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ay0nha · 9 months

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Some Unholy War | Theseus Scamander (IV)

SUMMARY: Theseus was always talented in thinking clearly. Logically. He wanted you to be wrong, but your instincts pushed you to keep moving. It was the only way to stay one step ahead of Sinclair. It contrasted Theseus’ plan to stay put within the walls of the Ministry. You contrasted his very being.

PAIRING: Theseus Scamander x f!reader

WORD COUNT: 1.1K

WARNINGS: canon-typical things, flashback of sorts, mutual pining, semi enemies-to- lovers, always a protective Theseus, SLOW burn, etc.

A/N: HELLO. Again, this took me longer than I would have liked. So, rather than rushing it, I’m going to break it up into two parts...I’m going to take a lil break to get my head together, but I’m v excited in how this second part is going to go!!! So, stay tuned...As always, thank you, @kalllistos. Comments are always welcomed. Enjoy.

PART I, PART II, PART III

Effort was a comical notion.

Magic required it at times, just as breathing did. The effort now felt good, worth it. The icy air that reached the ends of your lungs stung. Yet, each breath was quieter, the effort only coming in the form of physical mechanics of pushing a warm breath back out that the air around you marked.

“Are you mad?” Theseus’ exclamation hadn’t taken any exertion. The pent-up anger almost made you flinch. Theseus yelled after you as you continued forward. He never begged you to stop; he told you. Sometimes you’d listen just to display your wit.

You were quiet, entering the idyllic fog, hoping it would swallow you whole.

“Keep up….” Your voice was airy, the instruction more for yourself. The memory was faded, your mind trying to hold onto it as it threatened to slip between your fingers.

It started in Theseus’ office—a muddled memory overlapping with the friction of everything around you. It was more a feeling, something foggy and unrestrained that called you forward. It felt a bit like apparating, where your body didn’t quite belong for the moments it took to find your footing again.

You scolded yourself for not seeing it clearly; that was the thing about divination.

Although studied meticulously, its real trait was its vitality. It shifted and molded. Evolved. It made even more concrete things seem like rubber, rejecting electricity with an uncanny ability to mold into shapes unknown. It was the type of thing that could be so exciting to happen just to become something so vague that it no longer held value to it.

Theseus’ words were drowned out as your ears produced a ringing. All you could hear was your shaky breaths, and all you could see was a faint familiarity with your surroundings. Even your stumbling steps backward felt practiced.

Your breath became labored as the hazy recollection returned. Even through the blur, you saw how the tips of his ears and nose burned red with frustration. It was a trait of his that remained as he rose so many inches he towered over you, and his hair curled the longer her let it grow.

The years did nothing to change it.

“This is it….” Your fingers fumbled with a curl at the nape of his neck. His hair was long, longer than he usually kept it. Time had gotten the better of him. How could you be so blind?

Theseus’ tirade wavered. He was supposed to be angry. He was supposed to do so many things, but your touch felt like an enchantment. It reminded him of how dangerous you could be.

The walnut of Theseus’ wand was always stiff, but it cast its spells briskly and powerfully. Ollivander told him it wasn’t rare to be drawn to the material, but it scarcely paired with dragon heartstring. Because of the extreme dominance of this wood, the core was stoic and gentle and had done Theseus well from the moment he received it. Yet, pressed against your chest to stall your next step, it felt that even the wand knew it was a misguided action.

“Don’t be foolish, Theseus.” You spat at the gesture. His wand only pressed into your chest as if trying to will away his emotions. “Don’t you recognize where we are?”

He shook his head. If he looked beside him, he knew he would crumble.

You tried to reason, “We couldn’t stay there. The Ministry—

“We’re going back.” Although his voice was steady, emotion wavered in his eyes. “I won’t fall into your trap. You can’t just—

“It’s too late.” You pushed forward, the wood digging into your clavicle with drive. “I’m ruined anyways.” The invariability of the words reflected your decision. “By your hand or his.”

Theseus was always talented in thinking clearly. Logically. He wanted you to be wrong, but your instincts pushed you to keep moving. It was the only way to stay one step ahead of Sinclair. It contrasted Theseus’ plan to stay within the Ministry's walls.

You contrasted his very being.

“Why did you bring me here?” Anger drifted from Theseus’ voice, and the space it abandoned was soon tenanted by something else—a kind of endearment, muslin light.

Theseus first brought you there for a quiet you didn’t know you needed. It was ambient full of croaking creatures and twigs snapping from the pressure of unknown forces. It was a blissful oasis that lured you into its dark depths.

The environment was damp, still reflecting the country’s dreariness. It was hidden, though. A broken-off path Theseus—well, Newt—had stumbled upon in childhood. It was a good hiding place to play, to sneak, and for you to abuse.

“I didn’t see it coming.” It felt strange to admit your best-hidden secret. “Any of it.” Your eyes remained on Theseus, willing trust to transfer. “But I just couldn’t—I knew deep down, I couldn’t lose everything.”

One time, you came to read Theseus’ palm under the full moon—a silly excuse to feel the weight of his hand in yours. The times following grew, the touches still shy with adolescence but bolder in a discovery of emotion.

The memory was a shared favorite, an inside joke of sorts to make the other feel warmth in your fingers that spread to the center of your chest. You hadn’t meant to bastardize it, but its safety was all you could rely on.

“But this, I saw this.” You would continue until Theseus understood. You had told him of your vision all those years ago. It was your only justifiable proof. “This needs to happen.”

Recognition flashed across his features.

Theseus dropped his wand with a tight breath. Looking to the sky, he became lost in turmoil. Once his gaze hit the dirt beneath his feet, it did nothing to aid him. You watched his fingers pull through the hair at the back of his head as if unraveling an answer.

You spoke when his hand fit over his mouth in frustration. “You promised me.”

“We were teenagers.” He snapped, denying the truth. “What did I know about prophecies?”

“Enough to believe me.” You felt young again, begging Theseus to revert with you. You wanted to hear his reassurances, his bold-faced vows to remain by your side despite the trouble you found.

That holiday, you told him everything—your plans to run away, the images that flashed in your dreams of the future, and how he centered them all as an essential turning point. It spilled out of you, and you couldn’t stop. At the time, the swampy place was at the core unbeknownst.

If Theseus had known, he may not have regretted the promise to always be there for you. No questions asked. It sounded embarrassingly naive. You could still hear how desperately he wanted you to believe him. Even then, you knew it would lead to something like this.

Even then, just as now, you diminished how well Theseus knew you. “What aren’t you telling me?”

#q #theseus scamander x reader #theseus scamander fluff #theseus scamander angst #theseus scamander x f!reader #theseus scamander #theseus #scamander #fantastic beasts fic #theseus scamander fantastic beasts #newt scamander x reader

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glitchyred · 1 year

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I think ARGs are a really fun storytelling format that works really well sometimes but I also think it's rarely utilized well. I think a lot of ARG creators get really caught up in trying to be mysterious and unpredictable and end up creating an incoherent narrative. There's cases where that in-and-of-itself is done well, like if a story is Intentionally supposed to be very vague and up for interpretation, but it's clear some of these projects are supposed to tell a complete and concrete story and just like. Do not succeed. Because in the process of hiding everything in coded messages, vague terms and riddles a bunch gets lost in translation and you wind up with a lot of Nothing. ARGs are a format that discourage transparency between creator and consumer so you risk ruining the Vibe and breaking immersion if you're too blatant about correcting or clarifying something

I think games/movies with ""ARG elements"" for lack of a better term fall victim to this the most. Probably the most popular example is FNAF. Because of how FNAF's story is told I don't think we'll ever get a concrete answer on what the story Is from its creators. We're supposed to figure it out ourselves but so much is hidden in codes and symbolism and Easter eggs and references that it's borderline impossible to tell what the story Is. It's impossible to tell when things are retconned or are just references for the sake of being references etc when it's kind of the point that it's creator Won't Tell Us. It would be fine if FNAF's plot was up for interpretation but we've been told multiple times that it isn't, there is a "correct version" of the plot that will still likely go unrewarded should anyone figure it out

So like I enjoy narrative ARGs or stories with ARG elements for what they are. It's a really unique and fun form of viewer engagement that you can't really encourage any other way. But I think way too many people get into them trying to tell one wholly coherent story which isn't really something the medium lends itself to very well - it can be done, but I think there's only a few stand-out examples of it succeeding. It just works better when the story intentionally doesn't have an answer for everything, because otherwise you risk putting your fanbase through an endless goose chase you can barely aid them on

#is it obvious i've watched a few too many batshit insane fnaf theory videos today LMAO #txt #infodumping tag

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thedeafprophet · 7 months

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17 for your gang -- I'd love to also know which of them you think have it worst overall

17. What is the worst thing you have put your OC through story-wise?

Oh... see now this is an interesting one. Because like. Josephine and Alex I feel have more specific 'worst things' (and also more the games fault then mine), vs Jamie and Rory is more like, a general theme of bad things rather then concrete moments

Alex

His backstory is pretty filled with bad moments (his mom dying in childbirth, the house fire, overall abuse and neglect) but honestly I still think the actual game events of Light Fingers qualify as the worst thing I put him through story wise.

The whole 'absolute horror of the orphanage', 'being burried alive', 'dealing with a stalker', etc. etc. kinda trumps any childhood trauma. Y'know. so i can't say I am to blame for the worst things Alex has been through story wise. But I sure did choose to put him through it

Josephine

Josie gets a combo ambition related and backstory related. Nemesis pretty much sets that up.

Nothing could triumph over the abosloute horror of Josie loosing her older brother when she was 10, not long after loosing her parents to illness.

Coming home that day to that scene will forever haunt her. She wasnt able to move past it. And she never will.

Jamie

Jamie's 'worst thing' is a bit more ambigious, but honestly is probably their struggle with mental health and addiction/alcholoism. Which of course, is spurred on by their experiences with abandonment, bullying, general isolation, attachment issues, and, unknown to them, untreated adhd.

They struggle pretty heavily with dark thoughts and often self sabotage in situations. In culminates overall to being their greatest struggle, a battle they dont always know they are fighting.

Aurora

Rory, again, is a bit more vague rather then a specific moment. Rory's struggles form around societal expectations for women and her own complicated feelings towards gender and sexuality.

Her life was a constant struggle of trying to fit in a role she could never match, being an adopted child of a wealthy couple who couldnt have kids themself. The inherent struggles of having a mother is a prime thing for Rory, combined with needing to fit a mold of feminitiy she didnt match, and expectations for marriage and having children

For her story, this rejection of expectation is a prominent aspect of her story.

----

I dont like to compare 'who has it worse' in things. A fundmental theme with my ocs is the various ways different people will react and be shaped by trauma, and how theres no one way things will go. Everyone is different. We are shaped by our pasts, but we don't have to be prisoners of it.

....But obvs Nemesis and LFs are a bit heavier in terms of plot.

I think Josie and Alex are fairly tied, in different aspects. But Jamie is also probably one who's really struggled with things too so hmmm.

Ask Game From Here

#this one was long lol lots to say #oc talk #ask game

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thoughtsonhurtandcomfort · 2 years

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Notes: In theory this is the start of a story I’ve been carving out in my mind for a little while. I have a lot in my head but how much of it will make it into writing is up in the air and I’m going to try not to pressure myself about it. If it happens, it happens. :) This is a little rough around the edges but it’s what I’ve got, first time writing in...a couple months probably?

Oh also, while this is going to have references to things like heaven, hell, god(s), the devil, angels, demons, etc, it’s all intended as generic fictionalized versions of these things (a la Supernatural, Good Omens, etc.) . I’m borrowing what I want and making up the rest. I’m definitely not trying to invoke or get into specifics about religion or whatever.

Some picrews of ‘phina here, here, and here

Content warnings: lady whumpee, angel whumpee, fallen angel, vague religious undertones, captivity, attempted? torture, shot with an arrow

"God is dead and the Devil, too. Demons spill out onto the earth, some wreaking havoc, others seeking freedom. Human civilization falls and those who remain do what they must to survive. Meanwhile, the angels lock themselves away in heaven, indifferent to the suffering below.”

----

Seraphina has hardly ever peered down on the world, let alone hovered this low above its surface. In her lifetime - a handful of centuries compared to other angels’ millenia - she never had reason to, her duties keeping her relegated to the safe, incorporeal existence that is the celestial realm.

It is the first time Seraphina has seen her own physical form. Or, at least, a glimpse of it - bare feet beneath her and hands held up before her face.

So...human.

Seraphina feels over the shape of her body, its hills and valleys, the softness of unmarred skin. She lifts a strand of hair to feel its silkiness and take in its color; she reaches out her arms and runs her fingers across the immaculate feathers of her wings. Loosely draped fabric billows around her in the wind.

She smiles.

She could change this form if she wanted to, but she decides she likes it. Besides, there’s no need. Seraphina is only taking a look, and will be back to her truest form soon enough.

Or so she believes. If she knew what would come next, perhaps she never would have left.

—-

Though the chains are wrapped tight around her arms, legs, and wings, they don’t hurt. Try as the humans might, nothing hurts, and Seraphina isn’t afraid.

Still, she occasionally shifts and twists in the bonds, seeking freedom. She should be able to break them with a mere thought. Effortlessly. But it seems that the humans have not only found a way to trap an angel, but to bind one.

So bound she is, her back to the concrete wall of a building that toppled decades ago. It’s one of many like it, while around the remains of the past a makeshift settlement of small wooden buildings and tents has cropped up.

She isn’t used to hearing sound, only communicating through thought and will. And still she hasn’t heard her own voice, only spat insults and curses and the arguing of human voices.

“This isn’t working.”

“Then we keep trying. Look at it, it has a body. Something will work.”

“Yeah, except we’ve been at it for hours and nothing has worked. Even the chains aren’t leaving a mark.”

“Then we. Keep. Trying. Look how close we are. If it can be caught, it can be hurt. And if it can be hurt, it can be killed!”

Seraphina is more curious than afraid as she takes in the small group of humans with a calm, unblinking stare. If these are an average example of humankind, she isn’t impressed. They’re crude, dirty, and uninteresting.

