#it's heavily inspired by a book serie i read (and that i posted extracts on here LOL the one w the saffron boy) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

human-still-developing · 1 year

Text

I posted 219 times in 2022

That's 219 more posts than 2021!

54 posts created (25%)

165 posts reblogged (75%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@oneofthewednesdays

@peggy-sue-reads-a-book

@doodlewizardry

@itsliterallysophie

@human-still-developing

I tagged 140 of my posts in 2022

Only 36% of my posts had no tags

#literature - 31 posts

#writblr - 29 posts

#words - 29 posts

#creative writing - 29 posts

#writers - 27 posts

#writers on tumblr - 27 posts

#my writing - 25 posts

#inspiration - 25 posts

#poets on tumblr - 23 posts

#seamus heaney - 18 posts

Longest Tag: 119 characters

#i like how my prose fiction always has a poetic tinge to it and never quite sits within the boundaries of 'short story'

My Top Posts in 2022:

Jesper Fahey, a powerful Grisha?

In the Shadow and Bone TV series and the famous Six of Crows duology, the Dreg's Jesper Fahey is a prized sharpshooter. Initially Kaz's left hand man, Jesper's a fan-favourite of the Dreg's team; whether you discovered him through the original Fjerda heist or through the Crow's attempts to steal the Sun Summoner. We fall for him for his trick-shots, quick humour and perchance for trouble.

But a little know fact about Jesper for TV show watchers is that he's actually a Fabrikator Durast Grisha (or Zowa as he refers to himself). The book forces Jesper to reveal his use of small science to the rest of the gang and hypothesises it to be the reason for his impeccable aim and curved bullets. However, throughout the book it's heavily implied that he's powers are quite weak for a Grisha, with him failing to perform simple tasks that we watch the other Grisha's of his order do with ease in the original Shadow and Bone trilogy.

I'm here to prove that hypothesis wrong :DDD

Okay, so the most important thing to remember about Grisha magic is introduced by General Kirigan from the SaB series. In order for a Grisha to use the small science, there are two general rules:

They must use some kind of hand gesture to coordinate the attack

They must be able to see the actual object that they are manipulating.

Throughout the SoC and CK books, we watch Jesper (and his mother) defy both rules. The most popular example is his curving of bullets; while some might argue his actual hand gesture of pulling the trigger is a hand gesture might be the equivalent of rule 1, this is only releasing the bullet into the air and the actual curving of the bullet happens AFTER this moment. However, for argument's sake, lets say that Jesper somehow manages to curve the bullet BEFORE it actually leaves the gun...this means that he's manipulating an object that he can't see yet, meaning that he's defying rule 2.

Furthermore, it is greatly implied that Jesper's talent parallels the power of his mother, Aditi Hilli (who some might remember through Leoni's story from a different series). Aditi Hilli's unfortunate death in Jesper's childhood is revealed through an introceptive chapter from Jesper's perspective at some point in the SoC novels as well; she dies extracting sickness from the body of a young girl.

This is a clear example of Grisha small science that defies the second rule created in the original trilogy. Aditi uses powers that she can neither see (Rule 2) or visualise but can transport this substance from one 'vessel' to another.

Assuming that Jesper possesses the same talent, this kind of power is unheard of from the lowest class of Grisha and quite impressive for the highest class of Healers as well.

Some other smaller points to make about Jesper's talent also relate to the narration of the novel. Most of Jesper's powers are revealed through his own perspective and we know quite clearly he is an unreliable narrator, especially relating to himself. Despite having a cheerful, bubbly exterior, Jesper's insecurities around his gambling addiction actually lead to him having quite a low self-esteem. He might actually be a much more powerful Grisha but as we see him work through his own mind, we don't see the real picture of what he can do.

Furthermore, similar to Alina at the beginning of the SaB trilogy, Jesper suffers from hiding his powers (in particular from his father) which is known to weaken Grisha small science. If he potentially stops weakening his own power, it is quite likely that he will be much more powerful (recall how Alina was unable to even summon by herself at first while Jesper can already curve bullets).

In conclusion, Jesper's Grisha powers are disproportionally represented in the SoC books. We are revealed to the extent of Grisha power repetitively through the series; from Nina's heart-render abilities to the tailoring of Wylan's appearance in CK. Could it be that Jesper is actually as powerful or perhaps even more so than these incredible Grisha? Would it make him a different character/ change the dynamic of the group?

There's at least another season of the SaB trilogy and another (potential) book coming out for the SoC series. I'm quite excited to see how it will all play out :)

38 notes - Posted June 20, 2022

Rhyming Poems: A Guide

Hi again everyone :))) Thanks for the amazing response on my previous post (Constructive Criticism: A Guide)....I'm still shook by how much it took off! Anyways, here's the latest edition of my writing advice column, all on the infamous rhyming poems <333 So sit back, grab a cuppa and let's delve into this notoriously tricky writing form.

Rhyming poems. We've all written them, generally in early primary school when we first read Dr Seuss. They seem like the most basic form of poetry; a clear structure and form that is easy to adapt! And throughout history, rhyme has left its mark on almost all of the iconic poetic works; whether it be the infamous Shakespearean Sonnet, the more modernist verse narratives or even simple nursery rhymes.

So despite rhyming poems being the first poems that almost all of us encounter, why are they so tricky to write??? Here are the main reasons (I've listed them here so when we talk about conquering the rhyming poem we can overcome these hurdles):

Rhyme limits the choice of words. Poetry as an art-form is EXTREMELY dependent on word choice, especially because so few are generally used (unless you are writing an epic). With rhyme, we can no longer have the freedom to choose what words fit....this makes it difficult to communicate a very specific and tailored message

Rhyme greatly influences the meter of a poem. While not all rhyming poems have to be as fixed of a form as sonnets (think iambic pentameter), there is definitely restriction of syllables, line length and verses in rhyming poems. This becomes even greater of a problem when rhyme schemes are introduced (think ABAB structures).

Rhyming is hard. This is perhaps the most obvious but greatest factor that deters poets from rhyme. It is hard! It's hard to rhyme and not sound like you are writing a clapping game. It's hard to rhyme and have a solid structure when you're delving into the fluid metaphysical. It's hard to create something stunning when you are so restricted!!

So with all these factors in mind, here are a few tips I've put together to make this writing form easier. Keep in mind, rhyme, like any other poetic device, is most effective when used in moderation! Be careful with how much you add! It's like sugar in a tea; some types taste good with entire spoonfuls while others require just a dash.

My biggest tip for rhyming poems is try not to close yourself in too early. Unless you have specific word pairs in mind, always try and end your lines (which are in the rhyme scheme) with easy-to-rhyme words. For example, instead of using "morning" , you might use "day". Of course this may seem like you are replacing sophisticated words for simpler ones but often these words are the ones that carry the most meaning and make your work accessible! You can also try for some nice metaphors to fit into these scheme.

Try and find rhyming pairs! Often when writing rhyme, it's hard to find suitable words that fit your message. Find words that rhyme and have a similar kind of 'vibe' BEFORE writing your verse to avoid this problem. For example, a key conceit in my upcoming sonnet is situated around the words "ebb" and "web".

