without thinking it twice, Martin took his tea mug and threw it over the dog and It….It started consuming itself.

“Makes no sense” Jon complained.

“Agree; learnt a long time ago not to make sense of Fear incarnations.”

They stayed in silence, as the not-dog made a quite good rendition of the Wicked Witch of the West, just a few white hairs left after It was gone.

“Who do you think let It loose?”

“Who can know about us and seems to be here just to have fun at our expense?”

“And speak weirdabout Elias. Do you think those two…?” Jon scoffed.

“Even Icaught that the first time, Martin. It can also have been an honest to God accident, though. This place needs a serious intervention…”

They both sighed and let themselves fell into the floor, staring at each other.

“You know? Your Gertrude impersonation is quite good. In another world, you might be The Archivist.” Jon smirked.

“Then, the World is saved there for certain, for you will always be my perfect anchor.”

No more talking was needed, as they kissed and let the intensity of the last minutes (more the last weeks, months…) made them succumb into a soft, comfortable slumber.

#ponbingo2021 #tma #tma fic #tma au #the magnus archives #magpod #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #webjon #webmartin #the desolation #artefact storage #original statement #fic #writing

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landonsvietnameselitblog · 3 years

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Ten Interesting Vietnamese Novels

1. Ru by Kim Thúy

At ten years old, Kim Thúy fled Vietnam on a boat with her family, leaving behind a grand house and the many less tangible riches of their home country: the ponds of lotus blossoms, the songs of soup-vendors. The family arrived in Quebec, where they found clothes at the flea market, and mattresses with actual fleas. Kim learned French and English, and as she grew older, seized what opportunities an immigrant could; she put herself through school picking vegetables and sewing clothes, worked as a lawyer and interpreter, and later as a restaurateur. She was married and a mother when the urge to write struck her, and she found herself scribbling words at every opportunity - pulling out her notebook at stoplights and missing the change to green. The story emerging was one of a Vietnamese émigré on a boat to an unknown future: her own story fictionalized and crafted into a stunning novel. (Amazon.com)

2. The Sympathizer by Viet Thanh Nguyen

The winner of the 2016 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, as well as seven other awards, The Sympathizer is the breakthrough novel of the year. With the pace and suspense of a thriller and prose that has been compared to Graham Greene and Saul Bellow, The Sympathizer is a sweeping epic of love and betrayal. The narrator, a communist double agent, is a “man of two minds,” a half-French, half-Vietnamese army captain who arranges to come to America after the Fall of Saigon, and while building a new life with other Vietnamese refugees in Los Angeles is secretly reporting back to his communist superiors in Vietnam. (Amazon.com)

3. The Lotus and the Storm by Lan Cao

Four decades after the war, Vietnam’s flavors of clove and cinnamon have been re-created by a close-knit refugee community in a Virginia suburb. But the lives of Minh and Mai, father and daughter, are haunted by ghosts, secrets, and the loss of their country. During the disastrous last days in Saigon, in a whirl of military signals and helicopter evacuations, Mai never had a chance to say goodbye to so many people who meant so much to her. What happened to them? How will Mai cope with the trauma of war—and will the thay phap, a Vietnamese spirit exorcist, be able to heal her? (Amazon.com)

4. Things We Lost to the Water by Eric Nguyen

A captivating novel about an immigrant Vietnamese family who settles in New Orleans and struggles to remain connected to one another as their lives are inextricably reshaped. This stunning debut is "vast in scale and ambition, while luscious and inviting … in its intimacy” (The New York Times Book Review).

5. The Zenith by Duong Thu Huong

These narratives portray the thirst for absolute power, both political and otherwise, and the tragic consequences on family, community, and nationhood that can occur when jealousy is coupled with greed or mixed with a lust for power. The Zenith illuminates and captures the moral conscience of Vietnamese leaders in the 1950s and 1960s as no other book ever has, as well as bringing out the souls of ordinary Vietnamese living through those tumultuous times. (Amazon.com)

6. No Man’s Land by Duong Thu Huong

No Man's Land is set in a hamlet in the countryside of central Vietnam immediately following the end of the war in 1975, where a young woman, happily married to a successful farmer, comes home one day to find a throng of villagers assembled around her gate. She learns that her first husband, who reportedly died as a martyr and war hero many years back, is in fact alive and has returned to claim her. (Amazon.com)

7. Monkey Bridge by Lan Cao

Hailed by critics and writers as powerful, important fiction, Monkey Bridge charts the unmapped territory of the Vietnamese American experience in the aftermath of war. (Amazon.com)

8. The Sorrow of War by Bao Ninh

Bao Ninh, a former North Vietnamese soldier, provides a strikingly honest look at how the Vietnam War forever changed his life, his country, and the people who live there. Originaly published against government wishes in Vietnam because of its nonheroic, non-ideological tone, The Sorrow of War has won worldwide acclaim and become an international bestseller. (Amazon.com)

9. The Book of Salt by Monique Truong

The Book of Salt serves up a wholly original take on Paris in the 1930s through the eyes of Binh, the Vietnamese cook employed by Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. Viewing his famous mesdames and their entourage from the kitchen of their rue de Fleurus home, Binh observes their domestic entanglements while seeking his own place in the world. In a mesmerizing tale of yearning and betrayal, Monique Truong explores Paris from the salons of its artists to the dark nightlife of its outsiders and exiles. She takes us back to Binh's youthful servitude in Saigon under colonial rule, to his life as a galley hand at sea, to his brief, fateful encounters in Paris with Paul Robeson and the young Ho Chi Minh.(Amazon.com)

10. Dumb Luck by Vũ Trọng Phụng

Banned in Vietnam until 1986, Dumb Luck--by the controversial and influential Vietnamese writer Vu Trong Phung--is a bitter satire of the rage for modernization in Vietnam during the late colonial era. First published in Hanoi during 1936, it follows the absurd and unexpected rise within colonial society of a street-smart vagabond named Red-haired Xuan. As it charts Xuan's fantastic social ascent, the novel provides a panoramic view of late colonial urban social order, from the filthy sidewalks of Hanoi's old commercial quarter to the gaudy mansions of the emergent Francophile northern upper classes. The transformation of traditional Vietnamese class and gender relations triggered by the growth of colonial capitalism represents a major theme of the novel. (Amazon.com)

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years

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Lovely, Dark, and Deep: A TMA Fanfic (Whumptober 2020)

Also on AO3. S5 spoilers - this is Episode 170 from Jon’s POV.

No.8: Isolation

“I think we’re almost out,” Jon said, glancing around him. It was hard to tell for sure by the appearance of the realms—that was the point of them, after all, to seem infinite—but the sense that had guided them thus far told Jon they didn’t have much farther to go. “It’s amazing. I haven’t felt that need to make a statement about this one. I wonder if it’s because there’s no avatar here? Or at least because I took one out prior to...all of this?”

He glanced over his shoulder to solicit Martin’s thoughts on the matter and felt his blood run ice cold.

Martin wasn’t there.

“Martin?” he called sharply, stopping and turning around. There were dozens—hundreds—of people around him, all of them fading through various shades of grey, all of them seeming to ignore one another, and all of them looking lost and bewildered and upset. But nowhere in the room could Jon see the tall, broad-shouldered teddy bear of a man who should have been following him.

