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coffeeandcalligraphy · 3 years

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A chatty writing update | novels, short fiction, etc!

Hi folks!

It’s been a while since I last wrote an update on this blog! I thought it’d be fun to go back to basics, and just talk about writing. This post chats about: new plans for Feeding Habits, my newest novel, my short story goals & growing collection, along with process reflections.

(image description: a photo of green leaves with the text “writing update” in a white font written on top. /end image description)

Post starts under the cut!

General taglist (please ask to be added or removed)

@if-one-of-us-falls, @qatarcookie, @chloeswords, @alicewestwater, @laughtracksonata, @shylawrites, @ev–writes, @jaydewritesfiction, @jennawritesstories @eowynandfaramir, @august-iswriting, @aetherwrites, @avakrahn, @maisulli

What have I been up to?

For starters, I finished my second year of my Writing undergrad last week and got two of my final grades back today (A+ baby)! For anyone who has taken online university, y’all already KNOW, but this year was so difficult. Would not recommend! Really proud of myself to have gotten through this absolute rollercoaster of a school term and am excited to get into some writing. That leads us to:

What have I been up to (writing edition)?

2021 started off so fast. By the time January hit, I was so consumed in my new semester that I did not have time to write Feeding Habits (my novel). In the first few days of the term, I managed to write between class, until I could no longer keep up! Essentially, I did not write any of that novel until exam season (last week), where I did manage to get in about 3k words in ~4 days.

Feeding Habits

I’m currently drafting what I believe will be the last chapter of this book (chapter 10: Swan Song). This chapter is so bizarre for a few reasons. It begins the book’s third part and also marks the shift back into Lonan’s head from Harrison’s. I originally thought this part would be much, much longer, with at least another five chapters to go, but quickly realized the book’s content was nearly completed. In my 4 day 3k palooza, I hit 50k in the book (the word count goal), and couldn’t see myself extending past 60k. Since then, I’ve made the loose decision to write this final chapter as a ~novella. Here are a few reasons why:

1. This chapter is structurally very strange.

I unashamedly shift from present to past to present to past past, and so much more every 12 words. I mapped out the timeline on a sheet of paper, and there were over 20 shifts in scenes (the chapter is only about 4400 words at the moment). The fictive past is incredibly important to this chapter, more important than the present, and I thought it would make more sense to not break randomly for a chapter so I could upkeep the consistent inconsistency of the chapter.

2. The chapter is very abstract

This stems from the structural changes, but there are paragraphs in this chapter of the fictive present that are loosely based in reality. They’re more poems than they are factual paragraphs, and keeping them all contained in one place (so a mega chapter/ novella) would reduce the most confusion!

3. There’s not much left to cover

Like I said above, Feeding Habits is on its last leg, lol! I know exactly where the book needs to end up, which is very, very soon from where I’m currently at on the timeline. Swan Song should cover what 2-4 chapters would cover in terms of arcs.

Feeding Habits and I have a really weird relationship, tbh! When I realized a few weeks ago that it’d been over a year since I started the book, I realized I just needed to finish it. Not that I want to rush (because I’ve taken longer than a year to write a book in the past), but that in order to move onto another project, I’d like to put this one behind first. This book has been the hardest thing I’ve ever written, and has reminded me there’s always a time to let go. This sort of scrounges up a conversation about letting this entire series go, which is certainly something I’ve been contemplating doing soon(ish). If this spinoff series gets a third book, that may or may not be the last Fostered book for a very long time (or ever)! There are many complex reasons to move on, but the main one is that I have other projects I’d like to focus on. This is not a definitive decision, but something I’ve certainly been thinking about!

Here are a few excerpts I wrote recently:

(TW: death, gore)

Dying feels like being a trout dangled out of water. Clinging to a hook. Mouth open. Scales iridescent in a final death cry. It’s like blood spurting up the knuckles, drowning out the flesh. It’s that moment on the long fall down when the clouds cup the body. Easy drifting. The sound a skull makes when it cracks is really just the afterthought.

(TW: death, gore)

Kill shot. Death blow. Coup de grace. Right in the heart. He feels it. The blood swelling, slicking his palms. He can do it. Reach into the cavity. Feel for the ribs. Part each bone. Then cup the humming heart. Stay there. Right. It’s never been easier.

Look at this PURE moment of Lonan holding a baby I CANNOT:

The grocery store was a fifteen-minute walk away. With Olivia clinging to his shoulder, Lonan was acutely aware that she could feel his heartbeat. Open valve. Close. Repeat. Hers pulsed right above his, a miniature drumming. The sky had bruised purple, misted with clouds. The evening air nipped his cheeks, so he made sure Olivia was securely fastened between him and his jacket. With wide eyes, she absorbed the drowsy suburbia, all its family cars pulling into driveways, all its couples heading back home after a sunset walk. When Lonan passed a young boy walking two golden retrievers, Olivia giggled, and didn’t stop, even after he’d spent fifty dollars on groceries and nearly the rest on a red Corolla marked with a MUST GO NOW sign outside a convenience store.

Let’s move on!

Mandy and Cora

I said I wouldn’t talk too much about this project, but I just love it so much?? I wanted to share my SUPER early thoughts on drafting a novel, especially one that is SO different from what I’ve been writing recently. I talked about this before in THIS post, but the summary about this project is that it’s a YA contemporary novel! Can’t believe I’m writing YA again, it’s been so long, but I also think it’s going so well. Everything I’ve learned as a literary fiction writer has been a fantastic primer for transferring back to the genre. Admittedly, I have not written much, but I’m having a lot of fun diving back into a lighter project. This is the summary:

Cora and Mandy are identical twins who’ve always done everything together. But when Mandy decides to go to university out of province after graduation and Cora doesn’t, Cora takes this as an opportunity to “test run” life apart from her sister for the first time by spending the summer at her aunt’s house across the country.

I have come up with a few ~things since I last talked about this project, mostly how I’d like to structure it. As of now, I’d like the book to be structured super loosely. I’m really pulling on a lot of inspo from “We Are Okay” by Nina LaCour (which is SO good), particularly how “nothing happens-y” that book is. This project (which I still need a title for!!) will be structured in short chapters that cover something Cora does on her own for the first time (without Mandy). For example, a few ideas are “Flight”, “Lunch”, and “Groceries”. “Flight” is the first “chapter” (they’re really kind of vignettes) where Cora flies to her aunt’s house. I still can’t determine if this book will take place in Canada. On one hand, I feel like there will be a wider audience if it takes place in the US (is that just an assumption??? maybe?? someone let me know!), but also: don’t really care too much about an audience at the moment! It could also take place in Canada (So Ontario and British Columbia). But if it does take place in the US, I think it may take place in NYC and San Francisco. The problem is: I really don’t like researching lol, and while I’ve been to NYC many times, I will definitely write it wrong! Does this really matter on a first draft?? absolutely not lol, but of course I am already overthinking!

But back to structure: I am looking forward to seeing what this looser structure will do. This is a story that is solely around one half of a set of twins learning to be her own person (and ultimately that she doesn’t have to completely forget her sister in order to do that), and as a twin who KNOWS this feeling, I think this structure of her doing things for the first time is SUPER relatable.

I was worried it might sound silly/worrying to others who are not twins that Cora hadn’t done things like “lunch” or “groceries” on her own, but I feel this so much as an identical twin myself! Not that she hasn’t done anything at all by herself, but as a twin, when you do something without your twin for the first few times, at least in my experience, you notice. If any twins are reading this--weigh in!

This story is the most personal thing I’ve ever written. It definitely is an OwnVoices book! Usually, I avoid details that are remotely similar to me because they make me uncomfortable haha, but with this book, it’s all me, lol! The characters are all Guyanese, which is SO fun because I’ve been planning what they eat (my fellow Caribbean peeps know: the FOOD!), which is so fun (yes they have pumpkin and shrimp, yes they have roti, yes they have pera, yes they have mithai). Every time I’ve gone to dabble at this book, or even think about it, I get incredibly emotional for this reason? I don’t exactly know why. I think this is a story I just so want to tell, with the culture I love SO much that I definitely struggled to love as a child. This is reclamation bitchessss!

Not going to lie tho: the prospect of writing ~a book~ is kind of freaky! I’m going to make the minimum word count for this book pretty short (50k) and see where it goes from there. I think I will focus on this project this summer! Originally I was going to write a literary novel this summer, but I think this one’s calling my name!

Here’s a pretty rough excerpt:

Try. I remind myself that’s what I’m doing after the flight attendant fills me a disposable cup of Coca Cola and all I can think of is Mandy and I shoving Mentos into a bottle of the stuff when we were twelve. Just me, wedged in the middle seat between an exchange student heading out for summer break and a middle-aged woman sipping a cocktail, thinking of Mandy and I bursting whole oranges in a blender when we were bored one Winter break as the plane dips through a wave of turbulence. Mandy and I dying our hair neon green with highlighters (didn’t work—our hair is too dark) as the plane lands on the tarmac. Mandy and I arguing so loud last month, we both lost our voices as I lug my carry-on out of the overhead compartment and shuffle off the plane and through the airport, searching for Aunt Vel.

Short Fiction

I’ve written so much short fiction this year! I have a goal to write a short story a month (they can range in length, as long as 1 is “complete”), so my short story brain has seriously been soaking it all up lately. Let’s chat my month to month breakdown so far:

January:

I wrote four stories in January! The first is a flash fiction piece called “Shark Swimming” that follows a young woman who attends a shark swimming class after breaking up with her girlfriend. I wrote this story for a “test” workshop for my fiction class, and it was based off the prompt “think about something you’re afraid to do and make the character do that thing”. I’m not particularly afraid of sharks, but had been wanting to use the title “Shark Swimming” for AGES (literally since 2018).

This story is one of my favourites. It’s only about 900 words, but I think there’s something profound in how mundanely specific it is. The entire story doesn’t even see the narrator swim with sharks once; it actually takes place fully in the sanctuary’s lobby. But I really love this narrator. This is the first story I’ve written in second person in a while, though I felt really connected to the unnamed narrator. She struggles with accepting that she truly is a “boring” person, and there’s something about the final image that really gets me!

I’ve been submitting this around, though it’s been rejected a handful of times. Hoping I can secure it at a magazine one day because I really love it!

The second story is “Joanne, I’ll Pray for You” which is actually a rewrite of one of my very first short stories (the first story I did not write for a class haha), “NYC in Your Apartment”. I LOVE this rewrite a lot, and also learned the original is not a very good short story! Revising this story taught me just how much I’ve learned in the 2 years I’ve been writing short fiction. Seeing the 2019 version versus the 2021 version side by side is fascinating because I essentially “gutted’ the 2019 version of its beginning and end until all that was left was the middle of the story (aka the actual story). AKA: this is the only story I’ve ever written with a hopeful ending and I cut out all the happy bits lol I am SO sorry (that arc is more for a novel or novella). That’s how this went from a 5k word story to an 1800 word story (my Submittable thanks me for this lol). A lot of details and scenes I included were more pertinent to a 3 act structure/novel, which of course short stories don’t often have because of their brevity. I love rambling about writing theory, and seeing that actually pay off is so fascinating!

(TW: trauma)

Like the original, this story follows Joanne, a woman in her early twenties, who spontaneously breaks up with her boyfriend. She claims the poltergeist haunting her drove her to this decision. The original draft focused a lot more on the traumatic events Joanne survives, but this draft really loosens them up. It focuses less so on the events themselves, and more on how Joanne’s life is affected. I found the details of these events were less important, and even sort of contradicted Joanne’s insistence she is being haunted. Instead, the poltergeist really takes more precedence in the new draft as a force Joanne doesn’t understand. That ambiguity, I think, is what the story truly needed.

I also centralized Joanne’s relationship with her boyfriend, Julian, here. Now don’t get me wrong, I really didn’t add anything to this draft. It was a matter of trimming the fat around it to leave the lean “meat” in the centre. But by removing that fat, I was able to emphasize what was most important here, and that was her relationship. Julian always played a really big role in the original draft, but I feel like his role as both a friend and partner to Joanne is much more emphasized since this draft literally is only two scenes now. Because there is less, there is more room for Joanne to reflect, which I’m happy about!

A final change I made was the setting and therefore the title. The original, which was “NYC in Your Apartment,” I couldn’t keep because I shifted the setting to Toronto (this is how I originally saw it, but in 2019 I just?? couldn’t?? write?? canlit??), and “Toronto in Your Apartment” sounded sort of gross LOL. The new title comes from a line in the story which I think is more relevant to the themes!

The next short story I wrote in January was “How to Spell Alpaca.” This one is super fun because I wrote it SO fast (in about 15 minutes or so). THIS is the writing update if you’re interested in learning more. I talked extensively about this one in that update, but some developments are that I dove into an edit a few weeks ago to really understand the core of the story. I’m still not quite there (this is just an intuitive feeling; I know not everything has “clicked), but I am really intrigued by the two mothers in the story, the narrator, and her newfound acquaintance, Violet. Both really struggle to understand their place as mothers (the narrator even declares she isn’t a mother anymore). The narrator, who is in her 50s, sees herself in Violet, who is much younger (~20s), and so she views Violet’s relationship with her daughter in a cautionary, yet mournful way, like she can see it will end up like her own relationship with her daughter, despite wanting the opposite. This is a really subtle story. I feel like if you blink, you’ll miss the message. But I think it’s compelling for that reason. It’s really a portrait of parenting and how to grapple with mistakes you may make that inevitably affect your children. Wow just unlocked the theme writing this lol.

The final story I wrote in January is “The Party,” which may be in my top 3 faves I’ve ever written. This story follows Aida, a recent divorcee in her ~40s. The day her divorce turns official, she moves into a new house and receives a party invitation addressed to the previous homeowner, yet RSVP’s anyway. At this party, she’s hoping to find some sense of noticeability, having struggled with being nondescript her whole life. Things seem quite normal at the party, until it gets bizarre.

I LOVE this story, y’all. Like “How to Spell Alpaca” it really delves into motherhood. Aida, our narrator, is incredibly hurt after her divorce. She now lives farther from her children she struggled to feel connected to in the first place, and doesn’t really know how to reignite her life. This party is a means to do that. This is the first story I’ve written that contains a “twist” which is strange because I really prefer stories that give us as much info as possible upfront, but yes, this one sort of twists.

February

I wrote one story in February, and that was “Protect the Young.” This title is SO changing when I think of a new one because it’s thematically incorrect, haha, but this story follows a woman in her late 40s whose daughter, Lindy, announces she is married the same day all their backyard chickens turn up dead. The discovery of dead chickens prompts our narrator to recall her ex-husband’s murder and the role her daughter may have played in his death.

I love this story so much! I think this would make a great closing for my short story collection. It just has that vibe! I wrote this for my second fiction workshop. I thought I had to hand in the story a week earlier than I had to, so I panicked and wrote this in one sitting! Little did I know, I did not need to do that lol but I’m very happy because this story is so fun. We get to learn more about Arnold (her ex), his relationship with Lindy, and how that translates to Lindy’s relationship with her new husband, Malcolm. I LOVE true crime (I listen to about 3-4 hours of case coverage daily), and this is my first “true crime” story. Because of that, I’m very sus of a few details that probably wouldn’t slide in actual investigatory work, so I’ll also be working on that in a revision. My professor also gave me a great suggestion that may alter the story’s structure a bit, though I look forward to toggling with it in the future.

March

In March, I was really on a Criminal Minds kick lol. I’ve been watching this show since I was seven (oops), and dove into a rewatch since it hit Disney+! This story, “Where to Run When the Lamb Roars,” is very clearly Rachel watching 5 episodes of CM a day. Oops! We follow 14-year-old Astrid as she and her older half brother kidnap a young girl to sacrifice for their yearly ritual.

I knew a few things going into this story, but the main thing was that I did NOT want to show any details of a potential murder (if one even occurs). I really wanted to keep all of those elements off the page because this story is not about those events, but about Astrid’s relationship with her brother. They are a murderous duo, with Astrid actually being the dominant partner. I wanted to explore that. I knew her brother, Fox, was more of a submissive partner in their team, even when he used to do this same thing with his father when he was much younger (chilling!), and so it was a task to explore how this young girl’s desire for violence works. The end actually comes right before the story starts, one could say, but I like it for this reason. It really made me contemplate the story by the time I finished it, and helped me examine what it really was about versus what it appeared to be about.

April

(TW: sexual content, non explicit)

I was so busy this month! Who knows if I’ll write a story last minute, but I did write one story this month called “Five Times Fast.” I wrote this during a “writing sprint” that was being hosted at a flash fiction workshop I recently took with one of my favourite writers ever, K-Ming Chang. I learned so much from this class, and am so happy I came out of it with a draft! This story is just over 300 words, so the shortest flash I’ve ever written, but I’m really happy with it. It was based off the prompt “describe the last time you or your character was naked.” In this case, the narrator has a “friends with benefits” relationship with Ricky who works at a laundromat. This story highlights a moment in this relationship (and also Ricky’s goofy personality lol). I really like it! Hopefully I’ll submit it to some magazines soon.

