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whumpcloud · 10 months

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The Body (and Him) - Art Auction

thank you to @honeycollectswhump who helped me develop these guys couldn't have done it without you <3

content: heavy dehumanisation (whumpee treated as literal object), heavy dissociation, techinically pet whump (whumpee is a pet but not treated as such/doesn't really use the tropes), heavily conditioned whumpee, rescue & recovery, mentions of: gore, restraints, knives, bruising

Micah is going to vomit.

He has a reputation, he knows, so he gets invited to these sorts of private events. People he can't stand auctioning off art they don't appreciate. But he goes anyway, because he's a collector at heart, and he likes having them.

This is not a painting or a poster or a sculpture or any sort of normal art. This is a person who is so utterly lifeless that Micah wouldn't blame anyone for thinking that he was a corpse.

He stares. The boy stares back, but Micah can tell there's no conscious awareness of doing so. That's something he knows more intimately than a person should. Of the dozens of Pets who have passed through his doors, how many times has he seen that look in their eyes? Micah moves to the left and the boy's eyes don't follow.

Fuck, he's been noticed staring. Very quickly, he shoves the horror into the pit of his stomach and flashes a smile at the seller.

"I'm a little unsure what exactly the art here is," Micah says, as casually as he can manage with bile burning the back of his throat. "Would you mind explaining?"

"It's him," the man replies, gesturing to the boy. The boy is entirely still - does he even know what's going on? The lack of look in his eyes suggests not. "Well, he's more of a medium, than anything. It's a little hard to explain. Would you like to take a look through the album?"

The album? Micah takes a shaky step forward to leaf through the book sitting on the lectern in front of the exhibit.

If he could feel any more queasy, he would. Photograph upon photograph upon photograph of this boy in different positions, with different injuries. The only consistent thing is his blank-eyed stare. Micah can feel it radiating from the pages. A shudder runs down his spine. A photograph of the boy suspended upside down by ropes, patterns carved into his skin. A photograph of the boy pinned to a wall like a butterfly in moody lighting, nails through his hands and feet.

Micah shuts the book a little harder than intended.

"Is he up for auction?" Micah asks, trying to hide how strangled his voice is.

"Yes, he is," the man smiles, obviously excited at Micah's interest. "I've had him for a few years now, I'm moving on to other projects."

Other projects?! Micah bites his tongue until it bleeds. "What would you say are his most notable features?"

"I'm so glad you asked," the man says. There's a predatory glint in his eye that doesn't make it any easier for Micah to keep smiling. "As I'm sure you've noticed, he's very still. He doesn't flinch or scream, and he's barely any maintenance. Just feed him once a day, keep him hydrated, and wash him so that he doesn't get any infections. He's just a body, really."

Just a body. That's a person, you freak.

Micah is not letting him go to auction.

"How much? Right now."

Shaking someone's hand has never felt so sickening. Micah wants to scrub the feeling away until his skin is raw and bloody.

When Micah picks the boy up, he goes entirely limp in Micah's arms. Micah murmurs something about being safe now, but he has a feeling it goes in one ear and out the other.

—

The body is being carried. Out of the car and into the air. Air on its skin. That doesn't happen very much. He wonders, ever so briefly, if this new owner will put him outside. But then it passes and he stops paying attention to those sorts of things.

"Easy now," a voice says, and he isn't really sure what that means. "I'm laying you down, okay?"

The body is placed on a bed, and it immediately goes limp. Unfocused eyes fix on a point on the ceiling.

"...can you look at me, please?"

Its eyes dart over. Still unfocused. But he can make out a masculine figure, pale skin, red hair in a ponytail, brown eyes. Nice eyes. Gentle eyes. Oh, the body would appreciate being used gently. This owner might have really sharp knives so that the skin cuts cleanly, or big hands to leave more bruises faster, or soft ropes to hang him up. Of course, he has no say in what happens to the body. No say in anything. But the body has experienced a lot of things that have made it need rest, so if it was treated gently, that would be nice.

"I'm Micah." Master. "Are you tired? Nod for yes."

He doesn't understand the question. There's a quiet sigh.

"Does the body need rest?"

Oh, that makes sense. The body nods, though he doesn't understand why he's being asked. The body will sleep if told to sleep. But he doesn't understand a lot of things. He isn't made to understand.

"Then rest, okay? Go to sleep."

The body obediently closes its eyes and he falls into a dreamless sleep.

He wakes. Micah is still there. Just sitting by the bed. The body stares at the ceiling again.

"Oh, you're awake. I'm going to ask you to do some things now, okay?"