Don't be afraid of half-rhyme! This is such a good way to get out of the 'clap game' trap that rhyming poems seem to fall into; it almost seems to break out of that strict form and allows you a bit of space to play. You can use half-rhyme if you have a key change in your poem or simply scatter it around to keep it fluid and moving. For example, Seamus Heaney (if you've read my other work, you'd know I'm obsessed with his stuff!) often uses half-rhyme in his Glanmore Sonnets as a subversion of the traditional Irish Sonnet. Half-rhyme also puts a modernist touch to the more traditional poetic forms :)

Finally, use all the tools at your disposal! I've seen so many 'professional' poets saying "Don't use free online rhyme programs" but imo that's just rubbish. EVERY POET USES EVERY TOOL AT THEIR DISPOSAL! I can say that from my own personal experience; I've published poems in some nice poetry magazines and I always use those dumb rhyme-zone tools to find the right words! They even have modes to find the "percentage" of rhyme so you can effectively utilise half-rhymes in your work as well. Don't discount these tools and don't feel like any less of a poet if you use them. THEY ARE DESIGNED FOR YOU; USE THEM!

So with that, I'll wrap up my rhyming poem guide. If I come up with any other tools, I'll add them and if you have any tricks, feel free to reblog and add as well :)) Rhyming poetry is hard and even if it doesn't work out quite as nicely as you intended, don't feel disheartened! It can take years of practise to master this form! But for now, happy crafting and feel free to share your work because I'd love to read it :) Re-blogs and likes are always warmly appreciated, as well as con-crit for my articles <3

Happy crafting,

Hics <3

50 notes - Posted June 26, 2022

The Secret History by Donna Tartt is just so stunning! I've almost finished the book (just a chapter to go that I'm holding on to for so long because I don't want it to end) and I'm blown away. It's truly a work of literary fiction; the gorgeous John Donne-esque study of humanity vs rationality is such a powerful lens to explore the complex relationships (and demise) of the six university students the novel circulates around. I'm in love with their nuanced relationship with each other (lingering somewhere between romance, hatred and brotherhood - this actually really reminds me of the relationship between men in ancient greek texts that modern translations are always conflicted if they are in love or just close friends). I'm in love with the study of how language enriches, tears and shapes the characters. I've been ranting to a friend about how its giving me Great Gatsby crossed with Macbeth crossed with Lord of the Flies vibes because it pays homage to the origins and development of the novel form throughout time with its delicate character arcs and novel progression. The hamartia of all the main characters leading to their downfall, the unreliable narrator (Richard is one of the most interesting protagonists I've ever read and such a creative perspective to tell the story), the beautiful and symbolic prose that glows even when it's pulled apart.

This is something that I'd definitely recommend everyone to read!

62 notes - Posted November 5, 2022

Constructive Criticism: A Guide

Hey everyone :)) Here's a quick guide that I've created for giving others constructive criticism. This is by no means 'all inclusive' and you should of course use your own judgment before sending anyone feedback of any kind, but here a few general rules that I use when writing con crit (as a professional editor) <3

For those wondering, don't worry, I'm still working on another SoC rant and some more poetry but this is just an interesting aside I thought I might post :DD

So without any further ado, the concrit rules:

Firstly and most importantly, don't provide constructive criticism unless the writer has explicitly asked for feedback. If you're asked by a friend to 'let me know what you think' -- this is generally an opening for support, rather than concrit

Be sure to read the text as an objective piece of work, with a clear frame of mind. These may seem like obvious stipulations, but avoid reading anything for the couple of hours before you read the work to prevent your mind being swayed to a particular judgment (e.g. reading a famous poet's work might make you more critical of a novice writer's first poetry). On that point, remember:

You are not here to give judgement! Avoid stating any terms like "Overall, this piece of work is good enough for ...." or "I think that I would rate this work a ../10". Your job is to provide an analysis of the text in front of you, not its value or worth

Okay, so now to the actual concrit. Lets say you've read this person's work and you're ready to give your feedback:

Always open up with your interpretation of the work so that the writer can see what exactly you are thinking as you are analysing. This statement could be something as simple as "The poem that you've sent me was an evocative teenage love story intersected with romantic poetry to show the everlasting nature of love". In the case that you have mis-interpreted the text, this allows the writer to take your further evaluations with a grain of salt and also gives them a subtle nudge to perhaps improve the clarity of their message :)

List your points in size order. What I mean by that is start with the easiest thing that the writer can fix (e.g. your basic line edit including spelling, punctation, grammar, word choice, etc.) and then slowly work down your edit as you reach the bigger ideas (e.g. major themes, overarching concepts, etc). There are a few benefits for doing it this way. Firstly, as a reader, it makes logical sense to evaluate the themes of a text after you have finished reading the entire work; this way you have a greater appreciation for the text as a whole (which is required for a concept) rather than the text as a collection of small parts. Secondly, for a writer who may be using your edit like a checklist, they can quickly 'tick-off' the easy fixes and then work the bones of their text more thoroughly (also its often hard to start editing your work and simple fixes are a good early motivator).

Afterwards, I always like to go for the 'one for one' rule. For every one feature you 'criticise', give one place where the writer as done well. These should generally be linked if possible. I'll give an example, say my friend who is writing the teenage love story has a really compelling plot that falls short due to flat characters....you'd state something like "You create a touching story that could be enhanced through better characterisation." So this way, you acknowledge the work the writer has done and also introduce your feedback. Notice how instead of criticising, I posed the above statement like an improvement. Give the person something concrete to work on!

Expand! Apart from the judgemental trope, the other trap that editors often fall into is writing wishy-washy statements that don't really have a solution. I'm sure we've all been in that english class with that one teacher who circles entire paragraphs with the overly descriptive term 'vague' and not had a clue about what to fix. Don't be that teacher! Try and list as many clear examples of what the author could touch up on and fix (without sounding too domineering of course). For example: "The characterisation of your protagonist Sue falls a little flat because it's hard to have empathy for her. You portray her as an extremely beautiful young woman who is bullied for her good looks but is still really popular....I'd suggest reconsidering how realistic this may be. You have an amazing connection built up between Sue and Alex however, perhaps a greater focus on that rather than so much description about Sue might be more effective :)"

Finally, wrap everything up with a nice (generally uplifting) conclusion. My advice is that no matter how terrible the text you have just read, the writer has taken the steps to go out and send you their work! This is much more difficult that it seems! Congratulate them for their effort, perhaps point out some of the nicest parts of their work. I like to add short quotes from the work that I found particularly interesting at the end. This not only leaves them on a happier note but also makes them feel comfortable and safe about sharing their work and moving to improve it! Remember, you have had plenty of time to talk about the flaws, this is the time to build up their morale and let them work through everything.

Okay, so now you've written out your concrit. Here are a few things you should do before sending it to the person:

Give the text another read! I cannot emphasise how important this point is!!! Often themes or concepts that might not have made too much sense the first time become a lot clearer now that you are in the world of the text. Also you can make sure that your critiques actually match the work :)

Give your concrit a read. Try and avoid basic spelling and grammar mistakes and make sure you don't sound too patronising or rude. Perhaps sprinkle some other nice things in there too :)

Remember, a piece of writing is often someone's baby! It can be personal and vulnerable for someone to hear its criticism. Be kind and supportive in your work!

If everything is good, send through your concrit to the person. Generally I like to wait a few days or until the person themselves reaches out to me again before talking about the text anymore. Give them some time to process; allow them the space to decide what they want to do with their work.

Sometimes, your writer might not take all of your edits on board. That is perfectly okay! You, like any other human being, can be flawed and have opinions that don't align with someone else. At the end of the day, it is not your work that you are giving concrit to and it is entirely the writer's decision of how they want to shape their work. Try not to take ignored concrit too personally :)

So there you have it; a relatively comprehensive guide to giving concrit. Whether it be for the next literary journal you edit or for that fanfiction you've read (with a writer specifically asking for concrit ofc), I hope some of these tips and tricks help you in your editing work :) If you have any questions, feel free to ask me (I love asks, comments and DMs) :))) I might consider doing beta reading here in the future and if you have requests you can also contact me as above!