My short story collection

Very briefly I wanted to touch on my short story collection which I’ve titled “She is Also Dead.” I’ve been meaning to make a blog post on this, so look out for that in the coming months, but this collection is already at around 35k words (about 14 stories so far). The collection also surprisingly has a solid amount of flash fiction which is kind of fun! There’s definitely a range here, which is what I personally love in short story collections.

I feel very professional now that I have a ~collection chart. This is her:

(image description: A chart with the title “She is Also Dead.” It is broken into four columns: Story, Status, Word Count, and Published. Entry 1 - Story: Slaughter the Animal. Status: Revisions, Word Count, 3982, Published: N/A. Entry 2 - Story: Joanne, I’ll Pray for You, Status: Polished, Word Count: 1809, Published: N/A. Entry 3 - Story: Primary Organs, Status: Published, Word Count: 2342, Published: The Malahat Review. Entry 4 - Story: Faberge, Status, Polished, Word Count: 619, Published: N/A. Entry 5 - Story: The Wolf-Antelope Will Not Come for Us, Status, Polished, Word Count: 1556, Published: filling Station (forthcoming). Entry 6 - Story: How to Spell Alpaca, Status: revisions, Word Count: 1327, Published: N/A. Entry 7 - Story: Blink Twice for Final Judgement, Status: Polished, Word Count: 6572, Published: N/A. Entry 8 - Story: The Species is Dead, Status: Published, Word Count: 1208, Published: Minola Review. Entry 9 - Story: Shark Swimming, Status: Polished, Word Count: 907, Published: N/A. Entry 10 - Story: The Party, Status, Polished, Word Count 2339, Published: N/A. Entry 11 - Story: Fig, Status: Polished, Word Counter: 947, Published: N/A. Entry 12 - Story: Protect the Young, Status: Revisions, Word Count: 4128, Published: N/A. Entry 13 - Story: Where to Run When the Lamb Roars, Status: Revisions, Word Count: 2174, Published: N/A. Entry 14 - Story: Phantom Limbs, Status: Revisions, Word Count: 4844, Published: N/A.) /end image description.

This order is DEFINITELY not permanent (at this point whenever I write a story, I just fit it randomly into this chart lol), and some of the info is outdated (for example, Slaughter the Animal is now polished!!! thank god!!!). But just an idea of what I’m thinking of including.

This is the summary so far:

In SHE IS ALSO DEAD, characters are pushed to act on their gravest impulses. A small town turns murderous when their local invasive species, the Janices, begin dying. A child struggles to understand her mother’s suicide. A college dropout who insists she’s being haunted by a poltergeist unexpectedly breaks up with her boyfriend. A mother acknowledges her daughter’s murderous tendencies after her backyard chickens mysteriously die. A young girl caters the funeral of a girl rumored to be killed by a wolf-antelope. A newly-divorced mother RSVP’s to a bizarre party she was not invited to, and a murderous brother and sister upkeep their yearly tradition of abducting a young girl. These stories follow characters who navigate death, violent desires, womanhood, and loss, both self-imposed and otherwise.

This is also so subject to change as I may pull and add stories to the collection!

I think I’m going to leave this update here for now! I’ve written TONS of poetry too, but I honestly ~hate my poetry right now lol, so! Hope you enjoyed this chill rambly update. Hope writing has going well for you all! All the best!

--Rachel

#writing #writeblr #writerblr #amwriting #writingupdates

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obsidianfr3sk · 4 years

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Rise of the Renegades (Chapter 7)

Summary: Heroes come from the most unexpected places. Heroes sometimes feel a little too different, a little too scared, a little too alone. But heroes also know when enough is enough, and that before saving the world, they need to save themselves. And they cannot do it alone.

They were going to be the hope of the world. They were going to call themselves the Renegades. Even if they didn’t know it yet.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26246812/chapters/65983648

Alo (? Today’s chapter is up early lol and it’s about Gay-Girl alliance (?

Thanks for the reblogs, comments, nice tags and likes. They help me to keep writing!

Tag list: @nodrianbcyes @healing-winston-pratt @dawniebb @cerenoya @bluraspberryoff-secretary @ marissagustrerbenson

Nothing is better than superheroes

Frankly, I feel insane,

but you say you feel the same,

and suddenly, it’s like, "Hey, I’m not crazy".

Don’t kill me, 'cause I’m just the messenger.

I’ve never seen someone quite this strange before.

You’re just like me, you took all your vitamins.

You’re just like me and you take delight in it.

Georgia

It was very difficult to be in the city at night. There was no light, but she wasn’t sure if it was because almost everyone was sleeping or because there was no electricity in that neighborhood.

Probably the first thing. It was... a little late.

She had forgotten how good it felt to fly.

In the sky, Georgia was free to do as she pleased. She would flip, shout at the top of her lungs, sing old songs that her father had taught her, curse everything she could not curse anywhere else, and laugh for real.

Anarchy was insignificant when seen from above.

Freedom. That was freedom. And what a sweet taste it had.

She wondered if one day, everyone could taste it.

Finally, she arrived. Or so she thought.

She went down in a tailspin and stopped before touching the ground. After looking around, she realized all the windows were closed and the lights were off.

She was safe.

The mailbox of the house at her right had written over it the number 4480. She looked at the notebook again. It said 4491 Atha Drive.

Close.

The street was empty. She kept flying from there, quietly begging that no woke up for a midnight snack and decided to look through the window.

It took longer to think that than to get to 4491. It was a pretty small house, blue on the outside, with the window frames and the door painted white. They also had a mailbox, but Georgia was sure it wasn’t big enough for the notebook to fit there.

That house just felt so full of mystery...

The hell with this. She was going to leave it in his room.

Georgia felt like Santa Claus. Or the tooth fairy. Like she was one of those creatures that only children with a lot of imagination believed in. Though she doubted Hugh E. wasn’t one of those kids.

Hugh

Simon left before the sun went down. His aunt asked him if he wanted to stay for dinner, but he said his little sister was alone in the house and someone needed to take care of her. Hugh decided to go to his room. He wasn’t hungry anyway.

He left his books on the old wooden table that served as his desk. Hugh felt so angry just thinking about his backpack. It was pretty new. His aunt had saved money to buy it for him and even had a key chain made of corkscrew that Sophie had given him as a gift for being her brother’s best friend. He had been so moved by that gesture…

And the bastards had taken it.

That’s right, he said bastards. So what?

Hugh wasn’t scared anymore. When they took his backpack, they also took away his fear. Now, Hugh could only feel anger and helplessness.

If only he had fought a little more, if only he had used his powers for what they really were…

Hugh had always known his powers were dangerous. He was old enough to remember how people talked about prodigies before the Age of Anarchy. Prodigies were freaks. Prodigies were dangerous.

And sometimes those messages made him wonder if that’s why his parents didn’t want him. If it was because they thought he would grow and become a danger to everyone around it.

That is why he had spent his whole life trying to be nice to the world, even if the whole world wasn’t nice to him. He wanted to prove to everyone, even himself, that prodigies were not dangerous. Or not all of them.

He knew that if he had used his powers against those particular villains, it would only make him turn into a villain himself.

And Hugh was not a villain. He was never going to be one.

However, he also knew that if he had used his powers against them, he probably would have found Simon before that freaking kid hurt him.

Hugh would have been there for him.

He fixed his gaze on the superhero drawings he had on the wall. Some were from before the Age of Anarchy. He liked to have them next to the newer ones, to feel good about all the progress he had made.

They always made him feel good but that time, they didn’t. They made him feel like an idiot.

He would never be like them. They took the initiative. They did fight a little more. They were themselves even if others didn’t like it.

They didn’t feel like dangerous freaks because they had never been told they were ones.

Comic book superheroes didn’t have to bottle all the anger fear left when it went away. What could Hugh do with it other than keeping it in the depths of his soul and wait for it to die with him?

He put his hands on one of his drawings.

How easy it’s for you.

Georgia

She stayed a few inches above the ground to not make any noise. They didn’t have a fence. She took it as a good sign.

Maybe you’re welcome here.

Georgia flew into the backyard. There was a square window. She approached to make sure it was a boy’s room.

It was late when she realized that it was, in fact, a boy’s room and that this boy, blond, with glasses and wearing blue pajamas, was still awake.

Hugh

Just as he was beginning to tear the edges of the sheet of paper, a shadow blocked the moonlight that entered his room.

Hugh turned his back.

A woman in white clothes and a yellow jacket floated across his window, looking at him as if she were the one who was surprised by him.

She was hugging a red notebook. His notebook.

He didn’t even notice it was missing.

Hugh opened the window. The woman backed away slightly frightened. However, as soon as she looked into his eyes, she recovered immediately.

She gave him the notebook. There was a piece of paper between its pages. He opened it and realized it was his drawing, but it was no longer broken like the last time he saw it.

The woman had taped it back together with strawberry washi-tape.

He never thought something like this would make him feel almost as happy as his drawings did.

Hugh looked up to thank her and recognized her immediately. It was the girl from the store.

The moonlight made her look like...

There was no other explanation. She just had to be that.

She could not be just a girl.

Georgia

The boy was the first to speak. “Are you an angel?”

Georgia cringed a little. Of course that boy would believe in angels.

She laughed under her breath. “No. I am not.”

He turned his head slightly. “Then what are you?”

And it sounded like he really didn’t understand who or what Georgia was.

It’s okay. I’m also having a hard time understanding who or what are you.

“I am a...”

Georgia began to look for an answer inside her head.

Just invent something, Georgia.

“I am a superhero.”

The boy smiled at her, but not as he had smiled at the Roach that afternoon. It was more like he was smiling at an ally. To an acquaintance. Or an old friend.

It was a prettier smile.

“That’s better. There’s nothing better than superheroes. You know why I know that?”

More mystery.

She shook her head. “Why?”

“Because I am a superhero too.”

Georgia smiled back at him. But of course you’re a prodigy, Hugh E. Of course you are.

She was beginning to understand him. And he seemed to be beginning to understand her, too.

Hugh

It took him a while to remember his manners. “My name is Hugh, by the way,” he said offering his hand.

Don’t squeeze it too hard.

The woman shook his hand. “I know. I saw it in your notebook.”

He felt he was turning a little red, but her nervous laughter calmed him down a bit. “My name is Georgia. Georgia Rawles.”

“How did you find me, Georgia?”

Georgia took the notebook and showed him the inside of the cover. “You wrote your address here.”

“Oh, I see.” He suddenly remembered that day. Simon had been in a particularly good mood. He had liked that. Simon wasn’t always in a good mood. “Maybe I should stop putting my personal information in my notebooks.”

“On the contrary, I think you should do it more often,” she replied. “What’s going to happen when you lose a notebook again?”

He shrugged and laughed.

“Hey. And what’s this comic about?”

At first, he was very surprised that a girl wanted to know what a comic was about. However, he gradually realized that what actually surprised him was that she didn’t read comics.

“You don’t read comics?”

“No. I’m more of a book person. Mysteries, crime novels, and so on.”

“I don’t read,” he confessed.

Georgia thought for a moment. “I think comics count as reading.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes, I heard it once in class,” she clarified.

Despite the darkness of the night, Hugh noticed that Georgia trembled slightly. That jacket wasn’t protecting her from the October cold at all.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked.

Georgia raised her eyebrows. “Does your mom let you have girls in the room?” she asked with a trembling voice.

“I don’t know what my mom would say, but my aunt is asleep.” He got out of bed to make room for her when it happened. “Come in.”

Georgia suddenly looked slightly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, I didn’t remember— I didn’t know about your mom.”

“Ah! No, it’s— Come in, seriously.”

Finally, she agreed to it. The cold got to her. It was all right; he didn’t like the cold either.

Hugh rushed to turn on the light. Georgia closed the window and pulled the curtains.

He immediately regretted not cleaning his room a little better. It wasn’t that messy, but it definitely could be better. Girls were more delicate with that stuff, weren’t they?

At least it wasn’t Simon’s room.

She looked at the drawings and then to her right. “Is that... the comic?” and pointed to a bunch of comics he had on his nightstand.

The comic. He knew what she was talking about.

“That is the one,” he replied. He took it and showed her the broken back cover. “See?” Georgia shuddered. Hugh doubted it was because of the cold, but he asked her anyway, “Would you like me to give you an extra jacket?”

“No, I mean... I’m fine,” she muttered. “It’s just... well, this afternoon was pretty crazy, wasn’t it?”

Pretty crazy didn’t even begin to describe how the afternoon had been.

But Hugh didn’t have the time or the words to explain it to her. He wished he did though.

“It was pretty crazy,” he recognized. “Were you scared?”

She took the comic book and started flipping through it. “But tell me... what are these comics about?”

Hugh sat next to her. “They’re about this guy Aaron who has hydrokinesis-powers.”

“He controls the water?”

“Yep. He is a prodigy. Although they never say that word in the entire comic book.” Georgia nodded, interested in that detail. “And he hides it from everyone. But then one day he goes to the beach, he meets a mysterious old man who gives him a silver spear because he is the chosen one who’ll save the world of the ocean and the land. Wonder Man accepts and every time he takes the spear and says the magic words, the spear gives him a super-suit and his powers become stronger. And all goes well during the first numbers, until at the end of the number before this one—” he raised the comic book over his head “—that old man, who became his tutor, reveals to him something... shocking.”

Hugh went quiet all of a sudden. He forgot he didn’t know if Georgia wanted him to tell her everything or if she was just being nice.

But Georgia looked genuinely intrigued. “What happened?” she asked, frowning. “What was the shocking revelation?”

I can see you like mysteries, lady.

“Ah, well... Wonder Man wasn’t the chosen one,” he replied, raising his feet to the bed. “There are many other people like him all over the world. Only that he was the first to accept the proposal.”

Georgia covered her mouth with one hand. “Wow. Brutal.”

“Yes, he didn’t take it well,” Hugh continued. “He felt betrayed because now there was nothing to make him special. And that made him miserable so he stopped being Wonder Man. But then Ace Anarchy came out of the darkness—”

“Ace Anarchy?” Georgia asked.

She wasn’t confused at all. She was... nervous.

Although less than a normal person would be if they heard that infamous name.

Interesting.

“Yes, the one and only,” he said quietly. “And he went and killed his tutor. Wonder Man found him when he was bleeding out on the floor. His tutor apologized for lying to him.”

“But... why did he lie to him?” she wanted to know. “Why didn’t he tell him the truth from the start?”

Hugh remembered the page number where that happened. He looked for it and read it out loud. “I wanted to know if you had what it took to be a hero, Aaron. I had to know.”

Georgia took the comic.

“And do I?” she asked reading Wonder Man’s dialogue.

Hugh felt chills. That question had felt so real.

He didn’t need to read from the comic book to know what followed that line. “That’s a question you need to answer by yourself, Aaron. Do you have what it takes to be a hero?”

Georgia turned the page and Hugh was able to visualize perfectly what she was seeing because it was something he had seen hundreds of times since he had bought that number.

Wonder Man stood up and came out of the cave where his tutor lived, with his spear covered in the blood. He lifted it to the moon and the waves of the sea began to rise.

“And here it says: 'Yes, I do'” Georgia read. She closed the comic book somewhat violently. “It doesn’t make sense. What a stupid mystery.”

Hugh was slightly offended. Just... slightly . “Why do you say that?”

“How did he know he has what it takes to be a hero?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, shrugging. “He just… knew.”

Georgia sighed. That wasn't the answer she was expecting and Hugh knew it. But he wasn't quite sure what else to say to her.

He supposed they were going to explain it in the next number. Only there was never going to be a next number.

Hugh wasn't going to lie: he felt a little bad that he couldn't give Georgia an explanation. He couldn't even give it to himself.

“How did you know you have what it takes to be a hero?”

He turned to see her. Had he heard her right?

Since Georgia didn't say anything else, he assumed he did.

Yes, he had heard right.

A few hours ago, he would have been more flattered than ever. But in those moments, he just said, “Me? I don't think I am a hero. I think you are though.”

“Me a hero?!” she asked. She also wanted to make sure she was listening well. “Really?”

Well, at least she was flattered “Really!” Hugh assured her. “You came all this way to give me back my notebook, and you fixed my drawing, and you talked to me ... That is pretty heroic.”

“Well, that's funny because... seriously, I think you are the hero here.”

Hugh was still asking the same question. “But why?”

“You stood up to those villains this afternoon!” Georgia exclaimed pointing at him. “You were the only one who said no to them and who wasn’t scared of them at all. That is pretty heroic.”

Hugh was overcome by the urge to smile. Georgia smiled more, showing that she wasn't backing off her words.

Well… he had to admit that maybe there was something heroic about what he had done, even if it didn’t go the way he wanted.

However, he couldn't take all the credit.

“Maybe we're both heroic.”

“You think so?”

Was she starting to stop believing it?

Not on my watch.

"I think so," he replied, grabbing his pillow and putting it on his lap. Distracted, he began to fiddle with the thread from his gray-striped sheath. “I have a friend. He's pretty heroic too. It’s just that… he can’t see himself as such.”

But I believe in him for both of us.

“I get that friend of yours,” she replied. “Sometimes things are not that simple. I also have a friend who doesn’t see herself the way I see her.”

“As someone heroic?” he wanted to know.

Georgia thought about it for a bit and then just smiled. “Yeah, let's put it that way.”