Okay.

"...sit up, please."

That's very non-specific. Normally the body would just be positioned however a person liked. But the body is certainly capable of moving around without assistance. So it sits up on the bed, cross-legged with his hands in its lap. Default position.

Micah eyes him. The body just stares ahead. It hasn't been told to look anywhere. The wall in front of him has an oil painting of a flower. In his peripheral vision, he can see more paintings, and drawings, and statues, and other things like him. He must be another new decoration.

"...raise your left arm, straight up."

The body obeys.

"Okay, put it back down."

The body obeys and its hand returns to its lap.

Micah wants to scream. He moves so mechanically. Does he even think? Micah can't detect any thought behind his gaze.

No, that's a stupid thought. Of course he thinks. Micah should know better than to contemplate otherwise. There's a fully-formed, complex person sitting there. He just needs to find a way of communicating.

"Do you speak?" Micah tries. He has a suspicion of what the answer might be. "You don't have to say anything. Just nod if you're physically capable of speech."

He does the closest thing he can to thinking, for a moment. There definitely are vocal cords in the body's throat, so he supposes he could use them. He doesn't see a reason to. Bodies don't have a need for speech. No person has ever asked him to speak. So even though there are vocal cords, the body might not be able to form any words or sound. But he doesn't know. So the body nods. Physically capable sounds right.

"Okay," Micah says, relief in his tone. "Good. Okay. Do you have a name? Could you speak to tell me it?"

What would a body have a name for?

"Right. Of course." Micah bites his nails. He needs something to call this boy. Anything at all. "I'm… I'm going to call you Demitri, okay? So when I say Demitri, you answer to it, yeah? Nod for yes."

It's just Micah's middle name, desperately grasped in a moment of horrified panic. But it's a name. If Demitri changes it later, then he's free to. Micah's had plenty of Pets change their names more than once.

The body nods, slowly, deliberately. Demitri. That's a name you would give to a person. This owner is strange. But maybe he likes to nickname his pieces. It isn't Demitri's place to question anything, even if he was capable of doing so.

"Okay. Does the body need to eat?"

The body just eats. People must have signals that let them know if they need to do that, and Micah just doesn't realise that the body doesn't feel things like hunger or thirst.

"...fine. Scheduled mealtimes, then. But I'll go make you something now, okay?"

The moment Micah leaves, Demitri settles into the familiar emptiness of being alone. But at least the body is on a bed. A bed! The body never got to be on a bed in Master's house. Maybe this is where the body will get to lie every time it isn't being used.

That would be so… nice.

"Demitri, I'm back," Micah says, some unknown amount of time later. Time isn't really a concept Demitri grasps. "I've brought you some soup. Can you eat it yourself?"

Micah places the bowl into the body's lap. Is it supposed to eat? The body tries to hold the spoon, and all it does is slip back into the soup. There was a time where it had the strength to do that, Demitri is sure. Maybe a very long time ago, back at the start with Master.

Micah takes a deep breath, and bites his lip. "Okay. I'll feed it to you."

That requires much less effort for the body. It opens its mouth.

Micah is quiet, half-forgetting to try to keep talking like he intended. He has a bad habit of going silent when he's thinking. It isn't that he minds this - he never could, and Demitri certainly isn't the first one to need this sort of help, anyway - but there's something different about this. He's had rescues who struggle to do anything for themselves. He's had rescues who are detached from their own bodies. He's had rescues used as all manner of objects. Not all of them at once.

He's the one people go to with difficult cases. He coaxes out the ones that hide and convinces the ones who only follow orders to do something for themselves and reassures the ones that think everything they do deserves a punishment that it's all going to be okay.

Who else is going to do this? The photo album lies abandoned in the car. Pages upon pages of what Micah can only describe as horror.

And Demitri does… nothing. Gives him nothing to work with.

For the first time in the seven years he's been doing this, Micah Ullmann feels lost.

He continues to gently spoon-feed Demitri anyway.

#polly's prose #the body (and him)#demitri ullmann #micah ullmann #whump #whump writing #LOOK AT MY GUYS!!!!!!!!!#i've been so excited about them #they make me so normal. so so so normal.

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maddie-grove · 3 days

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Some people need to develop higher standards for how they criticize Taylor Swift. Not even because I’m particularly invested in what other people think about Taylor Swift. I’m barely invested in what I think about Taylor Swift. I just don’t want to read sentences like “it’s so selfish of her to not release singles when other, lesser-known artists have to work hard to decide which singles to release” anymore.