He paused for a moment, closed his eyes, and took a few deep, slow breaths. He knew what Martin looked like, of course he did. He held the image in his mind for a second: the mop of curly hair now streaked with white, the round glasses, the jumper he favored particularly because Jon had once offhandedly complimented it (and then spent the next several hours hiding in his office panicking that he’d said too much). The vibrant colors that made up the man. He even flipped through several possible facial expressions he could be making—exasperation at Jon’s pace or forced politeness at wading through people who didn’t notice him or (hopefully) mild panic. Dismissing that as an unimportant detail, he opened his eyes and looked around.

Nothing.

“Martin!” Jon called again. No response. There was nothing for it; he’d have to retrace his steps. Hopefully Martin had had the sense to stay put wherever he was when they got separated—how had they gotten separated? Martin had been right behind him the whole time, when he wasn’t right beside him. A crowd must have pushed between them. Jon must have just been going too fast to notice. That had to be it. It had to have been a crowd. He’d find Martin in one of the rooms, sitting on one of the probably-uncomfortable chairs, waiting for Jon to come back.

He wouldn’t have kept moving, Jon told himself as he started back the way he’d come, looking frantically around him. He’d have stayed. If he didn’t know where Jon had gone, he’d have stayed in the last room he was in, waiting for him, and Jon could just...retrace the route. Simple.

The problem with this place was that every room was exactly like every other room. Indistinguishable, unremarkable, impersonal. Short of marking the walls, there was no way to be absolutely certain what rooms he’d passed through and what rooms he hadn’t. And the route he Knew, he realized as he started backwards, was the route forward. They’d committed to this course, to heading to London and the Panopticon and the Eye and Elias, and he Knew where they were going. He didn’t Know where they’d been, except in the vaguest and most general of senses. They’d been through six nightmare realms so far, this being the seventh. But he couldn’t say for certain where exactly they’d been. This place was deliberately meant to be obfuscating, to keep you in a perpetual state of...not confusion, that was the Spiral’s bailiwick, but...

Isolation, his brain supplied helpfully, and Jon cursed at it. He did not need the reminder of which domain they were in. Which domain he’d thought, mercifully, he would escape without the need to make a statement about it. He did not want to think about this domain, this entity, at all. There was nothing, no one, here for him to take revenge on—he’d already done that—but, God, did he want to tear this house to pieces, brick by brick. He wanted to grab each person he passed by the shoulders and say I see you, I know you, there are others here, you are not alone—but he couldn’t. He couldn’t interfere in another entity’s domain, couldn’t free any of these people from their nightmares.

Couldn’t...oh, God. Isolation. Nightmares. Martin.

“Martin!” Jon bellowed, a little louder. He strained to hear. There was no sound but the faint susurration of the whispers of the people trapped here. There were so many of them, but each one thought they were alone. The ones that were talking—the ones that were still strong enough to talk to themselves, to make themselves feel a little less...no. Even them he couldn’t hear clearly, even when he strained to do it.

They were so convinced no one was listening that the one person who was listening couldn’t hear them. Martin. No. No, Martin had to know he was there, had to know he was coming. He couldn’t have forgotten. He couldn’t have...given up.

Unbidden, the thought of the last time he’d been in...this entity’s domain came to his mind. The fog, God, the ever-present fog. Calling desperately. The smarmy, taunting voice telling him He doesn’t want to see you. He’d known that was a lie then, known it with a desperate certainty. Peter Lukas had worked on Martin, eroded away at him for months, whittled him down until he was—until he thought he was nothing, less than nothing. Until he’d been willing to stay, thought he deserved it.

Jon had never told Martin, but he’d come close to succumbing, too. It wasn’t like he’d never been l—solitary before. He’d spent most of his strange, unhappy childhood with nothing but books for company, and it had almost been too late when he’d learned to make friends. He’d tried too hard to be professional his first year as Archivist and only hadn’t managed to isolate himself completely because all of his assistants, in their own way, had insisted on remaining or becoming a part of his life. And then after the worms, after the discovery of Gertrude Robinson’s body, when Jon had let his paranoia get the better of him and sealed himself away from everyone...only Martin hadn’t let him, even then, had fought to keep him present. And it would have been worse after Leitner’s murder and he’d gone on the run if Georgie hadn’t taken him in, at least at first. He’d certainly felt it then. He knew what it felt like. He’d almost given in to the fog.

But he’d held on, held onto the fact that Martin was in the fog somewhere. He wasn’t alone—neither of them were alone, because Martin had been there and so had Jon and even if they couldn’t see one another yet, they were both there. So he’d called Martin’s name, and then he’d found Peter Lukas and fought him and won, which he never would have been able to do if Martin hadn’t already fought him and won. And then he’d found Martin again, and Martin had seen him, and they’d come out of the fog together.

They’d done it once. They could do it again. Jon just had to find him before...no.

“Martin!” he called again, somewhere between a shout and a sob. This wasn’t happening, this couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t have been so feeble, so stupid as to lose sight of Martin in a place like this. A place that had almost taken him once.

Desperate, almost frantic, he wandered through room after room, searching, calling. Martin had to be here somewhere. God, how many rooms did this damned house have?

It didn’t matter, he realized. The realm was as infinite as it needed to be, and also as limited. Every room was different, but every room was the same. It could hold thousands of people, but each one would assume that they were the only one.

That they had always been the only one.

Jon fought down the panic and tried to think. Martin had to be in here somewhere. It was a feature of the domain. There was no way out beyond death, and it was too...early? Was that the word? The entities weren’t ready to relinquish their victims just yet. Death wouldn’t be able to start feeding off the other realms until it had completely depleted its own store. There was no way to leave, ergo, Martin had not left. The only one who knew the way out was Jon, and Jon was not with Martin; therefore, Martin had not found the way out. He must be somewhere in this house.

Yes, all right, that was perfectly logical and all that nonsense. But “somewhere” covered a lot of ground. And Jon didn’t know where he’d let Martin slip away.

Know. Discomfort fluttered through Jon’s stomach. He’d been trying very hard to find Martin the traditional way, not to use his abilities. He’d promised to stay out of Martin’s head, and he had. Martin was the most important thing in the universe to him, even before he’d become the only real thing he had left, and he wouldn’t do anything to ruin that. Including, and especially, betray his trust.

But...this was different. Martin was lost somewhere...no, not lost, just...missing. This realm was near-infinite. Jon could wander forever and not find him, and although time wasn’t really a factor anymore per se, he was desperately afraid that if he took too long finding Martin, Martin would succumb. Maybe...think he’d been abandoned on purpose. That Jon saw him as a burden, a drag on his mission, or worse—that Jon had been humoring him up to this point, that he’d never intended to do what he could to fix the mess he’d been used to cause, and that he’d abandoned him at the first possible opportunity so he could...enjoy the apocalypse.

No. No, Martin had to know Jon wasn’t like that. Jon loved Martin, had loved him for longer than he’d been willing to admit, would love him until the end of the universe. And Martin loved him, had loved him even when he’d been doing his best to push him away, would love him as long as he had the capacity. He’d said as much, so many times, and Jon believed him without even needing his powers. He saw it in his eyes, heard it in his voice, felt it in his touch. Martin had to know that Jon felt the same way. It wasn’t like he was subtle about it, for God’s sake.

Martin hadn’t left Jon, even after he’d accidentally ended the world. He had to know that went both ways. He had to.

Jon took a deep breath. He was starting to spiral. It wasn’t the first panic attack he’d ever had in his life, but it was definitely on its way to being one of the worst. That wouldn’t help him. Or Martin. He had to hold on to that. Martin needs you. Keep it together. You have to find Martin. You can’t fall apart in a nightmare.