He wondered if it would be wise to ask her a little more about it but immediately imagined Simon next to him kicking him to shut him up in the most discreet way he could think of.

“Do you know if he beat Ace Anarchy in the end?” she asked.

Hugh shook his head with an apologetic smile. Although he knew it wasn't his fault he couldn't beat him.

The only one responsible for Wonder Man not being able to defeat Ace Anarchy… was Ace Anarchy himself.

“I imagined it, ” Georgia murmured. “But—”

She bit her lip before finishing the sentence.

Do you want to say what I think you want to say?

He moved a little closer to her. “But what?”

Georgia looked him straight in the eye. She had a huge hopeful smile when she asked:

“But what if we did?”

Thinking about it was one thing.

But hearing someone else say it, with the same desire to believe it as him, was something a thousand times better.

He threw the pillow on the floor and took Georgia by the shoulders. “That was exactly what I was gonna say!” he exclaimed.

He immediately reminded himself to lower his voice. He didn't want to wake his aunt up.

Hugh removed his hands from Georgia's shoulders and hid them behind him. Georgia was kind of amused.

She stifled her laughter with her hand. “Jinx,” and she offered him her pinky.

Hugh found that gesture adorable. Girls are really nice. “Jinx,” and laced his pinky through hers. “No, but seriously, do you really think so?”

He just wanted to make sure one last time. Just one last time before he completely believed in her.

She got serious again. “I want to believe someone has to do something about it,” she sighed. “And I am tired of never being that someone. I want to be that someone. I want to do something about it.”

Yes. Yes to everything you say, Georgia. It is true.

I also think that.

“Me too, Georgia, me too!” he exclaimed, putting his hand on her fist. “Georgia, I also want to be that someone! We could be that someone! The three of us!”

Her smile didn't fade, but it tensed a bit. “Three?”

“My friend. I'm including my friend,” he explained.

Georgia relaxed. “Oh sure, sure. Okay, but we're going to be four because I'm including my friend too.”

“Perfect! The more the merrier.”

And he meant it.

Four prodigies against Ace Anarchy.

Suddenly, things didn't look so complicated.

“So… are you saying we can like… get together here to plan our next move against this cruel world?” Georgia asked him.

Hugh was about to say "yes" when he remembered his aunt. If she found four people gathered in her living room, Hugh would have to give a lot of explanations that he wasn't prepared to give.

Hello, aunt, we are planning to destroy the status quo.

She would surely laugh at them, tell them to stop trying to be heroes, and kick out Simon, Georgia, and their friend. And Hugh would never get the chance to be a hero again.

He loved his family very much. But he couldn't risk his chance like that.

Someday he was going to tell her. However, for the moment it was better to keep the secret.

He could keep a secret.

But then where are we going to meet?

A light bulb went on above his head.

That place was perfect.

“Yes, we’re getting together to plan our next move against this cruel world,” he replied, getting off the bed. "Just not here”

He took a pen and tore a page out of his notebook. Georgia tried to look over her shoulder as he wrote down an address. Then it occurred to him that perhaps he could give her a… little gift.

To thank her for returning his things.

He drew a quick doodle of Wonder Man smiling at them, doing finger guns with one hand and holding the silver spear in the other. A text bubble came out of his mouth, asking them: "Do you have what it takes to be a hero?"

Hugh knew they did.

Even if he wasn't sure what it was.

He quickly wrote “This Friday, 6:30 am” and handed the folded paper to Georgia. “4480 Atha Drive,” she read. “It's pretty close from here.”

"Yeah, it's my friend's address,” he answered. “I bet he won’t mind. His dad leaves his house before we go to school. So we’ll be safe.”

Georgia stared at the paper, looking at it a little… worried. “Hugh... you are going to be there, aren't you?”

Hugh scoffed. “Why wouldn't I?”

She shrugged.

“Would you like a guarantee? Because… Look—” he took his blue hoodie from over the chair and handed it to her “—my favorite and only hoodie. It is very warm, although it does not seem like it. Maybe more than yours. Put it on, and that way you won't get a cold when you get home. You can return it to me when we meet again.”

Georgia put it on. It fitted her perfectly. “How chivalrous of you,” she said. “I'll give back to you on Friday then.”

“Friday will be.”

On Friday. Everything was going to change on Friday.

Everything was finally going to change.

Georgia stood up and floated to the window. Hugh stared at her from his bed.

“Hey,” he called her. When she turned around, he offered her his pinky. “We're going to be heroes, lady. I believe in us.”

Before leaving, Georgia laced her pinky through his, looking at their joined hands as if they were the most precious thing in the world. “I believe in us too, captain. I believe in us too.”

And how good it felt to have someone by his side that believe in them as much as he did.

#renegades #archenemies #supernova #renegades trilogy #georgia rawles #hugh everhart #OG renegades #rise of the renegades #ao3 #fic #the gays and the girls are going to change the world

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nettlestonenell · 5 years

Photo

So, you want to adapt Little Women for the screen.

There’s quite a challenge ahead of you, Gentle Readers. Might I help get you started?

What, you might ask are my own bona fides in suggesting that I might have the right to hold forth on such a topic? Very well, I first read Little Women in 1983. The first of countless times I have read it. Actually, I collect copies of it, and buy interesting ones whenever I see them. I’ve seen more than a few adaptations of it.

The cover of my first copy. A giant volume, it was highly impractical to carry around. I did it anyway.

An initial challenge, any screen writer will tell you, is sheer length. Little Women was originally published as two separate books. So, an initial novel, and a sequel. By 1880, the two volumes were forever published as one.

Not only does this mean lots of pages and plot needing weeded out of your script, but it also means you’re going to have two climaxes and two denouements (seems about right for a female novel, yeah?), another challenge when adapting the two stories into a single film. (Imagine having to create a single story/plot from Philosopher’s Stone AND Chamber of Secrets).

Inevitably, what generally happens in past adaptations is that Part II gets greatly compressed and short-changed (and I do not doubt, Gentle Readers, creates some of the dissatisfaction among viewers and fans where the handling of Laurie’s proposal and the latter adolescence of characters and their romances/mates don’t land as they might if spent more time with).

Actual illustration of Book One (on the left) and Book Two (on the right) once adapted for film.

According to Wikipedia: The book has been adapted for cinema; twice as silent film and four times with sound in 1933, 1949, 1978 and 1994. Six television series were made, including four by the BBC—1950, 1958, 1970, and 2017. Two anime series were made in Japan during the 1980s. A musical version opened on Broadway in 2005. An American opera version in 1998 has been performed internationally and filmed for broadcast on US television in 2001. Greta Gerwig is directing a new rendition of the novel, set to be released 2019.

I could not hit “Add to Watchlist” fast enough.

So, the list of folks attempting to tackle Little Women is a long one, and not always a successful one. Some elements of the story are always going to play well, and frankly, be hard to mess up too much. But others? Others have some real sticking-points.

I’m not here to critique individual versions of adaptations today, Gentle Readers.

I’m just here to muse on the Big Questions that need solid answers when you’re ready to take on writing your adaptation.

Someone contact them, I demand a recount.

1. How much of the true lives of the Alcott family will we include?

It’s no secret at this point that Alcott took a lot of inspiration from her real life. But how much do we include? Do we have Thoreau invited over for dinner? Do we address some of the more radical notions of the Alcotts’? Do we just go ahead and make Father in the novel like Bronson in real life?

a. How to explain/not explain the war and its effect on their lives

For contemporary audiences and readers, the incredibly matter-of-factness of the Civil War taking place deep in the background of the story will not resonate as much as it would to readers back in the day (It plays a bit like the Blitz in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe]. Perhaps it might be a good idea to bring it closer to the fore, beyond merely showing the girls in hoops, and coming across the occasional newspaper story or quietly dropped reference to a battle.

b. How to address or not address the March’s contemporarily confusing socio-economic position (that of ‘genteel penury’)

Gentle people now in reduced circumstances is a tough sell intellectually when 2019 can allow most everyone to disguise their financial situation through extensive credit and things like those housing bubble mortgages given to lots of Americans. It’s going to be necessary at some point to explain or show how the Marchs, who have so little themselves, have (to our 2019-eyes) pretty clothes, a large, cozy house, the ability to take food and minister to the (much) poor(er) Hummels, and a house servant; Hannah. The humiliating fact that they can’t buy new gloves for a party does not...exactly track in the twenty-first century.

They’re much worse-off than the Bennets of Longbourne, whose financial crisis is on the horizon, but how can you show that to viewers unfamiliar with the notion of life as a fallen-from-wealth family?

2. The persistent problematic-ness of Amy/Laurie

I will call to mind one adaptation, here, and Kirsten Dunst’s performance in particular. Singlehandedly, at the age of only *10*, she manages to sell the potential of not only Amy, but Amy/Laurie like no one else this tumblerian has ever seen. What a tragedy the film couldn’t have waited for her to grow up enough to also play Amy in the film’s second half.

In a world where perfect casting is rarely obtainable, this child should have been nominated for Oscar. She out-performs every Amy March before or since, ad infinitum.

Like many of the romantic partnerships, which other than Jo/Teddy (which is not presented as romantic in Book One) are included only in Book Two, films front-loaded with Book One (I can’t think of one I’ve seen that wasn’t) find themselves racing to a conclusion, and every one of the three couples suffers in presentation and allowing enough time for viewers to be ‘courted’ by them into liking them.

There’s simply not enough time left to work on all of them. So, it becomes a decision of which one is more important. Traditionally, as Brooke/Meg happens first, they get some character beats, but once Jo turns down Teddy...

I can hear the screams of horror across the ages.

...adaptations become a fight between showing Amy/Laurie or Jo/Bhaer, yet both of which are true surprises to viewers not familiar with the story, and who need time to warm up and be seduced by these new pairings.

(Mind you, I do think Bhaer and Jo should sneak up on a viewer/reader, but there still have to be signs planted here and there that make it make sense when it actually does happen.)

3. The age and age progression of the girls

Per the book, the story begins with Meg 16, Jo 15, Beth 13, and Amy 12 (aside: poor Marmee).

A clear example of...impractical* casting for teenagers. (And Jo! In trousers!?) * but perhaps necessary for community theatre

As I mentioned a few lines ago, Amy becomes the most difficult to cast, here, as it’s unlikely a person can play both 12 and the age of Amy when she accepts Laurie. Amy may be only 16 or so when she accepts Laurie, but contemporary viewers are probably going to need a little more assurance she’s not a child bride by her looking more mature than 16.

Beth is frequently cast older, which is also troublesome. She’s 16 at most when she dies, and has been ill for some time. (So, easy to assume she wasn’t growing rapidly.)

Jo has to be able to play age 15 to 25+.

Is that meant to be Jo on the left? Does that make Susan Dey Amy? Anyway, this production has the luxury of doing better on the ages of the girls. And they’ve got the inimitable Greer Garson as Aunt March!

Actors chosen can’t only be made-up to pass for certain ages, they also have to convince us they’re playing dress-up in the garret in the early portion of the film.

In fact, Jo in particular with her harum-scarum ways isn’t deliberately trying to make constant mistakes and faux pas. She’s a kid who hasn’t yet grown up, with a kid’s energy and unbridled sincerity. Convince us of that.

4. How to show both the importance and the growth of Jo’s writing

Filming someone writing is rarely moving to watch, and what’s more, writing is so misunderstood as a pastime or even a vocation, it doesn’t easily lend itself to being captivating when shown on-screen. And yet Jo’s writing is not only vital to the story, the growth and expression she finds in it are so deeply important to her character, and later to her romance plot with Bhaer. It’s got to be shown, and more than once. Moreso, or at least as much so as her temper, her mouth, and her lioness-like care for her sisters, it IS who she is.

Where’s the silly hat?

5. Flawed female characters that are meant to confront and wrestle with those flaws

Well, this is a big one, here. It seems to me we’re sort of operating by 2019 where that old saw of [man] girl vs. self isn’t really written about or shown. Our society at large has become very vocal about whoever we are being awesome and “never change”.

Which is just about as far from the notions in Little Women as one could get. Every one of the ‘women’ has something they need to work on, to grow and improve about themselves. From Meg not being able to get over their loss of money and status (remembered from when she was younger), to Amy’s dissatisfaction and constant desire to fine things, to Beth’s introversion, to Jo’s temper and intolerance of those who aren’t as bold and rebellious against society as her, and Jo’s inability to accept the change that will constantly be coming into all their lives as they grow.

Nasty!

The Little Women Alcott wrote had lessons to learn, and directions to grow, contrary to what their gut reactions might be. You can call that a moralistic take on the novel, but you can’t argue that Jo has to change, and is expected to be her own instigator of that change within the novel(s). [It does seem like anymore in films that the only person we expect to change bad habits or wrong ways of being are actual ‘bad guys’/villains. And sometimes not even them.]

6. Friedrich Bhaer

Well, that’s a mouthful. I don’t doubt that it always has been. The single, fan-dividing phrase of female literature. Am I right?

Doing for umbrella representation until Gene Kelly came along.

You know the story, right? That Alcott was so DONE with readers after Book One assuming and expecting Jo and Teddy to live happily ever after, she was so frustrated (she had never wanted, nor intended for that to happen) with all the shipping she built a Bhaer bomb.

@grrlinthefireplace would climb that.

And it’s still exploding readers’ and viewers’ minds today.

Why Professor Bhaer is the perfect match for Jo, and why their marriage and life together makes ultimate sense is certainly a post for another time, but I will say that if you’re still sore about it, take some time and reread the book as an adult, and see if you don’t also come to see the eminent sense in it.

That said, in any satisfying and successful adaptation, you’ve got to work hard to sell the man your heroine chooses over Laurie. Laurie’s had all of Book One and a good three-quarters of Book Two to endear himself to readers. Who’s this guy?

Well, yes, that’s William Shatner...as Professor Bhaer.

This guy isn’t good enough for Jo. This is nonsense. “Weird old guy with an uncomfortable age gap with my fave.” Are not the sort of things you’re going to want to read in reviews.

First, you’ve got to cast him right. Hollywood’s not *overly* worried about distressing RL gaps in ages between their actresses and actors, you might know, and beards are actually pretty in right now. Bhaer’s not a babe by any means, but he’s got an accent he can work. And he’s in love with our fave.

Think an Alan Rickman-type (I know he’s not German), did you see how hot Kurt Russell made Santa Claus in that Netflix Christmas movie? Jeff Bridges, Pierce Brosnan? Probably all too old.

Bhaer’s actually described as “middle-aged”, which means 40ish, to Jo’s 25 (when she accepts him). You know who’s 40ish in Hollywood? Gerard Butler, Hugh Jackman, Ewan McGregor, most of Hollywood’s Chrises, RDJ for Pete’s sake is 53. Give him a beard, and awkward social presence tick, and get him working on that accent, and I guarantee your audience will buy Jo’s attraction to him, and create a Twitter for his umbrella.

In the end, Bhaer is key to understanding that the novel isn’t trying to transform Jo into a woman who will fit into Teddy’s wealthy life and the social circles he has no plans to turn his back on. Bhaer is literally the embodiment of Jo making choices that she learns (and I daresay we are meant to learn) are right for her. She finds a man comfortable with who she is, who is in love with her brain as much as with the rest of her, who sees their coupling as a joint project, and who wants her to be the best her. (cough, cough, Gilbert Blythe prototype)

You’ve got to get him right, or what’s come before gets lost in dissatisfaction for Jo’s final, epic choice.

Oh, look, a nice picture of a charismatic, bearded German actor. How did that get here?

Let’s be succinct here in the end, Gentle Reader. Little Women (Books One and Two) and Little Men and Jo’s Boys would make a splendid series. (Such as Anne with an E), there’s certainly enough episodic drama and plot to go around.

Keep that in mind when planning out your adaptation.

What film adaptation is your favorite, and why?

#little women #louisa may alcott #little women novel #jo march #teddy laurence

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rageprufrock · 6 years

Text

Preview: 家教 - or - Domestic Education

So there are no indications I’m gonna claw my life back from Guardian/镇魂 anytime soon so we’re all just going to have to live in this hellhole together.

Here, have a sneak preview of a story I am writing because, again, my life is spiraling out of control and I’m making myself Chinese language flashcards so I can read boys kissing in a web novel about supernatural crime and pining.

Shen Wei is the Ghost King, born out of the unyielding chaos of the entropy that had consumed the underworld before the creation of the wheel of reincarnation. He's the cosmic guardian of death and all her darlings, and the universe through the lens of his eye is rife with demons, hungry ghosts, and shadows creeping out of their places. He's lived for 5,000 years; he has lost his brother; he has loved and mourned and loved again a god.

So there is absolutely no way he is getting sick.

"There's really no reason to worry," he tells a wreath of doe-eyed grad students.

"Professor, you sound terrible," pleads Cui Liyang. Third-year, working on reproductive biologics. Once bared her teeth at a male undergrad when he hit on her and then hissed at him like a cat. She's Zhao Yunlan's favorite.

"You also look terrible," adds Li Wei. First-year, terrified of Shen Wei, Liyang, their lab manager, dogs, his own shadow. Beautiful handwriting. Will absolutely suffer a psychological collapse before achieving his doctorate. "And you never look terrible."