Concrit is welcome for this article (ironic, isn't it?) cos I've literally written it all in one sitting and not even had a glance over it before posting (terrible writing advice...don't do that) :) Reblogs and likes are also extremely appreciated!!! Anyways, happy editing out there folks :)

Until next time,

Hics <3

141 notes - Posted June 23, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

I think in a way all the main characters from the secret history have a greek god equivalent which such a powerful meta-narrative created by Donna Tartt.

Julian of course is Zeus; all powerful, untouchable and superficially the bestower of justice. All the characters look up to him as the great father (like how Zeus was)....until we realise he's actually just a coward who wants to save his own skin (even the most casual greek mythology reader would know how terrible zeus truly is).

Henry is Dionysus; tragic back-story, favourite of Julian, attractive and a natural leader. His obsession with the bacchanal (from all the six, he was the one most driven to do this) also makes sense then -- despite the 'order' that surrounds him, he is intrinsically drawn to chaos.

Charles is Apollo; likeable, brilliant but once you peel back his carefully crafted exterior, he is just as ruthless as the rest of the six. Camilla, his twin sister would be Artemis; untouchable (she also remains single throughout the book despite everyone being in love with her), clever and beautiful.

Francis I see as Hermes...god of messages (he's the only one who really stays in touch with Richard and keeps the group together at the end), travel and boundaries (with his home being like the 'safe place' for the entire group). Hermes is also the god of tricksters...while Francis doesn't play any practical jokes, Richard is constantly deceived by him (until he comes to realise that Francis is really no better than the rest of the group).

Now this one is a bit of a curve-ball but I personally see Bunny as Prometheus. You know, the titan who was favoured by Zeus until he gave the mortals fire and then was cursed to eternal damnation? While Bunny isn't quite as sacrificial, his realisation of the murder is the first straw in the group's elaborate lies coming undone (the way that Prometheus's sacrifice allowed the humans to gain some level of power against the gods).

I think that Richard then fits Ariadne. A minor goddess who as a mortal (mortal signifying the characters not related to the ancient greek class) is betrayed by the people who love her and then dumped on Dionysus' shore (remember Henry taking Richard to hospital that winter?). She falls for Dionysus (okay maybe this is a little bit self-indulgent...Richard/Henry <3) and the freedom she gains from being around with him (like how Richard tries to escape his childhood and has an obsession with beauty). Eventually, her downfall is through trusting the freedom that Dionysus gave her (the way that Henry plans to pin the blame on Richard during the end of the book)...quite similar to how the book doesn't end happily for any of the characters.

Also Judy Poovey is Aphrodite for absolutely no reason except that she's stunning....

Isn't it ironic how out of all of them, only Bunny and Richard aren't olympian gods?

Every time that I think I'm over this book I discover another thread....

164 notes - Posted November 10, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

0 notes

tanadrin · 4 years

Text

Stat Mons, Dum Volvitur Orbis

(Attention conservation notice: 7500 word extract concerning a subplot from my NaNoWriMo project, which I am posting here mostly to inspire me to catch up in this last week so I don’t fail miserably to hit the word count)

Mazai na Sair--”Maz” to most people--had been at Mountain Stream for four years when Obradil arrived. It had until then been a time of tranquility or satisfaction in her life, a rare and precious thing to her. When Obradil came, all of that was disturbed, much to Maz’s displeasure.

When she was a child, in Kapesk-by-the-Sea, far away to the south, she realized around the time that puberty hit that she was not happy in the world. She struggled to understand the people around her. Their goals, their desires, their hopes for the future often seemed alien to her, all too narrowly focused, too wrapped up in trivialities, and, at bottom, too content to endure the intolerable cruelties of worldly life. It was difficult for her simply to exist in the world. For a long time, she believed that what that really meant was that there was something wrong with her. Even if that were so, however, it was something she was powerless to change. An unhappy adolescence gave way to depressive twenties, as she floundered around, looking for something to give her life coherence and purpose. She longed for a place where she could be herself, and not be in tension with the world around her. Where she could, at least, not feel like merely being awake to the things around her was a source of conflict and pain.

When she was twenty-six, she learned of Mountain Stream. This was at a party in Savrenosk, where she had ended up after dropping out of school and working a few different odd jobs. A heavily cyberized ekun who had spent most of the evening talking to her friends about their government analytics job had finally switched to a different topic. Something they’d read about in the news, recently: an old commune in the hill country that had been having something of a resurgence lately. Northern spirituality, reborn. Oh, what a funny thing; what won’t these Oddasans think of next? Something they said, in passing, arrested Maz’s attention: “they think only in the fell-country you can really be free.”

Maz paused on her way over to the kitchen to get another drink. “What does that mean?” she said to the ekun.

The ekun scratched their head. “Well, I’m no expert,” they said, “but apparently it’s something to do with Naira. You know, religion.” From their tone of voice, they didn’t think much of religion, but they tried not to show it. “It’s called Mountain Stream. They lead--hold on, I’ll look it up--they try to lead a life ‘imbued with contemplative purpose,’ I guess. They think that’s the only way to find a place in the world on your own terms, and if you can’t do that, you’re destined to be unhappy. Or something.”

“Huh,” was all Maz said.

“Would make for a nice vacation, but I don’t know if I’d want to live there.” The ekun smiled. “But it ties in to what I was telling Parra about my theory of an Oddasan spiritual revival. So at work, these articles keep crossing my desk--”

And that was it. They were back on the subject of work, and it felt like a switch being flipped. Maz couldn’t be less interested if she tried. But the image of the Oddasan commune lodged itself in her mind.

The party ended, her friends dispersed. Maz never saw the ekun again. And she forgot about Mountain Stream, mostly. Once in a while as she was falling asleep at night she would think of it, and in her head it was a little village far away in the hills, all pretty wooden houses and honest Oddasan country folk, and something in that called to her in a way she could never explain. In a way her friends or her family would think was crazy, if she tried.

Then, two years later, she met someone from Mountain Stream. She was in Pardom now, a rainy port city on the border with Oddasa. She had, rather unwisely, moved there to be with somebody and the relationship had ended badly. She was alone now, living in a small one-room apartment above a bar where she worked, pulling down just enough money to live comfortably--food, rent, books--but scrupulously avoiding conversations with her parents about where her life was going, and what her plans for the future were. She had none; all of those she had given up on long ago. They felt like the fever-dreams of childhood. When you were a teenager, and you thought you could still change the world.

The bar was empty one evening, and she was just about to close early, when a man walked in off the street. He was older, and wore a heavy, gray wool coat, the kind you saw only in North Oddasa, where it got very cold in the winter. His hair and beard, half-gray, were long, but well-kept, and his face had the look of someone who spent most of his days outdoors. More curiously, to Maz’s mind, was the series of small scars above his left eye. Barely noticeable. But she had seen a series of scars like that on only a handful of occasions. What they usually meant was that somebody with a lot of augs or cybernetic prosthetics had had some kind of drastic revision surgery, a correction or an upgrade that involved moving a lot of tissue around. Possibly a clonegraft. But this man had no cybernetics that Maz could see. Sometimes people were shy about their augs, but those kind of people didn’t usually go in for the heavy cyberization that might lead to that kind of surgery.

The man sat down at the bar and asked for something hot. “I have an appointment around the corner in an hour,” he said. “You don’t mind if I wait here?”

“Not at all,” Maz said. She poured him a large cup of coffee. They talked. His name was Urzin. Mostly about the weather at first. Then where they were from.