Right. So. He’d promised not to pry into Martin’s head. But it was the only way Jon could guarantee he’d find him. Surely Martin would forgive him, if—when—he knew. Because Jon would tell him, as soon as he found him. They were trying to be honest with one another, about what they did, how they felt. They were trying to communicate. Jon wasn’t particularly good at it, but he was trying. So he would Look, he would Know where Martin was, and he would find him and apologize and they would get the hell out of there.

He took another deep breath and concentrated on the question: Where is Martin?

A beat passed, another. Jon strained as hard as he could. He could...he could feel Martin’s mind out there, somewhere, in a room. Feel something about him. He was...talking. To someone? Most likely to himself. Jon couldn’t pick up the words. Everything was...muffled. Muted.

Faded.

No.

He had to have hope. The ones who were still talking were the ones who hadn’t given up yet. They talked because the sound of their voice made them feel less alone. If Martin was talking...that meant he was still holding on. It was when he stopped...Jon could feel the pauses in his words, and every time he stopped talking, he could feel him slipping a little farther away.

“Martin!” Jon shouted, his voice cracking with desperation and fear. “Martin, please answer me, please.”

Just like that, he heard his name, or maybe felt it. For a moment, there was a bright flare, almost of light, like a beacon, and Jon rushed towards it desperately. He went through a door, though, and the light was gone, leaving him even more lost than before.

No. Not lost. He wasn’t lost, and neither was Martin. They were...separated. It was just temporary. They would find one another. There was no way they would be trapped forever in this hellscape.

Well. Jon wouldn’t be trapped forever. He was too much the Eye’s creature to be trapped anywhere. These nightmares, as he’d told Martin repeatedly, weren’t for him—for them. This one was just trying to take Martin because he’d been Marked by the Lonely.

There.

He’d thought it.

This was the Lonely.

And it was trying to take Martin away from him.

No.

Martin was his anchor—had been a lot longer than he’d admitted it, even to himself. He’d wondered, once or twice, distantly, what would have happened if he’d realized that before going into the Buried after Daisy, if he’d realized a body part wouldn’t be his best choice for an anchor and used something else, like one of the recordings Martin had made of his poems while he’d been trapped in the Archives. If Martin’s voice wouldn’t have brought him safely out of the coffin sooner, and forced Elias—Jonah—to scramble for another way to have the Flesh mark him. If they’d have been able to suss out Jonah’s plan and foil it before it could fully realize. He couldn’t Know the future, even hypotheticals, but he’d still gone over it time and again. He’d never mentioned it to Martin, figuring his boyfriend had enough to worry about. But whenever he got a quiet moment to himself, he thought about it. And now Martin wasn’t there to keep him steady.

For a moment, Jon was tempted to give in to despair, the despair he’d been fighting since he’d woken on the floor of the cabin in Martin’s arms and heard the roar from outside and known, even more than Known, what it meant. He couldn’t get through this on his own. Even if he believed they were doing any good, even if he thought there was a chance that Gertrude was wrong and he could fix the apocalypse, he knew he couldn’t do it without Martin there to ground him, to give him a reason to go on. He did think those things, but...but it was Martin that made him believe that, Martin’s quiet strength and gentle guidance and above all the feel of his fingers laced through Jon’s when they strode through the more difficult terrain.

God, why hadn’t Jon held his hand? He’d known this would be a tricky one, but stupidly, he’d thought they would be okay. He’d thought that, because the floors were even and the path was regular and the people were...only barely there and not enough to really affect them physically, that they didn’t need to help each other walk. He was such an idiot. He always had been, really. He’d thought the end of the world would be enough of a monument to stupidity, assumed that there really couldn’t be more evidence that he made decisions that were both moronic and outright bad than the fact that he’d earnestly believed he was saving the people he loved, and the entire world, but was in fact taking gigantic leaps and bounds towards destroying them all.

He’d been wrong, because now his idiocy had cost him the one thing the apocalypse had spared him. It had cost him Martin.

No. No! Jon couldn’t let himself believe that. He couldn’t believe that this was it. Martin was still out there, he was still talking, and Jon would find him and once he did he would never let him go again. Martin was damn well going to have to listen to the next statement Jon had to make, because Jon was scared, damn it, and he was going to hold on to Martin as long as he could. Maybe even longer.

He felt something again, all at once. Something in his heart getting warmer, a strengthening of his willpower and determination, a grounding. He felt as if his foundations had been reinforced, all of a sudden. He could almost hear a voice thrumming through his chest, a steady, rhythmic chant, panic slowly easing out of the voice as it grew stronger and stronger—

Wait. He could hear a voice.

“Martin!” he shouted, putting every last bit of love and desperation and need in his body into his voice to give it as much volume as he could.

He heard his name, faintly, in reply, and his head snapped around. He practically ran, his steps taking him faster and farther than he’d thought possible. “Martin! Martin?”

“Jon! Jon, over here!”

Martin’s voice was the most wonderful thing Jon had ever heard. Jon gasped out in relief as he focused his knowledge on Martin’s whereabouts. “Martin, hold on, I—I’m coming, I just—”

And then he burst through the next doorway and there Martin was, on his feet, face pale and eyes wet, clutching something tightly in one hand and head turned towards Jon. Relief flooded through Jon’s entire body and he almost collapsed before he made it to Martin’s side. “Oh, Martin, thank God, I—I was—”

He broke off, unable to finish the sentence, and simply wrapped his arms around Martin tightly. Martin was cold, so very cold, as cold as he’d been the last time the Lonely had almost taken him away, but he was solid and real and his heart thudded strongly in his chest, and his arms as they went around Jon were just as firm as always. He was alive. He was safe. He was here.

“I—I thought you were behind me,” Jon managed.

Martin let out a soft breath—and then uttered the words that almost broke Jon completely. “I thought you’d left me behind. Gone on without me.”

“No, never. N-never, I—I just—” Jon pulled back from the hug and looked up at Martin, and the words tumbled out of him in a panicked rush. “I—I didn’t want to—Look too h—I, I-I promised I wouldn’t Know you, and with the fog, and—and all the rooms, I—I just—I lost you...” He managed to draw a breath, hoping it would steady him a little. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Martin replied immediately, and God, how had Jon managed to get so lucky?

It took him a couple breaths—both of them needed a couple breaths—before Jon managed to speak again. “No, I—I tried to use the—” He sighed, remembering he’d promised himself to be honest, and continued, “—to Know where you were, but it was—you—you were faint. It was so strange...it took me so long to find you.”

Martin squared his shoulders and straightened, rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand. “Jon, it’s—okay, I promise it’s okay. This place tried, it really did, and honestly, I—” He sucked in a breath. “I wanted to believe it.” Before Jon could panic, he added, “But I didn’t.”

“This place, i-it—” Jon began. Before he could finish his sentence, his eyes lit on the object in Martin’s hand. A tape recorder.

The familiar static filled Jon’s head, and he suddenly Knew what was on that recorder. The statement filled his mind, telling him every word Martin had spoken into the device, every thought his boyfriend had had while struggling desperately to remember who he was, who Jon was. His self-deprecating jokes and his pathetic wistfulness, his smallness, his fear. Everything Peter Lukas had tried to make of him...except now Jon could hear that stretching back years, long before Martin had ever come to the Institute. Lukas had only built on what was already there.

“My God,” he whispered. The recorder was still whirring away, but Jon had heard the entire playback in a matter of seconds.