"That's kind but an overstatement," Shen Wei replies, and favoring both of them with what he hopes is a firm, kind expression, he says, "Now — please don't worry anymore and focus on your work this afternoon."

***

Usually, Shen Wei is utterly indifferent to temperate changes in their glossy, high spec new building, but today the lab is uncharacteristically freezing. He goes through four cups of tea before his head starts hurting from the air conditioning.

"It's not the air conditioning," says Han Jiayi. "You've got the flu."

"That's completely impossible," he tells her.

Jiayi was the eighth person he'd interviewed for the admin role when he'd signed on at the university, and she's old Shanghai through and through: West bank, thoroughly unimpressed by him, her name drew good karmic energy, and her family name had a reassuring proximity to Shen in the Hundred Names Book. She shrugs off all the little troubles and ghosts that tend to eddy in the corners of campus, feeding off of the river of unhappiness and upheavals from the 30,000 students having first loves and terrible undergraduate careers and posting angry flyers about the leadership of the anime club.

Jiayi narrows her eyes at him. She's 10, maybe 15 years older than him, and she says she practices her glaring on her son; Shen Wei assumes its why she's so terrifying and effective. He once ripped the throat out of a vampire using his bare hands, and he still makes Yunlan look over messages he sends her on Sunday nights.

"You look even ghostlier than usual and you're wearing two sweaters," she informs him, and reaches over to put a hand on his forehead, scowling. "And you have a fever."

Jiayi's palm is gloriously cool, and she still carries the vapor traces of incense from the family memorial they keep in their front hall: warm and lingering with the good wishes of her grandmother and great aunts and uncles. He leans into her touch — he feels heavy, weighty, all over — and wishes he wasn't so tired; his afternoon biology lecture is going to be a nightmare.

"I don't get fevers," he says to Jiayi, because the idea is ridiculous on its face; Shen Wei can plunge everyday spaces into fathomless winter with just his presence.

Jiayi ignores him and plucks out her phone; she has a look on her face that means she's no longer soliciting or interested in Shen Wei's opinion. It's an expression he has always been forced to respect, whether it came to administrative activities, student activities, his class load and schedule or, evidently, his personal life. He's thought sometimes about trying to draw some boundaries but he can't operate the university's online grade submission system and he's terrified she'll leave him.

"Hello?" she says into her phone, and from the other side, there's a tinny voice that — even distorted — is very familiar.

"Oh, no," Shen Wei says — to Jiayi, to the air, to no one.

"It's me," she goes on. "Sorry to interrupt you, but your you-know-who is sick here, has a fever and everything — can you take him home today?"

There's a din of tinny shouting from the phone — "Oh, no," Shen Wei repeats morosely — and a lot of Jiayi raising one eyebrow, then both eyebrows, then squinting and biting her lip. The progression is troubling to the extreme.

"He's in Beijing," Shen Wei tries, feeling more wretched by the second. "He's at a mandatory law enforcement conference. He's learning about modern Communism."

When Shen Wei had woken up that morning alone in their bed, he'd stared at their ceiling and felt very sorry for himself for almost 30 minutes before he'd dragged himself out of the blankets and gone to the bathroom. He'd brushed his teeth and read through the 209 separate WeChat messages Zhao Yunlan had sent between yesterday night at 11:34 p.m. and 6:30 that morning — at least 12 of which were admonitions on which plants to water and which plants he was explicitly not to water.

"Okay — we'll do it like that," Jiayi says into the phone, and hangs up. "Well. He's in Beijing and he said if he tries to leave his father will jump off a building for shame."

"See," Shen Wei says.

"However," she tells him, scowling, "it's been decided that you're staying in your office and resting until someone can come get you, and someone else can handle your 3 p.m."

Shen Wei gets a flash of his grad students' schedules. "Liyang has an experiment running — she can't do it this afternoon."

"Li Wei is here," Jiyang says, and starts pecking away at her phone. Shen Wei hears the 'ding' of a message sent, and from down the hall, Li Wei yells, "Professor Shen, no!" Jiyang looks unmoved. "There."

"Jiyang, he'll die," Shen Wei pleads, clutching his class notes to his chest. "What will I say to his parents?"

"That he went on the battlefield like a man," she retorts and claws them out of his hands. "Now — sit there, drink tea quietly, and just wait. Mrs. Police Man said someone would be along to fetch you within the hour."

***

Shen Wei's always had an unconventional relationship with time.

Minutes, hours he can manage, but when time starts to stretch out into longer and longer periods, they all begin to blend and blur together. What's a year to a creature whose age reaches back before the first dynasties? During the Tang Dynasty, he lost an entire decade, sleeping inside a monastery — finally stripped to the bone and too tired to wake — and had come awake groggy with his own mourning to find he'd been entombed inside a golden Buddha statue as a saint along with about 4 liters of honey.

That day, sitting in his office, it's waking up in the Buddha again: eyes sticky and his limbs slow. Shen Wei stares numbly at a faraway corner of his office listening to his phone chirping with alert after alert, wondering how much time has passed since Jiayi had pressed onto him a cup of steaming tie guanyin tea and deposited him at his desk.

Everything takes forever; he feels like he's swimming, and after two separate tries, he's finally able to grab his phone — there are 12 messages from Li Wei, all different WeChat sobbing emojis — to check the time.

Except before he can focus on the clock, he sees a message from Zhao Yunlan instead.

Ah-Lan: Shen Wei-ah! You're sick! I didn't think it was possible!

Ah-Lan: I'm sorry I can't get away to come take you home. :(

Ah-Lan: Don't worry, Mom said she'd come get you. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

"What," Shen Wei asks his phone, the same time there's a knock on his office door, followed immediately by Jiayi's incandescently happy face as she peeks in and then leans back to call over her shoulder:

"You're just in time, Madam Zhao. He's got that half-dead-not-alive look and he's just frozen at his desk."

Shen Wei has no idea what face he pulls, but when Zhao Yunlan's mother steps into his office, she favors him with a look of transporting pity.

"Oh, Shen Wei," she says.

#guardian #镇魂 #fanfic #preview

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thiskryptonite · 5 years

Photo

Dreams

There’s a tree that haunts my dreams, with rotted roots that caress my mind, they’ve taken purchase in my skull, and no matter how hard I pull I can’t get them out. I choke on blood, I gag on dirt, I claw, I scream, and as the earth pulls me in it whispers:

Welcome Home.

Tagging: August Knight “The Jackal”

Time Frame: March 29th, 2015

Word Count: 1700

Notes: August’s transition to Ashbourne

They had gone for a picnic.

The day had been perfect, really, the sort of time you’d read about in the traditionally warm romantic novels. Where the stars aligned, and for one perfect day, love won. Love conquered all. The air was clear as it moved through the tall blades of grass, over the lush hill, and back down the other side. Atop this hill sat a tree, and beneath the great canopy, two lovers shared in the opportunity that this day had provided. The perfect sky, the perfect temperature, the perfect view, the perfect day.

He’d been chasing it forever, that moment when all the pieces that you were looking for suddenly fit together with someone else, and it wasn’t anything fake, or forced. It was simply real. It was simply skin, and eyes, and gentle smiles. It was each of those as they happened simultaneously, all at once that added together to be what it was. Lips that could brush away tears for joy, pain for pleasure, and every uncomfortable scar into an opportunistic smile. For a few perfect moments, he was bathed in light, and he was warm.

August’s hazel eyes locked with the puddle blues, and in one horrific moment they shifted to steel and gray, to hollowed recesses in a concave skull. From within the broken jaw of the fractured, rotting mouth, a spider crawled forward with varied, hazel eyes looking straight back at him. He jolted back off the brown, dead grass and looked up at the feeling of what he thought was falling leaves but finding the tree barren as it rained blood down around them. Blood that flowed over the hills, blood that filled the valleys, blood that filled his mouth and when he tried to scream –

August jolted upright out of bed, a buzzer blared in the background before his lazy hand moved to smack the damn annoying thing off. He hated mornings.

The small London flat was empty, the Witch had come a long way from California, and he’d made fewer and less friends along the way. The coffee was programmed to brew before his alarm, and quietly, he set about his morning routine, he checked the ley lines, he checked the news, and he tried once again to read his mother’s grimoire. Sat at the small table for one, August brushed his fingers along the worn leather binding, the exterior was peculiar, and he’d always been fond of its smoothness.

He pulled the heavy tome open and the writing on the pages swirled with an absolute black lettering, symbols and sigils danced across his eyes as a sickening green glow emanated from the bindings – trapping him once again. August blinked, and suddenly it was just after 1pm, five hours had gone by. The longest yet. He closed the book and hurried to finish going about his day, he had an appointment later that he couldn’t miss, an opportunity really, one that he did not think would come knocking again. They were the entire reason why he’d come to this miserable island, the city had never been to his liking, too many people, too many sticky fingers, too many wandering eyes. Just too many.

This scholar was one who would hopefully help him reverse whatever spell had been placed on it to keep him from studying the pages within. More work of his aunt’s he’d surmised, or perhaps further efforts done by the Coven of Knight to make it that much harder for his mother to pass on her life’s work. He wondered how arrogant a single family had to be to throw the word Coven in front of their last name, probably just because it made them look grander than they all were. If his Aunt Lisa was any example, they weren’t the sort of people he cared to surround himself with.

Not that there was many, if any people August cared to surround himself with.

Since snapping back into it from his trance, August had showered, brushed his death, protected himself appropriately, gotten dressed and was now in the process of gathering up the last of his things. He hadn’t brought much, but a witch always came prepared, he glanced at the couple that were still zoned out on the couch, their eyes vacant and fixed on the program in front of them. They had been dead since the night before, August had left them where the couple were, it would do better considering what he had planned

He shifted slightly from foot to foot as he stood at the door, August made eye contact with the gray eyes of the couple one last time, one hand rested on the door knob while the other was outstretched and away from his body, opposite the door. His hand moved to in a circular motion, tracing the exterior outline of the summoning circle he’d previously drawn on the floor. Hot flames etched into the wood floors, carving the sigil into the boards, the temperature immediately began to rise and absently August pulled open the door and let it close behind him. He conjured a meager flame, before he slipped into his rent-a-car and pulled away into the mid-car traffic, he was blocks away when it began to spread across the floor boards before catching the carpet and, within minutes, had set the entire apartment ablaze.

He’d always been fond of fire, though he knew enough to keep his distance. Nobody liked to get burned.

August was late now, but that didn’t matter, he could make up for lost time, his contact had set a location outside of the city, it wasn’t far from where he had spent the night, but it was enough to make August wary. Then again, he hadn’t stopped running for three years to the date, it was no wonder he was feeling so moody today.

He was anxious as the roadside turned from city to countryside, this meant he was getting closer, but it was hard to tell because despite what the forecast had said, a heavy fog had rolled in over the hills. There was no part of August that would allow unpredictable weather to deter him, especially not when the restaurant was just now pulling into view. It was an odd place for two witches to meet up, some pit stop that was used by truck drivers on a long haul, but he assumed it was inconspicuous enough.

The tip had come to him by way of old acquaintance, a werewolf he’d encountered in Vegas tipped him off that there was a witch, one that was well-studied in the dark arts that had passed through there. Everything else had been August’s own doing, the name he’d been given wasn’t real, it was an alias – typical – but there was power behind names, and it wasn’t uncommon for a witch on the lamb to adopt a fake one. Made it harder to be tracked. August had one of his own, though he had to admit, he wasn’t overly fond of it, some joke that same werewolf had made up one night after hours years ago: the jackal, he’d called August. It was irritating, but only because it was more telling than he would have liked.

The heavy door to the truck stop diner closed behind him and quickly he spied the person that he’d been looking for, August was right on time. The man looked at him, and smirked. Immediately there was a twist, a gnawing aching gut-wrenching abysmal churning feeling as he stumbled forward the checkered tiles stretched out before him while raw earth filled the cracks in between. The diners and the furniture dotted what was becoming overgrown and dingy as forest and woods filled the atmosphere, the witch was still sitting there, but he didn’t see August anymore, he just stared through him as if August had vanished entirely. August’s head moved fervently from side to side as terror gripped him, the eyes of all the patrons were vacant and grey – unseeing and simply staring through him. He gasped with fright and stumbled forward into what was now the forest floor, when he looked up he saw only a grey sky through a tree canopy as the earth did its best to consume him. Of all the horrors that he had inflicted and of all the things he had seen, this was by far the worst; roots twisted around his appendages and pulled him deeper as he struggled to keep himself above the soil -fruitlessly, he might add. He bent and howled but the ground sank in around him and with fleeting breaths August attempted to blow away the dirt that fell over his nose and face but succeeded only in letting the repugnant taste of warm blood in. He wished for the words to the spell that would save him for this, the counter curse that would undo whatever foul deed had been placed upon him, but all August could think was: I don’t want to die.

Breathlessly, he wretched and struggled and at last gasped as he felt air in his lungs and cold air on his skin. He was alone in a forest, a dense, dark wood that felt almost consuming with its presence. August was to his feet in an instant, his hands desperate for his bag, which he was relieved to find was still sat nicely at his side, and nestled within, his mother’s grimoire. There was an audible sigh of relief as the filth covered witch tried to take in his surroundings, he was not far in the wood, not too distant there were lights – a town even. He didn’t care anymore how he got here, he was going to get the first bus out of here. August, still shaken, could barely walk he felt so disoriented. A couple passed him suddenly and he heard them mumble there’s another one. Another one? Another what?

August caught his reflection in the glass, the matted hair, the muddy complexion. Where was he? What had happened to him? He looked like he’d crawled out of his own grave, and as if on cue, the wind forced a creaking sign above him to catch his attention.

In clear lettering it read: Welcome to Ashbourne.

#musing #face #welcome

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artlessictoan · 6 years

Text

Day 4 - Uncle Kankuro

some kank&yodo silliness, bc I will never get tired of writing these two interacting nor will I ever get tired of pointedly ignoring canon and supplanting my own fics in its place

(ao3 version)

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Day 4 - Uncle Kankuro

---

Yodo had been sitting quietly in the living room since he got home, lying on her stomach in the middle of the floor, idly flicking through an old novel.

She was up to something. She was definitely up to something.

Not that her reading was unusual, or her ignoring his presence as he flopped down in his lounge chair with a mumbled ‘hey brat’, but there was just something too… perfect about the scene, like she was acting bored and aloof, instead of just being bored and aloof as she normally was and, as many painful, embarrassing experiences had taught him, when in doubt, always assume she was up to something.

So, all that remained was to figure out whatever nasty little scheme she’d put into play this time, hopefully before he fell right into it.

Frowning, he stretched one of his long legs forward to prod at his niece’s foot.

She immediately kicked him back.

Not ready to accept defeat just yet, he nudged her again, big toe seeking out that ticklish spot right in the middle of her sole, he didn’t quite manage to get it before she brought her other foot into the game, trapping his awkwardly between her ankles. He snorted and easily pulled himself free, retreating back to his chair as he thought up a new tactic.

Yodo was still refusing to even turn her head in his direction, still pretending to be completely engrossed in her book; he could easily use that to his advantage though.

With stealth instilled in him over decades of hard training, Kankuro slowly, silently raised himself out of his chair, stepped just close enough that she wouldn’t notice him, balanced himself on one leg and gently smacked his foot in her face.

“GAH! You fu-!”

Letting out a scandalised gasp as he smooshed his foot against her nose, he called over his shoulder, “Gaara, quick, get in here, Yodo was about to curse again!”

The girl’s skinny little rat-claw fingers finally managed to pry him away, shoving at him until he toppled to the floor in a cackling heap. Finally free from his onslaught, she spluttered and rubbed harshly at her face. “Ugh, I was gonna say fungal infection ooze, ya donkey-pit!”

“Y’know,” he managed to say between laughs, “I think that swapping ‘ass’ and ‘hole’ with synonyms still counts as a swear.”

Her glare was sharp enough to cut glass, apparently she’d been taking notes from her father.

“Relax kid, I’m not actually gonna tell on you-” because he had no doubt Gaara would blame his potty mouth “-but I am gonna need you to tell me what horrifying prank you’ve got cooking this time.”

She rolled her eyes, fussed her hair back into its artfully dishevelled style and returned to her book. “Ain’t got nothin’ cooking,” she said.

“Riiight, and I’m the greatest Hokage who ever lived.”

“You wish,” she snorted, flashing him a quick, toothy grin, “Aunt Sakura’s way cooler than you are, talk to me when you’ve punched a god.”

His face dropped into an expression of blank horror as he pondered what the ramifications of the next generation growing up around such impossibly terrifying powerhouses might be. Damn, I’m getting old, he thought, before sitting himself upright and staring at Yodo once more. Ok she wasn’t gonna tell him what she’d done, that was fine, he could figure it out, no problem.

If she wasn’t bothered about moving from her spot, then that meant that, a) she didn’t need to do anything herself to put her scheme into motion and b) the trap was somewhere in this room – no way would she want to miss out on her victim’s reaction.

Disguising the movement behind a yawn, he scanned his eyes across the lounge, looking for anything wrong, any signs of disturbance at all.