“Kapesk, originally,” Maz said. “That’s where my parents still are.”

“That’s a long way away,” Urzin said. “You visit often?”

Maz shook her head. “I wouldn’t say we get along very well. They’re my parents and I love them, but…”

“You don’t have a lot in common?”

She nodded. “Very little, in fact. What about you? Where are you from?”

“Originally, I’m from here, actually,” Urzin said. “Pardom, born and raised. But I traveled a lot when I was younger.”

“And you came back to Pardom in the end?”

“No, not at all. I live in the north now. In the hill-country. In a little placed called Mountain Stream.”

Maz looked up from the tap she was cleaning when he said that. “Mountain Stream?”

“You’ve heard of it?”

“In passing. A while back. I thought it was a commune or something.”

Urzin shrugged. “Sort of. Commune. Monastery. Intentional community. Gang of unwashed hippies living on the moors. Whatever you want to call it. Some people don’t think highly of that kind of thing.”

“I thought it sounded… nice.”

Urzin smiled. “Nice? It is nice, if you like that life. I happen to like it a lot.”

“Were you raised religious?”

“Religious? No, not especially. I wouldn’t say we’re a very religious community.”

“I thought you were all Nairene?”

Urzin shook his head. “No. I think that’s the impression we give. Some of us are, definitely. Oddasa has always been Naira’s earth, and probably always will be. But that’s not the thing that unites us.”

“What is it, then?”

“It’s hard to explain. I guess the most succinct way would be--do you know the Nairene expression ‘a life contemplated’? It’s kind of a technical term. The Nairenes have always believed that emotion and instinct largely rule our lives. That most of the actions we take, the decisions we make, the way we react to other people come from unconscious choices. Or, I think the word they use is pre-conscious. We justify them to ourselves later, but we don’t really think about them at the time.”

“And that’s bad?”

“It’s neither bad nor good. It just is. The pre-conscious instincts and emotions which rule us can rule well, or badly. A lot of times they’re ciphers, based on decisions we made or principles we adopted a long time ago, which we apply by rote now. It’s easier for our brains to work that way. Keeps us from being plagued by indecision. But we only call on our conscious mind, we only act with intentionality, when we’re uncertain, or when a truly novel situation presents itself to us. Again, not in itself inherently good or bad. Quite bad, maybe, if you’re in a crisis and you need a quick decision. But too often, we use old ciphers, outdated ciphers, or worse, ciphers we inherited from the people around us, ideas and thoughts and principles that have accumulated over decades or centuries and which weigh us down--and so we move through the world in ways that make us unhappy. Mountain Stream is really just about freeing ourselves from that kind of existence. Living with intentionality. Being conscious and present in our own lives.”

“And you need to live in the hills to do it?”

“Maybe not. But it’s hard to imbue every decision with intentionality when you’re driving a car, or worrying about whether you’re going to catch the next train. Even here in Pardom, life moves pretty fast. It isn’t a good way to live if you value that.”

“So you’re primitivists?”

“Not especially. You noticed the scars?”

Maz nodded.

“You don’t have to be baseline or anything to live in Mountain Stream. But those who live with us a long time tend to find cybernetics more a hindrance than a help. Anyway, the net connection up there is terrible.”

Maz laughed. “Is that what happened to you? You got sick of spinning in circles, trying to get good reception?”

Urzin’s face went rather serious, and Maz realized she had accidentally asked a very personal question.

“It’s complicated,” he said. “I didn’t come to Mountain Stream intending to stay for long. It’s not that kind of place--you don’t have to foreswear the outside world or anything. You don’t have to lock yourself in a cloister. That’s an old argument, actually: rules. Rules can help a community stay dedicated to its founding principle. But rules are also a way not to have to think. We mostly don’t like rules.

“But I did stay, in the end. And I realized the things I was doing that made me unhappy, the principles I was enacting in my life, extended into every inch of the space around me. Even, rather deeply, into my flesh. My body had become someone else’s. So I had my cybernetics removed. It took a long time, and it was pretty painful. But I’m happy I did it. I want my experience of the world to be more unmediated. As much as it can be, anyway. But there are those among us who don’t share my aversion to cybernetics, and that’s fine too. Can I ask you something, by the way?”

Maz shrugged. Fair’s fair, she thought. “Sure.”

“Were you raised religious?”

Maz thought about how to answer that question. “Not… really,” she said. “Why?”

“Many of the people who inquire about Mountain Stream have a spiritual background. You seem drawn to it, is all. I don’t want you to be disappointed. Nairene thought has influenced us, but we don’t pray together. We don’t have any temples. We’re not celibate monks.”

Maz nodded. “That’s not what I think of when I think of religion, anyway. I was raised on the Landspell.”

“The Landspell? You mean, the dragon-cult?”

Maz winced. “We don’t call it that down south. Sounds too… well, culty. Gives people the wrong impression. The Dragon isn’t a god.”

“Oh. Sorry. What is he, then?”

“It’s, uh, well, it’s a dragon. Just a dragon.”

“So the Kapeskers believe in monsters? In this enlightened age?”

“Not many of them. It’s a rural thing. Folk-religion, maybe. And anyway, there were only ever two.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

“I don’t know that I’m qualified. It’s not like I’m a theologian. It’s just what my parents talked about sometimes.”

“I’d still like to hear it.”

So Maz did her best to explain. There were two dragons, you see. The dragon of the world, and the dragon of time. But no, she had to go back. You had to understand this, first: this world, this universe, was not our original home. Humans were spiritual beings, not physical ones, and originally we were from somewhere else. Earth? Urzin asked. No, not Earth. Well, yes, in a literal sense, actually Earth, but that wasn’t what Maz meant. Even the humans on Earth were originally from this other place. Her mom had always called it the Summerland.

In the Summerland, it was never cold or dark. In the Summerland, you were never afraid, or in pain. Long, long ago, we all lived in the Summerland. Perhaps as fragments of one great celestial being. Perhaps as just ourselves. But we were led astray. In Maz’s mother’s telling, it was just by other human souls, who made a mistake. In her uncle’s telling, it was by a creature with gray eyes and a gray face, who only pretended to be human. In some tellings, it was by the dragon-of-time, the dragon-of-sorrow. We left the Summerland, and came here, to the mortal world, the world of physics and entropy and fundamental forces. The world of economics and politics and greed and suffering. The world where change acquires another, terrible meaning: decay.

And we were trapped. We were spiritual beings enclosed in clods of flesh. It weighed us down, made us miserable. We sought a way out. We will seek a way out. And we will fuck it up, and we will destroy the universe.

Urzin raised an eyebrow. “Wait, will? It’s inevitable?”

“Yeah. It’s inevitable. That’s where the other dragon comes from. The dragon of time. Sometimes they call it the Dragon at the End of Time. The dragon we make with our hands, trying to escape this universe, but it just ends up devouring us. Destroying our souls forever.”

“Hills and heavens, that’s bleak,” Urzin said.

“It’s not that hopeless,” Maz said. “Because making that dragon accidentally creates another dragon, too. The reflection of the dragon-of-time is the dragon-of-truth. It has other names, too. Tirworm. Guide. Midayus. Gwannin. Some of them are gods in other places in the south. But the point is, this other dragon, it’s not just at the end of time like the first. Or, it is, but it’s not trapped in time like we are. It can reach back, and help guide us, spiritually. It can help us learn to escape the roads of suffering, and reach the Summerland again.”

“And what happens if we do?”

“We go back to being how we were meant to be. A little wiser, maybe, for having known this world. And we can help our friends and our family who are trapped here return as well. And if enough of us manage it, before the end, maybe the whole disaster is averted.”