“Yeah,” Martin agreed.

Jon swallowed hard. What he was about to say went against every instinct he had...but he loved Martin, he had to give him a choice. Had to make sure he knew this wasn’t a forced death march or anything.

“M-Martin—if you—did,” he began. “I-if you wanted to forget a-all of it, stay here...” He closed his eyes for a brief second, fighting to get the words out. “I—I would understand.”

Time had no meaning in this place, in this post-apocalyptic world, so it was entirely possible that there was an actual eternity in the heartbeat of silence after Jon’s words, who was to say?

“N-no,” Martin said finally, and Jon felt relief crash down on him like a physical force. “It’s comforting here, leaving all those—painful memories, behind, but—it’s not a good comfort, it’s—i-it’s the kind that makes you fade, makes you dim and...distant.”

“Okay,” Jon whispered. He licked his lips, then said in a more normal tone of voice, “Okay, good. I—” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “I wanted to make sure you knew what this place was.”

“It’s the Lonely, Jon.” Martin’s voice, his eyes, were sad, almost resigned. “It’s me.”

The words pierced Jon through the heart. He pulled Martin back into a hug, even tighter than before. “Not anymore,” he said forcefully.

Martin gave a soft laugh that warmed Jon to his toes. He returned the embrace. “No,” he agreed. He let out all the air in his lungs in a long, deep rush. “No, not anymore.”

The sudden click made both of them jump. Jon realized it was the tape recorder, still dangling from Martin’s hand, evidently deciding that whatever it needed to record was over. Martin pulled back and looked at the recorder. He began trembling, ever so faintly.

Gently, Jon took the device from him and stowed it in his bag. It was difficult, with only one hand, but he kept his other arm wrapped around Martin’s waist as he did so. He needed the comfort, the contact, probably as much as his boyfriend did. He wasn’t ready to relinquish that just yet. It would turn out to be two more nightmare hellscapes and a small but intense fight before Jon would let go of Martin again, even for a moment, but there was no way to Know the future. All he knew, or Knew, was that right now he needed to hold on to Martin, to be sure he wouldn’t be taken away again.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Quickly.”

Martin’s smile seemed to melt away some of the fog. “Lead on, then.”

They gripped one another’s hands tight enough to hurt, but Jon didn’t care. The pain was welcome if it meant knowing where Martin was. Jon tried to slow his pace a bit so Martin could keep up, but actually, he seemed to be moving along just fine. The fog had been what slowed him down before, and it didn’t seem to have any hold on him anymore.

At last, they emerged out the front door of the house and stood on a road leading between some barren fields. The Panopticon glowed in the distance, still watching over everything, and Jon Knew which way they had to go in order to reach their next stop. He even Knew which domain it was they would be passing through...which avatar they would meet when they did.

He stopped anyway.

He stopped and turned to Martin and looked up at him, intending to drink in the sight of him, to memorize the way his face looked in the sunlight, to map out the constellations in his freckles and navigate the topography of his curls. Instead, his eyes locked onto Martin’s and he was overcome, suddenly, by the powerful and crushing realization of how close they had come. He’d promised Martin nothing would hurt them. He’d promised he wouldn’t allow anything to harm Martin. And then he hadn’t been strong enough to hold on. He’d almost let Martin be taken, and in the end, he hadn’t even been the one to save Martin. Martin had saved himself.

Jon let out a ragged gasp of mingled pain and relief. He grabbed Martin’s face, pulled him down, and kissed him, desperate and hard and messy.

Martin made a muffled noise of surprise, as well he might. In the entire time they’d been together, Jon had initiated a lot of physical contact—hugs, hand-holding, spooning gently on the couch, twining together in bed—but while this wasn’t their first kiss by any means, Martin had always been the one to initiate them before, usually proceeded with a gentle brush to his cheek and a soft can I, Jon? Jon always acquiesced, of course. Martin’s kisses made him feel safe and warm in a way nothing ever had before. But he’d never been the one to go first. Jon’s attitude towards kissing was...weird, he supposed was the best way of putting it. He’d never been quite sure how he felt about it, and actually, he still wasn’t sure how he felt about the idea in general. But he loved Martin, and he loved Martin’s kisses. He’d just never been quite sure how to go about starting it exactly. Here and now, though, nothing in him said to do anything different but grab Martin and try to convey without words all the emotions roiling through him.

Thankfully, Martin’s surprise lasted no more than a split second before he was returning the kiss, pulling Jon close as he did so. Jon relaxed into Martin’s arms. He’d come a long way since he’d told Martin not to put his trust in comfort anymore; he’d learned that, in this post-apocalyptic nightmare world he’d brought about, you had to take whatever comfort you could get. If you lost sight of even the smallest things, you were lost.

And Martin was far from a small thing.

“Jon?” Martin sounded worried. He swiped his thumb across Jon’s cheek, and that’s when Jon realized he was crying.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered.

“But you didn’t.” Martin rested his forehead against Jon’s. “I’m not going anywhere, Jon. I promise. Wherever we end up, whatever we have to go through...we will go through it. Together. I won’t leave you. I promised you that from the beginning.”

He sounded so strong, so determined. Jon wondered if Martin knew that he fell a little more in love with him every time he spoke. And he was right. If Jon was going to get through this, the only way it would happen would be with Martin at his side.

“I love you,” he murmured.

“I love you, too, Jon,” Martin replied. “More than anything.”

Jon held them together for a few moments more, soaking in Martin’s nearness, then nodded a couple of times and tilted his head back to kiss Martin again.

“Come on,” he said hoarsely, turning back to the path without letting go. “Miles to go before we sleep.”

#whumptober2020 #no.8 #isolation #the magnus archives #writing #jonmartin #spoilers for s5 #Episode 170 spoilers #The Lonely #in which I project my own Asexual Experience onto Jonathan Sims #ollie writes fanfic

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sie-werden-nie-vergessen · 3 years

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whumptober no 7 - words can never hurt me

for day 7 - prompts “helplessness” and “blindness”

fandom: scary stories to tell in the dark

This was written with The Bellows Book universe in mind, but this could also be considered a canon timeline.

Before she can think any further, her grandson’s voice calls out to someone….to something.

“She’s in here!” he yells.

But it isn’t Ephraim’s voice. Not really, anyways. Something about it is deeper, darker - as if his voice was distorted by time - as if he were in the bottom of a swimming pool yelling at someone up above. It isn’t right. None of this is right.

content below the cut

When Gertrude woke up the next morning, everything was perfectly fine. Except it wasn’t, and she could feel it even before she fully awoke.

Something was amiss, but Gertrude couldn’t place her finger on what it was - which was strange, considering the fact that she had been blind for almost 20 years now and was well adapted to the sounds of the house.

That was the problem though. There was no sound at all.

She laid in bed for a few minutes, turning her head from side to side, trying to catch any sounds that might be floating through the house.

Deodat should be awake by now, she thought. So should Ephraim.

Reaching down to the floor, she found that Dante no longer occupied his place on the rug beside her bed. It wasn’t like him to wander off, but perhaps Ephraim or Deodat had let him out of her room in the early morning hours. That wasn’t like them either, but surely it had to be the answer. Why else would Dante be missing?

As she swings her feet over the side of the bed, Gertrude reaches out for her cane, only to realize that it too is missing. Before she can react, she suddenly hears footsteps running up the stairs. She startles, thinking that it’s Deodat or Ephraim and that something is wrong. Her head tells her to get up and see what’s wrong, but her instincts tell her to run, to hide, to do anything but let herself be caught.