Nothing unusual about the TV or the kids’ game consoles, Gaara had cleaned the floor this morning, so no dust-tracks to speak of, some books had been moved on the shelves, but given that she was currently reading one that could easily be put down to her choosing something to read – he mentally filed it away anyway, just in case – table looked untouched, chairs were exactly as he remembered, damnit, he couldn’t pick out anything, but she was just lying on the floor, legs idly kicking at the air as she flipped another page, cheek puffing up where she was resting it on her hand, exuding an aura that just screamed ‘trouble’.

Maybe that was her plan, deliberately act all suspiciously innocent until he was seeing traps in every shadow, almost pranking himself with his own paranoia! It was an advanced technique, but she was a quick learner and had a serious devious streak, he had no doubt she’d be capable of it… or maybe that’s just what she wanted him to think.

Damn it all.

Just as he was standing up to leave – because he had better things to do, definitely not because he was being outsmarted by a snotty little brat – Yodo had the audacity to snicker into her book, flashing one of her too-toothy grins up at him.

Oh, he was not going to take that; her book was yanked away in under a second, pulled effortlessly into his hand by a chakra thread.

“Oi, I was just gettin’ to a good bit!” she snapped, growling and jumping up to swipe at it.

He held his arm above his head, grinning wide as he said, “What’re you gonna do about it kid?” Before she could leap on him like she was clearly planning, he planted his hand right on her face, gently pushing her back even as she kept pushing forward. “C’mon, do you even want it ba-ACK! What- did you just lick me, brat?!”

While he was rapidly removing his hand from her slobbery maw and rubbing it harshly on his shirt, she managed to clamber onto his back and was just centimetres away from reclaiming her stolen property.

Still shuddering at the dampness on his skin, he tried to claw her off – carefully avoiding going anywhere near her mouth again – flailing limbs and clawing fingers grasping at the corners of the book. In all the confusion, he wasn’t sure who managed to send it flying into the air, but, following its path, he suddenly couldn’t care less, even as Yodo leapt from his shoulder and landed on it with a cry of triumph.

He was much too busy staring at the unnatural shadows hidden away in the ceiling’s air vent; normally they would allow for the cool air captured from the wind towers dotting the building’s roof to flow into the house, offering relief from the burning sun, but he was only just noticing that it was a little less draughty in here than it should be.

“Uh-oh.”

Flashing a quick, victorious grin at his niece, he casually leapt to the ceiling – chakra-coating a hand and his feet to stick in place – and reaching into the dark pit to discover what she’d hidden away there.

When he pulled out a cluster of familiar, disembodied puppet limbs, he had to stare at them for a good long minute just trying to process everything.

Seriously? She was gonna try and scare him with this? He regularly fell asleep cuddling a puppet head that Temari had once described as ‘the physical manifestation of all humanities sins’ and often found random arms and legs in his dresser when he was looking for clothes, even with the element of surprise, he was literally incapable of being scared by it.

He looked down to deride Yodo for her weak attempt, but she wasn’t there, book lying abandoned on the carpet. Frowning, he turned to find her, but was met with a blank stare.

“…What are you doing?” Gaara asked, tone suggesting that he’d had a very long day at work and would very much like to not have to navigate his brother’s eccentricities today if at all possible. Beside him, Yodo was rocking on her heels, hands clasped behind her back.

“Uncle said he wanted to play a prank on you, he was gonna make all that stuff fall on you when you sat down on the couch.”

Oh shi-

The smirk on his niece’s face was positively devious; he wasn’t sure whether to be horrified, or proud.

But he definitely knew how to feel about his little brother’s expression; the years had not dulled his death glare in the slightest. “Kankuro, what is the meaning of this?”

“N-no, Gaara you don’t understand, she set me up!”

That girl had the ‘cute pout of innocence’ act mastered. He’d taught her well – perhaps a little too well – but… he hadn’t taught her everything.

Revenge was gonna be sweet.

---

#ictoan writes #kankuroweek #kankuro #yodo #naruto #sand fam is best fam #yup i'm just like five weeks behind now and i'm gonna be ten more by the time the weekend's over #we're just gonna have to deal with that #on a positive note this was a blast to write and canon what canon i ain't heard of no canon #i'm sorry we don't use that word in this house #in this house we're /happy/

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ourimpavidheroine · 6 years

Text

Wu and Opal - At the Bookstore (For queeniedear)

“Oh Prince Wu, Your Highness! Such an honor! Such an honor!” The author’s mustache was trembling with excitement. He looked like he was going to faint. Or cry. Possibly both.

“Not at all,” Wu replied, smile plastered to his face. Until she’d seen Wu in action she’d never really understood what it meant when people didn’t smile with their eyes. In her family, if people didn’t like you, you damn well knew about it. (If it were Mom or Wei or Junior you’d hear about it, too. For hours. At volume.) Wu, though, always had his public persona locked in tight, and said public persona included the benignly cultured look on his face at the moment. “I quite enjoyed your work.”

Had he really enjoyed it? Hard to tell, although she guessed he might have, at that. He did like gardens, after all, and the author in question had written the history of the enormous conservatory at the palace in Ba Sing Se. She’d come to get a copy autographed for Wing as a birthday present; Wu had called her at the last minute and asked if he could catch a ride. Qi had come down with the same cold that had knocked both Naoki and Zhi as well as San flat over the past two weeks and had been told by Sitiak to stay in bed. She knew Qi was loathe to let him go out on his own, but apparently when Wu had told them he was going with her they had agreed. Or ...acquiesced very crossly indeed, my goodness, as Wu had informed her in the car. She didn’t bother taking offense. Everyone knew how Qi was with Wu.

Wu’s eyes suddenly sparkled. An overused cliché, she knew, but it was the only way she could describe it. It transformed his face, as it always did. “In fact, I was wondering if you might like to come and see my personal garden here?” He flicked his fingers the way he did. “I was lucky enough to get some cuttings from the Conservatory and a few transplants as well. It’s not comparable to the Conservatory, of course, but I quite enjoy it.” He gestured towards her. “In fact, Opal’s brother was the one who procured them for me, he worked for a brief time there, helping to restore it. He’s quite a gardener himself, Wing Beifong?”

The man’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Of Zaofu? Of course! Of course! That new strain of fragrant climbing roses he bred! Exquisite!” He was holding his hands to his chest like a tragic heroine and she had to bite down her laughter.

“I believe Opal was hoping to get a copy autographed for him. I was hoping you might autograph mine as well.” He glanced around. “But we’re monopolizing your time. Perhaps you might join us later in the week for dinner and a tour?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card from his case, handing it over. “Would this coming Thursday suit?”

“Of course! I would be honored! Honored, Your Highness!” The man bowed so deeply she thought he might topple right over. Wu obviously thought so as well, because he put out a hand and gently nudged him back upwards.

“Excellent. I’ll have my firm get in touch, they will make all the arrangements and make sure that a car will be available for you. I look forward to seeing you, then.” Wu nodded just slightly and then took her arm in his and pulled her away, waiting until they are out of earshot to murmur, “I’m sorry, I know you wanted the autograph but I was afraid he was going to pass out.”

She snorted. “No kidding.”

“I didn’t ask if Thursday would suit you. If not, we can reschedule.” He risked a glance at the man. “I think he’d come any night.”

“No, Thursday is fine. Bolin’s shooting down the coast this week so he might be a little late, but the kids and I can be there.”

“Good. You can get Wing’s copy signed then.” He gave that polite smile and nodded at a woman who greeted him as they walked, arm in arm, through the store. “It’s actually well-written, you might enjoy it as well.”

“Prince Wu! Who is that you have with you?” A middle-aged woman with a book in her hands fluttered her ringed fingers at them, her look towards Wu nearly predatory.

“Ah, Xinyi. This is my sister-in-law, Opal Beifong. Opal, Xinyi serves on the Spring Festival Committee with me.” Interesting. This woman was getting the public smile, for sure.

“Oh yes, the little airbender girl!” Xinyi’s laugh was as fake as the color of her hair, a flat black that harshened her features in the electric lights of the store. Little airbender girl, her ass. Like she didn’t see her tattoos. There were, at this moment in time, exactly nine Airbending Masters in the world, and she was one of them, thank you very much.

“And where is our Qi today?” Xinyi peered about dramatically, eyes wide, hand to her mouth. “Never say there were wedding jitters!”

Wu’s polite smile hardened, just slightly. You’d never know it if you didn’t know him. “I’m afraid Qi has come down with a cold.”

“Tragic!” She leaned closer. “Tell me you weren’t here for the dull reading of the garden book.”

Oh, the smile was getting steelier by the second. “I was indeed.”

Xinyi sniffed. “You and your gardens. I have gardeners for that sort of thing, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Could this woman not hear the chill in Wu’s tone?

“Well, I was here to pick up the latest book by The Pool of Golden Blooms. It doesn’t officially come out until tomorrow, but I do have my connections.” She brandished her copy at him. “If you like, I can get you an early copy as well.”

Wu’s face stayed completely impassive. How did he do it? Proof once again the man wasn’t a Beifong. None of them could ever hide what they were feeling, not even Aunt Lin, despite her belief to the contrary. “Ah, how generous. I have my own arrangements for a copy, however.”

Own arrangements! He had his own handwritten draft at home! She fought back a smile, looking at him standing there, cool as anything, knowing full well the woman was talking about the book he’d written. Not that she was surprised he could, he’d kept it from all of them for years, after all. All of them but Huan, that is. But that was Huan for you.

“Do you read The Pool of Golden Blooms, Master Airbender Opal?” The woman widened her eyes at her. “Although I suppose Airbenders don’t read that kind of thing.”

“Why wouldn’t Airbenders read it?”

The woman didn’t seem to have answer to that, so she turned her attention back to Wu. “Darling, join me for lunch? I’m going to be trying out that new Northern Water Tribe place by the Opera House. Scuttlebutt is that it is simply divine. There’s not a table to be found without a reservation, even for me! I had to call weeks ago!”

The polite smile was in place. “Ah, I’m afraid I must decline. I’ve a lunch date with my sister-in-law here.” He turned to her, and the green eyes twinkled. “Perhaps we’ll discuss the new The Pool of Golden Blooms novel.”

“It’s almost as if I’ve already read it,” she replied, and he dropped her a very quick wink before tucking her arm into his.

“Oh. Well. If you already have plans…” the woman trailed off, clearly expecting Wu to break them for her.

“I do. However, I’ll see you next week at our meeting, Xinyi. Enjoy your lunch.” A gentle pull and Wu moved them away, towards the front of the store.

“We’re going to lunch, are we?” She grinned at him, and he squeezed her arm.

“Of course! We’ll go to Kwong’s.” He shrugged a single shoulder gracefully, a move she knew he’d picked up from Qi. “We’ve already been to the other place.”

“So have we, Bolin loves Northern Water Tribe noodles. It was pretty good.”

“I, of course, got a table the day I called.” His smile was smug, and she laughed, getting a chuckle from him in return. “Like the snob I am. But yes, please do let me take you to lunch. I just need to pick up a book Zhi’s tutor ordered for him, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” she replied, and waited while he spoke to the man behind the counter, who went to get the book in question. “So is that woman a friend of yours?”

“Hmmmm,” he replied, taking in a deep breath. “I think she considers herself that, yes.” That flick of his fingers again. “Her grandmother, at one point, owned about half this city. She’s very wealthy with a great deal of influence.” He nodded politely towards a man passing by. “I’m not very fond of her, but she’s a vicious, vindictive gossip and while I don’t care for myself, I wouldn’t like her to do or say anything that might impact the children.” She knew he meant his charity, not his own.

“You think she would?”

“I can guarantee it,” he replied, and then turned that bright, polite smile to the clerk who had returned with a wrapped parcel for him. “Thank you, very much.” He settled the parcel into the bag that held the book about the Conservatory, and then turned back to her. “You, on the other hand, I like very much, and would quite enjoy having lunch with.” The smile had eased into his real smile.

She returned it. “Maybe we can discuss the novel coming out tomorrow.”

He chuckled as he offered his arm again and began to escort her out. “Maybe you’ll even get an autograph.”

“I’ve got connections, you know.” She grinned at his eye roll as they headed out of the store.

#date prompts #wu and opal

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miriamvowen · 4 years

Text

We have a treat for you today on the blog. Keep reading! The creepy feeling from Agnes Ravatn’s previous book The Bird Tribunal still lingers in my memory. I have high hopes for her new book The Seven Doors and wonder if I will read it in one sitting as I did with her previous book. Agnes is an award winning writer from Norway and it gives me great pleasure to share an extract of her latest psychological thriller The Seven Doors on the blog today:

Monday 19th November

Towards the end of the day she receives a message from Ingeborg. She’s clocking off at 3pm, she writes. Could they take a look at the house on Birkeveien before picking Milja up from nursery?

She glances outside. It’s dry for once, the sun low in the sky. A stroll would do her good.

She hasn’t been there for years, she can’t remember the house number. She calls Mads, but there’s no answer. She searches the street name in her email inbox and finds an email between Mads and their financial advisor she was copied into four years ago. Birkeveien 61.

She pulls up a map on her phone and vaguely remembers visiting Aunt Lena many years ago now, an attractive Bergen lady with a walking frame who lived in a house filled with steep staircases.

Ingeborg is waiting for her outside the hospital building, tall and slim. She waves cheerfully when she catches sight of her mum and walks over to meet her just as an air ambulance lands on the helipad behind her.

How are you doing? Nina asks, but her daughter bats the question away, excited at the prospect of a terraced house in Landås.

Nina had been surprised when Ingeborg chose to pursue medicine like her father; she hadn’t ever felt that her daughter belonged in a job that called for warmth and empathy. All the same, she was pleased that her daughter had chosen such a practical career. What is the point in all of this? she had often wondered as she had watched her own students graduate, only to drift around in ambiguous professions within the culture and education sectors for unforeseeable periods of time.

With the help of the map on her phone, Nina leads the way along Idrettsveien and Gimleveien, past Brann Stadium, until they eventually reach Birkeveien. They pass two nursery schools and one supermarket en route. There’s something uncomfortably earnest about Ingeborg’s manner, she’s prowling like a cat, rosy cheeked, airing every thought that enters her head for all to hear.

Cynical children, Nina thinks to herself, it must be my punishment; I must have been doing something wrong during all my years of parenting. But what?

Here we are, Nina says eventually, stopping in her tracks. She looks from the phone to the house number. Ingeborg lets out a gasp.

And what a house it is too, she whispers.

They’re standing outside a small, ochre-yellow, semi-detached house over three floors, with red roof tiles and a front garden concealed behind a beech hedge, dense with crisp brown leaves.

Fourteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds, Ingeborg says excitedly, looking up from her watch. And with two nurseries along the way. Mum…

She looks at her mother pleadingly.

It’s ideal, certainly, Nina says.

And I do love the colour, Ingeborg says, her gaze fixed lovingly on the yellow façade.

First, we need to speak to your father, Nina says, lifting a hand to curtail Ingeborg’s excitement.

Ingeborg is already halfway through the gate, and Nina realises that it’s pointless to try to stop her.

A woman’s bicycle with a child’s seat on the back has been left leaning against the wall beside the front door. There’s no sign of a nameplate. The gravel crunches underfoot as if they were wearing horseshoes; Ingeborg scuttles over to the corner of the property to get an idea of what the back garden looks like.

It’s certainly very nice, she says loudly, seeking her mother’s endorsement.

It’s family-friendly, in any case, Nina says, bringing a finger to her lips to hush her daughter’s loud excitement.

There’s a light on upstairs, Ingeborg says, and before Nina can stop her, she’s pressed the doorbell.

But Ingeborg… she says.

What? Ingeborg says, looking somewhat aggressive.

Someone lives here.

Well yes. In our house.

She must be at work, Nina says. It’s only quarter past three.

But I heard something.

I didn’t hear anything, Nina says.

They stand there for a few moments. Nina can tell from the frosty mist surrounding Ingeborg that she is breathing quickly.

We can hardly go barging in unannounced, she says.

Ingeborg leans forwards and presses the doorbell again, holding it for an extra-long time. Nina turns to walk back out onto the street, distancing herself from Ingeborg’s persistence. We’ll call or write, she says. Then we’ll come back in a few days’ time. There’s no great rush, after all.

Her daughter gazes at her beseechingly.

Eirik booked an agent this morning. We’re putting our place on the market as soon as we can, do you know how quickly a colony of silverfish multiplies?

In that same instant, someone tentatively opens the front door.

Ingeborg spins around on the gravel.

A young woman gazes back through the gap in the door. Behind her is a serious-looking little boy, dark-eyed and darkhaired, just like his mother.

I’ve seen you before, Nina thinks to herself as she locks eyes with the woman, but she can’t quite place her.

The woman looks at her unanticipated guests expectantly.

Peekaboo! Ingeborg says, an excited expression on her face as she peers at the boy, who clings to his mother’s burgundy wool jumper.

The woman looks from Ingeborg to Nina and back to Ingeborg again.

Yes? she says.

Ingeborg Wisløff Glaser, she says. We’re the owners of the property.

Ingeborg, Nina whispers.

The woman at the door furrows her brow.