Also, they keep trying to hit her with things.

Blunt wood beams and metal bars, knives and swords, a chain flicked like a whip. Rocks flung and arrows fired. All with brute force intended to cause harm, and all deflected off of the shimmering boundary of grace around her form. Nothing can pierce it. Soon enough they’ll grow bored of trying and set her free, she’s sure of it.

After a few more tries they do frustratedly give up, but only for the time being. The chains remain firmly in place.

Time passes quickly for Seraphina. She takes in the bustle of the humans as they go about their day. Most won’t come close. They cast her glances that range from fearful to disgusted. Some hurl hateful words but these bounce off her as easily as the rocks they throw.

Day passes into night. Seraphina takes in the shifting of clouds, a sunset that glows an eerie pink, and then the sprinkling of scars across a blue-black sky. The moon is no more than a sliver.

Seraphina doesn’t tire or hunger. She doesn’t grow cold from the night air or sore from long hours spent like this. Her desire to return home is more an instinctive pull to where she belongs than any sort of discomfort or yearning.

But in the morning there is the subtlest change. Seraphina only even notices it in contrast with the serene nothingness she has felt until now.

It’s the chains. She can feel their press around her just the slightest bit. For once she doesn’t feel completely weightless. But she doesn’t know what the feeling means and it allows her the peace of not worrying - even though a day has passed and she hasn’t been freed. Even though no one has come for her. And even though, again, the small group of humans who brought her here approach with their weapons.

Another onslaught. Several more hours pass. One by one the humans give up again, until only one remains. He’s a young human who seems more interested in shirking his other chores than in whatever it is they’re trying to accomplish, so he nobly volunteers to stick around. He pulls out a quiver of arrows and goes about sharpening the arrowheads one by one.

The subtle heaviness Seraphina is experiencing continues to grow as the time passes. Worry begins to creep in, an unsettling flutter deep inside Seraphina that she has never felt before and cannot name. And when her grace begins to flicker uncertainly around her the unpleasant feeling only grows.

“I need to practice my aim,” the young man says aloud to himself. He stands, slings the quiver over his shoulder, picks a bow, then turns to face her. “Might as well make you useful.”

He nocks an arrow and aims it at the bound angel.

The first shot hits the stone just inches from Seraphina’s face with a sharp crack that startles her - another all new sensation.

She locks her eyes on the man, willing him to continue missing though it makes no sense. Human weapons can’t harm her, why should it matter?

His next few shots glance off her like a breeze, like every other attempt the humans have made. This time, though, the barrier flickers with every hit. Seraphina notices her own breaths for the first time. She didn’t even know angels could breathe.

An arrow deflects off of her ankle and although it still doesn’t pierce the barrier, Seraphina feels it. The slightest tap, yet startling and new enough to make her leg twitch in response. From afar the human notices the reaction and suddenly there is renewed interest in his eyes.

He gathers his arrows and starts again, firing one after the other in rapid succession. Seraphina trembles, at a loss for what to do. She cannot move, she has no power, each hit she can feel a little more than the last, each seems to come faster and faster and - - -

Blinding agony erupts all at once from a point low on her stomach, just above her right hip. It engulfs her, consumes her like a fire that must be from hell itself because never, not once has she ever felt anything like this oh heaven make it stop make it stop make it -

Seraphina throws her head sharply back against the wall. She lifts her pain-stricken face to the sky.

The first time she hears her own voice, it is a scream.

#angel whump #lady whump #fallen angel #captured #captivity #torture #shot #arrows #injury #whump writing #my writing #my ocs #introducing!#seraphina

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funkymbtifiction · 1 year

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hey! a few questions regarding S vs N after a few of your asks:

1. i notice a lot of emphasis on sensors (and especially Se) doing things but what sorts of things do sensors do all day compared to intuitives? i imagine most people regardless of type must be busy doing things all day just because as an adult there’s so much to do (cooking, shopping, cleaning, working, laundry etc) all the mundane stuff that generally won’t get done unless you do it, whether you want to/can do it well or not. do intuitives just neglect these things in favor of thinking/dreaming? or when referring to doing things is it more about your spare time?

2. are the day to day tasks of life i was thinking of above more related to S vs N or instinctual variant? will an sp type intuitive will still attend to all those practical concrete matters of life? if so, how do you tell the difference between an sp type intuitive and a sensor?

3. is it possible to be a sensor and get what needs to be done done during the day due to the fact they have to but find it draining and overstimulating and be exhausted from so many tasks and then not have much leftover energy to be “doing” in your spare time? and just wish to spend your free/relaxation time in silence doing nothing and being in your head?

4. are activities like video games, watching movies, listening to music, studying mbti more intuitive or sensory? they seem like they could go either way to me. does it depend on what you’re paying attention to? for instance a sensor focusing on the experience of a movie and an intuitive analyzing the meaning/characters/etc? or a se type feeling immersed in music vs a ne type feeling inspired? a sensor learning mbti for some kind of practical application vs an intuitive not necessarily having a purpose beyond their interest? something like that?

5. i’ve heard of high se types, esp se and fi, thinking how they feel in the moment is how they will feel forever. can the same be said of ne types at all? just as ne types can be impulsive can they also get caught up in the momentary feelings like that?

1. Intuitives stay busy as well, but any sensory activity is an add-on to their real desire for abstract thinking or theories. Sure, they do laundry -- but what they really want to be doing (and actively pursue in their life) is talking about the human soul, or the psyche, or forming a theory about human consciousness, or reading a book on psychology, or theorizing on how things are going to evolve, or what the future might hold with an anticipatory attitude, etc. The abstract/intangible world is what interests them more than reality -- ideas pregnant with POTENTIAL.

2. I tell the difference by asking if they are big picture thinkers or not. Big picture thinkers see the overall rather than the details; they tend to abstract away from specifics into vague generalities or branch out into another topic that veers the conversation off what's being discussed into more "interesting" (to them) territory. For example, you are talking about how your dog just died, and the intuitive starts talking about death as a concept and its affect on us. It's no longer about your dead dog, it's about a conceptual realm -- death as an existing force in your life, or what death means, or how we give Death a personality in fiction. N's can't help deviating from "what's real" into "what's real on another plane of existence." This is why they seem either weird, out of touch, irrational, or "head in the clouds" to sensing types (or, alternatively, the sensing type envies them and wishes they could think more that way). Big picture thinkers are also neglectful of details--like "is this even POSSIBLE?" or "what would need to happen BEFORE my idea could be realistic?" Sensors are attuned to what's real, what's possible, and the sequence of things, what needs to happen to make this other thing possible. They know you can't just leap from A to Q and ignore all the letters in-between.

3. Yes. That is also 9ish. To find life tiring and overwhelming. And introversion in general. I know a 9 INFP who finds life exhausting and just wants to spend all her spare time reading books.

4. They can be either one, yes. The purpose and focus of interest matters.

5. NFPs can get caught up in their feelings, yes. Any type can.

#question #mbti #sensor #intuitive

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deliriumsdelight7 · 2 years

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Hi, 4,8 and 28 for the fic writers questions

Thank you for the ask!

4.) How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Care to share one of them?

SO. DAMN. MANY. I have like 20 for the Rumbelle fandom. All the HellCheer ones I have I'm either already writing, or I've already shared. I've got vague ideas of things to maybe try - mermaids, wings, soul mates, etc. - but nothing remotely concrete.

8.) Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

*grooooooan* I hate when people ask questions like this, because I'm generally NOT proud of my work. I'm just not. But... here's a snippet that I kind of like - less for what IS said, than what ISN'T said. Not yet.

“If I don’t break up with you, Mom and Dad are cutting me off,” she said. “They’ll kick me out of the house and they won’t pay for my college anymore.”

“Shit,” he muttered. His mind raced to come up with a solution, discarding idea after idea. “Okay,” he finally said, “okay. We can get through this. I could work doubles at the plant. And if that doesn’t cut it, I could always see if Rick could use another dealer - “

“No!” Chrissy yelped. He gaped at her, watching in detached fascination as her face went beet red. When she spoke again, her voice was calm. “No, Eddie. You promised me: no more dealing drugs. That doesn’t change just because you don’t make enough money to support us.”

Eddie flinched back at that. You don’t make enough. The words were said coolly, without accusation, like she was stating the obvious. Water is wet. The sky is blue. You don’t make enough to support us. But with the pain those words sent lancing through his heart, she may as well have spat them in his face.

“So… what are you saying?” he rasped.

“I think you know what I’m saying,” she said quietly. “We both know you can’t provide me with the life I need. The life I deserve.”

He shook his head in denial. “Yeah, but you always said that didn’t matter to you,” he protested.

“Well… that was before,” she replied with a helpless shrug.

28.) Share three of your favorite fic writers and why you like them so much.

Okay, the first two are from the Rumbelle fandom, while the third is from the HellCheer fandom.

@emospritelet knows how to create absolutely soul-destroying angst. They know how to stretch the tension of a situation to its absolute limits until you're ready to claw your face off from sheer impatience. Their smut is also some of the sexiest I've ever read.

@bad-faery writes these incredible emotional journeys that delve into the full emotional and psychological implications of the original premise. They have a talent for not just resolving the conflict that forms the premise, but also addressing the natural fallout and aftermath after the initial "danger" has passed. They know how to take broken, hurting people and make them whole again.

And finally, I don't think they have a Tumblr, but broomstickkink knows how to write a feral, babbling, horny Eddie that makes me go absolutely unhinged. They also managed to make me fall in love with a body swap fic, which is impressive because I generally can't stand body swaps.

#fic ask game #ask answered

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cyaneyesullivan · 3 years

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listening to WAP and having thoughts...

i took my interest off petekey for a while to focus on other stuff, but everytime i listen to Fall Out Boy, the wonder and amazement spark back immediately... i’m still completely blown away (among other things) by how much Pete must’ve liked (loved) Mikey to keep up with it for so long -- or how much he feels in general. and even if the songs aren’t about Mikey (i have discussed this briefly), it doesn’t change the fact that Pete is absolutely tormented by his own emotions. it’s kind of fascinating.

with that being said, i’m in the mood to list off all the suspicious lyrics ever written by Pete that makes me go “damn, Mikey really did a disgusting number on him” or like, “poor Pete man”

disclaimer: again, these lyrics, let alone songs, might not be about Mikey, but i choose to believe so. i have to satisfy my fixation and bedazzlement on the fact that petekey highkey happened in the summer of 05.

i’m only including my favorite songs or i’ll be here all night.

italic = my favorite lines

in no particular order:

Bishops Knife Trick (a LOT to unpack in this one): - And I’m living out of time, eternal heatstroke - Spiritual revolt from the waist down - To the places that we never should have left - I’ve got a feeling inside that I can’t domesticate, it doesn’t want to live in a cage, a feeling that I can’t housebreak - And I’m yours, ‘til the earth starts to crumble and the heavens roll away - I’m struggling to exist with you, and without you - I’m sifting through the sand, sand, sand, sand, looking for pieces of broken hourglass - Trying to get it all back, put it back together, as if the time had never passed - I know I should walk away, know I should walk away - But I just want to let you break my brain - And I can’t seem to get a grip - No, no matter how I live with it

Heaven’s Gate (some interesting elements here that describe Pete’s all-consuming yet destructive love) - If there were any more left of me, I’d give it to you (this one is just a personal favorite, not particularly related to Mikey) - Go out in the world, start over again and again, as many times as you can - ‘Cause everything else is a substitute for your love - I’ve got dreams of my own, but I want to make yours come true (another personal favorite lol) - You’re the one habit I just can’t kick

The Last Of The Real Ones (i adore this song but it leaves a lot of space for vague interpretation, so I’ll just list off my favorite lyrics that give me goosebumps when I think they’re meant for Mikey) - You are the sun and I am just the planets, spinning around you - You were too good to be true, gold plated, but what’s inside you? - I know this whole damn city thinks it needs you but not as much as I do, as much as I do - I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me - That ultra-kind of love you never walk away from - I am a collapsing star with tunnel vision, but only for you - My head is stripped just like a screw that’s been tightened too many times, when I think of you - Just tell me, tell me, tell me I, I am the only one, even if it’s not true, even if it’s not true

Just One Yesterday (oh my lord, this one lmao -- honestly the whole song has this odd vibe that it’s a pointed jab at Mikey) - Anything you say can and will be held against, so only say my name - I’d trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday (any notion that suggests Pete is obsessed with the past is a win) - I want to teach you a lesson in the worst kind of way - I don’t have the right name or the right looks, but I have twice the heart (i just feel like maybe he’s implying he’s not a girl and that does not please no-homo Mikey) - If I spilled my guts, the world would never look at you the same way (lol) - And now I’m here to give you all my love - So I can watch your face as I take it all away

Headfirst Slide Into Cooperstown On A Bad Bet (my ultimate favorite of FOB. unbeatable. i had to put it here if only to honor it) --> i talked about it before -- there are no obvious marks of petekey here, but i made a post on it in the past

Immortals (lolol) - I am the sand in the bottom half of the hourglass (hourglass, time, past, bottom half, Pete is still waiting for Mikey, blabla) - I try to picture me without you but I can’t - ‘Cause we could be immortals, immortals, just not for long, for long - And live with me forever now, pull the black out curtains down (blocking public exposure?) - I’m still comparing your past to my future - It might your wound but, they’re my sutures (Pete’s heartbreak = big inspiration that keeps him writing lyrics therefore having a career?)