She maneuvers her way to the door, but with every step she takes, her heart beats louder.

No, her instincts cry. No! NO! DON’T LET THEM FIND YOU!

She thinks that this is irrational. She knows that it is, but she can’t help it. Every fibre of her being is screaming at her to run. It’s as if her mind has lost all of it’s fighting instincts. It’s only option is to flee, and flee it will.

The footsteps run past her door again, this time running down the stairs instead of up. She flies backwards as they hurry past her door, her heart pounding all the while.

GO!

This time, she does.

She stumbles out of her room, heading towards Ephraim’s bedroom across the hall. He’ll help me, she thinks. He will. He has to.

Before she can open the door, she hears the footsteps climbing the stairs again.

This time they’re slow.

This time they’re calculated.

Gertrude opens the door as quietly as she can, quickly shutting it behind herself. She stands awkwardly next to the door, unsure of what to do. She’s rarely ever been in her youngest grandson’s room. She’s unfamiliar with the layout, and she doesn’t want to disturb anything and alert the intruders of her whereabouts. She wonders why Deodat and Ephraim haven’t stopped them.

She hopes they aren’t hurt.

In the glaring silence Gertrude suddenly notices something. Something that isn’t silent.

It’s the soft sound of book pages being flipped.

Gertrude sighs in relief. Thank goodness! It’s Ephraim!

But why hadn’t he said anything when she walked in? Why hadn’t he jumped up to investigate when he heard strange footsteps?

Before she can think any further, her grandson’s voice calls out to someone….to something.

“She’s in here!” he yells.

But it’s still his voice. Gertrude can recognize that much, at least.

Startled and a little more than terrified, she bolts for the door. She half runs into the hallway, the sound of footsteps closing in on her.

There are hundreds of them now. The floors shake from the sound of them, and they seem to come from all directions. Ephraim’s voice still bellows as loud as ever, and more voices join the chorus with each minute that passes.

Delanie’s

Deodat’s

Harold’s

Even her own voice, although it doesn’t come from her mouth.

A chorus of children.

She doesn’t recognize them.

Voices from her past that she had long forgotten.

Names that she can’t even recall, but their voices call out nonetheless.

“She’s here! She’s in here!”

She makes her way to the stairs, fighting her way through an invisible crowd. She tries to cover her ears to block out the sounds, but they carry on just as loudly. Her ears are so sensitive now - they’ve had years to accommodate for her lack of vision - and for once this serves as a hindrance rather than a help. Gertrude descends the stairs, the footsteps chasing after her.

As she reaches the last step, she suddenly hears the most chilling voice of all.

It’s Sarah’s.

#whumptober2021 #no.7 #gertrude bellows #ephraim bellows #scary stories to tell in the dark #ssttitd #the bellows book #blindness tw

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shapeshiftersandfire · 3 years

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WIP Re-Introduction: Project Verna

Full Title: There’s Something Strange About Aunt Verna

SUMMARY Verna Russell arrives in 1893 Mill Valley and draws the attention of the Bellows family. They welcome her as a guest within their home; Verna only intends to stay a few days, but when she discovers what the family’s been hiding from the town for thirteen years, her focus shifts dramatically. Verna stays on with the Bellows family, turning from their esteemed guest to the bane of their existence, all for the safety of the family’s youngest member.

And that would be easy enough, if the Bellows children didn’t start asking questions about Verna’s odd tendencies, wolf-like and otherwise, and her unusually sharp teeth...

CHARACTERS ➳Verna Russell - the newcomer to the family, also known as Verna Bellows; a woman with strange wolfish tendencies and a knack for knowing things she shouldn’t ➳Sarah Bellows - the youngest of the Bellows children, hidden away by the family due to her albinism; spends her days writing scary stories to escape what lurks above her basement room ➳Ephraim Bellows - eldest of the Bellows children; a doctor at Pennhurst; rigid in his ways and unwilling to break from family tradition ➳Harold Bellows - middle child, runs the mill with Deodat; wishes he had the courage to stand up for what he knows is right ➳Deodat Bellows - owner of the mill; a man with deep regrets and no foreseeable way to make amends for his mistakes ➳Delanie Bellows - the family matriarch; harbors deep resentment for more than just her daughter ➳Gertrude Bellows - the blind, elderly Bellows matriarch, mother of Deodat; bitter and angry, known to love little more than opera and her dog

TIMELINES & RELATED WORKS ➳Main (masterlist) ➳Upon the Heads of Sunflowers - in a world where WRU and the shapeshifter empire coexist in an uneasy balance, Sarah Bellows becomes the uniting factor, sucked into the underbelly of the white beast with one way out and no hope of ever seeing her beloved aunt again. (bbu au; in progress; masterlist) ➳Go Tell Aunt Rhody - a family emergency draws Verna away from the house. In the wake of her absence, things take a dark and terrifying turn. And the full scope of the consequences won’t be felt until seventy years later. (canon compliant au) ➳Cobwebs in the Attic - the Bellows are accidentally resurrected in Stella’s attempt to free her friends from Sarah’s book. Verna returns to Mill Valley to put the family back together, but when Delanie doesn’t turn up, they go on the hunt for her, hoping for the best, and bracing themselves for the worst. (sequel to “Go Tell Aunt Rhody”; distantly canon compliant) ➳What Hides in the Woods - Delanie goes for a walk and doesn’t come home. A search is launched immediately, while Delanie, in the clutches of the most dangerous man in town, fights to stay alive. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and the only way out is to join what hides in the woods.

TAGLIST (ask to be added or removed) @motelbf

#project verna #there's something strange about aunt verna #writeblr #wip introduction #verna russell #the bellows family #sarah bellows #delanie bellows #harold bellows #ephraim bellows #gertrude bellows #deodat bellows #Scary stories to tell in the dark #ssttitd #verna russell: like mary poppins but less whimsical and more chaotic #also #if you see me having it out for delanie....no you didn't

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malachitebeck · 4 years

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I Keep Making Posts Like This But...