“But then what happens to this other dragon? Wouldn’t that meant it never existed, either?”

Maz shrugged. “I wouldn’t analyze it too deeply. It’s a farmer’s religion. Most of the people who believe in it pray to the Dragon for a good harvest, and tell stories about the Wicked Worm that steals away naughty children and eats them. All the esoteric stuff is a lot less popular these days.”

“But obviously not forgotten.”

“Not forgotten, no. And to answer your original question: I don’t think of myself as raised with religion, because I wasn’t ever taught to believe all that. My mother was. And I think my father, but he doesn’t talk about it as much. His parents were… harsh people. They saw their religion as a cudgel to use against the world. My mother’s parents saw it as a shield to protect the people you love. What I remember, though, when my mom told me those stories, is I remember that the Dragon was right about one thing: the world hurts. I mean that both ways. It hurts the people in it. And it just hurts all by itself. And I think the people in Gedzal, the ones who started by telling each other stories around campfires at night that turned into the Landspell, I think they recognized that. Everything else is trying to understand, trying to justify, trying to make it all make sense without the benefit of philosophy or science or whatever the old religions of Earth were. And I think that’s what the ancient Nairenes were probably trying to do, too.”

Urzin nodded. “I think you’re right,” he said. Then, “You should come to Mountain Stream. Just for a visit, I mean. I think you’d understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Some people come thinking we have answers. Some people come just to gawk, or just to say they did. Some people come because they’re in terrible pain, and when we can’t help them, they get angry. But I don’t think any of those people understand why we really live our lives the way we do. I think the ones who really understand know that there’s a lot of pain in the world, and sometimes the best we can do is seek, imperfectly, after a way to fix it. And if they’re there, instead of in Savrenosk or Elsaria trying to fix the world, then they’re there because all they know how to do, or try to do, is start with themselves.”

“You make it sound so selfish.”

“Selfish? No, quite the opposite. I once had a very wise teacher, when I first came to Mountain Stream, who said to me, ‘Urzin, you ought to have compassion for all people, everywhere.’ ‘Even terrible people?’ I asked. ‘Even terrible people,’ he said. ‘Suffering is suffering, no matter where it lies.’ ‘Then I should find someone to help,’ I said. ‘You idiot!’ he answered. ‘Aren’t you suffering, too? Where is your compassion for yourself? How can you ever make other people’s lives better if you can’t even make your own better--if you’re about to break under the strain? Compassion for everyone! Even for yourself. Not more than compassion for other people--and not one jot less.’”

From there, the conversation went to less weighty subjects, but Maz found that Urzin’s words stuck with her. He left for his appointment soon after, and Maz closed up the bar, went upstairs, and lay in bed, thinking about what compassion for herself meant. Five days later, she started selling off anything that wouldn’t fit in a backpack, she quit her job, and she bought a ticket by ferry up the coast, into Oddasa. From Port Oddasa, she took a bus to a little town called Havrely, in the south of the hill country, and from Havrely, she hitched a ride with a farmer to Mountain Stream. It was, in the end, quite unlike what she had expected: small stone houses, dotting a hilly landscape, joined by winding paths to one another and to satellite settlements and lone hermitages on the eastern cliffs.

Two weeks after her arrival, she was sitting on the steps of the Chapterhouse, the main building in the middle of the village, a coat clutched tightly around her to ward off the chilly wind and the flecks of rain. She realized for the first time in her life she could see herself in the same place in two, five, twenty years, and the thought did not disturb her at all. She was, in a way she had never quite known before, actually quite content. And for the next four years, her life only got better.

That was, until Obradil came. He came by the same road Maz had, up from Pardom by the coast, and he came like so many seekers as one who was trying to start a new phase of their life, but who wasn’t really able to leave the old one behind. He’d been an archeologist and an artist formerly, well-regarded as the former and fairly successful as the latter. From Rafral, a handsome old city with stunning white-sand beaches, on the warm shallow seas of the Eballi coast. Maz barely noticed him at first.

There was a cycle to the visitors that Mountain Stream had, and it was the first thing Maz noticed when she came. There was always a steady trickle of new faces in the Chapterhouse. There were beds for visitors there, and everyone but the actual tourists, the ones who would hire a guide from Havrely or one of the other nearby towns and just fly over in an afternoon, would stay there first. Most left again, after a few days or a few weeks, and it was hard to remember their names after they were gone. Sometimes they had found what they were looking for, or, more usually, they just realized Mountain Stream was not for them.

The ones who stayed longer were easier to keep track of. There were many fewer of them. They tended to be the ones who understood that you did not leave your old life behind on a whim, and expect a new one to appear fully-formed around you. They were also the ones who had a little more compassion for themselves, and, as a result, more compassion for the people around them. But the real defining trait, the ones that separated those who stayed for a month from those who stayed for three, or even those who stayed for a year, was whether they could really leave who they had been behind. It was only partly an ego thing. It was also an adjustment thing. The social dynamics of a tiny, tight-knit community that was de facto cut off from the rest of the world were totally different from life in the big city, or even a decent-sized town. If you were too invested in one way of seeing yourself, you would soon find life among people who had never seen you that way, who never could, was intolerable. It didn’t matter how well suited you were for that life otherwise.

Obradil was, at first, just another face, the kind Maz didn’t expect to see in another week. He kept clean shaven, his hair very neat, dressed, despite the harsh northern weather, in light, old-fashioned clothes that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a casual Rafral dinner party, which is to say he stuck out like a sore thumb anywhere east or north of there. And they were a long way east and north of Rafral. Maz was mildly surprised when she noticed he was still there three weeks later; that was when she learned his name. Somebody had given him an old coat, though, so at least he wouldn’t freeze to death. And he was helping around the Chapterhouse, cooking and cleaning, though still not doing any of the heavy outdoor labor. There was hope for him, Maz thought, until she realized that every time she walked by he was, directly or indirectly, talking about life in Rafral. Ah, she thought, one of those. He’ll find what he’s looking for, or he won’t, soon enough; then he’ll be gone.

But then, to her astonishment, he wasn’t. He lasted another month. Then another. Then Maz, despite knowing this was a stupid reaction, found herself getting kind of annoyed with him. Who was this guy?

So she resolved to do something about it. She found out from Yol, one of the permanent Chapterhouse residents, where Obradil was living--a cottage just by the Chapterhouse gate--and she went down there early one morning with a present, some fruit wine she’d made herself the previous summer. She was determined to figure out who this guy was.

If Obradil was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. He took the wine with a smile, and apparently sincere gratitude, and Maz introduced herself officially for the first time.

“Mazai na Sair,” she said, shaking his hand.

“Obradil of Rafral,” he replied.

“So I’ve heard.”

They chatted about the weather, about the goings on in different corners of the community, about Barro, the hermit who had passed away recently, and how Urzin, to everyone’s surprise, had taken up residence in his old cottage and now never took visitors anymore. Then Maz slowly steered the conversation, in what she hoped was a nonchalant fashion, toward Obradil and why, exactly, he was at Mountain Stream; and on hearing his reasons for coming, her heart sank.

It wasn’t that he was attached to his old life, although he was. It wasn’t that he didn’t seem to understand what Maz and the others were doing here. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. The thing that really worried her was that he had Ideas.