This is my mother, Ingeborg says, nodding in Nina’s direction as her mother takes a step back.

Hi there, she says in as friendly a tone as she can muster. It wasn’t our intention to disturb you, she begins, but she is interrupted by Ingeborg.

Could we have a little look around the house? she asks.

The woman looks at Ingeborg with a puzzled expression.

Oh, Ingeborg says, turning to her mother. She doesn’t speak Norwegian. Excuse us, Ingeborg enunciates emphatically, starting again, we are the landlords.

Yes, the woman says, I understand what you’re saying.

Ingeborg, this is starting to sound like a raid, Nina says under her breath.

Ingeborg gives her mother a confused look before turning back around to face the woman at the door.

I’m a specialist at Haukeland University Hospital, she says smugly, so this area couldn’t be any more perfect for us. We’ve got a little girl, she’s three, she’s going to be a big sister soon actually, so we’re going to need all the play space we can get.

Nina shakes her head inwardly as she observes her daughter with growing discomfort. She might as well be wearing a pith helmet, whip in hand.

The woman stands in the doorway, stiff and silent. The boy whimpers, his mother picks him up and balances him on one hip, he clings to her, burrowing his face in her neck.

You’ll have a few months’ notice, obviously, Ingeborg says impatiently. But before we terminate the contract, I’d love to have a look inside.

If it’s not convenient then we can come back another time, Nina interjects, with what she hopes is a warm, apologetic smile.

It’s not really a good time, the woman in the doorway says.

Just a quick peek? Ingeborg says.

I’m sorry, she says, shaking her head.

How many bedrooms are there, can I ask? Ingeborg says.

The woman thinks about whether she should answer the question or not.

Three, she says eventually, and Ingeborg looks starry-eyed.

Ingeborg, Nina says, then turns to the woman. I’m sorry that we’ve disturbed you like this, she says. We’ll get in touch and arrange another time.

Does it have a fireplace? Ingeborg asks as Nina tugs at her coat sleeve to lead her away. Please, the woman says, comforting her son.

I can assure you, Ingeborg continues imperviously, we really don’t mind if the place is a little untidy.

It is as if the woman surrenders. She hesitates for a moment, then reluctantly steps to one side. Ingeborg makes her way in, unabashed, and follows the woman inside and upstairs without removing her boots.

Nina sighs silently and walks in after them, up the narrow staircase; she recognises the psychedelic, red cyclamen wallpaper. She vaguely remembers having visited once, many years ago, probably when Ingeborg was a baby. Aunt Lena had visited them numerous times, but very rarely returned the invitation.

As they enter the living room she thinks hard about where she might have seen the woman before. The boy is sitting on the floor beside a pirate ship.

It’s like being in a museum, Ingeborg says. How long have you lived here?

Just over three years, the woman replies.

And you’ve never felt the need to change anything? Ingeborg asks, gesturing towards the room. Impressive.

I’m not all that interested in interior design, the woman replies curtly.

Is it alright if I have a little look around? Ingeborg asks, and the woman nods.

Nina stands in the middle of the room, uncertain, while the woman looks down.

I didn’t properly introduce myself downstairs. Nina Wisløff, she says, offering the woman an outstretched hand.

Mari.

Things are silent for a moment as Ingeborg rushes back and forth, flitting from one room to the next with her coat flapping behind her.

Have we met? Nina asks after a short while.

I don’t think so.

She might be a little younger than Ingeborg, but older than most of her students.

No?

The furniture in the living room is just as she remembers it. Old-fashioned, Norwegian armchairs, a teak table, a narrow, threadbare old sofa. The bookshelves belonged to Aunt Lena, but the old encyclopaedias and book-club novels from the 1970s are gone. Nina lets her eyes wander over the spines of the books that now fill the shelves, she sees works of poetry, philosophy, a surprising number of German titles, plus contemporary fiction. Parenting books. A large collection of LPs. A record player has been positioned on a table of its own over by the window.

The young woman’s gaze follows Ingeborg as humming drifts across the room from the corner where the toys are kept.

How old is he? Nina asks.

He just turned three.

A lovely age, Nina says. I have a three-and-a-half-year-old granddaughter myself.

The woman says nothing. Nina stands there smiling, glancing in the direction of the kitchen. It’s an original, untouched since the 1950s. Beside the kitchen table is a Tripp Trapp highchair and an ordinary kitchen chair. On the table is a pile of books, a stack of paper, a laptop, and three small, black notebooks. She’s studying something, Nina thinks.

Ingeborg climbs down from the small attic space.

Do you remember what it says in your contract? she asks. How many months’ notice you’re entitled to?

No, I—

How quickly could you move out, do you think?

The woman looks at her quizzically. We’ve got a bit of a situation on our hands, you see. Maybe we could make a small financial contribution if you managed to pack up in, say— Ingeborg, Nina interrupts sharply.

But, the woman says, we don’t have anywhere … my little boy, Ask, he goes to nursery just along the road, we…

This is a decision for your father and I, not for you, Nina tells her daughter in a tentatively authoritative tone.

But Mum, Ingeborg groans, before turning back to the woman.

Five thousand kroner?

I’m sorry we’ve disturbed you, Nina says. There’s no need for you to see us out.

Ten thousand? Ingeborg says, as her mother nudges her downstairs.

The door slams behind them, and Nina tugs at Ingeborg until they are back out on the pavement.

Goodness, she was odd, Ingeborg says, prising herself free from her mother’s grasp.

She was odd? Nina says. You were like a member of the Gestapo in there, ready to deport her and move in!

It’s just the hormones, Ingeborg says. Nesting. You’ve forgotten what it’s like.

Nina says nothing, seething with shame at her daughter’s behaviour and frantically trying to put her finger on where she has seen the woman before. If she happens to work at the university, it’ll be a catastrophe.

I’ll come back with you to talk to Dad, Ingeborg says. He understands the need for haste.

I’ll be the one to talk to your father, Nina says sharply.

But he doesn’t listen to you, her daughter replies.

Extract provided by Orenda Books. This post is part of a blog tour. Please check out other bloggers reviews/giveaways as part of the tour. The Seven Doors is coming out in paperback on 17 September 2020 and the RRP is £8.99.

A. Ravatn

Read an extract of The Seven Doors by Norway’s Agnes Ravatn #psychological #thriller We have a treat for you today on the blog. Keep reading! The creepy feeling from Agnes Ravatn's previous book…

#BBC Book at Bedtime #Dublin Literary Award #English Pen Translation Award #Fresh Talent #Petrona Award #The Bird tribunal

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branlovestowrite · 6 years

Text

Killian? Is that you?

I got inspired to write this little one shot this morning, just in time for Thanksgiving. With all the angsty Knightrook stuff out there, I wanted to add some fluff to the mix.

Inspired by this post from @thesschesthair

Summary: Henry and his wife Jacinda move to Seattle and discover that their neighbor looks just like Henry’s stepfather. No magic AU.

“Are you sure about this?” Henry asked as he walked around the apartment. It wasn’t much. Of course, he and Jacinda had stayed in smaller places than this, but, with the baby on the way, he couldn’t help the thought that this would quickly become very cramped.

“You having second thoughts?” Jay asked. He couldn’t help the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he looked upon his wife. How had this goddess agreed to marry him?

“I’ll gladly go anywhere as long as I am with you. I just don’t know if it’s a good idea for us to be so close to your stepmother and stepsisters.”

“Victoria and Ivy won’t be a problem. And Ana and I have always got along well. It will be nice to be close to her again. She’s so excited to be an aunt.”

“I know, and I’m glad you’ll get to spend some time with her again. I guess I’m just nervous. This is a big leap of faith for us.”

“I know. It’s a lot. Starting the food truck with Sabine. Moving to a new city. You finally making time to write your novel. It’s all big leap of faith. But, no risk, no reward, right? And we have been saving up for this for two years. We can make this work.”

“You sound more optimistic than usual. I guess having breakfast with Sabine infused you with confidence.”

She smiled. “Something like that.” She stepped closer and took his hands in her own. “I know the baby throws a wrench in all our plans, but it’s not like it’s insurmountable. We can do this.”

“The baby is what makes me so nervous. Is it really a good idea for me to spend so much time focusing on my writing? Maybe I should try to find a steadier job.”

“You make good money driving for Swyft, as you’ve told me many times. Stop doubting yourself, Henry Mills. I’m supposed to be the one with insecurities that you help me overcome.”

“I love you,” Henry whispered as he pulled his wife in for a kiss.

Jacinda pulled back and smiled momentarily before turning her head abruptly to look at the intruder who’d suddenly stepped through the open door of their new apartment.

“Helloooooo,” the newcomer said. She was a teenager with wavy blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Despite her innocuous appearance, Henry couldn’t help but feel like there was something off about her.

“Hi there,” Jacinda responded in a wary tone.

“Are you the new tenants?” She had some kind of British accent, though he couldn’t quite place the region.

“We are.” He stepped forward and extended his hand. “Henry Mills, and this is my wife, Jacinda.”

“Alice Rogers,” She replied, capturing his hand in a firm shake. With her free hand she reached into the pocket of her oversized jacket and pulled out a jar of something that looked like jam, but in a bright orange color. She handed it to Henry. “Here’s a little welcome to the neighborhood gift. It’s marmalade. I make it with my Papa. He and I live across the hall.”

“Thank you,” Jay said as she took the jar from Henry. “Is your Papa around? I’d like to start meeting our neighbors.”

“He’s at work. He’s a cop. Well, detective, actually. He just got promoted. I’ll bring him by later.” Alice turned and walked off without waiting for a response.

“Well… she’s… peculiar.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Jacinda replied.

“I’m sure she’s harmless. She’s just a quirky teenager. It wasn’t that long ago that you and I were teens. You know how hard you try at that age to establish your identity.”

“You sure you’re not a psychologist?”

“Just an observer of people. That’s what makes for a good author, right?”

Jay smiled and give him a quick peck on the lips before walking into the bedroom to talk about furniture placement.

It was a week after they moved in before Henry actually met Detective Rogers. Apparently his cases kept him working odd hours. Then, one Saturday morning, returning home after a grocery run, Henry saw the door to Alice’s apartment open and her Papa step out. Only, it wasn’t her Papa. It was Henry’s stepfather.

“Killian?” Henry asked as he stared at the man. It didn’t make any sense. Killian was supposed to be in Storybrooke with Henry’s mom, Emma, helping raise his stepsister, Hope. What was he doing in Seattle, leaving Alice’s apartment?

The man didn’t appear to have heard him. He extended his hand. “You must be Henry. Alice told me about you. I’m Joel Rogers. Welcome to the building.”

He was stunned. The likeness was uncanny. Their voices even sounded the same. It was as if they were twins. Rogers cleared his throat, and Henry noticed the outstretched hand. He took it and gave a nervous shake. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little confused. Do you have a brother? A twin named Killian?”

“That’s an odd question. I guess it’s altogether possible, but the only family I know of is my Alice. I’m an orphan.” Rogers laughed nervously. “Why? Have you met him?”

Henry had a strong urge to pull out his phone and face time with Killian at that very moment, but he ignored it. He needed to talk to Killian first. What were the odds of finding his stepdad’s doppelganger on the other side of the country? “Um, you look like someone I know is all. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. I’d better get inside. I need to put the milk away.”

“Indeed. Don’t want it to spoil. Well, I’m sure I will see you around Henry. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

After he put the groceries away, he checked on Jacinda. She was still sleeping. She’d been having bad heartburn from the pregnancy, and it was disrupting her sleep. Deciding to let her rest some more, he closed the door to their bedroom and settled on the couch. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed his mom.

“Henry,” she answered warmly. “It’s nice to hear from you. How’s Jacinda?”

“She’s doing OK. Just a lot of heartburn at night.”

“Poor thing. I had heartburn with Hope. Maybe it’s a sign that your baby is a girl.”

“Yeah, maybe. Hey, is Killian around?”

“Yeah, he’s making lunch for Hope. Hang on a minute.” Henry heard her walk into the kitchen and hand the phone to her husband.

“Hello lad,” Killian said as he took the phone. “Everything alright?”

“Oh yeah, everything is going well. Better than I could have hoped. But something weird just happened. Do you know if you have a twin brother?”

Killian chuckled, and it sounded so much like Rogers. “I don’t believe I do. The only brother I know of is Liam. Why?”

“Because I just met my neighbor, and he looks and sounds just like you.”

“Bloody hell. Did you get a picture?”

“No. I didn’t want to freak him out. I wanted to talk with you first. And anyway, he’s a cop so he probably wouldn’t appreciate me taking random pictures of him.”

“Probably not. How strange. I’ll call Liam and ask him, but he probably won’t be of much use. You know I was five before Liam learned of my existence.”

“Okay, thanks. Let me know what he says.”

“I will, lad. Talk soon.”

Liam had no idea why there was a Killian lookalike in Seattle. The mystery continued to grow. Unfortunately, Henry hardly ever saw Detective Rogers. One day, when he should have been working on his book, it all got to be too much to ignore. He dug out a photo album his grandma made for his graduation. It was a scrapbook, with the pages meticulously laid out and the photos glued in place. He found the picture he was looking for and removed the page from the protective sleeve. There was a little guilt as he ripped the photo away, tearing the page and a few accompanying stickers, but he shrugged it off. His grandma would forgive him.

He stepped out of the apartment and made the short walk across the hall, knocking on Rogers’ door. Alice answered.

“Hello Henry. How can I help you?”

“Alice… shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Today’s a teacher planning day. Whatcha got there?” Before he could react, she snatched the photo from his grasp and stared at it closely. “What’s this? Why do you have a picture of my papa? And who’s that woman in the wedding dress?”

“That woman is my mom. Well, one of them, anyway… that’s not important. What is important is that the groom is not your papa. It’s my stepdad.”

“So… you have two moms and one of them is married to a man who looks exactly like my papa? That seems strange.”

“You’re telling me. I’ve been wondering about it for over a week. I asked Killian, that’s my stepdad, Killian Jones, and he had no clue. And your dad mentioned to me that he’s an orphan.”

“He is. Well, I guess that makes you my cousin, in a way. Welcome to the family!” She reached out and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug.

“Whoa, whoa,” Henry said as he extracted himself from her grasp. “Two things. One, I don’t think it works that way. And two, I’m not sure I want to be seen hugging my underage teen neighbor in the hall. People like to talk.”

“I’m a lesbian. Everyone here knows that. And even if they don’t, let them talk. People always talk because they need something to occupy their minds. Anyway, grab your keys. Let’s go.”

“Go? Where?”

“Down to the station to find papa and show him this.” She still held tightly to the photograph. She was already halfway down the hall before she turned around. “Come on, cousin Henry.”

Henry grabbed his keys and locked his apartment door before following her down the stairs.

They walked into the station. Alice acted like she owned the place, but her pass did not extend to Henry. Every officer gave him a wary look. She led him to an empty desk with a nameplate reading ‘Joel E. Rogers.’

“Your dad’s middle initial is E?”

“Standards for Edward.”

“Did people call him the Jolly Roger when he was a kid?”

The desk sergeant overheard him and laughed loudly. “We still do!”

“Oi!” Alice yelled. “I thought you called him Eagle Scout now.”

“He can have two nicknames,” the sergeant yelled back.

“Come now, Marley,” Rogers said as he walked out of a conference room. “I have three nicknames. Don’t forget about Captain Hook.” He held up his left hand, which was gloved and looked stiff. Henry realized for the first time that it was a prosthetic.

“Now that there’s a chance you could make Captain one day, I’d rather not call you that one,” Marley replied. The phone rang before he could say more, and he answered it. Rogers walked to his desk.

“Hello my little love.” He pulled Alice in for a brief hug. “Henry, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Um… “ Henry began, but Alice jumped in.

“We came to show you this, Papa.” She held out the photo. Rogers took it in his good hand and stared at it for a moment.

“That’s me, but I don’t recall this moment. I’ve never been married.”

“That’s not you. That’s my stepdad. His name’s Killian Jones. He lives in Maine with my mom and stepsister.”

“Bloody hell…”

“That’s what he said when I told him. His mother died when he was young and he was abandoned by his father. He never knew anything about having a twin.”

“So, you think this man could be my long-lost twin brother?”

“What other explanation could there be?”

“I don’t know…” he wiped his face with his hand. “Bloody hell.”

“Henry,” Alice said, “give me your phone. Unlock it first.” Henry’s eyes never left Rogers as he handed his phone to Alice. “Come with me, boys.” She led them into the same conference room Rogers had just emerged from. Fortunately, it was empty. Once they were all in, Alice opened the FaceTime app and tapped the icon to call Killian.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Henry asked.

“Why delay? I always find it’s better to rip the bandage off in situations like this.”

Killian answered after a moment. “You’re not Henry.”

“Nope. My name’s Alice. But don’t worry, Henry’s here and he’s fine.” She motioned to Henry and he stepped behind her, waving over his shoulder.

“Henry, what’s going on? Everything okay with Jacinda?”

“Yeah,” Henry said, taking the phone from Alice. “Just needed to show you something.” He walked over to Rogers and stood next to him, angling the phone to get the other man in the frame. “Killian, I believe this man may be your twin separated at birth. Meet Joel Rogers.” He handed the phone to Rogers and stepped back.