HI I’M BACK AGAIN BECAUSE I HAD A THOUGHT JUST NOW THAT HIT ME LIKE A TRUCK. If you’re new here- Hi, I’m Ruby, and I’m listening to the Magnus Archives for the first time. I made a post about my theories starting at episode 17 and some people followed me due to that post so now I just kind of jot down my thoughts whenever they hit me. AND BOY DID SOME THOUGHTS JUST HIT ME. (For context, I just finished episode 53, so spoilers for that episode are bellow as well as spoilers for all episodes leading up to it.) But let’s chat about our second Gertrude tape and what it has revealed to me. First, there is not a doubt in my mind anymore that Gertrude DEFINITELY knows about the Things. Knows about the nature of the cosmic horrors I have described in earlier theory posts, and definitely knows more than Jonathan does as of right now. But that’s not what this is about, not really. This is kind of a new theory? I think that there’s something going on with the Magnus Institute. Remember when I said, kind of out of hand in my first theory post, that I thought maybe Elias was possessed by some sort of thing that wanted knowledge? Well episode 53 took that vague inkling and gave it a hell of a lot of strength. First- the statement giver in episode 53 does NOT refer to the place he found in Alexandria as an Archive. It’s Gertrude who calls it that. In fact, she uses the phrase “ancient iterations of the Archive” as if implying this sort of building has existed and merely evolved over time. That places like the Magnus Institute have existed and evolved over time. Then there’s the feeling of being watched. Jonathan commented out of hand sometime earlier in this season that he feels like he’s being watched constantly in the Archives. I thought at first this was a manifestation of his paranoia, but now?? Now I think he’s LITERALLY being watched. Because in episode 53, the statement giver tells Gertrude that the first time he felt the same way as he did in the library... was when he entered the Archives of the Magnus Institute. And there’s just one last thing that doesn’t sit right with me. The last thing Gertrude said before ending her recording. “What was it? A guardian of some sort? Or perhaps... perhaps it too was once an Archivist.” AGAIN her choice of words here feels so deliberate. She’s comparing the creature, the one with the horrifying eye, to herself. To Jonathan. To the very role of an Archivist. That doesn’t feel accidental in the slightest and it makes my brain buzz with potential possibilities for what it could mean and what consequences it might pose for Jonathan going forward. Could he become like that thing? Was Gertrude on the edge of it? Episode 53 is making me question the Institute as a whole. Once I thought it was this beacon of hope and information (with Elias corrupting it from his center as, once again, I don’t trust the guy) but now? Now I’m questioning everything about it. What if... in my theory I mentioned I think Things possess people so they can instill their own brand of fear on the world and get whatever it is that they want. But what if they can embody buildings, too? What if the Magnus Institute is just the modern incarnation of these horrible haunted libraries where trying to take knowledge away from the Guardian, the “Archivist” makes you literally claw your eyes out? TLDR: I had some more thoughts and wanted to share since I know people followed me for it. I am currently on episode 53 of the Magnus Archives. This episode supports my theory that Gertrude is incredibly knowledgeable on the Things, and also put the idea into my head that the Magnus Institute itself may be a doomed, haunted venture being controlled by some creature who wants to consume knowledge or perhaps just stories of fear. I’m also worried about Jonathan, but that’s just a given I think.

#It's weirdly nice to just pour all my thoughts out like this #so thanks to the folks that followed me for it and gave me an excuse to do so #the magnus archives #tma #tma episode 53 #jonathan sims #gertrude robinson #elias bouchard

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lyledebeast · 5 years

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Gertrude

@gingerpilotevents Day 6

Read here or on Ao3

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Finn said.

He never should have brought up the kriffing kitten.

He had gone home with Poe to have a beer after work, after being reassured that Hux would be at work late finishing a project. One beer turned into two, and Finn had found it impossible to contain his excitement over the surprise he was getting his girlfriend for their one-year anniversary.

“Rey has always wanted a kitten, and one of my recruits’ cats had six a few months ago. I’m going to pick ours up next week, right before she gets back from her mission.”

“Are there any more?” Poe asked, his eyes lighting up.

Finn felt his buzz dissipate. “What?”

“You said there were six kittens, right? You’re getting one for Rey; who is getting the others?”

Finn reached for another beer, trying to change the subject.

“This is good! Where did you say you got it?”

“Come on, buddy. Are there any kittens left?”

Finn sighed as he pried off the lid. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? “Why do you need a kitten, Poe?”

“Well, you probably didn’t know this, but Armitage’s birthday is next week, too. It’s actually the night before Rey is supposed to be back.”

“Oh.” Finn frowned. “You’re still coming for dinner though, right?”

“Oh, yeah. As long as the date doesn’t change, I mean. In case she gets back early.”

“No, I . . . we’ll keep it the same.” It wasn’t that Rey and his invitations didn’t extend to Hux as well, but Hux hadn’t shown much interest in socializing with Poe’s friends, and for his own part, Finn hadn’t put his heart into convincing him.

“And I’d feel better about leaving Armitage on his own for the evening if he had a little friend.”

Finn couldn’t resist rolling his eyes at that.

“Come on!” Poe pleaded. “You know how much Armitage loves cats. Remember last week?”

Finn took a long gulp of his beer. He certainly did.

He had seen them from a distance and considered crossing to the other side of the road before Poe saw him and waved him over.

When he got there, Hux was on his hands and knees, in spite of the snow on the ground, reaching for a cat that was lying under a bench on the side of the street with its paws tucked under it.

“Are you cold, baby? It’s okay, don’t be scared,” Hux cooed. It was the most bizarre thing Finn had ever seen. After all the screeching he’d heard during his years as a stormtrooper, he didn’t know Hux’s voice could be so soft.

“There’s a cat,” Poe had offered when he saw Finn staring.

“Yeah . . . that’s not what worries me.”

About then, the stray had thought the better of the situation and run off. Hux had gotten up, red-cheeked with embarrassment when he noticed Finn, and given him an awkward greeting. Their greetings were still always like that, even though he’d been living with Poe for six months.

“Don’t you think it’s a little . . . early for you and Hux to be thinking about getting a pet?” Finn asked when Poe refused to let the subject drop.

He laughed at that. “Oh, come on, Finn! It’s not like we’re having a kid. I had been thinking about getting a pet even before Hux moved in; I just haven’t had a chance before now.”

Finn shrugged. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. I don’t know; you really ought to think about it more.”

For a moment, Poe was quiet, frowning. “He’s had a cat before. You remember Millicent.”

He remembered Millicent. How could he forget? “Yeah. That’s what I’m thinking about.”

Poe’s eyebrows went up. For the first time, he looked concerned. “What do you remember?”

Finn took another drink. “Well . . . he used to make these tiny little mouse droids for her to play with.” He remembered them with a shudder. Sometimes they would escape Millicent and get into the stormtrooper’s quarters. Finn had to admit, they were pretty cute.

And then he had seen Millicent catch one.

The corner of Poe’s mouth turned up. “Oh, wow, mouse droids. He’s a real supervillain, making toys for his cat!”

“He programmed them to scream when she caught them!”

“Oh.” The eyebrows went up again. “You mean . . . human screams?”

Finn’s eyes widened. “No. No, they were little mouse squeaks, but still.”

Poe smiled and sighed with relief.

“Good. You almost had me worried for a minute.”

“They still screamed, Poe! Don’t you think that’s disturbing?”

“I think it’s a good thing you’ve never seen a cat kill an organism mouse.”

Finn shook his head and gave up. “Okay. If you insist . . . I think there may be one or two kittens left.”

* * *

Poe couldn’t believe how much it cost to bring home a free cat. The recruit and her husband had been so happy that Poe Dameron wanted one of their kittens, but even the list of “minimum requirements” they gave him was daunting. And that was even before the vet visit.

“I just hope Armitage likes you,” Poe told the kitten. “That’s all I can say.”

She yawned and scratched one of her ears with a white hind foot, completely unimpressed.

At least she’s calmed down, Poe thought to himself. He had taken BB-8 along to help him choose, and over the course of the day she had worn down even the droid’s energy.

The sole orange kitten had been the first to find a home, they told Poe, much to his disappointment. Indeed, there had only been three kittens left: this grey and white that the owners had said was a girl and two solid greys they told him were boys. Poe could see no difference between them; what had made the girl stand out was her boldness. She hadn’t run at the sight of BB-8 as the other kittens had. Rather, the girl walked straight up to him and batted the appendage he stretched out to her, making him beep delightedly and roll in a circle, the tiny kitten bounding after him.

Well, Poe thought, at least one of us is sure about this.

The kitten had screamed from her carrier all the way to the vet’s office, drawing distressed beeps from BB-8, and then refused to come out. The vet had told Poe that the vaccinations might make her drowsy, but so far there had been no such luck. She had taken off as soon as he opened the carrier to let her explore, but soon she found her way back to him and would not let him get anything done. Eventually, he had given up on his paperwork to play with her. It had taken most of the afternoon to wind her down, and that had been enough to make BB-8 put himself in low power mode.