Four years ago, when Maz had just arrived in Mountain Stream, Obradil was on his second career as an artist, and making waves in the Rafral avant-garde scene. He had become interested in religion. Old religion, ancient religion: the millenarian movements of four centuries ago, and, in particular, the apocalyptic flavor of Nairanism that had erupted explosively in Eballo, before burning itself out inside a couple of generations. It had left few traces, besides some ardent reformist Nairans in places like Rafral, among whom Obradil’s great grandfather or something had been included. Apparently this whole idea started out as just an aesthetic thing for Obradil. A way to surprise his fellow artists, to use his knowledge of history to add the appearance of depth to his work--not how he would phrase it, maybe--but it had eventually become more than that. Obradil had delved deep into the history of Eballo, and he had come away thinking that the whole understanding of Eballi Nairanism was wrong. He wanted to get back to the roots of the thing. He wanted a place where he could study and contemplate and explore what he thought the original meaning of the movement was. For some godforsaken reason, he thought Mountain Stream was the place to do it.

Maybe, if she was being very patient, it wasn’t a totally crazy thought. Six generations ago, these hills had been home to a Nairan retreat. Four generations ago, it had declined, until it was abandoned; Mountain Stream had been a refounding of sorts, thirty years after the last of the original teaching lineage had left. Large stone ruins, some two hundred years old, were built into the hillside a couple of kilometers away. The Chapterhouse was an outbuilding, restored and expanded, of the old retreat, which was on top of a steep hill you could see from its gates. No one Maz knew had ever been up there. It was a difficult climb, and the path was long washed away.

Obradil, though, he wanted to go up there. More than that, he thought there was something there to discover, a truth that called to him. He thought there was something here to find, something that Mountain Stream itself was just a dilution of or distraction from, and he was the one to find it. And that worried the hell out of Maz. The last thing she needed was somebody who saw in this place something its residents, its community, did not want or see trying to impose their vision on the rest of them. That was a recipe for conflict, for upending the peaceful live-and-let-live attitude she and the others tried to live by, even if Obradil didn’t realize it. At least, she thought, his ideas were silly, and no direct harm could come from them. She went away disliking Obradil even more, and worried about him causing trouble, but figuring that, at worst, he would annoy them all for a while, then go away.

Obradil moved from the gatehouse to a cottage further down the road the week after. Maz was helping a friend of hers move in in his place, when she noticed the bottle of wine she’d given him collecting dust on a shelf. They drank it that night as a little housewarming celebration, so at least it didn’t go to waste. She heard from Yol a couple of months later that he had climbed up to the old retreat, and was living there now. He rarely came down, because the walk was so difficult, but he was trying to restore the path. Fine. Whatever.

Then she heard he had students. She saw Ezma talking to a couple of strangers on the road one day; by the time she caught up, they were walking on, but Ezma was still sitting on a stone, tying her shoes. “Visitors, or new arrivals?” Maz asked.

“New arrivals,” Ezma said.

“They realize the Chapterhouse is the other way, right?”

“They’re not going to the Chapterhouse,” Ezma said.

“Where are they going?”

“The hilltop. They’re looking for Obradil. They want him to teach them.”

Maz was shocked. “Teach them what?”

“I don’t know,” Ezma said. “I didn’t ask.”

* * *

They were the first, but they were not alone. More followed, in twos and threes, until Obradil had collected a couple of dozen up there on the hill. They were growing their own food and only occasionally coming down to visit the Chapterhouse, and Maz didn’t know whether they were even really a part of Mountain Stream anymore, or even if it mattered. There wasn’t a rule against this sort of thing, after all. Like Urzin had said. They didn’t do rules here. Maybe they should have, though; because life in the hills was starting to change, and Maz wasn’t the only one becoming uncomfortable.

Urzin had finally showed himself. Apparently some lost disciples of Obradil had wandered into his vegetable patch, and when he worked out who they were and why they were standing on his carrots, he sought out their teacher immediately to have words with him. What, exactly, those words consisted of, Maz didn’t know; but he came down from the hilltop in a foul mood. Maz went to his house the next day to check on him; but he didn’t answer when she knocked, and he figured one unwelcome intrusion was enough for the time being.

Maz did her best, but she found in the end, she couldn’t let it lie. She had to do something. She couldn’t, and wouldn’t try to, force Obradil out. But she had to see for herself what he was up to. So one morning, she packed a lunch of bread and cheese, filled a bottle with water, grabbed a sturdy walking-stick, and set off for Obradil’s hilltop.

It was a warm day, nice and clear, and the ground was dry. That was good; the new path Obradil’s students had made was still steep and difficult, and in wet weather it was probably nearly impossible to climb. As it was, Maz was sweating prodigiously, and her legs were on fire when she cleared the edge of the summit. What she found on top was a wide, scrub-filled expanse, with a few stubby trees here and there; and near the middle, a high old stone building, whose towers and upper floors had collapsed long ago. Wooden shutters covered some of the lower windows, and the mostly-intact ground floor looked inhabited. Old flagstones had been exposed where weeds had been pulled up, and some effort had been made to scrub off the accumulated dirt and moss.

She approached the largest, closest door, and rapped on it with her stick. There was no answer. She waited a couple of minutes, and tried again; still no answer. She pulled at it gently, and it swung open, so she went inside. It was cool in among the heavy stones, and the old passageways had been cleared out and thoroughly cleaned, but it was still all rather dark and spartan. The doors on either side of the hall led to little cells, which had been made into bedrooms of a sort; and as Maz walked, she heard voices. They were coming from the far end of the hall, from an open doorway that looked out onto a courtyard.

She stepped into the sunny courtyard, and when her eyes had adjusted, saw a semicircle of bright-eyed students, mostly fairly young, sitting around Obradil. He stood in front of a dry fountain, and talked excitedly. There was a small stack of books by his feet, and from time to time he would pick one up, and read something out from them. Maz watched, not wanting to interrupt, and trying to understand what was going on.

At first, Obradil seemed to be talking, of all things, about comparative religion. He talked about Landspell in passing, and some of the newer, reform-minded Nairan denominations. He digressed into a short description of the finer points of Bamarso eschatology, something involving liquid nitrogen being poured down the throats of sinners, but only if they truly believed they deserved it, before returning to something he was calling “the true heart of Naira.” But just when Maz thought he was about to describe what that was, he switched subjects completely. He started talking about tribalism, about ingroup-outgroup bias, about ritual as social glue. He plucked up a book and started reading from it. “The true function of all ritualism, even moral codes,” he said, “is to impose a cost on the practitioner. To impose a cost is to cut away all who refuse to pay it. The more onerous the cost, the more ardent the faith, one can be assured, of all who remain. The more isolated they will be if they do start to question the rites, and therefore the more cohesive the group will be: with the caveat that the smaller it will be. Therefore, all movements which seek to be ecumenical in character cannot afford to be exclusive; and all movements which hope to cultivate a strong core of ardent true believers will not, in the end, be ecumenical.”

Maz smirked; it wasn’t like a would-be cult leader to give the game away so easily. Surely that should be part of the secret teachings. But if that honest appraisal of organized religion put off any of Obradil’s students, they didn’t show it. They continued to listen raptly. And Obradil was off again now; now he was talking about botany of all things, and Maz was truly confused.

He stopped, it seemed rather abruptly, partway through a list of flowering native to Oddasa. His students stood one by one, and some wandered off to attend to other things, and some chatted with one another, and some began eating lunch there in the courtyard. Obradil came over to Maz, smiling.

“It’s good to have visitors,” he said. “Welcome. What did you think?”

“Of what?” Maz asked.

“Of my theory,” he said. “On the true heart of Naira.”

“I--I’m not sure I understood it,” Maz said.

Obradil frowned. “That’s what Urzin said. Perhaps the analogies I used were rather opaque. That’s a real risk, you know, of being secluded up here. We invent our own jargon, and before you know it, we might as well be speaking another language.”