Centuries (obviously) - Some legends are told, some turn to dust or to gold - But you will remember me, remember me for centuries (they must have done super crazy shit back in 05) - And just one mistake, is all it will take, we’ll go down in history (presumably, their story must be so nuts it will end up in a massive gossip explosion) - Mummified my teenage dreams (his songs lol) - No it’s nothing wrong with me, the kids are all wrong, the story’s all off, heavy metal broke my heart - Bruises on your thighs like my fingerprints - Cause I-I am the opposite of amnesia (notable, since there is concrete evidence of their ‘lovestruck summer’ in the form of a million of his lyrics) - You look so pretty but you’re gone so soon - We’ve been here forever, and here’s the frozen proof (again, his lyrics, photographs, dramas, tweets etc)

Irresistible (honestly, the whole song lmao) - Mon cheri (i’m only putting this one down because, little story: i didn’t know about petekey when i first listened to this song, and i’m french, and when i heard this for the first time i was like, wtf, people keep wanting to use french words and end up using them wrong. well, oops. maybe the use this time wasn’t as faulty as i thought)

HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON’T - I neve really feel a thing, I was kind of too froze - You were the only one, that even kind of came close - I took too many hits off this memory (memory = joint? lmao) - Another day goes by (without Mikey?) - So hold me tight, or don’t (basically, settle or fade) - Oh no, no, no this isn’t how our story ends - I got too high again when I realized I can’t not be with you or be just your friend - I love you to death but I just can’t, I just can’t pretend, we were lovers first - Confidants but never friends, were we ever friends? (interesting point since they never really had a lasting friendship. it’s a well known fact they helped each other with their own monsters (so, confidants), but after the whole summer fiasco, their friendship was at best on and off, and even then, there’s a lot of mourning on Pete’s end. poor guy) - ‘Cause I’m past the limits, the distance between us, it sharpens me like a knife

Jet Pack Blues - I’m the last one that you’ll ever remember - And I’m trying to find my peace of mind - She’s in a long black coat tonight (someone, in a significant night, has been in a long black coat too) - Did you ever love her? Do you know? Or did you never want to be alone? (notable, Pete is questioning whether or not his ‘love’ could stem from loneliness, because this shit happens way too often than should be) - Don’t you remember how we used to split a drink? It never matted what it was - I think our hands were just that close, the sweetness never lasted, no Novocaine (i like this one in particular because it just seems to suggest that Pete will never be finished with this, and will haunt Mikey forever, either to get revenge for being left behind or relive that one unforgettable summer) - I will always land on you like a sucker punch (omg lmao) - I am your worst, I am your worst nightmare - If you knew, knew what the bluebirds sing at you, you would never sing along - Because they took our love and they filled it up, filled it up with novocaine and now I’m just numb - I don’t feel a thing for you (sure) - I’m just a problem that doesn’t wanna be solved - I feel like a photo that’s been overexposed (i wonder if it’s because of all the junk he posted on livejournal) that concludes it! of course, there are so many more obvious songs, like Fourth of July and Bang the Doldrums, but i don’t love those songs, so i didn’t include them. and side note, the lyrics hit that much harder when Patrick is the damn singer and makes everything hurt. but i’ll rant about that in another post, maybe.

(it doesn’t really matter who sees this or doesn’t -- i just wanted to put this out somewhere. petekey will forever be so interesting. the impact Mikey (or whoever Pete wrote about) had on Pete is just unbelievable to me.)

end.

#fall out boy #my chemical romance #fob #mcr #mikey way #pete wentz #petekey #the summer of like #2005 #i can't get over this #i feel bad for pete

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cno-inbminor · 4 years

Text

ipsum exitio (PREVIEW)

a/n: i wanted to give you all little snippets from this long fic i’m working on -- currently sitting at ~21k and there’s still a decent amount to unfold and unravel. hope you all look forward to this! and a huge, ginormous thank you to @a-kaashi for helping beta this!!

estimated release: in ~2-3 weeks

plot: self-destruction is in the calm before the storm, in the eye of a hurricane. but when the forces are right, the winds are rapid enough, the catalysts send you hurling, you find yourself leaving a monstrous and disastrous path in your wake.

characters: ushijima wakatoshi, semi eita, iwaizumi hajime, and male oc w/fem!reader possessing vagina/uterus/uterine-system (other oc’s also included)

genre/warnings: (+18) slice of life, angst, descriptions and moments of high anxiety, explicit smut (w/slight degradation, size kink, spanking, etc.), virginity loss, mentions of alcohol, talks about virginity and sex toys, slow burn, pining, implied bisexual reader, (more might come up later)

A breeze flows in through the open window of your apartment, softly caressing your face as you lean against the sill on your elbows. You drink in the view of Tokyo at night like a fine wine sliding down your throat, attuning to all your senses. With tear ducts dry and dust caked along the rims of your eyes, they shut in defeat, the semblance of a white flag splayed on the back of your eyelids. Cars honk in the distance and your legs struggle to support your weight. The scent of sulfur from the earlier downpour teases at your nostrils, causing your nose to scrunch a bit as you openly take in the scenery before you again.

A nearby billboard flashes bright, mechanically cycling through advertisements and never resting. The LED lights paint a picture that you are all too acquainted with, even more so with the man in the frame. Your body is plunged into a lake of bitter nostalgia as your heart wrenches painfully. Instead of fighting against the resistance of the water and gravity, you succumb to the anchor dragging you down, knowing that eventually, the waves will recede, and you will return to shore again.

Inhale. Count. Exhale.

Breathe.

11 years ago

Perhaps you had become a burden to Wakatoshi. You had turned into the thorn in his side, something he no longer wanted to tolerate and keep in his life. Perhaps it was expected, you bitterly thought while shrugging off his jacket. The bite of the cold night teethed and gnawed at your skin, but the pain is almost welcomed now. He took the fabric without a word, only feeling slightly guilty at the sight of stray tears gradually streaking down your cheeks.

“Okay,” you sniffled, arms wrapped around yourself again for some vague sense of protection. “That’s fine, I get it. You have Nationals and the Youth team as well – it’s mainly best for you to end this.”

“(Y/n) –”

“It’s really okay, Wakatoshi. I appreciate you being straightforward with me. I’ll see you at practice,” you quickly interjected and turned to trek back towards the dorm, sending a quick but lifeless wave behind you. The shards of whatever was left of your soul trailed behind you like scattered stars on the concrete. Even when your roommate and friend brought your disheveled figure into her arms, they did little to ward off the parasitic spectres in your mind.

7 years ago

A bio was set, photos strategically ordered, and you were tossed into the world of online dating.

“This is a really bad idea,” you groaned ten minutes later as Sayuri swiped through the profiles showing up in your pool. “I haven’t even slept with anyone before.”

“Oh honey, I bet half of these men only ever got their dick wet once and came in two minutes flat. They think they’re impressing someone but they’re only fooling themselves,” Sayuri scoffed and then grimaced at a man’s daringly shirtless mirror selfie. “This poor guy needs to eat more; I can see his ribcage! You don’t need someone who doesn’t appreciate food.”

“What if he’s got an eating disorder?” You seriously speculated, heart going out to the possibility of that.

“Well now you make me feel bad after swiping left on him and – oh hey! You got a match!”

“What? Who the hell did you swipe right on?!” You screeched; chin craned to get a good look at the person on your phone.

4.5 years ago

With a duffel bag slung on his shoulder, phone in hand, dark skinny jeans, a casual pale blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up , his reflexes were quick enough to recognize the human bundle of joy sprinting towards him. Eita’s best memories of you were in your Shiratorizawa uniform, so seeing you in casual streetwear threw him for a loop at first.

The earnest beam on your face could warm the iciest of glaciers, and he easily lost against the facial muscles fighting to form into his own smile. As you deftly dodged the other people in your route to him, his arms seemed to naturally fall open in a gesture that welcomed your inevitable embrace. Eita was pretty sure you squealed before jumping onto him, but his focus had to redirect to his arms so they didn’t drop you.

“Semi Semi!” You happily cried out into his ear over the hustle and bustle, arms tight around his neck as he held you close. He gave you a brief, affectionate squeeze before setting you down, causing your arms to fall. But his hands held onto your shoulders, giving you a quick once-over and making his assessment. He always had a soft spot for you back in high school, knowing that it wasn’t easy managing a team of teenage boys who were ridiculously hungry and driven for a common goal. When news got around the team that you and Ushijima had broken up, he always kept an extra eye out for you and worried that you’d continue to work yourself to the bone in university.

...

Just one, he berated himself. Just one.

His nose ghosted over the skin from your jaw to your collarbone, catching the faint scent of what he assumed to be a mix of your body wash and natural scent. His senses found it comforting, grounding, and reminded him just how precious you were to him. You weren’t just a random girl at the bar he thought would be temporarily nice to make out with – you were (y/n), the girl who had watched over him and encouraged him during some of his most difficult times with a sport that was once his life, the manager who cared for him and his teammates to be nothing but their best, the person who the boys would unwittingly go to war for if anyone were to bring you trouble.

So he made that known, kissing the joint between your neck and shoulder, and reveled in the breathy gasp that escaped your throat. Little by little, he applied more pressure, preparing you for what he was about to do. His lips softly sucked on the skin, just enough so his teeth could graze it and nibble. Your hands were now fully entangled in the strands of his air, and as they tightened, Eita became more forceful and meaningful. You were entering a faint haze of ecstasy as he worked that one spot, determined to break the capillaries beneath your unmarked flesh and let the inevitable bruising bloom. He knew how beautiful you would look when he was done, and if he had your permission to, what a sight you would be with more littered on the rest of your body.

Present

“(Y/n), I know you’re in there,” a deep male’s voice permeates through the wood, though muffled and scratchy. “Please, let me talk to you. I’m sorry, I—” He pauses, a groan of frustration escaping his throat. Your vision refuses to refocus, bleary as you weakly take in your view of Tokyo again. Without a doubt, the man must be ruffling his hair frustratingly, distressed and discouraged.

“I shouldn’t have said that. Please let me in and apologize properly – I owe you that much.”

You owe me nothing, silly. It’s my fault.

Eyes the shade of the complement to a martini in the billboard observe you, and you wonder: if seen in person, would they have stared with pity?

It’s time to stop running away.

So with sluggish steps, you make your way to the only barrier barring you from your fate. The two deadbolts slide back and click in place, echoing louder than ever. Your hand trembles in its path to the doorknob, faintly grasping the chilling metal and turning it until the latch pulls back far enough to let the door open.

And there they were, the eyes that held the key to your undoing, that had watched you crumble and fall, that had looked after you in more ways than you could imagine, peering straight into yours. You know them well, perhaps too well, and your knees nearly buckle at their intensity. It takes every part of your being to stop yourself from slamming the door closed, to hide away and escape destiny.

Because it seems that irises in the shades of olive will be the banes of your existence.

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#hq #ushijima wakatoshi #ushijima x reader #semi eita #semi x reader #eita x reader #wakatoshi x reader #iwaizumi #iwaizumi x reader #hajime x reader #iwaizumi hajime #a little nervous and excited!#haikyuu x reader #hq angst #haikyuu angst #haikyuu smut #hq smut

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bookcoversalt · 3 years

Note

A+ youtube video! I feel like this is a dumb question, but what other sources, exercises, etc would you suggest for a writer wanting to get better at, like, everything you do in that video? I feel like I'm just not intelligent when it comes to writing and reading. I slap down whatever seems fun and I'm sure it makes for a bland story full of stupid plot holes and everything you talked about, so how does one get better at dissecting this stuff and...writing/reading intelligently?

Thank you so much!! There’s a tendency to consider analytical people just “smart”, as if the observations they make come naturally to them. But that super isn’t true: being thoughtful and critical about media, like drawing or writing or playing a sport or learning an instrument, is a skill that you pick up by absorbing reference, learning the language of the art form, and then practicing replicating it through your own perspective.

ABSORBING REFERENCE

My two biggest critical inspirations are Lindsay Ellis, a video essayist who covers film and culture, and Film Crit Hulk, a screenwriter and movie critic, and I’ve been consuming their work since I was 15. (I’m 25 now! that’s a wholeass decade.) I've picked up many, may other sources along the way: other video essayists, pop culture commentators, TV critics, spirited roasts of 50 shades of gray, actual “writing craft” books and blog articles, long goodreads reviews of books I thought I had a pretty good grasp of the flaws on, funny booktube reviews, even “anti” posts. I read “how the last season of game of thrones went the fuck off the rails” articles til my eyes bled, not because I cared about game of thrones, but because there was so much good, insightful reporting being done on How And Why A Story Fell Apart.

LEARNING THE LANGUAGE

Not all of this is good or useful. There’s a lot of bad faith or shallow criticism out there. The cinemasins clickbaity style of nitpicking “plot holes” or penalizing a work for the mere presence of tropes without regard for broader artistic intent and cultural context is particularly insidious and should die. The people who think twilight is stupid because it has sparkly vampires are missing the point. A LOT of people critique YA in particular from a place of bitterness or bias or misplaced expectations (and so did I, to some degree, for a long time. I’ve worked really hard to grow out of that, I hope). But the point is to seek out content in this vein-- not what I consumed necessarily (I would not wish that many GOT thinkpieces on anyone), but stuff that interests you. The more of this you mindfully consume and the more perspectives you collect and compare, the more context you’ll have for what’s being discussed and the more you'll naturally start to form your own opinions on it. You will learn, slowly, by osmosis, to pull what strikes a chord with you from the noise.

REPLICATING IT THROUGH YOUR OWN PERSPECTIVE

The cool and fun part is that to some extent, your brain will start doing this on its own. You’ll read a book and you'll just notice more. You’ll call plot twists faster, or be more cognizant of the pacing, or connect dots you might not have otherwise connected. You’ll see the logistic scaffolding in your own work more clearly and you’ll be more aware of choices you’re making subconsciously. You’ll recognize thematic hypocrisy or worldbuilding inconsistencies and have the language to name them.

And you’ll also have the tools to explore your less clear-cut, more emotional reactions to art. And this is the most important but “hardest” part of this: sitting with vague feelings and unformed thoughts trying to suss out what’s at the heart of them and why, using your hard-won critical “training” and your contextual knowledge.

I like to frame them as questions:

Why did the end of [book] feel disjointed? Why didn’t I connect with the main character in [book]? What really resonated with me about the plot of [book]? Why does [character] appeal to me more than [other character]? Why does [book]’s use of [theme] make me uncomfortable?