Of course, it wasn’t until the kitten had fallen asleep under the sofa that Armitage finally made it home. The weather had grown bleaker as the day went on, and it had started to sleet soon after Poe got home. He knew the cold bothered Armitage less than himself, but he couldn’t help worrying that he might slip on the ice and injure himself during his long walk home. By the time he heard the door open, it didn’t matter that the kitten was nowhere to be seen.

“I apologize for being late,” Armitage grumbled as Poe helped him take off his coat. “We stayed late finishing a draft of the plans because, yet again, General Kent had concerns.” The last word came out as a snarl.

Poe sighed. “You know he just wants to be thorough, Hugs.” He wanted to add that he was sure Armitage had been every bit as much of a pain in the ass to his subordinates, but the scowl on his face made him think the better of it. Armitage was positively grouchy.

“I know that he doesn’t trust me, not even now. He should know all this . . . supervision is unnecessary. I was the project leader from the beginning on . . .”

“On Starkiller Base?” Poe ventured.

Armitage stopped mid-rant to look at him. Then he sat down by his side, and put his face in his hands, groaning with exasperation. “If he thinks I could build another superweapon with the meager resources he’s given me,” he muttered, “you would think he might treat me with more respect.”

Poe put an arm around Armitage and lay his head on his shoulder.

“I know it’s hard, babe. Working under another engineer and having to meet his approval. I wouldn’t like it either.”

He could feel him relaxing already. Sometimes all he needed was someone to whine to for a little bit. Poe sometimes wondered how much he had gotten of that before they met. “It’s not just that,” Armitage went on. “I knew that I was starting over when I came here. And I knew everyone hated me. I couldn’t even blame them, really. But I would have thought that, by now, that would have started to change.”

As Armitage spoke, Poe could feel tiny, sharp claws digging into the back of his trouser leg. “Uh huh,” he replied, distracted.

Armitage shot him an annoyed look.

“If you had defected to the First Order, do you think you would manage any better?”

Poe felt the claws again, higher. “Nope.” It came out almost as a yelp.

“I am doing good work for them,” Armitage went on, defensive. “I do not understand what they want from me.”

Poe opened his mouth to answer, but the sound that caught Armitage’s attention was a tiny plaintive mew from underneath the sofa.

“Was that . . . ?”

As his speech trailed off, the kitten jumped up on Poe’s knee with a meow that grew into a needy bellow.

Armitage gasped and his green eyes went wide.

“It’s a . . . it’s . . . “ he stammered.

“Happy birthday, Hugs!”

“You darling thing,” Armitage whispered, and for a moment Poe didn’t know whether he meant him or the cat. Then he tentatively reached for the kitten.

As she sniffed his fingers, a thought occurred to Poe that never had before. What if the kitten didn’t like Armitage?

But some signal must have passed between them, unreadable to Poe, for when Armitage lifted the kitten onto his lap, she butted her tiny head against his belly.

“So . . . you’re happy with her?” Poe asked.

For a moment, Armitage could only stare at the kitten, lips parted in disbelief. But when he looked up at him, his eyes were shining with tears. “Oh, Poe . . . do you really have to ask?”

Poe grinned, his cheeks warming with pleasure.

“I wanted to get an orange and white one. You know, to match the rest of my family. But she just had a lot of personality, and I knew you’d like that.”

Armitage stroked the kitten gently, his hand covering almost the whole of her body, and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

“Was Millie that tiny when you got her?” Poe asked.

Armitage wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. “No . . . um. No. She was an adult already. When I found her.”

His voice came out thick with emotion, but Poe knew it would only embarrass him if he called attention to it. Talking about his old cat wouldn’t stop his tears, he knew, but it might distract him. Besides, he had never heard that story before. For several reasons.

“Where was she?”

Armitage sniffled. “She was on some trash planet. I can’t even remember which one. We were testing explosives there, and some of my troopers reported that they a cat was getting into their food supplies. Phasma was in favor of executing her, but I . . . I had always wanted a cat.”

He looked down at the kitten, which was purring loudly, and smiled.

“The troopers thought she was vicious, but I thought she might just be hungry, so I got some canned fish from the provisions reserved for officers and took that to her. She was so skinny and filthy, but as bold as anything. She made it quite clear that she wasn’t afraid of me.”

Poe smiled. He had chosen well after all.

“So, it was love at first sight. Or bite, rather.”

Armitage smiled up at him. “Not quite. It was a big adjustment for her, living on a star destroyer.” Poe noted that he sounded more like himself already.

“Finn told me how you kept her occupied. Squeaking mouse droids, wasn’t it? Clever.”

“My subordinate officers didn’t seem to think so. The used to grumble about the ‘waste of resources, sir.’”

“And I’m sure that put a stop to it,” Poe replied, grinning.

Armitage gave him a mischievous smirk. “Oh, I paid it the attention it warranted, which was none. Officers were permitted recreation, and I’m sure I indulged in less than most of them.”

Poe was sure of it too, if the way he overworked himself now was anything to go by. In spite of the smirk, there was an unmistakable note of bitterness in Armitage’s voice. He might complain about General Kent now, but it was clear that he had never gotten along with his fellow officers, not even those who worked under him in the FO. Millicent was, almost certainly, the only friend he’d had.

“I’m sorry about your cat,” he said abruptly. In truth, it was the only thing about the destruction of

Starkiller Base he regretted.

Armitage looked up at him. Despite the sad smile on his face, Poe noticed that he was holding the kitten a bit tighter.

“You know I don’t blame you for that, Poe. We were at war. Anyone can be a cas . . . OW!”

The kitten had turned her head and buried her tiny sharp teeth in the side of Armitage’s hand.

“No, it’s fine!” he exclaimed when Poe reprimanded the kitten and reached to take her. “It was my fault. I scared her.”

“Okay, if you say so.” Poe sat down, chuckling. “It looks like I picked the right cat for you, huh?”

Armitage beamed at him. “Poe, she’s perfect.”

He wiggled his fingers back and forth on his thigh until the kitten pounced, grabbing one between her little white paws and biting him again. His smile only grew wider.

As he watched him, Poe couldn’t help feeling a little sad. He knew that Armitage cared for him, whatever doubts others might still harbor, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen him so happy, in such an uncomplicated way. Even when had moved in, he was glad and thankful, and eventually he had begun to relax. But he was still anxious sometimes, as though he feared even Poe’s acceptance of him was conditional.

“What will you name her?” Poe asked, banishing the thought for now.

Armitage’s brow furrowed. He looked down at the kitten, who was finally settling in his lap, as though she would tell him the answer.

And, apparently, she did. A few moments later, Armitage looked up with an air of finality.

“Gertrude.”

Poe gave him a fond smile. It was as stuffy a name as he could have expected, and already he was thinking of modifications that would, not doubt, annoy Armitage until he resigned himself to it. Just as he had with Hugs.

“’Gertrude’ it is,” he said as he got up and turned towards the kitchen. “Now, if you’re sure you’re safe alone with her, I’ll get our dinner ready. It’s a good thing I went shopping before I got her. She’s given me no rest since I brought her home.”

Armitage didn’t even look up, his attention absorbed by Gertrude yawning and stretching on his lap.

“Hugs?”

Armitage turned and looked at him over the back of the sofa. “Poe, come here.”