Maz nodded. “Sure.”

“I’m glad you’re here, though. I wanted to run something by you. And show you something. Come, let me explain on the way.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Not far. Just under the hill. There’s tunnels below us, did you know that? I only found them when I came up here and started exploring the retreat. There’s something you should see there.”

“Uh, alright. Fine. Show me these tunnels.”

Obradil pointed to a doorway on the far side of the courtyard, and Maz followed him. They crossed through another passageway, coming out behind the main building and onto another newly-cut path that bent away to the left as it approached the hillside, and vanished behind a clump of bushes.

“What did you want to ask me?” Maz asked.

“I wanted to know how you and the others would feel if I brought more people here. Just to the hilltop.”

“Funny you should bring that up,” Maz said. “I wanted to talk to you about that. I think Urzin is really upset with you. And he’s not the only one.”

“Yes, Urzin came to see me. I tried to explain, but I think there was a miscommunication. He thought I was mocking him, all of you. Nothing could be further from the truth. I think Mountain Stream is a very special place. I just think it can be more.”

“It’s fine as it is,” Maz said. “We like it as it is.”

“Maybe that’s not what the world needs, though.”

“I’m not here because of what the world needs.”

“Sure. I get that. But… oh, Maz! It’s so hard to explain. I wish you had understood my lecture better.”

“Well, I’m listening. Try me.”

“Maybe it’s not something that can be explained only with words. Maybe it has to be shown as well. You know, when these people come to me, when they seek me out, they don’t understand at first, either. They have to spend time with us, participate in the rituals we share, hear the metaphors again and again, before they understand. Sometimes understanding comes on you sideways.”

“Is that what you’re cultivating? A group of true believers?”

“What, like a cult? No. Goodness, no. This is science, Maz. Science, psychology, pure practical stuff. I want to show the whole world how it can work better. How it can be better. How to make everybody as happy as possible.”

“And what does that look like, exactly?”

“I’m not sure how to say it. When I tried to explain it to Urzin, he was furious.”

“Try.”

“Well, for one,” Obradil said a little sheepishly, “for one, I think you have to be baseline. I think everybody has to be baseline.”

Maz stopped walking. “Say that again?”

Obradil sighed. “Look, I know. I sound like some big-city Naturalist, like a villain in an old movie.”

“Wars have been fought over that kind of thing, Obradil. Hundreds of thousands of people have died over that kind of thing.”

“And I don’t want that! I really don’t. But it’s like I was trying to explain, with the native flora of Oddasa--”

Maz interrupted. “Oddasa doesn’t have any native flora.”

“Pardon?”

“Oddasa doesn’t have any native flora. This planet was terraformed four hundred years ago. Every plant species on it is from a planet dozens of light years away, or was genegineered within the last two centuries. Or it’s a hybrid of the two. Nothing evolved here.”

Obradil shook his head. “That’s not true.”

“What do you mean, that’s not true? It’s a matter of historical record. Human beings are not native to Eku, nor are any of the plants and animals we share genes with.”

“You don’t understand yet, and that’s fine. There are other things in Oddasa, Maz. Things which look like plants and animals and even people, but which are not. Which have been here since the beginning.”

“Obradil, I’m sorry, but that’s just not true. That’s insane.”

“I know it’s a strange idea, but I want to show you how I know this.”

The path descended as it turned, and they came, just a little below the lip of the hill, to a small stone doorway set into the ground. Inside, there was a passage of closely-set unmortared stones. Someone had strung electric lights through it. It slanted downward as they walked, and here and there side passages split off, but they continued in a straight line.

“Don’t worry,” Obradil said. “These structures are old, but safe. We’ve been down here dozens of times in the last few weeks.”

Finally, after several minutes of walking, the passage widened; heavy stone pillars supported a high ceiling, and here the walls were the solid rock of the land underneath the hilltop. Maz realized they had been carved and smoothed into intricate, serpentine designs; and between the designs were written words. Very old words, words she could not read.

“Do you recognize the language?”

“No,” Maz said. “You can read it?”

“It’s almost unknown on Eku,” Obradil said. “Greek. The language of the first settlers. Mixed in with some English and Arabic here and there.”

“How old are these inscriptions?”

“About three hundred years, I think,” Obradil said. “I can’t be sure without conducting a more extensive study. That’s why I want to bring more people in. Archeologists. Scientists. Maybe even conduct some excavations.”

“Obradil… I don’t know. This is… interesting, sure. But we’re a quiet community. There are old ruins all over Oddasa, and far more down south. Why do these ruins need to be excavated now?”

“Because of what these inscriptions say.” Obradil was grinning wide now, and there was something a little unearthly about his face in the sterile electric light. “They speak of the true heart of Naira. They speak of things older than us, of things that look like us but are not us. They speak secrets of the universe, Maz, and we can uncover them, and show them to everyone. And then everyone will be happy and free.”

“And what’s this?”

Maz pointed to something else, sitting near the middle of the room. It was a heavy piece of metal, whose outside looked like it had been elegantly shaped by a careful sculptor, who then tried to destroy it with a bomb. It was black and half-melted on one side, but it was not broken. Someone had set up some kind of interface with it; a small handheld terminal sat on a stone beside it.

“Ah,” said Obradil. “That’s just something I brought with me when I came. I found it a few years ago, in Eballo. There was a meteorite near my home, or what looked like one--a bright light in the middle of the night, and a sound like a thunderclap. I found this in the crater.”

“It looks artificial. Not like a meteorite at all.”

“I think it is,” Obradil said. “And I think it’s connected to these inscriptions.”

“You think whoever made these inscriptions left it in orbit or something?”

“I’m not sure the connection is that straightforward. But I think it can help you understand. Here.” He led Maz over to the object, and held her hand near it.

“It’s warm,” she said.

“It always has been.”

“Obradil, this is all very strange. I think if you want to bring a bunch of people here, you should come down to the Chapterhouse. We can call people in to talk about it. Have a meeting or something. You can apologize to Urzin for whatever your misunderstanding with him was about. Maybe we can figure out a way for you to have your excavation that won’t disrupt everyone else’s lives too much. And you can find someone to analyze whatever this is.”

“Yes,” Obradil said. “That all sounds quite reasonable. Do me one favor, quickly. An experiment, if you like. Perform one ritual with me.”

“A ritual?”

“Yes. A simple one. I’m going to read a phrase off the wall. Touch the surface, there, when I do.”

“Obradil, I don’t want to--”

Before Maz could finish her sentence, Obradil blurted out something she didn’t understand. Greek, probably. She was about to turn, and walk out of the tunnels; but then he grabbed her hand again, and pressed it to the warm, smooth surface of the object on the floor. For a moment, the sharp venom of anger rose in her, and she felt herself about to yell something at him--then it was gone.For the second time in her life, Maz had a moment of spiritual revelation. Suddenly everything Obradil had told her made sense, and she understood that, together, they were going to change the world.

#tanadrin's fiction

5 notes · View notes

bughead-fic-request · 7 years

Text

I would like to thank @leaalda for making these amazing banners.

This is an effort to spread the word about all fan fiction writers in our little fandom. If you would like to be featured or nominate a writer, please contact me. Please reblog this post if you can and check out some of @findingbetty work!

1. First things first, if someone wanted to read your stories where can they find them.

Find findingbetty on AO3.

2. Tell us a little about yourself.

My name is Annabel and I'm in the twenties club. I hail from the far reaches of New Zealand, a place every bit as green and beautiful they tell you. I’m technically a lawyer, though recently I retired at the ripe old age of 24 and ran away to Australia. Beyond examining the intricacies of my existential crisis, I’m a competitive rower. I also really like bagels.