Sometimes it comes down to just preference or subjective taste, and that’s fine and good to know. But more often than not, you’re reacting to something concrete that can be identified:

The ending of HOUSE OF SALT AND SORROWS feels disjointed because it comes out of nowhere and has nothing to do with our heroine’s efforts in the larger story. I didn’t connect with the main character in HEARTLESS because within the context of the worldbuilding, her choices didn’t make sense. What really resonated with me about the plot of UPROOTED is its thematic coherency. The Darkling appeals to me more than Mal because the villain romance power fantasy aspect of the series is better fleshed out and ultimately more rewarding to read than the love story of two flawed teenagers. ACOWAR’s use of trauma and recovery makes me uncomfortable because it ceases to be a sincere element of anyone’s arc or characterization and becomes yet another tool to make Rhys look like the best and coolest and wokest fae boyfriend.

Pulled from an old Captain Awkward article, this is something I have in a sticky note on my desktop as sort of a criticism guide:

One of the things we try to do is to push past “I liked it”/”I didn’t like it” as reactions to work. What is it? What is it trying to be? Is it good at being that thing? Was that a good thing to try to be in the first place? Did the artist have a specific agenda? How did it play with audiences at the time? Does it play the same way now? What stereotypes does it reinforce/undermine?

Even if it’s only for your own personal growth rather than intended for an audience, I recommend putting burgeoning critical thoughts or questions you’re trying to “work through” down in writing somewhere: goodreads reviews! tweets! blog posts! spamming your group chat! Even just a private word document. The synthesis of thoughts into written content forces you to identify and choose a specific articulation of your idea(s). If it’s in a pubic or semipublic forum, you’ll also be able to see which of your ideas resonate with other people, and that can (isn’t always, but CAN) be useful information as far as having an external barometer for when you’re onto something.

And then..... you do that a bunch of times in different ways for many years, with a lot of different books and movies and games and whatever else. Like any other skill, you will get better the more you do it. (Again: I have been doing this for ten years now, and it still took me three months to write that video script. Forming nuanced, informed opinions and then articulating them coherently is hard.)

As kind of a footnote tip, seek out peers who have the same goals and feelings, and try to connect with them! Lots of my current internet friends found me back when I was posting on my personal blog about problems i had with THE SELECTION or RED QUEEN and we bonded over having similar opinions and being in similar places in our writing/ reading/ careers. These people now beta read my scripts and posts and help me brainstorm or refine ideas. I strongly believe that creatives (and critics) do their best work and grow the most within a network of support and feedback.

But also, in regards to creative writing in particular, i want to be clear that having fun is the most important thing. I absolutely think creators need analytical skills to improve their craft, but without the enjoyment of doing the thing at the core of it, there is no craft at all. If you have to choose between the "smart” thing and the fun thing, choose the fun thing. Tbh, if you’re worried your work is bland, analysis probably isn’t the solution-- figuring out how to have more fun is the solution. And letting yourself lean into the stuff that’s wild and awesome and so incredibly you that it sets you on fire to write is a skill of its own :)

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coffeeandcalligraphy · 4 years

Text

Witness State & Coup de Grâce | Feeding Habits Update #3

Hey People of Earth!

Before we get into this update, TRIGGER WARNING that this chapter discusses attempted suicide, mental health issues, animal cruelty, toxic relationships, and some nods to starvation, so if these are topics you’re sensitive about, I would skip out on this update!

This chapter was a slight nightmare to draft as it went through many, many iterations due to a real struggle to attain the desired emotional arc, and also because of a few logistical problems. In total, it’s about two and a half months of work as it combines some scenes from the old chapter two while also patching areas I cut with new content. Despite the difficulties, I am so happy I pushed through because the final product is quite strong. Here’s a scene breakdown:

Scene A:

We start at the “beautiful place” AKA the cove Lonan and Eliza frequently visit. The last time we’ve seen Lonan was at the end of chapter two, when he had his mild “public freakout moment” on the steps of a cathedral.

On the beach, he rests on the shoreline while reflecting on all the things he’s been tormented by since chapter two (wicked children, fathers, parenthood etc).

He sees an illusion of his father who is obviously not there (he’s very dead!) which propels him to converse about him with Eliza (remembering that Eliza and Lonan’s father were once romantically involved).

This conversation goes south as Lonan is able to unpiece some of Eliza’s mistruths until Lonan finally admits he wants to see his father again, insisting he’s still “alive” through the darkroom abandoned in Oregon him and Harrison failed to destroy in ch. 1 of Moth Work.

Scene B:

Lonan watches a moth through the window (that moth motif tho). Here he recounts what occurred at the hospital in ch. 2--the mother and her three kids taking him there, and then eventually being whisked away by Eliza.

Lonan heads to the kitchen to drink an acetaminophen but quickly realizes he’s not alone in the main apartment. His father sits on the couch looking over photo albums, each leaf holding the same photo: the postcard of Eliza that Harrison initially finds in chapter one of Moth Work. This vision obviously does not exist and is prompted by sleep deprivation but he doesn't know that lol.

Seeing this photo and his father prompt him to believe that he can only get away from this feeling of being haunted without Eliza in his life and further bad decisions ensue which I won’t get into!

I explained the meaning of the title HERE.

Excerpts:

Here’s the opening bit which is the most recent addition to the chapter:

The water is never murky, but today it doesn’t sparkle. Like it’s taken a low dose of cyan, it foams pale against the shore, an offering that wets the tips of Lonan’s shoes. He sits under the cove with one hand pressed into the current, each singular wave like a finger tottering over his veins. Today, their beautiful place is only an arched wall of stones and roily ocean.

Eliza is sunbathing. She lies on her back in the centre of the cove, where its mouth opens to a ceiling of sun. On the drive from the hospital, they both remained silent, Eliza’s hands taut like leather around the steering wheel, and Lonan’s head soldered to the cool window. Even when she pulled into the lot of a diner, named after a vague Canadian city or perennial flower, she said nothing, exiting the car to return to it with two crayon-coloured slushies, his red, hers orange. By the time she pulled up to the beach, her drink was half empty, his fully melted, urging against the brim of the cup. He followed her when she exited the car, parked against a row of pebbles, and placed his hand palm-first against the water the moment she lay against the sand and closed her eyes. Now, water puckers over the shoreline and between each of his fingers, a sort of absent massage. The water is a dull, vitamin-like blue. Warmer than he’s expected for the middle of February, pleasantly pruning his fingertips.

This is a direct continuation of that:

The sun has started to set. It flares against the horizon, its orange singeing the water’s blue. Like in front of the church, it fills him, its heat a comfortable grip around his throat. Though it should remind him to keep awake, its warmth lulls him closer to the sand until he rests his head just where the water laps. He knows it says nothing. He knows he has not slept in days. But to him, its rays nurse his skin like the loop of a nursery rhyme, and when he is parallel to the sky, he closes his eyes and welcomes the sun like it’s an infection. As colours pulse underneath his eyelids, water soaks the crown of his head, and it truly is like being buried at sea, just him, the sun, and the water at his perimeter.

The next chapter in this update is chapter four, aka Coup de Grace. This chapter was an absolute joy to write after struggling to get a handle on chapters two and three, and I’d consider writing this chapter to be, by far, the best writing sessions of my life. In this chapter I feel I really figured out the “crux” of Lonan’s character/his darkest secret, and that’s essentially that he believes all children are the wicked stems of adults, a belief he actually doesn't want to have, and actively combats until he sort of becomes absorbed by it. I learned a lot about my boy in this chapter and learning such important details about a character I’ve been writing for five years feels like a gift!

This chapter plays with form/the timeline a bit because we jump around on the timeline, almost like a movie that begins at the end. This was difficult to do in fiction, but I think I pulled it off, and am really happy with the chapter. Bear with me tho as this breakdown may be confusing:

Scene A:

We start with Lonan rapidly making his way to his father’s darkroom which sits in the middle of a forest. He’s brought supplies with him to destroy it.

The first line of this chapter mimics the first line of Moth Work, which you’ll see below.

Scene B:

We jump back in the fictive past to the morning that would’ve occurred right after the end of chapter three. Lonan goes about his morning routine but is disrupted by a loud thud from outside. Anya, the woman he’s befriended from chapter two, has jumped from the roof of the apartment complex. This attempt is unsuccessful.

His first reaction is to run to Anya’s apartment to see if her son, Joey, is okay.

Scene C:

Less of a scene and more of an internal monologue of Lonan reflecting on Anya’s attempted suicide, and that he feels in some ways, she’s administered her own “death blow”.

Scene D:

Eliza takes Lonan to his father’s cabin to “get him away” from what’s happening at the apartment since he’s really taking the news badly.

Eliza tries to get Lonan to eat something because he hasn’t eaten much since Anya’s news, and they have a conversation about Eliza’s motives in volunteering Lonan to help Anya in the first place.

Scene E:

A flashback where 14-year-old Lonan and his father are at the cabin, about to kill a fish using the ikejime method. His father has informed him the fish is dead, but Lonan knows this is very much a lie.

Scene F:

The fictive present, where Lonan lies on a couch inside the cabin, Eliza tending to a fire. He has a bad feeling (he’s right about that lol)

Scene A2:

We continue the events from scene A as Lonan enters the darkroom, only to find out it’s been cleared out save for three pictures hanging that tell a story and reveals a lot of Eliza’s secrets.

All you need to know about these photos is that it makes their romance feel somewhat like a lie lol.

Eliza finds him at the darkroom despite telling him not to go alone, and Lonan tries to process the new info/secrets revealed.

Scene G:

In the fictive present, Eliza cuts off Lonan’s hair and together they burn each weft. They discuss a few things (his father, the women he’s befriended, future children, mating habits of the praying mantis)

Scene E2:

Back to the flashback where Lonan and his father have killed, cleaned, and eaten the fish. They rinse their hands off in the lake before his father knocks them both into the water.

Excerpts:

This is the opening, ft. the mirroring first line which makes me a lil too giddy:

The darkroom isn’t haunted, but a dead man owns it—and he knows exactly where to find him. Through the woods, Lonan brushes past bushes of gooseberries and wild rhubarb, a gas can sloshing rhythmically in his hands. In his teeth, he holds his flashlight so its beam brightens the pathway. It is not yet dawn.

This is a description of the darkroom that leads to the end of the scene:

He shouldn’t know where he’s going. The forest is so dense and unanimous, a duplication of itself, nothing more than repetitions of the same tree, same flower, same stream. But he doesn’t need to see to know where his feet take him—he doesn’t even need the flashlight. He’s memorized the direction to the darkroom like the pattern of veins on his own arm.

He is not surprised to see it still stands. As if protected from rain, thunderstorms, the fallen trees that crisscross at the walkway; it’s always been a divine place. The air is damp, and particles of mist cling to his throat.

He sets the gas can in front of the steel panelling that makes the door with urgency. He does not need to rush but cannot take his time.

Wildflowers burst from in between the cracks of concrete the shed sits on and he knows each species like they’ve been bred in his blood. Wax flowers, thistles, clusters of asters he’d sometimes gather as a boy and leave as offerings in the heart of the forest’s most prominent clearings, like an offering, or a ransom.

Lonan kneels once the first thread of sunlight leaks between the whisper of trees. He is familiar with this forest, the cabin not too far away, the messages the water speaks to him when he sits at its edge most nights, why the darkroom was his father’s favourite place and why it always will be. So when sunlight hits his eyes, he presses his fingertips against his lips, and looks to the sky for mercy.

Lonan watching his fave TV show that leads into Anya’s jump:

He turned the television onto its usual program while on his last three mandarin segments and looked on as a herd of caribou dotted a waterway. They moved like the current, pattering along the prairie, worriless. He should have heard the part where a wolf caught up to the herd, the same wolf that would later go on to single out a young fawn and silence it with two teeth in its throat like bullet wounds. He should have seen the part where the prey was consumed, its flesh a desperate shade of red. But the thud distracted him. Maybe not even a thud, more like a crash. A sound he felt in his temples, a ringing in his ear, like a chickadee. Lonan set the skin of the mandarin onto the coffee table and stood slowly. It’s his body that moved him, no force of the mind, toward the balcony. In one movement, he unlocked and shoved open the glass sliding door, rucking it forward with his body weight when it stuck. On his lip, he tasted citrus and salt, a mixture of fruit and sweat.

He heard death before he saw it. The way each identical sliding door of the apartment units around him shook open, just like his. What a woman on the sidewalk declared, her tone so shrill, he couldn’t tell if she was delighted or horrified, something like, “I thought she was a bird—I thought she was a gift from heaven.” The garbled sound of an infant, confused by the sound concrete makes when a human batters it.

We get Lonan’s first response and some Joey and *that stunning motif tho*:

Lonan did not deescalate the stairs to the ground floor to join the growing crowd. He did not call an ambulance or rush to perform CPR. He ran upward, scaling flights of stairs as if airborne, with little effort. Once he reached her unit, it was the tin of madeleines he noticed first, sitting unopened, untouched, dare he thought, neglected on her welcome mat. It’s this that lulled him, freezing him in place for a moment. He recollected nothing of bringing the madeleines to her the evening previous, of leaving them neatly tucked against her straw welcome mat. Innocently idle there, his gift unrecognized.

Joey sat on the couch. The television was on, projecting technicolor polygons onto the boy’s face. Lonan did not register what it was he watched, which animated shapes pounced and danced on screen. Joey did not cry at first. He sat, staring wondrously at the screen like it was a trap door to a different dimension. The socks secured around his miniature feet looked freshly ironed, and his hair smelled like his mother did when Lonan first met her—like coconuts.

The buzzing of onlookers and neighbours sounded like the caribou running. A constant drumming of a snare, a guttural kind of ambience. He thought of Anya the day previous, her desperate excitement to paint over the wall, the way she mixed that orange juice drink, incredulous, experienced. He thought of the sourdough he never picked up, and there on the counter they sat, one torn down the middle like it was ripped bare-handed, the other skewered with a chef’s knife. He thought of Anya’s hospitality, her coy excuses to help them both avoid embarrassment, the way each part of her apartment transformed into gold. He thought of their conversation, Anya’s initial instruction when she left him alone with her son. So when Joey cried, Lonan knew exactly to reach for the remote and tick the volume up until his sobbing quieted, like the last few minutes of a rainstorm, passionately loud, then stunningly silent.