“Bloody hell…” Killian said.

“You’re telling me, mate,” Rogers replied. “Apologies for the shock. My Alice can be a bit too direct at times.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not in the room, Papa.”

Rogers smiled at his daughter. Henry heard Killian chuckle, and knew he was smiling too.

“I have a daughter as well. She can be quite the handful.”

“Just wait until she’s a teenager.”

Henry hustled around the apartment, preparing the small space for Thanksgiving dinner. Fortunately, Sabine had offered to cook. The food truck she ran with Jacinda was parked downstairs, the two friends using the commercial grade equipment to prepare the meal. Henry was tasked with rearranging furniture while they cooked. His mom, Killian, and Hope would be arriving at any minute, and Rogers and Alice would be joining later, along with Sabine’s mother. Once he was satisfied with the arrangement of seats, he returned to his phone, compiling the perfect playlist for the day.

Rogers and Killian had taken to speaking almost daily, but today would be their first face-to-face meeting. Their bond became very strong, very fast. Henry could see they were both happy to have another family connection.

Alice became a regular at Henry and Jacinda’s apartment. With her dad working such odd hours, Jay had insisted that Alice have dinner with them more frequently. She was indeed quirky, but she had a kind heart. She’d already offered to babysit once Lucy was born. Henry wasn’t sure Jay would let anyone near Lucy for the first few months, but his mother assured him that she would relent eventually, and then they’d be glad to have a teenage relative across the hall to help give them a break.

Henry reflected on the last few months in Seattle. The food truck was doing well, and he’d made significant progress on his book. And to top it all off he had discovered a long-lost Uncle and cousin. For Henry Mills, who prided himself on his family, two new additions were more than welcome. He definitely had a lot to be thankful for this year.

#ouat fanfiction #ouat ff #knightrook #henry mills #glass believer

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illbefinealonereads · 4 years

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Blog tour! Scroll down for more information and an excerpt from The Bitter and Sweet of Cherry Season by Molly Fader!

THE BITTER AND SWEET OF CHERRY SEASON Author: Molly Fader ISBN: 9781525804557 Publication Date: June 6, 2020 Publisher: Graydon House Books

For fans of Robyn Carr, commercial women's fiction about three generations of women who come together at the family orchard to face secrets from the past and learn to believe in the power of hope and forgiveness.

In cherry season, anything is possible... Everything Hope knows about the Orchard House is from her late-mother's stories. So when she arrives at the Northern Michigan family estate late one night with a terrible secret and her ten-year-old daughter in tow, she's not sure if she'll be welcomed or turned away with a shotgun by the aunt she has never met. Hope's aunt, Peg, has lived in the Orchard House all her life, though the property has seen better days. She agrees to take Hope in if, in exchange, Hope helps with the cherry harvest—not exactly Hope's specialty, but she's out of options. As Hope works the orchard alongside her aunt, daughter, and a kind man she finds increasingly difficult to ignore, a new life begins to blossom. But the mistakes of the past are never far behind, and soon the women will find themselves fighting harder than ever for their family roots and for each other.

Harlequin Indiebound Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-A-Million Target Walmart Google iBooks Kobo

Molly Fader is the author of The McAvoy Sisters Book of Secrets. She is also the award-winning author of more than forty romance novels under the pennames Molly O'Keefe and M. O'Keefe. She grew up outside of Chicago and now lives in Toronto. Follow her on Twitter, @mollyokwrites.

Author Website: http://mollyfader.com/ TWITTER: @MollyOKwrites FB: @MollyFader Insta: @mokeefeauthor Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18435981.Molly_Fader

Excerpt:

Chapter 1

HOPE

Night up in Northern Michigan was no joke.

Hope had never seen a dark so dark. It had heft and dimension, like she was driving right into an abyss. She thought about waking up Tink in the back to show her, but the girl had finally fallen asleep and she needed the rest.

And Hope needed a break.

Who knew traveling with a completely silent, angry and traumatized ten-year-old could be so exhausting?

Hope’s phone had died when she got off the highway about twenty minutes ago. In those last few minutes of battery she had tried to memorize the directions:

Left on Murray Street.

Slight right onto County Road 72.

Your destination is five miles on the right.

But County Road 72 wasn’t well marked and now she feared she was lost. Well, for sure she was lost; in the grand scheme of things she was totally off the map.

But she was clinging to the one ratty thread of hope she had left in her hand.

And then just as that tiny bit of thread started to slip out of her fingers, from the murk emerged a blue sign.

County Road 72.

The road took a long arcing right into the dark, and she unrolled her window, trying to keep herself awake. Adrenaline and gas station coffee could only do so much against two sleepless nights.

Her yawn was so wide it split her lip. Again. Copper-tasting blood pooled in her mouth.

“Shit,” she breathed and pressed the last of the napkins against her mouth. She was even out of napkins.

In the back, Tink woke up. Hope heard the change in her breathing. The sudden gasp like she was waking up from a nightmare.

Or into one. Hard to say.

“Hey,” Hope said, looking over her shoulder into the shadows of the back seat. Her daughter’s pale face like a moon slid into the space between the driver and passenger seats. “We’re almost there.” Hope sounded like they were about to drive up to the gates of Disney World.

Tink rubbed her eyes.

“Did you see the stars?” Hope’s voice climbed into that range she’d recently developed. Dementedly cheerful. Stepford Mom on helium. She winced at the sound of it. That wasn’t her. It wasn’t how she talked to Tink. And yet she couldn’t tune her voice back to normal. “There are so many of them. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many stars.”

Tink ducked her head to look out the windshield and then turned to cock her head at an angle so she could look out the passenger windows.

They’d gone to an exhibit about the constellations at the Science Center a year ago and Tink still talked about it. Pointing up at Sirius like she’d discovered it herself.

“Aren’t those the pieties?” Hope got the name wrong on purpose, hoping for a snotty-toned correction from her miniature astronomer. Or at least a throat-clearing scoff.

But no.

“Sooner or later you’re going to talk to me,” she said. “You’re going to open that mouth and all the words you haven’t said all day are gonna come pouring out.”

Silence.

“Do you want to ask me questions about where we’re going?” They were, after all, heading deep into Northern Michigan to a place she and Tink had never been, and Hope had never told her about until today.

Tink rubbed her eyes again.

“Or maybe what happened…tonight?” Her gaze bounced between Tink and the road.

When you’re older, you’ll understand. When you’re a mom, you’ll understand. She wanted to say that to her daughter, but she herself barely understood any of what had happened the last two days.

Still silence.

Hope tried a different angle. “I’m telling you, Tink. I know you and you can’t keep this up much longer. I’ll bet you ten bucks you say something to me in five…four…three…two…” She pulled in a breath that tasted like tears and blood.

Please, honey. Please.

“One.” She sighed. “Fine. You win.”

Her beat-up hatchback bounced over the uneven asphalt and Tink crawled from the backseat into the front, her elbow digging into Hope’s shoulder, her flip-flopped foot kicking her in the thigh.

The degree of parenting it would take to stop Tink from doing that, or to discuss the potential dangers and legality of it, was completely beyond her. She was beyond pick your battles, into some new kind of wild west motherhood. Pretend there were no battles.

They drove another five minutes until finally, ahead, there was a golden halo of light over the trees along the side of the road, and Hope slowed down. A gravel driveway snaked through the darkness and she took it on faith that it had been five miles.

“This is it.”

Please let this be it.

The driveway opened up and there was a yellow-brick, two-story house.

The Orchard House. That was what Mom called it in the few stories she’d told about growing up here. Actually, the words she used were The Goddamn Orchard House.

It was a grand old-fashioned place with second-story windows like empty eyes staring down at them. White gingerbread nestled up in the corners of the roof, and there was a big wide porch with requisite rocking chairs.

Seriously, it was so charming, it could have been fake.

The car rolled to a stop and Hope put it in park. Her maniacal new voice failed her, and she just sat there. Silent.

Suddenly the front door opened and a dog – a big one, with big teeth – came bounding out. Cujo stopped at the top of the steps and started barking. Behind the dog came a woman in a blue robe carrying a shotgun.

Tink made a high panicked sound in her voice, climbing up in her seat.

Hope’s impulse was to turn the car around and get out of there. The problem was there was nowhere to turn around to. They had no place left to go.

“It’s okay, honey,” Hope lied. She went as far as to put her hand over Tink’s bony knee, the knob of it fitting her palm like a baseball. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

More desperate than brave, Hope popped open the door. The dog’s bark, unmuffled by steel and glass, was honest-to-god blood curdling. “Hi!” she yelled, trying to be both cheerful and loud enough to be heard over the barking.

“Get your hands up,” the woman on the porch shouted.

Hope shoved her hands up through the crack between the door and the car and did a kind of jazz hands with her fingers.

“What do you want?” the woman asked.

“Are you Peg—”

“I can’t hear you.”

She stood up, her head reaching up over the door. “Are you Peg?”

“Never mind, me. Who the hell are you?” She pointed the business end of the gun toward them.

Hope quickly side-stepped away from the car door, and Tink reached across the driver’s seat and slammed it shut.

The heavy thud of the engaged lock was unmistakeable.

“You don’t know me—”

“No shit!”

“My name is Hope,” she said.

The gun lowered and the woman’s face changed. From anger to something more careful. “Hope?”

“Yeah. I’m Denise’s girl. I’m…well, you’re my aunt?”

#blog tour #excerpt #the bitter and sweet of cherry season #molly fader

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ugcnetjrfstudymaterial · 6 years

Text

English Literature, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapter 1

Global Teachers Academy: 09953762308

Chapter 1

Synopsis

. . . when I couldn't stand it no longer I lit out. I got into my old clothes and my sugar-hogshead once more, and was free and fulfilled.

The novel starts as the storyteller (later distinguished as Huckleberry Finn) expresses that we may know about him from another book, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, composed by "Mr. Check Twain." Huck rapidly states that it "ain't regardless" on the off chance that we haven't known about him. As indicated by Huck, Twain for the most part came clean in the past story, with a few "stretchers" tossed in, despite the fact that everybody—aside from Tom's Aunt Polly, the Widow Douglas, and perhaps a couple of different young ladies—tells lies sometimes.

We discover that Tom Sawyer finished with Tom and Huckleberry finding a reserve of gold a few criminals had covered up in a surrender. The young men got $6,000 each, which the neighborhood judge, Judge Thatcher, put into a trust The cash in the bank presently accumulates a dollar daily from premium. At that point, the Widow Douglas received and attempted to "sivilize" Huck. Huck couldn't stand it, so he tossed on his old clothes and fled. He has since returned on the grounds that Tom Sawyer revealed to him he could join his new band of looters on the off chance that he would come back to the Widow "and be respectable."

The Widow oftentimes wails over her inability to change Huck. He especially winces at the way that he needs to "protest" (i.e., ask) over the sustenance before each dinner. The Widow attempts to show Huck about Moses, yet Huck loses intrigue when he understands that Moses is dead. The Widow won't let Huck smoke yet supports of snuff since she utilizes it herself. Her sister, Miss Watson, endeavors to give Huck spelling exercises. These endeavors are not futile, as Huck does in truth figure out how to peruse.

Huck feels particularly fretful in light of the fact that the Widow and Miss Watson continually endeavor to enhance his conduct. At the point when Miss Watson informs him concerning the "awful place"— damnation—he proclaims that he might want to go there, for a difference in view. This declaration causes a hubbub. Huck doesn't see the purpose of heading off to the "great place" and resolves not to try attempting to arrive. He keeps this notion a mystery, be that as it may, on the grounds that he wouldn't like to cause more inconvenience. At the point when Huck asks, Miss Watson reveals to him that there is no possibility that Tom Sawyer will wind up in paradise. Huck is happy "in light of the fact that I needed him and me to be as one."

One night, after Miss Watson drives a supplication session with Huck and the family unit slaves, Huck goes to bed feeling "so forlorn I most wished I was dead." He gets shudders hearing the hints of nature through his window. Huck unintentionally flicks a creepy crawly into a flame, and the awful sign unnerves him. Soon after 12 pm, Huck hears development underneath the window and hears a "me-yow" sound, to which he reacts with another "me-yow." Climbing out the window onto the shed, Huck discovers Tom Sawyer sitting tight for him in the yard.

Investigation

In the opening pages of Huckleberry Finn, we feel the nearness of both Huck's story voice and Twain's voice as creator. From the begin, Huck addresses us in a conversational tone that is especially his own particular yet that likewise fills in as a mouthpiece for Twain. At the point when Huck notices "Mr. Stamp Twain" by name, he promptly picks up a freedom from his creator: in the event that he can specify his creator, at that point in some sense he should exist on a similar level that the creator does. In the meantime, Huck interfaces Twain's new novel to The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, in spite of the fact that he is mindful so as to take note of that the two works are autonomous of each other and that we don't need read the past novel to comprehend this one. By the by, Twain seeks to exploit Tom Sawyer's fame by including the prior novel's characters in this one.

Past building up a voice, the principal passage likewise passes on Huck's more profound identity. Huck isn't only a poor kid with a comical method for talking and considering; he is additionally a mindful young fellow who is ready and anxious to scrutinize the "realities" of life and features of human identity, for example, the inclination to lie. The occasions in Tom Sawyer have officially settled Huck as a to some degree peripheral character in the town of St. Petersburg. In spite of the fact that he is white, he is poor and thusly distant from cultivated society. The oddity of practices like "protesting" over nourishment loans Huck's perceptions a hilarious, new viewpoint on the flaws of society. In spite of the fact that Huck dependably stays open to learning, he never acknowledges new thoughts without considering, and he stays untainted by the tenets and suppositions of the white society in which he gets himself. In spite of the fact that snappy to remark on the foolishness of a significant part of his general surroundings, Huck isn't cowardly. He rushes to disclose to us that however the "dowager cried over me, and called me a poor lost sheep . . . she never intended no mischief by it."

The primary section starts Twain's investigation of race and society, two of the major topical worries in Huckleberry Finn. We see rapidly that, in the town of St. Petersburg, owning slaves is viewed as ordinary and unremarkable—even the Widow Douglas, a devout Christian, possesses slaves. The slaves delineated in the novel are "family unit slaves," slaves who took a shot at little homesteads and in homes in which the ace possessed just a couple of slaves. Twain certainly differentiates this sort of subjugation with the more fierce type of estate servitude, in which several slaves worked for a solitary ace, making more noteworthy secrecy amongst slave and ace, which thusly prompted all the more backbreaking work—and, frequently, extraordinary savagery. A few faultfinders have blamed Twain for painting too delicate a photo of subjugation by not expounding on estate slaves. In any case, by portraying the "better" rendition of subjugation, Twain can make a more keen feedback of the tricky dehumanization that goes with all types of subjection: the "fortunate" family unit slaves, much the same as their partners on the estates, are likewise in risk of having their families torn separated and are never thought about completely human. Twain's depiction recommends that if the "better" bondage is this horrendous, the repulsions of the "more awful" sort must be much more dreadful and dehumanizing. It is vital to note here that Twain utilizes the word nigger, which has gotten Huckleberry Finn in a bad position with numerous twentieth-century school sheets, with an apathy that is surely alarming to us today. The word would not have been irritating in Twain's chance, in any case, and is tragically important to any novel asserting to paint a reasonable picture of the slaveholding South at the time.

Twain's depiction of slaveholding in this first part additionally brings up issues about the lip service and good vacuity of society. All through the novel, Huck experiences apparently great individuals who happen to claim slaves—a confusion that is never effortlessly settled. We are not intended to surmise that the Widow Douglas, for instance, is altogether shrewd. Individuals like the Widow fill in as foils for Huck all through the novel, as he attempts to deal with the benefit of enlightening impacts. Huck is a sort of common thinker, suspicious of social tenets like religion and willing to set forward new thoughts—for instance, his thought that damnation may really be a superior place than the Widow Douglas' paradise. Underneath the experience story, Huckleberry Finn is a story of Huck's ethical advancement and of what his acknowledge can show us about race, servitude, Southern culture, and profound quality.

Global Teachers Academy (GTA)

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mysteryshelf · 6 years

Text

BLOG TOUR - Bear Witness to Murder

Welcome to

THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF!

DISCLAIMER: This content has been provided to THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF by Great Escapes Book Tours. No compensation was received. This information required by the Federal Trade Commission.

Bear Witness to Murder (A Teddy Bear Mystery) by Meg Macy

About the Book

Bear Witness to Murder (A Teddy Bear Mystery) Cozy Mystery 2nd in Series Kensington (May 29, 2018) Paperback: 288 pages ISBN-13: 978-1496709653 Digital ASIN: B075C38DMD

As autumn air settles into the quaint small town of Silver Hollow, there’s nothing more popular than Sasha’s teddy bears—and murder in cold blood . . .

Silver Bear Shop and Factory manager Sasha Silverman is cozying up to the fall season by hosting Silver Hollow’s Cranbeary Tea Party, the opening event of the village’s Oktobear Fest—a too-cute celebration themed around teddy bears. She barely has a moment to agonize over the return of her former high school rival, Holly Parker, whose new toy and bookstore in town could spell big trouble for the Silver Bear Shop and her cousin’s small bookstore . . .