He took a step forward and bent down to let Armitage kiss him without disturbing the kitten. Finally, she seemed to be falling asleep, though who knew how long it would last this time?

“Thank you, darling. I love her.”

Poe smiled. Whatever aggravation she caused, and however much of Armitage’s attention she took, it would be worth it.

“You’re welcome, Hugs.”

#gingerpilot summer event 2019 #day 6 #first line challenge #gingerpilot #kittens and fluff

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lyricswrittenbythesecretdreamer · 5 years

Text

I’ll Cover You

Five times Marinette references Rent and one time she can't.

The first time she does it, her class are having a quiz. "How many minutes are there," Miss Bustier pauses for dramatic effect, smirking at her class. They're on the edge of their seats, hands ready to fly up into the air, "In a year?" There's a chorus of groans as people begin to try and calculate in their heads. Max is halfway there when a shrill voice from beside Alya shouts out: "Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes! Five hundred twenty-five moments so dear!" Alya looks over at her small friend who is flushing crimson head to toe. "How on earth do you know that?" Marinette shrugs, giving an embarrassed smile. "Rent - I saw it with my Nonna. I couldn't stop singing it for the whole weekend." The second time she does it on patrol. She and Chat are slinking through the dark Parisian streets and notice a couple arguing behind a dumpster. "Well if you hadn't been flirting with that woman in the - what's it called?" "Rubber?" "That's right, rubber! If you hadn't been flirting with her then I wouldn't have got angry-" "Oh, so it's my fault, is it?" She looks pointedly at her lover, not noticing the two teenage superheroes watching them. "There will always be women in rubber flirting with me!" Hisses Ladybug under her breath, causing Chat to jerk his head around at her, a wild expression on his face. "Excuse me?" The two women look up at Chat and Ladybug. Chat offers an awkward wave, but too caught up in the moment and not able to resist, Ladybug jumps down from the roof and points at the angry woman. "There will always be women in rubber flirting with me! Give me a break!" And she promptly bursts into song, only stopping after being dragged away by Chat who whispers countless apologies to the two women, who can only stare in amazement. The third time she does it, it's at karaoke night at the local youth club. Nino drags the three of them there if just to enjoy the music. It's when a familiar tune crawls out of the speakers that Marinette gives out a cheer. Letting go of her fears, she drags Alya out of her chair and up to the stage, when then promptly begin singing a slightly out-of-tune version of 'Out Tonight'. It's not meant to be a duet, but they just about manage it. Of course, when the song is over, Marinette regrets it all. Especially singing it in front of Adrien. The fourth time she does it is after moving out of her parent's house, and going to University. Juggling three jobs and with an eviction notice hammered onto her door, she is tired of living in expensive squalor and hides under her fabric. Then: "How do you document real life when real life's getting more like fiction each day?" She sings softly a small tear running down her cheek. She wanted to prove to everyone that she could be independent. She wanted to prove to herself she was like Ladybug. Strong, brave, resourceful. "How we gonna pay last year's rent?" Transforming, she leaps out of the window and jumps from roof to roof. "The music ignites the night with passionate fire! The narration crackles and pops with incendiary wit!" And then, from behind her: "How do you leave the past behind when it keeps finding ways to get to your heart?" Shrieking, she leaps around to discover her feline companion giving her a weak smile. "Chat! You scared me!" "I'm sorry, My Lady." "Draw a line in the sand and then make a stand." "When they act tough, you call their bluff!" And then, in unison: "We're not gonna pay; last year's rent, this year's rent, next year's rent!" The fifth time they're at a cafe where a group of suspicious-looking teenagers are sitting, whispering. Alya is desperately trying to catch what they're saying, but the voices are too quiet, too quick. And one of them starts having an argument with another group of teens behind them. And then: "Who died?" And Marinette can't help herself. "AKITA!" She belts. The teenagers laugh and cheer. "EVITA!" Alya looks from the teens to Marinette. "What just happened?" "La Vie Boheme." Breathes Adrien. Marinette giggles. Then enter a flash mob. She joins in, of course. "Dearly beloved, we gather here to say our goodbye's...here she lies, no one knew her worth...the late great daughter of mother earth..." "German wine, turpentine, Gertrude Stein..." "To S&M!" It's a couple of months later and the heroes find themselves fighting a gang of bank robbers holding half a dozen people hostage. They've called in the big guns - Rena, Queenie and Carapace. Carapace and Rena are defending the hostages from two of the gang - brilliantly. Queen Bee has recharged twice now, taking two men down with her. Ladybug and Chat are fighting side by side, as per usual. The robbers won't kill them - they know that. As much as Hawkmoth wanted them dead, even the lowliest criminals accept that Ladybug and Chat Noir are the reason Paris remains safe. After the terrorist attack, no one wanted to take any chances and the two then-teenagers were made the official security of Paris. Alongside the police, of course. "This is exhilarating, M'Lady!" Bellows Chat, hitting one of the criminals over the head with his baton, causing the delinquent to fall over, out cold. Ladybug throws her head back and laughs. "Exhilarating? You're an odd one, Kitty!" "You love me!" He teases, throwing her a flirty wink. This was their routine. It was what made them such good friends; the not-so-intimate intimacy; the slightly on edge way Ladybug turned him down. "You wish, you mangy feline!" He fakes a sign of mock hurt as she tangles another one of the masked thieves in her yoyo string. She giggles and then it turns into a full-blown laugh and then a bullet leaps out from nowhere and there is a bang and suddenly she is bowled over, face contorted in pain. Chat lets out an unholy scream that is not a cry of pain, not a cry of anger but both and neither at the same time. And Ladybug falls. He drops to his knees and takes her head in his lap. The fighting around them has stopped (except for Queen Bee, who was using all her efforts to find and tranquilise the shooter) but it could have carried on and he would have stayed, still, by her side. A fat tear rolls down his cheek and onto Ladybug's nose. He wipes his eyes furiously, but there is no stopping time. She is going to go and it is his fault for being an idiot and flirting with her. She coughs, trying to say something, but it won't work. All voice has been lost. And then, from behind: "Live in my house, I'll be your shelter," Carapace begins to sing softly, his deep voice still carrying over the deathly silence. His holds Rena to his chest, who looks up as he sings. "Just pay me back, with a thousand sweet kisses," Her voice wavers, but she sings on anyway. Why are they singing Rent? How do they know... He looks down and Ladybug is no longer there. It's Marinette and her transformation is up. How could he not have seen this? She lies, broken, in his arms and he doesn't know what to do. "Be my lover..." Sings Queenie, and Chat didn't even realise Chloe had even seen the goddamn musical. He decides to sing along. "And I'll cover you," Marinette's eyes are full of sorrow, full of apologies. He smiles down at her and kisses her forehead, calling his transformation off. If anyone is shocked, they don't show it. "Open your door, I'll be your tenant," "Don't have much baggage to lay at your feet," "But sweet kisses I've got to share, I'll be there," "And I'll cover you!" "I know that they meant it," "When they said you can't buy love," "Now I know you can rent it," "And at least you were my love!" One by one, the heroes release their transformations, singing Marinette's pain away as she falls further and further away from them. Or at least until the ambulance arrives. When she's better, Marinette scolds them for being overdramatic and "Ow, Chloe, I've still been shot and your bear hugs hurt!"

#ladynoir #adrinette #marichat #miraculius ladybug fanfiction #rent #i just love rent so much #i also love our idiot children #one day

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