Here we briefly reference 2 Kings 21:6: “And he burned his son as an offering and used fortune-telling and omens and dealt with mediums and with necromancers. He did much evil in the sight of the Lord, provoking him to anger.”

Anya will never be the mother she once was, in the capacity she longed to be. Joey will grow up without a father and with a mother who cannot mother him in the ways she’d always hoped; he’ll have no one to recreate. That is the real loss—what could have been. Anya burned herself into an offering, administered her own kill shot, provoked her own fate; either life or death, and her fate chose neither.

The following mirrors something Lonan’s sister, Reeve, says in Houses With Teeth about hunger:

The day Anya jumped from her balcony onto the sidewalk below, Eliza took Lonan to his father’s cabin. In a daze, he watched her pack a bag with enough things to tide them over for a month, and in that same daze, they reached the cabin before sunset. That night, Eliza rifled through the cabinets to put together a meal, and her findings assembled as a can of tuna topped with crumbles of saltines—cheap take on a deconstructed pâté.

She served him his dinner on a set of plates he vaguely recognized—terrazzo with a scalloped edge, maybe held a scrambled egg or halved tomato when he was a child. He stared through the French doors, down to the water that padded below. Even when she tried some for herself, putting on her enjoyment in exclamations like “It’s a culinary masterpiece. Refined. Daring. A little spectacular,” she couldn’t convince him to eat. His appetite disappeared when Anya fell from the sky; there would be no hunger as penance.

This is the fish flashback:

Lonan knows the fish is not dead. He is fourteen but not naïve. Sun warms the back of his neck; maggots shimmer over the gummy slick of the water’s surface. Today is what someone would describe as the perfect day. Trees whisper secrets amongst the spines of their leaves. Birds teeter on the neck of birch trees. A butterfly dusts its wings of the shore’s sand and nips at his childish knuckles.

The fish is not dead. This is fact. In his palm, it expands, its gills like the crescent cut of the moon. The fish is not dead. Its mouth kisses the air like it’s a divine thing, each blip of its lips greedy, like the air tastes of gold. The fish is not dead. Its scales grate against Lonan’s palms, shimmering, its prettiness its last defense mechanism. The fish is not dead.

More with this fish memory:

“It’s dead. It does not even know the taste of life. Why save it?”

“I don’t want to save it,” Lonan says. His father’s wedding band digs into his forehead. To an onlooker, it may look like he’s about to dip him forward into the water, not a drowning, but a baptism.

“What do you want to do with it?”

Mourn it, he wants to say. Pity it. Sacrifice it.

The water whistles ahead of them, all the uncaught sunfish gloriously slashing naively in the water. They are unaware of their future demise, and the current demise of their loved ones, bodies all piled into the net as if on display. Lonan’s eyes sting with lake water, a streak of it dripping onto his lip so when his father reaches over him and secures his hand like a marionette around the screwdriver, he tastes salt and doesn’t stop tasting it.

And the end of part A of the fish memory that gets a little gory:

“It dies for us,” his father says, his voice dampened, like the distant blip of the lake. “So we give it mercy in return.”

As the screwdriver’s tip lowers closer to the fish, Lonan licks his top lip and asks, “Why do we need to show it mercy if it’s already dead?”

“Le coup de grâce. A death blow. To end the suffering of the wounded.”

“But it’s already dead.”

“Even the dead still suffer.”

Lonan does not register when the screwdriver impales the fish’s brain. He does not register when his father uses both their hands to slit the fish’s gills with a hunting knife or register the warm spurting of its blood up their knuckles. He stares at the fish’s glasslike eye, and as he and his father gut and scale the fish, puppet and puppeteer, he imagines the way he’ll feel with its head in his mouth.

Here’s a section from the fictive present:

Seven days after Anya jumps off her apartment’s balcony, Lonan lies on a pig’s leather couch his father once towed in from the city, a damp washcloth doused in eucalyptus essential oil pressed to his forehead.

At first, he fears the blinking comes from stars and that the cabin’s roof has been removed. But as he comes to, he smells it, the earthy crack of wood, the wisp of smoke, and he knows the light that pulses is a fire.

Lonan opens his eyes. As he’s thought, he lies on his father’s couch, essenced water dribbling down his temples from the washcloth. Eliza sits hunched on the stone of the fireplace’s ledge, her shoulders ripening under the orange heat. She’s burning something. The scent of scorched film is not unfamiliar to him. Like his mouth, it is dry and acrid, like the lick of a battery.

“You promised,” she says, as if sensing he’s awoken. Lonan does not move, even as the eucalyptus soak drizzles into his eyes.

Eliza no longer wears the parka. She’s stripped to a pearl-coloured camisole, her feet bare and propped flush against the brick. Glossy red lacquer colours her toenails, reflects the light in ovular patterns along its surface.

“A false witness shall be punished, and a liar shall be caught,” she says. “Proverbs.”

Going to leave this tea here casually:

The darkroom was misplaced. This was Lonan’s first thought when he yanked open its steel panel door and entered to reveal its contents. He did not need the glimmer of a flashlight to confirm his instinct. This was not the same darkroom he’d known as a child, or the darkroom he found his sister in, or the darkroom him and Harrison tried to destroy. Everything was slotted away, puzzled back into a configuration so unknown to him, so wrong to him, that the organization felt more like war.

Unlike when he and Harrison had last stepped foot inside of the darkroom, lugging the gas can along with them, not unlike what he did then, the photos that used to string clothespinned in no justifiable order were now taken down. The bricks of photo paper forming a maze around the developing tables, the amber bottles of chemicals—all of it, meticulously put back in places Lonan knew they never had. Under his boots, he did not feel the crunch of glass or slip of forgotten negatives. The darkroom had been swept clean.

Lonan dropped the gas can at the darkroom’s entrance, and removed the flashlight from between his teeth, thumbing it off. He worked his way around the shed like he’d been wounded, staggering, stopping to hold himself upright. Nothing was in its rightful chaos. Expired film lay stacked in a waste bin he’d never seen before. Bad paper cuts had been shredded. The photos he’d been so accustomed to not looking at, all gone, except for three, evenly clipped on the last three lines.

In the distance, an eagle cawed. The stream trilled. Tadpoles cricketed along the embankment.

Lonan approached the remaining photographs like they’d electrocute him. They were displayed one after the other, each on its own line. The first, a picture not unfamiliar to him. Eliza standing in front of a colourful street of vendors. Her loopy signature on the back a jagged indication of where she signed it, most likely wobbling on a train, or in the back of a taxi. He picked it off its clothespin and held it up to a hole in the roof where sun bled through. Nothing had changed from the photo since he’d taken it last year, and he was almost grateful she’d left it fossilized when she took it from his pocket. His gratitude did not last by the time he saw the second photo, so unexpected, he had to glance twice.

His father stood arced slightly behind him, his hands not visible. Lonan knew where they were—one secured around his forehead, the next urging a screwdriver up a stone. Sun scalded the water’s surface, wrinkled it with light. He remembered the song his father whistled as he fried the sunfish on a birch branch, truly less of a song and more of a reminder as he hummed up and down each minor scale, not once stopping to check his work, like he knew better than any instrument.

Lonan plucked the photograph off the line and held it closer. Though he was shaded mostly by his father’s back, he knew they were both in it. He shouldn’t have been surprised when he turned it over to find that same looping signature inked onto the back, smudged, like she’d forgotten to let the ink dry before handling.

It would’ve been easier to think about the second photo’s implications had he not seen the third. He could’ve excused it—a shot taken by a neighbour, though the cabin was remote. A shot that fired itself, the camera discarded on the ground, though it was taken at eye level. A shot signed with familiar initials E.L.K, as if those letters could stand for anything but Eliza Louise Kiang. It would’ve been easier to excuse her presence. To excuse her knowledge of him, to forget she’d ever told him she didn’t know his father had children, that she swore she’d never have been with him had someone informed her. It would’ve been so much easier.

The last photo was not a photo at all, not in the same capacity at least. The ink had gone purplish from the elements but swirled, almost horror-like around the photo’s frame. He could have pretended the white swishes of colour were strands of lace, or the awkward scratch of photo blur. He could’ve pretended to not understand. But there it was. The light funnelling down on the black and white shape so he understood it was not a photograph he looked at, but a child.

I have already shared this line a few times, but it’s my favourite thing I’ve ever written oops!:

When she looked at him, she grinned, and he turned his face to the ceiling where a hole in the roof caved around a branch. The sun’s eye disappeared behind the bullet of the wood, leaving only its outer edges to skirt the sky, a veiling that felt less like an eclipse, and more like evidence of an exit wound.

Obligatory “I’m the grass” shoutout:

“All people are like grass, and all their faithfulness is like the flowers of the field,” he says without once reading what’s actually written on the page. “Isaiah.”

“Isaiah was onto something, don’t you think? Poor grass, poor flowers—they all die in the end, but they have their God. They have their saviour. Everything dying except for God and his word.”

Eliza cuts another clump of hair. The fire welcomes its feed with haste.

“What does this have to do with children?”

“Do you feel you’re the God of these women, Lonan? Are you their saviour?”

Lonan shakes his head. “I’m the grass.”

And to finish:

After they eat the fish, Lonan and his father rinse their hands in the lake. This is respect. This is self-ordinance. This is a holy act.

His father stoops farther into the stream than he does, water nipping his knees. The sun has disappeared beyond the horizon, the sky now coloured periwinkle, silvering his hair. The taste of sunfish coddles Lonan’s tongue, oiled and briny with saltwater. They share a bar of orange glycerin soap, its scent cloying, like a rotting fruit basket. His father peels the bar between his palms, scrubbing until his fingers disappear under suds.

That’s it for this update! Hope y’all enjoyed! :) I’ll be back soon to update on chapter 5!

--Rachel

#writing #amwriting #writeblr #writerblr #writingupdates #fostered #mothwork #feedinghabits

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idealisticrealism · 4 years

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So, who wants to hear me gush about something in Blindspot that was almost certainly completely meaningless?

What is it, you (didn’t) ask?

It’s this.

So, let me start by saying that this scene was one of my favourite scenes of Blindspot, like ever. I am living for the friendship that is forming between these two, and the way they are helping each other through their individual traumas. The added dimension of former CIA agent Tasha helping Rich recover from his torture at the hands of the CIA is just so perfect, not to mention they have the added connection of knowing what it’s like to be a ‘bad guy’ operating outside the law.

(I also like to think that Jane and Tasha talked together about how to help Rich, but since Jane was already supporting her hubby as well as carrying the team, Tasha took the reins on this one.)

But even though I totally could gush about that scene (especially that hug omg), that’s not actually what this post is about. This post is about me being a HUGE NERD for IMPRESSIONISM.

(Still sure you want to get into this lol?)

Alright then, here goes:

So, this absolute classic is probably at least vaguely familiar to a lot of people; it’s A Sunday on La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat, painted in the mid 1880s, and arguably his most famous work.

(While watching the ep I initially took it for a Monet at first glance, which is super embarrassing for me but also I can’t help that I have this like Pavlovian response to Impressionism that makes me go YO IS THAT MY BOY MONET YOOOO the moment I see any painting even remotely of the style lol)

But let me tell you why I am losing my nerdy marbles over the use of this artwork in the show (even though I am very certain that they probably just used whatever relatively recognisable piece they could find that didn’t have any like copyright stuff attached) because oh boy do I have Thoughts.

So let’s get analytical up in this biz....

First off, there’s the big one: it’s an Impressionist piece. The very foundation of the style is that from afar, all looks normal, but when you actually look closely, everything is blurred and distorted; nothing is distinct. Which is doubly appropriate for this show: firstly, the team is currently pursuing a mission that seems clear-cut (to clear their names and get their lives back, to free the FBI of Madeline’s corruption) but which actually involves a lot of uncertainty and murkiness and blurred lines (are we willing to break multiple laws? to potentially kill people deliberately, not just in self-defense? how far are we willing to go to achieve our mission, and if we succeed, will we still be the same? etc). Secondly, and more relevantly to this particular scene, the style is fitting for Rich himself following his experience in the blacksite. Look from a distance, and he seems alright, still normal (or as normal as Rich could ever be). But look close, and you start to see that everything is actually hazy and muddled, the cracks starting to show. He is not okay.

But wait, there’s more! Because this work isn’t just Impressionist, it’s Neo-Impressionist (specifically, Pointilist) which ol’ boy Georges was one of the pioneers of-- he was literally considered a renegade because of it, a rebel operating against the status quo, which I find very appropriate for our own little band of rebels lol. But the point (lol) of Pointilism is to create scenes filled with vivid colours, ones that almost seem to jump out of the canvas, which is achieved by combining small brushstrokes (points) of different colours which from further away appear to be practically just one bright colour. So again, looking from a distance you see one thing, and from up close you see that it’s actually more complicated than that. Like this team; they’re all individuals, all their own distinct colours, but look at the bigger picture and you see that they blend together to create a balanced, harmonious whole. And that same concept can be applied to them all individually, too-- each one of them is made up by a veritable rainbow of traits. Light, dark, and everything in between; every stroke makes them who they are.

But that’s just the style, though, which is only the half of it. Look at the actual subject of the painting; at its setting. Art is an escape from one’s own reality, and for someone practically trapped in a concrete box underground, what better choice of escape is there than a scene of people happily enjoying the outdoors, spending time in the midst of sunshine and nature, with no walls or ceilings in sight, no one being hunted or hurt? See, too, how the foreground of the painting is in shadow-- it gives the sense that the viewer is in shadow too, the dimness of the bunker and the shadow of the painting blending together, like if Rich were to stand in front of the painting and step forward, he’d be stepping out onto the grass. It’s a hopeful thought; the team might be in shadow right now, but the light of day isn’t so far away. A little longer, a little further, and they’ll be out there too, enjoying their lives and their freedom just like the people in the painting.