3. What do you never leave home without?

I suppose my phone...depressing though that is. I wish I could at least say, like, my keys - if only to imply I can live a fulfilling life without my phone - but I locked myself out of my apartment twice last week. So that would be a lie.

4. Are you an early bird or a night owl?

Extra early bird. The kind that loves to hate getting up at 6am every morning to do a 20km training row before second breakfast.

5. If you could live in any fictional world which one would you choose and why?

I’m still waiting for my letter. I remain convinced my Owl just got a little lost on the way to New Zealand. There’s still time, though.

6. Who is the most famous person you’ve ever met.

Lorde. In the supermarket, back when she was still New Zealand’s best kept secret.

7. What are some of your favorite movies/TV?

I will never get tired of watching Friends. It’s the ultimate comfort for me. I also have a high level of appreciation for Girls, and I do like some Parks and Rec.

I really like the familiarity and continuity of watching a series. As such, I don’t watch very many movies, but some favourites include Mistress America and Silver Linings Playbook.

I just like things that feel real.

8. What are some of your favorite bands/musicians?

Haim ❤️ Fleetwood Mac and John Mayer. Drake! I also like Kodaline, particularly their album In a Perfect World. I went to see Adele in March. It was the very last night of her tour and it rained torrentially. I was probably the least dry I have ever been in my entire life, but setting fire to the rain in a downpour was a glorious thing.

9. Favorite Books?

From a place of nostalgia, Harry Potter. Such a quintessential part of my childhood. Beyond that, I try to read quite broadly. I have one particular favourite that isn’t really representative of my preferred genre, but caters well to my particularly dry sense of humour - How to Be Good, by Nick Hornby.

10. Favorite Food?

Pancakes.

11. Biggest pet peeve?

When people walk extra slowly and take up the entire footpath and won’t let me pass.

12. What did you want to be when you were little? What do you want to be now?

As a child, I apparently professed wanting to be a writer. I used to think that was because some well-meaning adult told me that was what I wanted and I just believed them. But of late, I’ve wondered if perhaps I did actually dream that up myself.

I have since learned an affinity for writing can easily translate to a career in law, be that accidental or intentional. What is less easy is working out a more enjoyable alternative - I’m conscious running away to Australia is not a long term solution.

13. What are your biggest fears? Do you have any strange fears?

Failure. Regression toward the mean. Refreshing websites everyday for the rest of my life! Talking on the phone. All of these are the kind of inconvenient fears that will infiltrate and taint every aspect of your life if you let them.

More tangibly speaking, e a r t h q u a k e s. I feel like, statistically speaking, one is not likely to experience more than one major seismic event in a lifetime, but that doesn’t make going back to what’s left of my hometown any easier.

14. When you are on your deathbed what would be the one thing you’d regret not doing?

Anything I avoided out of fear of failure. See, it’s a vicious cycle!

For anyone else suffering this particular plight, I recommend reading/viewing The Fringe Benefits of Failure and the Importance of Imagination by JK Rowling.

Okay… lets talk about your writing!

15. Which is your favorite of the fics you've written for the Bughead fandom?

I’ve only written one story thus far, and it’s called Something to Tell You.

16. Which was the hardest to write, in terms of plot?

Well I have nothing to compare it to, but did struggle with writing Something to Tell You. Looking back, I kind of attribute that to the lack of plot. I wanted the characters to undergo reasonable change, but not in an especially dramatic way, and I didn't want it to be overshadowed by their circumstances. It was a hard balance to find.

I received mixed feedback about this particular aspect of the story. Many people liked the simplicity, but equally there were those that thought I rambled on for 20 chapters and that “nothing happened”. I appreciate there is no such thing as universal popularity, and having overcome the struggle of actually writing it I am now content with how everything unfolded.

17. How do you come up with the ideas for you fic(s)? Do you people watch? Listen to music? Get inspired by TV/movies?

Something to Tell You was founded heavily in experiences I had living with a group of friends who were every bit as quirky and interesting as the characters I tried to portray. I suppose I tend to write about what I know. I’ve largely made peace with that, but do worry it is fairly limiting and a somewhat insular approach.

18. Idea that you always wanted to write but could never make work?

Anything from Something to Tell You Jughead’s point of view. The entire story revolves around Betty not really knowing quite what to make of him, and his character is a construct of that to the extent that I just cannot find his voice.

19. Least favorite plot point/chapter/moment you’ve written?

Clunky chapters. There were a few of them, but I’m not going to go back and look for them because it’s bad for my #complexes.

20. Favorite plot point/chapter/moment you’ve written?

The Flowers and The Cheesecakes, and that’s largely because it was fun for me to write. It was also based on true events, memories of which evoke the best kind of nostalgia.

21.Favorite character to write?

Betty Cooper. It’s not too much of a stretch for me to see the world through her eyes.

22. Favorite line or lines of dialogue that you've written?

“He trades in intellect and wit.”

23. Best comment/review you’ve ever received?

When I started writing, it never really occurred to me that people would a) read it, b) like it or c) tell me so. Honestly, all your kind words make my heart sing. I've never been able to bring myself to actually read Something to Tell You in full, but I do go back and read your comments!

Those who reached out via private message to tell me how much Betty’s struggles meant to them were really special. I never expected that kind of a response, and was somewhat overwhelmed by it.

More specifically, I still remember and refer back to a comment by the lovely @village-skeptic, who I remain convinced understands my characters far better than I do. Below is an extract -

“Your version of this character is so multi-layered and distinctive, and yet it makes me think - this is what "I'm weird; I'm a weirdo" looks like without canon-Jughead's precise complications of self-loathing, trauma, deprivation, and precarity (or maybe with other off-setting factors?). It's just being quirky af, but also forthrightly kind, confident, ambitious, perceptive, and also part of a community.”

Sometimes I wish @village-skeptic was my high school English teacher.

24. How do you handle bad reviews or comments?

By refusing to ‘reblog Bughead’ and rearranging all of Veronica’s furniture.

25. If you could change anything in any of your stories, what would it be?

I try not to think this way, again because #complexes… but the first chapter of Something to Tell You. The one where nothing of substance really happened, because I truly didn’t think anyone was going to read it. Thanks to everyone who set aside that very obvious flaw and persisted.

26. What is your favorite story you’ve ever written? Any fandom?

I’m going to be optimistic and say I hope it will be something I write in the future. My magnum opus, or something.

27. What are you reading right now? Both fan fiction and general fiction?

I’m heavily invested in Vespertine by @yavannies, it’s absolutely wonderful. Please go and read it and leave a comment - I’m a big believer in always thanking the author for their efforts.

Out in the real world, How to Be Both by Ali Smith is sitting on my bedside table.

28. Do you have any advice for writers that want to get into this fandom but might be scared?

What is is that you're scared of?

I don't at all mean that to be dismissive - quite the contrary. I entertained a lifelong fear of writing before sitting down to write Something to Tell You. I was scared of expectations and judgement (be them real or imagined, my own or those of others).

I am still scared of both of these things, but I have also discovered that anonymity is wonderfully liberating. It allows you to write whatever you want, whenever you want. The more you do it, the easier it gets. And as long as you write for yourself, you can’t really go wrong.

Also, believe me when I say that people are wonderfully nice around here.

#bughead author spotlight #fan fiction #fan fiction writers #Bughead #bughead fanfiction #ao3 #betty cooper #jughead jones #jughead x betty #betty x jughead #riverdale #finding betty #something to tell you

50 notes · View notes