But when Sasha discovers Holly’s shop assistant dead with a knife plunged in her body, the unpleasant woman suddenly looks like a real backstabber. So does Sasha’s ex-husband, rumored to have rekindled the fiery extramarital affair he once had with the victim. Now, before a gruesome homicide case takes the fun out of both the Fest and her personal life, Sasha must identify the true culprit from a daunting suspect list—or risk becoming as lifeless as one of her stuffed bears . . .

Character Interview

Can you talk about living in Silver Hollow? While I grew up in Ann Arbor, my dad opened the Silver Bear Shop & Factory while I was in college and getting married, so I didn’t actually move there until after my divorce. That’s when I began managing the shop – and fell in love with the small town “easy” atmosphere, got to know a lot of my friends who also moved there or married into families living there. It’s less hectic than Ann Arbor, less traffic, and more off the “beaten path” — everyone seems to hear about things that happen, no matter how much you may not want news to travel, but it’s all part of living in a community that cares. So I do enjoy it.

What is it like working at the family business, Silver Bear Shop and Factory? I enjoy setting up special events and conducting tours, selling bears, and keeping an eye on my Uncle Ross who supervises at the factory, and his ex-wife who is taking over office duties for my sister Maddie. Aunt Eve set up the accounting system, so I only have to catch her up on the technology, thank goodness! It’s not hard work, but time-consuming. We put in a lot of extra hours during our holiday season, and I’ve even filled in for packing/shipping whenever we have super large orders. Call me a Jill-of-all-trades!

You already experienced being part of a murder investigation once – did you ever think it would happen to you a second time? NO way! Especially in such a small town as Silver Hollow. There’d only been one “crime of passion” death in the community ( before last month, when our sales rep was killed), so Will Taylor’s murder really affected us all at the factory. And another? Wow. Any death is traumatic for family and friends, but deliberately killing someone takes a twisted person. Murder is a nasty business!

Is there anything about you people might not know you think would be fun to share?Well, everyone knows how much I love (love, love, love) cookies. I love dogs (more than cats? Hmm, not sure). I love eating kettle corn while watching a classic movie – My Fair Lady with Audrey Hepburn, Bringing Up Baby or North by Northwest with Cary Grant, and I love comedies of all kind – films, plays, books. I read cozy mysteries, but prefer historical fiction – mysteries or dramas like Ken Follett’s series, Sharon Kay Penman’s English Kings historical books, Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, or The Lilac Girls by Martha Hall Kelly. Something meaty to read. I love history!

About the Author

Award-winning mystery author Meg Macy lives in Southeast Michigan, close to Ann Arbor, Chelsea, and Dexter — the area she chose for the setting of her new “Shamelessly Adorable Teddy Bear” cozy mystery series for Kensington. She is also one-half of the writing team of D.E. Ireland for the Eliza Doolittle & Henry Higgins Mystery series; two books have been named Agatha Award finalists. Meg’s first published book, Double Crossing, won the 2012 Best First Novel Spur Award from Western Writers of America. She’s a graduate of Seton Hill University’s Writing Popular Fiction program. Meg loves reading mysteries, historical, and other genre fiction, and also enjoys gardening, crafts, and watercolor painting.

Author Links: www.megmacy.com Meg Macy on Facebook Meg Macy on Twitter

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autumn-elwood · 6 years

Text

The Reunion

Sorry, this is late. April was crazy.

Also available on: Blogger

Kain couldn’t help but feel bored for some odd reason. He honestly shouldn’t be feeling bored with the number of adventures Cyrus and himself had been on together since they took up the pseudonyms, Castor and Pollux, and joining the cavern of Hermes.

They had made tons of new friends in Eris, Apollo, Thanatos, and Persephone. They had raided a slave auction and dug up objects and tomes from the buried pre-rest buildings in the dunes of the Estival Desert. They had even met up with Lady Alma to make sure she was getting on alright, for crying out loud. Kain was safe from Lord Zafar. Cyrus was safe from Lord Zafar. They got to transcribe books and sell them in Apple-polish market.

Why was he so bored?!

“Um… Are there any titles you would recommend?” a familiar voice queried.

He looked up to see a man with short blond hair and a scruffy beard. He looked familiar too. Had he met this man before?

“Oliver Twist’s pretty―,” he began before cutting himself off, the man’s identity becoming shockingly clear.

“You bastard,” Kain growled, eyes filled with rage.

The bastard blinked in surprise, unsure of how to respond to Kain’s sudden insult.

“Pollux,” he heard Cyrus say with a sharp a sharp warning before making apologies to the customer.

Kain clenched his fists, his anger rising even higher after realizing Cyrus didn’t recognize the bastard in front of them. And even worse, the no good lying son of a bitch didn’t recognize them either. Kain threw a hand in front of his brother in a clear sign for the younger boy to be quiet. Cyrus’ voice faded off and he stared at his brother nervously, wondering what Kain was going to say.

“How dare you show your face here in front of me after what you did!” Kain sneered.

The man looked flustered as he glanced around the market at the stares they were attracting. “Sir, I believe you have the wrong―”

Kain slammed his hands on the front of the stall, cutting the man off.

“How dare you show your face after you abandoned your wife and children to the mercy of Lord Zafar!” he screamed, a mixture of hysteria and anger coloring his words

Cyrus gasped as the meaning of those words sunk in.

“Kain,” the man proclaimed in shock.

Kain slugged him straight in the nose.

Sick satisfaction filled him as the bastard stumbled back and landed on his ass. The bastard let out a short “fuck”. Cyrus stiffened and let out a squawk like he wanted to shout “language!” but didn’t because he wasn’t sure if it was appropriate.

“Pollux, Castor, what’s going on?” asked the hurried and stern voice of Captain Hephaestus. His coat was rumpled like he had just woke up and the goggles on his head were crooked. His were slightly frantic with concern. Were the boys in danger? Had Zafar’s men come for his boys?

Cyrus let out some sporadic unintelligible attempts of explanation before settling with staring at his… father. The father he hadn’t seen for years. The father he hadn’t seen since before his mother died. The father whose face was a blur and decaying photos hidden in the fabric of their suitcase. The father he could hardly remember. He couldn’t believe it: what were the odds that they would run into their father at the stall they were working at, in a town about 60 miles from Zafar’s manor. It seemed so improbable that it was impossible, yet here we are. Talk about a shock you never thought you’d receive. He would be less surprised if his mother rose from the grave to tell him he was pregnant.

He desperately wanted to hug the man. He wanted to run away into the desert and be buried in the sand. He wanted to cry. He wanted to ask him why he had never come back for them. But above all that, Cyrus just wanted to throw up.

“Just an unruly customer,” rumbled Kain’s muffled voice.

“Do you really expect me to believe that, Pollux? You just decked a customer…”

Cyrus stumbled toward the fallen figure. His… father looked up at him. Confusion, embarrassment, and fear were held captive in his eyes but there was no recognition. He didn't recognize Cyrus. He didn't recognize Kain. Cyrus’ vision began to blur and a hot flame consumed his chest.

A series of “I hate you" ‘s forced themselves through his lips. His throat felt tight like he couldn't breathe.

Cries of “Castor" echoed in his ears. A glint of gold light grabbed his shoulder. He flinched away. Gold bracelet- it’s only Athena, he thought in panic. She backed off and started humming in his ear, a surprisingly gentle thing for the stoic assassin. Persephone’s green hair flashed in his peripherals as she wrapped him in a hug. His low moan of “no" and the burning arms disappeared.

Eris was nowhere in sight. Perhaps she was behind them in her dark scarves, twisting her hands together nervously, unsure of what to do. That was for the best in this instance.

A confused and angry murmur rose from the voices of Captain Hephaestus, Apollo, Thanatos, and Kain. His family.

“Why did you leave us?” He wailed quietly.

Kain pushed past Hephaestus and began yelling at their father anew. The Captain wrapped his arms around his brother, barely stopping him from grabbing their father by his clothes and shaking him down.

“Answer him you piece of garbage or so help me I’ll cut off your genitals and feed them to a lion you absolute fuck beaver!”

“Why!” Cyrus asked firmly, trying to pull himself together.

Tears began streaming from the man’s golden eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I came back but As far told me you had all died… That he had killed you. I’m sorry… Please, where is your mother? Where is Amira?”

He looked so pathetic that it tore at Cyrus’ guts. He wanted to say it was okay but… the explanation felt hollow and tasted like spoiled milk on his tongue.

“Liar!” Kain shrieked. “You left us and never once looked back. Mom died and you weren't there. I lost my leg and you weren't there. Cyrus almost died and is permanently scarred all over his body and you weren't there. When we needed you there, you weren't, you were just gone and you don't get to say you're sorry and say you thought us dead, like that'll fix anything.”

“Kain… I’m–"

“No. No more ‘I'm sorry.’ Pick a book, buy it, and get out of here. We don't need you anymore!”

Cyrus violently wiped away his tears. Their father’s eyes looked broken. Kain needn't have been so sharp but he was right. The man needed to leave. It was too late for them to be a family and Cyrus didn't handle having this man back in their lives. He could forgive the man’s actions but he just could not forgive the man. He couldn't. What does that say about me, he thought bitterly, dewdrops trying to sneak from the corners of his eyes.

“Please… sir. Go,” he whispered hoarsely.

”Are you okay, boys?” Captain Hephaestus asked after… Tarea left.

Before either of them could spit out a lie, Apollo cut in, “That’s a stupid question. Of course, they're not okay. Jeez, way to be sensitive.”

Hephaestus flushed. “Well, what was I supposed to say?”

Thanatos crossed his arms, a frown etched on his face. “I don't have anything better but not that.”

“Do you need some space, perhaps?” Eris suggested, moving forward with confidence, relieved the tears were gone.

Kain’s mouth was set in a firm line and his eyes were alight with concern. “I think that would be an acceptable question to start with but I have never been very good at comforting.”

He paused and took a deep breath. “Do you need space, Castor?”

“No-o, Brother. I’d rather not be alone right now.”

Athena gave his hand a tight squeeze and Persephone pulled him into a sidearm hug, wary of making him uncomfortable again. “Oh, honey,” she whispered.

Athena glanced at Hephaestus from the corner of her eye.

“We should close the stall. Head back to the Library.”

Hephaestus turned to the stall in dismay. The novels lay on the ground covered in sand from where they fell when Kain smacked the stall. Kain turned ruby and rushed towards the books.

“I'll pack up for today.”

He dropped down shakily, almost dislodging his prosthetic.

“Pollux, you…” Hephaestus started.

“Let him,” muttered Thanatos. “He needs something mundane to calm his nerves. He hasn't had to yell like that in months. He hasn't felt so in danger in months either.”

Hephaestus bit his lip and nodded.

Cyrus wondered what he was thinking. Captain Hephaestus really cared for them, more than anyone had in years, they all did. The caravan was truly like a family. Captain Hephaestus was like the father with Athena at his side like a mother. Thanks and Eris acted like the anti-social uncle and aunt who really cared for the family but were left confused due to never having had their own children. Apollo was like the cool big brother and Persephone the caring older sister.

Kain and himself were the youngest of the group at 16 and 17. The babies of the family.

Cyrus had never been happier. He finally understood why the group didn't need to tell each other their identities to trust each other. One’s past did not define you if you didn't let it.

“It's time to go home,” Apollo shouted.

Cyrus blinked.

Home.

A home. A home with a mother and a father. A home with an aunt and an uncle. A home with three caring older siblings that would all die and live for one another. A home where it was safe. A home where no one would hurt you.

Cyrus felt a smile bloom on his lips.

“We’re coming,” he shouted, pulling Athena and Persephone up as he stood.

“Cas,” Persephone laughed. “I’m going to kill you.

He smirked at her and broke into a run.

“Try to catch me, Sister.”

Thanks for reading!

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marjaystuff · 6 years

Text

Phillip Margolin interview by Elise Cooper

The Third Victim

Phillip Margolin

Minotaur Pub

March 6th, 2018

The Third Victim by Phillip Margolin is the first in a new series. Margolin is back with his expertise of legal suspense crime novels. What makes his books interesting is the ability to intertwine facts about the justice system within a riveting plot.

The book begins with a horrific scene of a girl stumbling out of the woods and collapsing on the highway. She has been badly burned, beaten, and tortured. The investigation would later show that this woman was the ‘third victim’ of a sadistic killer. Luckily she was able to escape before he finished the job. Persons of interest pile up: Alex Mason, a prominent defense attorney who owns the cabin where the torture takes place; Arnold Prater, a rogue police officer, and a drug dealing pimp, Jackson Wright. Readers enter the courtroom with the defense attorneys, Regina Barrister and Robin Lockwood, as they try to figure out who is the real torturer.

As with all of his novels, Margolin explores societal issues, with this book being no different. Alzheimer’s is dealt with in a very understanding manner. Regina, a high-powered defense attorney, in the midst of a very serious case of murder and torture is starting to forget important information and is not able to hide it from the rest of the team that includes her newly hired associate Robin Lockwood. Since Regina is known for her quick wit, sharp mind, and immaculate research, Robin thought this would be her dream job, having a great mentor. Yet, she now must decide what to do, weighing her desire to continue working with Regina against her moral compass. Does she approach her or some of the trusted friends, and if so how to avoid confrontation since Regina is obviously in denial?

Margolin never disappoints readers with his legal thrillers. He chooses an issue relevant to today and encases it in a story involving some crime. This book is really two plots in one, a murder mystery and an examination of the impact of Alzheimer’s.

Elise Cooper: You had a two-year absence?

Phillip Margolin: I switched publishers from Harper to St. Martins who gave me a three-book deal. The reason for the lapse between books is that in 2016 my editor’s mother got very sick and she passed away. Because we were going back and forth with the edits the book was not completed until April 2017. But it was too late to get it into the catalog so they set it for 2018. I actually finished the second book of the series before this book came out.

EC: You delve into the issue of Alzheimer’s?

PM: It is the inspiration for this book. I read this article in the Oregon State Bar Journal that examines what should be done when a senior partner in a big law firm, a rainmaker, starts showing signs of dementia. This made me think about a young lawyer who starts working with her idol on a death penalty case and realizes something is wrong.

EC: Did you do any research for it?

PM: Dr. Jeffrey Kaye was kind enough to read the book to make sure I got it right. He is the Layton professor of neurology and biomedical engineering and the director of the Layton Aging and Alzheimer's Disease Center, as well as director of the Oregon Center for Aging and Technology (ORCATECH).

EC: Did you know anyone who has it?

PM: Both my grandmother, mother-in-law, and my aunt had Alzheimer’s. I think it is worse for people who are around them. I remember when I went back to New York and called my aunt to get together for lunch. After lunch, we were sitting in the park and she did not know where was her apartment. Five minutes later she asked the question again. My father and brother flew out and we took her back to Oregon.

EC: It seems that most of your books also have a woman who is abused?

PM: It is an important issue for me. I pioneered the battered woman defense back in Oregon in 1979. No one understood the dynamics of wife beating and why they stayed with their abuser. That year I represented a woman who murdered her husband with a hammer after he passed out drunk. During the course of my investigation I found out she was beaten by him for fourteen years and he also pushed her down a flight of stairs. She got probation. After that I lectured and wrote articles on how to use it as a defense.

EC: You also explore how the justice system works?

PM: As a lawyer I did thirty homicide cases, twelve death penalty, and went before the US Supreme Court. I hope to show readers how real trials and cases are very different than what they see on TV. Justice is served when the legal process functions successfully. It was set up by the colonists because they thought the government was bad and could do evil things. This is why they put the burden on the government to prove its accusations beyond a reasonable doubt. For the prosecution, it is put up or shut up.

EC: Why a death penalty case?

PM: I want to show my distaste for the death penalty. I tried thirty murder cases and with two of them I proved that the person convicted was factually innocent. Two out of thirty is a pretty high percentage for one lawyer. I think we have to be very careful because the death penalty is a non-correctable sentence.

EC: How would you describe Robin?

PM: I really like her. In my previous books my two most important characters are Dana Cutler, a female Rambo, and Amanda Jaffe, a realistic tough female attorney. Robin is a blending of these two.

EC: You have Robin kicking someone’s a- - in this book?

PM: I wanted to make sure that scene is realistic. In reality, most women who fight a bigger guy will lose. I figured out how to do this by giving Robin a background in martial arts and learning wrestling skills while on her high school team.

EC: You always have twists and turns in your plots?

PM: Yes, but I hope the readers think that the ending is fair. I won’t write a word until I get my conclusion. I would never have the murderer just dropped from the sky. Otherwise, people feel they are being taken advantage of. As a reader myself, authors who do this really upset me. I feel like they wasted my time since there is no way I could have figured it out. My style is to drop subtle hints throughout the plot and hope everything comes together.

EC: Can you give a heads up about your next book?

PM: Regina is only mentioned in the next one but does come back in the third one. Everyone else from the law firm returns in the next book with Robin and the other law partner taking control. It is loosely based on the Stanford swimmer who raped a girl and got a very light sentence. In my story, the antagonist is an All-American linebacker who raped a girl at a fraternity party and claims it was consensual sex.

THANK YOU!!

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