And speaking of the people in the painting... there’s a few other little things about this painting that makes me love that it was the one they chose. Firstly, I love that Tasha brought Rich a painting which was described with words like ‘bedlam’, ‘scandal’, and ‘hilarity’ when it was first exhibited, which are probably the exact words that would come to mind if you had to describe Rich and his life in three words lol (pre-blacksite, sadly). Though the painting looks very normal and serene to us, when you look closely, there are a couple of pretty weird things, especially for that time. For one, the woman in the foreground has a pet monkey on a leash, which I think is a fairly apt representation of Rich’s role in the team haha, particularly early on. There’s also a lady off to the left who is fishing, and if I remember correctly, she was thought to symbolise a prostitute reeling in her clients down by the docks/waterside lol, an interpretation which I feel like Rich would absolutely love. In a more Blindspot-specific sense, another character of interest is the man lounging right near the front-- I can’t be the only one who thinks he looks just like ‘old’ Weller, right down to the little hat? The fact that his outfit seems out of place for the time, and also the subtle... sexiness (for the lack of a better word lol) of his clothes and pose makes it feel like Rich’s consciousness could have conjured him there (bc lbr, we all know Rich loves some sexy Weller). And lastly, I can’t not mention the little girl in the center, who is famously considered to be staring right at the viewer of the painting, as if fully aware she’s being observed and totally ready to throw down about it. And I know that this one is extra silly and had obviously never crossed the prop-designer’s mind, but, well... this painting is French, and if someone asked me to think of an appropriate name for a little French schoolgirl, I would pick the name of the one I spent many hours of my childhood watching cartoons and reading books about: Madeline.

As a last, final bonus (and yet another totally irrelevant thing that I am ascribing my own meaning to), just look out on the water in the distance-- there’s what appears to be a steamboat. Or is it The Boat, and is it sinking, a plume of smoke rising from it as it goes down in flames?

But that’s the thing about art, isn’t it; there’s no limit to what we see in it. So when Rich looks at this gift, I hope he sees freedom. Hope. A future in the sun.

Because he’s earned it.

They all have.

#Blindspot #Blindspot spoilers #Impressionism #LOOK I KNOW THIS IS RIDICULOUS #BUT I JUST LOVE IMPRESSIONISM OKAY #AND SYMBOLISM #AND RICH #AND THIS SCENE #don't ask me anything about literally any other art style bc I would not have a clue #god I'm so curious to know if the choice was even slightly deliberate #it won't be #but still

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albatris · 4 years

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Hi hello I hope you're doing well and getting read to sn00ze soon, STS! Saturday! Yes! Cause you're an artist and a writer, I was wondering how much the two mediums bleed into each other? Does drawing something out help you visualise it better, or do they not really interact much at all?

hello hi hey there and happy storyteller saturday :D thank you for the question!! I hope ur having a cool day B)

and even though you sent this yesterday you telling me to sn00ze is equally applicable today as it is almost every day of the week so................ yep, I’ll be sure to get onto that at some point. you’re probably going to make a >:c face at me for answering this at 3:06am

anyway! this is an interesting question! and a good one! unfortunately it may not have a very interesting answer?

my initial response was gonna be that they don’t really bleed into each other at all, but then........ nah, they kinda do

(and then about halfway through typing this draft I was like But What About Undertow, and my response became “oh yeah they definitely do”, but I’ll get to that in a bit)

but yeah! I think my writing definitely influences my art! both in the sense that I tend to draw mostly story stuff, ‘cause I like my stories and drawing is fun, but also in terms of like....... inspiration! usually I have a pretty good image of stuff in my head already while I’m writing, n sometimes this image will make me go “hell yeah I vibe with this I wanna draw it”, but the art itself generally turns out nothing like what I envision and usually takes a life of its own ‘cause I’ll just end up drawing whatever looks cool hahahaha

so I get some neat experiments and doodles and weirdness in various art pieces that definitely stemmed from story daydreams, but probably aren’t super related to the story itself in the end :P y’all don’t see much of this stuff ‘cause I mostly just post character drawings lmao

(this is bc I’m most confident with character drawings, and I will fistfight Drawing Backgrounds And Scenes in a wendy’s parking lot any day of the week)

but kinda hopping back up for a sec, one example that IS related to the story is like

drawings I’ve done that are centred in ATDAO’s unreality aren’t actually a super good representation of what the unreality is actually like? or I mean. they could be. they can be! but the drawings are centred around very literal concrete representations of glitchy weirdness

whereas in the story itself (at least to start with) there’s much more a focus on the general looming Hey Something Is Horribly Wrong vibes and, like, the unravelling and bleeding together of senses, the way the narration changes (ie the way your own thought processes slowly start becoming completely foreign to you), n just........ glitchy weirdness, but not glitchy weirdness that you can visually represent, glitchy weirdness that is canonically in the category “you can experience this and have no way to process it because a human mind is not equipped to translate it and your senses have no way of taking it in”

n then I bring the body horror in full force but that’s neither here nor there

existential terror and uncanny valley vibes r hard to draw, y’know? so the drawings mostly just wind up as me having fun with the aesthetic hahaha

but yeah, art stuff stems from story daydreams, it’s very rare that story stuff will stem from art daydreams

character drawings were something I started doing just ‘cause I liked my characters and I was vibin, but they ended up being the one exception in that they DO tend to actively inspire the decisions I make in the story itself, unlike my other art

written descriptions of people are a weak point for me, generally I’ll kinda know at least the key aspects of what folks look like, but the descriptions I come up with on page are always frustratingly vague............. n drawing them out helps me fill in the blanks and give my descriptions a bit more life and personality IMO, ‘cause I mean

there’s little things about people’s appearances that are pretty personal, little quirks or habits they have, etc, that I wouldn’t think of in writing, whereas in art they just crop up naturally

and also sometimes I’ll write a description of a character or have an image of them in my head and I’ll be like Yeah This Is Them but then when I draw them my hands will just make their own decisions

and whatever the hands create is Law and Official Canon as far as I’m concerned, I will always trust the hands over my initial plans when it comes to characters, and they have not failed me so far

and now that I’ve gone on a whole spiel about how (outside of helping me pin down character details) creating art isn’t generally something that inspires a lot of story development or daydreams, it’s time for me to completely contradict that because, like I said earlier: Undertow

this is a WIP that came into existence purely from art inspiration! basically I came up with Aster’s design on the fly because someone was like “it’s genderqueer pride day” and I was like Oh Sick Time To Make A New Genderqueer OC

most of the characters in Undertow were drawn and designed long before I had any clue who they were or what their deal was. the entire premise of Aster as a character was born within like two hours from one silly doodle. then I was like “BUT WHAT IF SHE HAD FRIENDS” so I drew some friends, who ended up being Kit and Meg. n their relationships with each other and the kind of story in which they find themselves all just kind of spiralled out from a series of silly doodles and took on a life of their own :P

I think it’s a different scenario since Undertow exists purely as a vessel for shenanigans and self-indulgent nonsense, so I was feeling a lot less pressure to be grounded and serious, I could just throw things around like “amnesiac clairvoyant delivery driver with an illegal magic crime truck” and “necromancer who doesn’t believe in magic who wants to reanimate a t-rex to honour his dead wife” to see what stuck and I had no need to be like “hm, but is that Realistic, though?”

unrestrained summer fun!

it’s easier for me to let myself daydream in relation to art when there’s none of this pressure, which I think is what separates Undertow from my other projects c:

plus Undertow is the one WIP of mine that I’ve always pictured in a kind of episodic comic format, though I lack the skill set or the patience to pull this off hahaha

as such, most of my development for it comes in the form of messing around with the artistic side of things!! as it should be, I think

anyway that’s enough from me I think, thanks for reading, have a fantastic day, hope you see some cool birds (if you do please tell me about them)

#tracle0 #sts #storyteller saturday #long post

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jonnyblackwrites · 4 years

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A Controversial, but Fair Essay on Gabbie Hanna’s Poetry That Doesn’t Completely Shit on Her Writing

So I just finished listening to her youtube video where she addresses this topic. When I first saw her poems, I could see what everyone was talking about: her poems are simple, full of puns that seem to masquerade as a function of “depth”, with simple, easy to understand language juxtaposed with themes of growing up and trauma. She says that her influences include Shel Silverstein, Bo Burnham and William Williams, including his famous poem This is Just to Say.

(prepare thyself reader, this is a quick 2k analysis. I’ve included GOOD poetry recs at the end!)

She goes on to say that what drew her to these poems was there charm- Shel Silverstein’s works were meant for children, and they are easy to interpret- and could be read from the perspective of both an adult and child. As a child reading Where the Sidewalk Ends, I enjoyed the illustrations and the rhyming nature of these poems. I’m sure Gabbie Hanna did as well. Hearing her talk about these inspirations and what she wanted to do with her own poems, it’s clear that she was aiming for each piece to harken back to the whimsy and innocence of childhood, while addressing more adult topics.

I think that Gabbie Hanna missed the mark. She admits that some of the poems in her book were rushed and this makes me question if and where she ever got any peer feedback from her pieces. I also wonder if Gabbie has ever taken any writing classes or poetry workshops, but I am doubtful. The big difference between This is Just to Say and, lets say, her poem Chivalry is clear. Here is This is Just to Say:

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold.

So much has already been said about this poem. But the biggest thing to take away here, is that Williams clearly put thought into syntax, imagery, rhythm and rhyme. You will notice that this piece doesn’t exactly rhyme, but it slant rhymes. Rhyming has become less of a marker for poetry recently, mostly because I think it makes people think of nursery rhymes or songs and traditional, older forms of poetry, and some poets don’t want that connotation. This may surprise some, but poetry is an ever evolving art form; poets are always playing with experimentation in their work. Here, imagery and the five senses make This is Just to Say great. Up until the last stanza, we don’t really get anything that makes us feel a physical sensation until we get to “so sweet/ and so cold”. This is where the impact of the poem lies. This is the climax of this poem. Every word before it is intentionally abstract, while sweet and cold are in comparison, concrete images and sensual images. This is why we can almost taste the plums the author is talking about at the end of the poem.

Let’s look at a poem I picked at random from Gabbie Hanna’s book, CHIVALRY:

I’m not some no-brained bimbo

and i’m not some helpless girl

i am fucking remarkable

and i deserve the world.

i don’t need you to open my door,

but the gesture would be nice.

i don’t need you to buy my meal;

the offer would suffice.

i don’t need to be taken care of,

but it’d be cool to know you care.

i’m a holographic charizard

highly desired and rare.

yo, i even drop pokemon references

‘cause i’m fuckin dope as shit.

i’m good with just me, i don’t need you

not even a tiny bit.

Let me address what I like about this poem first. Gabbie knows what she wants to do- she utilizes rhyming and repetition to make this an easy flowing read. She knows that a lower-case “i” shows that despite what she may be claiming in the poem “i don’t need you/ not even a tiny bit”, the narrator does not think highly of themselves— perhaps the narrator desperately needs the “you” addressed, but is not confidant enough to ask for their friendship/ relationship. The narrator is contradicting themselves, showing a low self-esteem, and maybe crying for help. This juxtaposed with the fun rhyming tone of the piece and the mention of pokémon succesfully gets this point across.

However, this poem seems to focus on utilizing these elements of craft only. Gabbie could enhance the reader experience by adding more concrete imagery: why type of meal? How helpless of a girl? These are instances where Gabbie could help the reader connect to the speaker, and she doesn’t do so. We could also argue that she’s emulating This is Just to Say by only including one concrete and colorful image, but I will address this further down.

Additionally, this narrator could be anyone. I could imagine anybody saying this, of any gender. Perhaps Gabbie did this intentionally- the more vague a narrator is, the more it could apply to anyone— the average teen/adult could connect to this poem. However, this gives the poem a generic quality. Perhaps others would like to connect to this narrator more, and get a better sense of who the narrator is. Also let me address why I keep using “narrator” instead of “Gabbie”. It’s a force of habit for me (that I got from poetry courses in college) to assume that the narrator of the poem and the author of the poem may not always be the same person. I think in this situation, these poems are undoubtedly from Gabbi’s perspective, but to remain neutral just in case, I will continue to use “narrator”.

Something I’d also like to address is the matter of rhyming in the current poetry world. Many journals have gone so far as to say “we do not accept rhyming poems” in their submission guidelines. Not all, but some. People who just start out writing poetry believe that poems must rhyme to be considered poetry at all, but when you take your first poetry class in high school or college, you quickly realize that this is not the case. Here, Gabbie uses a simple end rhyme scheme to evoke poetry like Silverstein and childhood memories of reading poetry, nursery rhymes, etc. But I think to those who have been reading poetry for a long time, teaching it, or reading submissions for their journal, the mark of a novice poet is that everything rhymes, sometimes at the sake of using a better word in its place that doesn’t rhyme. I think rhyme has its place in poetry, but it can be overused. Since most of Gabbie Hanna’s poems do rhyme, it’s easy to see someone getting “rhyme fatigue” while reading. Another negative effect of rhyming is that the reader will begin to anticipate the rhyme- this can cause the reader to skip lines entirely, and focus solely on the rhyme scheme, rather than focusing on the meaning of the poem. A piece that harkens back to childhood and uses rhyme well, in my opinion, is This Be the Verse by Phillip Larkin:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don’t have any kids yourself.

I think the big difference between this and Gabbie Hanna’s poem is that it starts off strong right away with “They fuck you up, your mum and dad”. The condescending tone is always there right from the start, and the rhyming is more of a surprise than an expectation throughout- the line “it deepens like a coastal shelf” brings new imagery and meaning to the poem by veering off into another subject. This enhances the surprise.

I’d also like to address cliche’s. The cliche’s present in CHIVALRY are “I deserve the world” and “I don’t need you to open my door”. These are easy to understand from a readers point of view, but often, cliche’s offer nothing new and exciting to the reader. They are easy to skip over and ignore. These add to the poems generic atmosphere.

Let’s talk about the pieces title itself: CHIVALRY. When we read this poem with the title in context, we get a strange disconnect. The poem is clearly about a girl who says she doesn’t need chivalrous acts from a friend or partner, and doesn’t need someone because they are “good with just me”. But the subtext of the piece is less about chivalry and more about self-esteem or a willingness to be loved. The piece has changed meaning two thirds of the way down. I think the title is too obvious and misleading, and gives the reader the wrong idea about what the poem is trying to say. In essence, the piece is named after a facet of the relationship between the narrator and other person, rather than the root of what the poem is trying to convey.

The pokémon references add color to this piece, and it is the only place this piece has any kind of concrete imagery. In the This is Just to Say the sweet and cold plum imagery is the very last line, heightening them. In CHIVALRY, they’re near the middle of the piece. Thus, the longer ending reduces the color and lasting effect of “holographic charizard”.

Overall, I think Gabbie Hanna could benefit from workshopping her poems and getting peer feedback from other poets, in addition to reading poetry that isn’t thirty plus years old. I don’t know if she already does this, but judging from her poems, I can only assume that she hasn’t. At the very least, she should avoid rushing to get poems out before they are due.

Gabbie Hanna is a novice poet who put her poems out into the world and got a greater amount of backlash than any novice poet usually does in a workshop or classroom setting. When in the classroom, there is such a thing as Critique Etiquette. Critique for poems are give honestly and gently, never in a harsh or mean way. Fellow poets point out possible interpretations of work, or possible unwanted connotations of sometimes, even a simple word at the end of the line. In addition, poets in the classroom are exposed to modern poets that are creating new and exciting work that is often published in highly esteemed magazines- reading the best of todays poetry. Gabbi Hanna’s work seemingly got published without peer review, and the quality of it was clear to those who read it. That being said, I do think that people who read and love Gabbie Hanna’s work do connect with it— no doubt because these poems are designed to be as generic as possible, so that others may see themselves in the words.This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I believe her work appeals best to newcomers to poetry, people who maybe have only ever read works from Shel Silverstein or Edgar Allen Poe. This can be a blessing and a shame. There are many good poets out there, that aren’t getting published because they don’t have youtube channels or brand collaborations, and they are just plain hard to find. However, Gabbie Hanna has opened the door for many would-be poetry readers, and has sparked a love for the art of poetry in them. Hopefully, this love leads them to become wider read, and to seek out more poetry from a multiple of authors to read.

I decided that I’d also like to include some published poetry from poets that are from a range of different backgrounds. Go forth and read!

POETRY THAT DOESN'T SUCK: Sonya Vatomsky's Salt is for Curing- poems by a non-binary poet that focus on themes of femininity, Russian food, Russian folklore and identity. Review Purchase

Danez Smith- A black, queer, non-binary and HIV positive writer. A poem I really like of theirs is "Dinosaurs in the Hood" is a great poem that I personally love.

Claudia Rankine's Citizen: An American Lyric. This book contains poems that focus on the Black experience in America. Excerpt from the book here

Khadijah Queen's I'm So Fine: A List of Famous Men and What I Had On. This collection features conversational poems that focus on the narrators encounters with famous men in relation to what the narrator was wearing at the time. A piece that centers around the question "Well, what were you wearing?". Read two poems from the book Here.

Fatimah Ashgar's IF THEY COME FOR US. Poems by a Pakistani-Kashmiri-American. These poems focus on race and identity. One of my favorites takes the form of a bingo card, titled Microagression Bingo (read here and two other poems from the book). As a poc myself, I was nodding along to every line, thinking "Yup. I've been through that too."

Tommy Pico is an indiginous poet, and Junk is a book length poem of couplets that uses modern, fast, text style language. From the Tin House website: "The third book in Tommy Pico’s Teebs trilogy, Junk is a breakup poem in couplets: ice floe and hot lava, a tribute to Janet Jackson and nacho cheese. In the static that follows the loss of a job or an apartment or a boyfriend, what can you grab onto for orientation?" Read an excerpt Here.

I can assure you that none of these read like Rupi Kaur, Gabbie Hanna, or Atticus. These are serious poets that have spent years honing their form, submitting to journals-- they did the work. And it shows in the quality of their writing.

While I'm not a fan of Atticus and Rupi Kaur and Gabbie Hanna, I can appreciate that they've appealed to people who may have never read a poem before. Now those people have a newfound love for poetry, and a hunger for more. Hopefully, those people will seek out other poets and expand their knowledge and repertoire of current poets, maybe lesser known poets that do amazing work.

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lesbeet · 4 years

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not to be a nerd but i accidentally just wrote a whole impromptu essay about editing ndjsdksksk im throwing it under a cut bc it's fucking inane and really long but honestly... i just want other people to become as passionate about editing as i am lmaooooo

i also recommend 2 books in the post so if anything at least check those out!

quality books about editing... *chef's kiss* a lot of the basic ones (including blog posts online n such) are geared towards beginners and end up repeating the same info/advice, much of it either oversimplified or misrepresented tbh. but i read one yesterday and i'm reading another one right now that really convey this passion for editing + consideration for it as its own sort of art and i just!!

it's such a weird thing to be passionate about lmao but i AM and i've spent a lot of time the past year or so consciously honing my craft (ik i mention this like 4 times a week i'm just really proud of how much i've learned and improved) and kind of like. solidifying my instincts into conscious choices i guess?

and these GOOD editing books have both a) taught me new information and/or presented familiar information through a new perspective that helped me understand something differently or in more depth, and b) validated or even just put into words certain preferences or techniques that i've developed on my own, that i don't normally see on those more basic lists i mentioned

btw the book i finished yesterday is self-editing for fiction writers: how to edit yourself into print by renni brown and dave king, and the one i'm reading currently is the artful edit: on the practice of editing yourself by susan bell.

the former was pretty sharp and straightforward. the authors demonstrated some of their points directly in the text, which was usually funny enough that i would show certain quotes to my sister without context

("Just think about how much power a single obscenity can have if it’s the only one in the whole fucking book." <- (it was)

"Frequent italics have come to signal weak writing. So you should never resort to them unless they are the only practical choice, as with the kind of self-conscious internal dialogue shown above or an occasional emphasis."

or, my favorite: "There are a few stylistic devices that are so “tacky” they should be used very sparingly, if at all. First on the list is emphasis quotes, as in the quotes around the word “tacky” in the preceding sentence. The only time you need to use them is to show you are referring to the word itself, as in the quotes around the word “tacky” in the preceding sentence. Read it again; it all makes sense.")

and like i said, i also learned some new ideas or techniques (or they articulated vague ideas i already had but struggled to put into practice), AND they mentioned some suggestions that ive literally never seen anyone else bring up (not to say no one has! just that ive never seen it, and ive seen a lot in terms of writing tips, advice, best practices, etc) that ive already sort of established in my own writing

for example they went into pretty fine detail about dialogue mechanics, more than i usually see, and in talking about the pacing and proportion of "beats" and dialogue in a given scene, they explicitly suggested that, if a character speaks more than a sentence or two and you plan on giving them some sort of dialogue tag or an action to perform as a beat, the tag or action should be placed at one of the earliest (if not the first) natural pauses in the dialogue, so as not to distance the character too far from the dialogue -- bc otherwise the reader ends up getting all of the dialogue information first, and then has to go back and retroactively insert the character, or what they're doing, or the way they look/sound while they're giving their little speech

and like this was something ive figured out on my own, mostly bc it jarred me out of something i was reading enough times (probably in fic tbh) that i started noticing it, and realized that it's something i do naturally, kind of to anchor the character to the dialogue mechanic to make sure it makes sense with the actual dialogue

so like. ok here's an example i just randomly pulled from the song of achilles (it was available on scribd so i just looked for a spot that worked to illustrate my point djsmsks)

the actual quote is written effectively, but here's a less effective version first:

“Perhaps I would, but I see no reason to kill him. He’s done nothing to me," Achilles answered coolly.

see and even with such a short snippet it's so much smoother and more vivid just by moving the dialogue tag, not adding or cutting a word:

“Perhaps I would, but I see no reason to kill him.” Achilles answered coolly. “He’s done nothing to me.”

the rhythm of it is better, and the beat that the dialogue tag creates functions as a natural dramatic pause before achilles delivers an incredibly poignant line, both within the immediate context of the scene and because we as the readers can recognize it as foreshadowing. plus, it flows smoothly because that beat was inserted where the dialogue already contained a natural pause, just bc that's how people speak. if you read both versions aloud, they both make sense, but the second version (the original used in the novel) accounts for the rhythm of dialogue, the way people tend to process information as they read, AND the greater context of the story, and as a result packs significantly more purpose, information, and effect into the same exact set of words

and THAT, folks, is the kind of editing minutia i can literally sit and hyperfocus on for hours without noticing. anyway it's a good book lmao

the one i'm reading now is a lot more about the cognitive process/es of editing, so there's less concrete and specific advice (so far, anyway) and more discussion about different mental approaches to editing, as well as tips and tools for making a firm distinction between your writer brain and your editor brain, which is something i struggle with

but there have been so many good quotes that ive highlighted! a lot of just like. reminders and things to think about, and also just lovely articulations of things id thought of or come to understand in much more vague ways.

scribd won't let me copy/paste this one bc it's a document copy and not an actual ebook, but this passage is talking about how the simple act of showing a piece of writing to someone else for the very first time can spark a sudden shift in perspective on the work, bc you'll (or at least i) frantically try to re-read it through their eyes and end up noticing a bunch of new errors -

or she talked about the perils of constant re-reading in the middle of writing a draft, which is something i struggle with a LOT, both bc i'm a perfectionist and bc i prefer editing to writing so i sit and edit when i'm procrastinating doing the actual hard work of writing lmao

it's just this side of fake deep tbh but i so rarely see editing discussed like this--as a mixture of art and science, a collaboration between instinct and technique, that really requires "both sides of the brain" to be done well.

and because of the way my own brain works, activities that require such a balanced concentration of creativity and logic really appeal to me. even though ive seen a lot of people (even professional writers) who frame it as the creative art of writing vs the logical discipline of editing. but i think that's such a misleading way of thinking about it, because writing and editing both require creativity and logic -- just different kinds! (not to mention that the line between writing and editing, while mostly clear, can get a little blurry from up close)

but like...all stories have an inner logic to them, even if the writer hasn't explicitly or consciously planned it, and even if the logic is faulty in places in the first couple of drafts. when you're sitting and daydreaming about your story, especially if you're trying to figure out how to bridge the gap between two points or scenes (or, how to write a sequence of events that presents as a logical, inevitable progression of cause and effect), the voice in your head that evaluates an idea and decides to 1) go with it, 2) scrap it, 3) tweak it until it works, or 4) hold onto it in case you want it later? that's your logic! if an idea feels wrong, or like it just doesn't work, it's probably because some part of you is detecting a conflict between some part of the idea and the overall logic of your story. every decision you make as you write is formed by and checked against your own experiential logic, and also by the internal logic of your story, which is far less developed (or at least, one would hope), and therefore more prone to the occasional laspe

but while ive seen a number of articles that discuss the logic of writing, i don't see people gushing as much about the art of editing and it's such a shame

the inner editor is so often characterized as the responsible parent to the writer's carefree child, or a relentless critic of the writer's unselfconscious, unpolished drivel

and it's like... maybe you just hate thinking critically about your work! maybe you view it that way because you're imposing external standards too fiercely onto your writing, and it's sucked the joy out of shaping and sculpting your words until they sing. maybe you prefer to conceive of your writing as divine communication, the process of which must remain unencumbered by lessons learned through experience or the vulnerability of self-reflection, until the buzzkill inner editor shows up with all those "rules" and "conventions" that only matter if you're trying to get published

and like obviously the market doesn't dictate which conventions are worth following, but the majority of widely-agreed-upon writing standards, especially those aimed at beginners, (and most especially those regarding style, as opposed to story structure) have to do with the effectiveness and efficiency of prose, and, in addition to often serving as a shorthand for distinguishing an amateur from a pro, overall help to increase poignancy and clarity, which is crucial no matter the genre or type of writing. and even if you personally believe otherwise, it's better to understand the conventions so you can break them with real purpose.

so editing shouldn't be about trying to shove your pristine artistic masterpiece into a conventional mold, it should be about using the creative instincts of your ear and your logic and experience-based understanding of writing as a craft to hone your words until you've told your story as effectively as possible

thank u for coming to my ted talk ✌️

#long post //#editing #wref #sefa rambles

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samsbastardzone · 4 years

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Hey, you know that 35 d&d questions ask meme? I answered all of them.

This is a long ass post. Be warned. It took up seven and a half pages in google docs. Original post here.

1. A favorite character you have played.

Would have to be Zize Fortier, dragonborn gunslinger. Their tag on this blog is #zize and you can find their bio and info on my character page. Love that bastard!! He’s sweet and bratty and a total delight to play (we are such an OP party, y’all).

2. Your favorite character that someone else has played.

UM UM gonna talk about a few here. To be fair to people I play a *lot* of games with, I’m only gonna talk about one PC per person.

- The bastard trio in my Wildemount game– @toomanyorphans ’s Nakoria, @overplannedbutunnamednpc ‘s Zier (also an NPC in the campaign Zize is in), and @glasyasbutch ‘s Nissy. They all really suck so bad but in SUCH funny ways. They’re varying degrees of self centered and awful, but we trust each other in this campaign, and those 3 players are SO funny in their RP.

- (RIP) Avri in my Wildemount game. They and Bly named each other,,,, they were parent and child…… VERY sweet. huge goliath with tiny bird in backpack.

- @bekahdoesnershit ‘s Raini. Zize’s BFF, and her tag on that blog is rich. She’s SUCH a bitch but we love her.

- @bhissar ‘s Saela. She is a dream character for me to DM for– very little fleshed out backstory with room to explore, with still-concrete events in it. Consistent character choices and personality, to the point I can sometimes predict what she’ll do. Very cool aesthetically. And overall? EXTREMELY sweet. Baby, baby bird.

3. Your favorite side quest.

Either the one going on right now in amnesia, where we have to collect brain matter from big powerful elementals, or the stop we made at a family of vampires in Acarnya (the one I played Osfyr in).

4. Your current campaign.

There are five of those, with two on hold.

-Wildemount, aka the Frozen Sick module from Explorer’s Guide to Wildemount (we’re almost done with that, my PC is Bly).

-Amnesia campaign aka high level campaign: we woke up in hell with no memories! PC is Zize.

-Hoard of the Dragon Queen module, near the beginning of that, PC is Pointy.

-Horror campaign, only two sessions so far, but we’re trapped in an alternate dimension carrying out tasks for a creepy dude. PC is Vinny.

-Kithan, where we’re high level monster hunting guild members searching out ancient artifacts of the gods (campaign based on the Monster Hunter games), PC is Topaz.

-Silas, party is currently trying to help dragons free themselves and stop a… dude? No spoilers! I DM. On hold because I had too many campaigns going at once.

-Silas v2: extremely vaguely based on the plot of season one of the web series Carmilla. A tweaked version of the first arc the Silas party went through. On hold because it was played in person at school.

5. Favorite NPC.

I don’t really have any NPCs in my campaigns that I’m super attached to, except– Nikeo, a goliath rogue PC in Silas 1, had many adopted children. Three of them– kobolds– sometimes stand on each others’ shoulders, put on a long coat, and help out around their parent’s store. They’ve named themselves Koby.

As for favorite NPCs in campaigns I’ve played, I can think of… a lot. The first is Laurel, a blue dragonborn loner type who followed Osfyr and friends in Acarnya. They were kind of broody and dark, but they really drew me in. They were the first NPC we really talked to– they were sitting on top of the post office laughing at the mob scene of people protesting not getting their mail delivered.

I’d also pick Osfyr’s partners in that campaign– Yelkian, a backstory love interest I came up with, a flamboyant soft sorcerer. Jupiter, politician’s niece, who took pity on Osfyr’s attempts to seduce information out of her and let them succeed on both counts (seduction and information). Xerxes, extra AF rogue with a big loving family, who swept in after a fight on the back of an eagle-wildshaped Brysth (npc druid).

There’s a blue dragon in the HOTDQ campaign that we don’t know much about. I really enjoyed the way @dungeonsanddraconicqueer played him. He’s just a dude! Lex’s warlock made a Deal with him to leave the town alone. We still don’t know the implications of that. It’s fine, guys.

And then, there’s Stewart the Skin Steward, a servant of False Mystra. Fun dude. Very cavalier– nigh, enthusiastic!– about the fact that his entire city was made of skin. Something of a skin connoisseur, in fact!

6. Favorite death (monster, player character, NPC, etc).

Saela, hands down. She got breathed on by a dragon, yo. We then had to stop playing for 4-5 months because a player lost access to the Internet. I wrote a vision/speech from her warlock patron, the Raven Queen, the night she died, and basically didn’t touch it until I read it out in game. It involved a confession that the Queen was tired of being a god, and showing Saela all the lives she’d touched. Then we used Matt Mercer’s rez rules for her. She came back– but it was her choice.

7. Your favorite downtime activity.

Fucking tinkering dude!!! I don’t get to do it enough as Zize and that is entirely my fault. @ morgan, eyes emoji

8. Your favorite fight/encounter.

I LOVE creepy shit. There was a train car with people dancing in it, and party members got enchanted to dance along and eat the food, and the revelers were clearly in pain, and snuffing out a candle caused a reveler to disappear. Creepy shit!

In Kithan, we had to climb a staircase, and we timed it with produce flame which is a 10 minute duration cantrip, and we were climbing for 50 minutes. We started to see things in the edges of our vision. Then someone realized it was an illusion, and it all vanished. It freaked me out so bad.

In amnesia campaign, at level 19, we were traversing a cave, and our shadows started dripping the same black goop we were there to investigate. We killed one and it took down the max hp of the person whose shadow it was, and then they straight up didn’t have a shadow until they long rested. It really freaked us out, realizing the shadows were actually creatures, but they were like CR 1. Really effective use of a low level monster.

9. Your favorite thing about D&D.

The way it has something for everyone… the way it’s brought me so many friends… the way it’s inspired my OC creation like nothing else.

10. Your favorite enemy and the enemy you hate the most.

I’m not sure if this is asking about NPCs I’ve had as enemies, or any monster in D&D canon? The longest campaign I played in didn’t have long term enemies per se. I’d say I was frustrated with the cultists that ambushed us last session in HOTDQ, but I didn’t hate them! I just couldn’t seem to hit or dodge them. As for a favorite… probably False Mystra: the demon lord Orcus who’d taken over the position, and therefore the duties, of Mystra, the god of arcane magic. We killed it, but then whoopso!! Our wizard lost her powers.

11. How often do you play and how often would you ideally like to play?

I play an ideal amount, honestly: four times a week, for about 2.5-3 hours a session. HOTDQ Tuesdays, Kithan and horror campaign switching off Wednesdays, Wildemount Thursdays cause we miss CR, Amnesia Sundays.

12. Your in game inside jokes/memes/catchphrases and where they came from.

Amnesia: Yocheved, the party barbarian/full time fish, has a secret third arm and/or a prosthetic ass. Cylthia, the druid, does arson (but actually). Relentless is a Crown paladin, so she puts her fingers in her ears when we do crime/lie. She also has a rod of lordly might that, immediately post amnesia, she made into a 32 foot climbing pole. Yocheved eats pounds and pounds of raw fish for every meal.

Wildemount: just the shenanigans and sabotaging each other that the Bastard Trio get into. Example: Nissy was tasked with buying Zier a cloak for cold weather and purposely got him an ugly one. Zier then prestidigitated it to be a nicer color.

13. Introduce your current party.

Oh boy, I have 6 of those. Here goes. Keep in mind many of these characters are played and games are DMed by my friends who have OC blogs of their own: Raini and Ayen are bekahdoesnerdshit, Ezra, Nissy, and Roona are glasyasbutch, Horror DM, Lent, Eve, and Nakoria are toomanyorphans, Wildemount DM, Saela, Daecyne, and Cylthia are bhissar, HOTDQ DM is dungeonsanddraconicqueer, and Amnesia DM, Zier, Nyxi, and Sarril are overplannedbutunnamednpc. Not an OC blog, but Yocheved, Avri, Arbor, Thraf, Nikeo, and Whisper are mickgoesabsolutelyhamforbarbie.

Amnesia (Zize): Lent, tiefling paladin, former crownsguard who “fell” (became an oathbreaker), then un-fell when we lost our memories. Cylthia, tiefling/elf druid who can shift between tiefling and elf forms and loves setting things on fire. Yocheved, 14 foot tall nereid (fishfolk) barbarian with a dry sense of humor, is the party parent. And Raini, aasimar wizard, sass machine and Zize’s bff.

HOTDQ. My PC is Pointy. Ezra, quiet human paladin. Theata, moon elf rogue. Freya, sweet (human?) light cleric who sometimes misreads situations. Eve, 13 year old (!!) human warlock who kinda sucks, but like, she’s 13. Nyxi, motherly gnome bard who Is going to adopt Pointy.

Wildemount (Bly): Alene, human barbarian. Quiet and with somewhat of a parent instinct. Some sort of Mysterious Backstory. Delta, aasimar rogue, similarly shady backstory? Unclear. Sticks with Alene. Nissy, drow rune knight, sucks. Zier, drow sorcerer, also sucks. Nakoria, dragonborn warlock, ALSO sucks. (Those three make up the Bastard Trio.) Avri (F for them), goliath bard and Avri’s guardian, died last session by falling on a floor full of knives.

Horror campaign (Vinny): Roona, halfling bard, very impulsive, eats exclusively with her spoon that says ASS, and chills in Vinny’s fanny pack. Ayen, elven teenage warlock with a dark backstory. Sarril, Ayen’s not-dad, half elf beast barbarian who got it from his wife. Arbor, dryad monk, who wears an all white plague doctor outfit at all times.

Silas v1 (DM), Original party before 1 left and 1 died: Hacka (RIP), human luchador-styled drunken monk. Nikeo (left), goliath rogue with so many adopted children. Inferno, fire genasi paladin/phoenix sorcerer with anger and impulse control issues. Saela, babiest aarakocra warlock of the Raven Queen. Hacka’s player now plays Voda, a stoic water genasi tempest cleric who cast Raise Dead successfully on Saela. Nikeo’s player now plays Whisper, a tabaxi astral soul monk.

Kithan (Topaz): Thraf, monsterborn (universe-compliant dragonborn) barbarian. Very social, very outgoing, very stupid, and very traumatized. Fucks majorly. Daecyne, sweet tiefling druid and Topaz’s good friend. Viosa, aasimar homebrew class I forget the name of, uses her small stature and allure to her advantage. Damur, half-orc eldritch knight, the party’s only braincell.

14. Introduce any other parties you have played in or DM-ed.

Acarnya. My PC was Osfyr. Soraphine, traumatized halfling bard. Azalea, human fighter. Durzuell, haughty high elf sorcerer. James, nerdy half elf wizard. Drago, erratic Russian dragonborn monk. Kairon, slightly edgy ranger/paladin (but we love him).

Nordenheim. My PC was Cap. I will admit: we only played 2 or 3 sessions, so I don’t really remember most of the other party members except Rory, a fire genasi ranger who almost burned to death.

Silas v2 (hopefully will continue; I DMed): Kysseris IV. Half-elf paladin, uptight. Tower 1-6, warforged wizard who crawled out of the desert and is looking for info on how he was made. Mae “Pock”, gnome rogue, very small and sweet. Josh, human trickery cleric, kind of an asshole, but in a way that’s funny and hasn’t bled over into IRL annoying.

[school] West Marches campaign (Ner): by the nature of West Marches, there was never a consistent party, but a few stood out to me. Red Foot, a hyperactive kobold sorcerer who’s level 8 against all West Marches odds. Lyra, Great Old One warlock of Tzee’Mhor, an abomination goat that a party I was in accidentally created. Fildo Baggins, divination wizard who can only affect allies whose toenail clippings he has in his vial.

15. Do you have snacks during game times?

Hell yeah babey!!! I mostly play digitally, especially during COVID, and I need something to munch after DMing for a while. Shit’s exhausting.

16. Do you play online or in person? Which do you prefer?

Welp! Online mostly, since everyone I want to play with has the audacity to live far away, and now exclusively online because of COVID.

17. What are some house rules that your group has?

Our Amnesia party is so rich that we just don’t keep track of money. In Kithan, a lot of rules that make characters less powerful are just… abolished (like the bonus action spell rule). (The DM likes super OP characters so she can throw SUPER OP monsters at us. My character has a necklace that gives 5 additional uses of channel divinity.)

18. Does your party keep any pets?

Nope. No opportunities for them. Zize’s party has a little water snake on the druid’s arm but I doubt that will last very long.

19. Do you or your party have any dice superstitions?

Absolutely. Cursed dice get j a i l.

20. How did you get into D&D? How long have you been playing?

Acarnya got me into d&d, it was my first campaign, and it was happening at the place I lived. I’ve been playing almost 2 years. (Critical Role inspired me to DM)

21. Have you ever regretted something your character has done?

Not sent a fucking letter to say goodbye to their boyfriend before the world-fate-deciding bullshit that was gonna happen and possibly destroy shit. It was fine in the end though!

22. What color was your first dragon?

Red. Man, that guy sucked, he almost killed Osfyr. We were investigating a monastery secretly run by dragons disguised as humans.

23. Do you use premade modules or original campaigns?

Original campaigns. I’ve never run a module before! I’m not opposed, but most of my campaigns came from ideas that I had. I’ve never been short on ideas for a game.

24. How much planning/preparation do you do for a game?

As a player, I just open my character sheet and get out dice. As a DM, I try and think about what material I want to get through this session, and write some narration and/or stat things out if I feel like it.

For DMs

25. What have your players done that you never could have planned for?

A lot of times, Inferno has rushed into battle from what I’d built as a stealth mission, and gotten her ass and sometimes the party’s asses kicked. I should really have learned by now.

26. What was your favorite scene to write and show your characters?

Definitely Saela’s resurrection ritual and vision.

27. Do you allow homebrew content?

Yes! I’ll check it first, but I’m all for expanding the boundaries. I homebrew items and monsters all the time, why shouldn’t my payers get to homebrew their shit?

28. How often do you use NPCs in a party?

Too often in my first arc. I had like 7 NPCs running around at all times (they were Carmilla characters). Super not recommended. I have 0 right now.

29. Do you prefer RP heavy sessions or combat sessions?

I’m still finding my groove with RP as a DM. I like encouraging my players to RP amongst themselves. I consider myself fairly good at combat on both sides of the equation, DM and player, so that’s always fun to me, especially when my players enjoy it too.

30. Are your players diplomatic or murder hobos?

I have one actively reforming murder hobo player, the rest are diplomatic. (The character, Inferno, is having a great growth arc. I’m super proud.)

For Players

31. What is your favorite class? Favorite race?

I fucking love genasi as a concept. Favorite class would have to be rogue or cleric, but gunslinger’s up there too.

32. What role do you like to play the most? (Tank/healer/etc?)

I honestly don't have the patience to not play DPS. I love doing lots of damage. Healing is satisfying, support is satisfying, but there’s a reason I picked rogue twice and tempest cleric over other domains.

33. How do you write your backstory, or do you even write a backstory?

Sometimes the backstory is part of the character concept– especially for Pointy, because I had the name first, then went hmm why would she have this name. Almost always, though, more backstory gets written during the campaign when I have an idea. Sometimes a character will act in a way I don’t expect, and it’s fun thinking of a justification to fill backstory gaps.

34. Do you tend to pick weapons/spells for being useful or for flavor?

Mostly usefulness honestly. I’ll make choices among several for flavor, but I’m a big proponent of using mechanics to build character. What I mean is, think about Magnus in TAZ Balance– his protection fighting style contributed a lot to the way Travis played him as a protective person. I love that shit.

35. How much roleplay do you like to do?

I like to do a lot, but unfortunately my energy is pretty down lately so I haven’t been doing as much.

#zize #pointy #cap #bly #osfyr #ner #vinny #topaz #dm thots #meta thots #asks #amnesia campaign #hotdq #horror campaign #wildemount campaign #silasverse #kithan

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