#I could also do without the ask-polly-style prose poems #written by people who have just now realized that fame makes people kind of weird #or who are inordinately fascinated by people going nuts over music they think is mid #like has that never happened to you before?

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whomuses · 11 months

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@miss-polly gets somewhat plotted Werewolf!Jamie

His head had felt like it was full of cotton wool for days now. He was barely aware of what had happened, of Roy storming down and into their offices, of the whirlwind that was Rebecca, of paperwork and snarling about human rights and the look and smell of fear that was suddenly coming off Rupert Mannion. Of gentle hands moving so, so carefully against his skin, as if scared he would attack, of Roy, familiar and gruff and smelling of wolf just under the surface. Being treated gently was strange, now, so strange. They seemed to know what had been happening, but he was barely aware of what was happening…

Unloading him from a car, a soft, familiar American twang nearby. "You really got him?" "Yeah. Yeah. But he's … he's really fucked up." "I think I know someone who can help. Come on, now, Jamie, bud, let's get you somewhere nice and out of sight, huh?" and being led down a familiar street, the smells so very strong here, his senses still on fire. "He barely looks like himself…" "I think he's in shock." Rebecca said, so gently, "Are you sure this is a good idea, Ted? He needs medical attention…" "Nothin' they can do. He needs to come back to being human." Roy grunted, and they were outside a door, ringing the bell. "You asked already?" "Yup. She said it was okay, although I've made it clear, y'know, she can back out. Those yellow eyes are real spooky." his head twitched up, tilting slightly to the side at the sound of footsteps approaching the door…

#miss polly #this is more like prose than a starter so like #please let me know if you want changes #jamie #werewolf jamie

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vigilantdesert · 11 months

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🌼

Positivity

Beyond the sender you mean? ;) @adventuroushero. Absolutely love their Link, he's so nuanced and thoughtful in a way that is totally in keeping with his pensive character, but the way they write that portrayal is chef's kiss. I can't recommend them enough, genuinely.

#answered asks #queued #positivity #miss-polly #adventuroushero #I loVE THEIR LINK #and their prose!!!!#so much #clenches fist

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rewritingcanon · 22 hours

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my polly the definition of “im not arguing with a man with big brown eyes. whatever you say, beautiful.”

(she is going to argue with him but she’ll admire the two tiny black holes on his face at the same time)

#writing in the pov of a teenage girl is literally the funnest thing ever i cannot reccomend it enough #DONT PAY ATTENTION TO THE PROSE MY FIRST DRAFTS R ALWAYS HORRIFYING #yolly #polly chapman #harry potter #hpcc #cursed child #harry potter and the cursed child #hp #ccsquad #yann fredericks #magic hour #yolly fic #<- gonna start calling it that atp #or #magic hour sequel #but i feel like that may be a bit… misleading with the lack of scorbus that will be in it 😭

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royalreef · 2 years

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@chaosmultiverse inquired: Polly would be an emotional mess, acting out in all sorts of ways due to her grief, she'd be trying to find a quick way of feeling better but she won't really be able to, she'd need time to grieve Death of a Princess - Accepting

There are always more ghosts. Ghosts in the air, ghosts in the soil, ghosts in the water. Everything is full of ghosts, full of the undying dead, stuffed inside themselves, faces fogging up the glass, mouths gaping open and greedily gasping for air they don’t even need. Bodies full of ghosts. Full of histories and pasts that have ceased to hold meaning, collecting dust and lint, smearing up fingertips and choking the lungs. Bodies full of bodies. Every pair of teeth has sunk themselves into someone who has sunk their teeth into someone else. Here is the truth: we are all a thousand ghosts that have not yet learned how to die. Learn to die now. Learn to die now or be trapped there forever, trapped in a thousand histories that you never even figured out, that you turned away from, that you hid away in the night like a child shaking under the covers. Did you know what she was? Did you know who she was? Did you ignore them anyways? Are you ignoring what you are?

#Glory and Gore || IC #Dreaded rumors || Asks #chaosmultiverse #And you'll probably be leaving soon‚ so I'm telling you || Polly x Miranda ( chaosmultiverse )#(( dont worry over who's POV this prose is from im sure its nothing important-

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gnossienne · 1 year

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Angela Carter and Folk Music: 'Invisible Music', Prose and the Art of Canorography, by Polly Paulusma (2022)

#Psychogeography #the burden of memory #quotations

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no-where-new-hero · 11 days

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Have you read Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis? I’m citing it alongside Fire and Hemlock in my thesis as Cupid and Psyche retellings (though of course Fire and Hemlock is many things) and I am always fascinated by the ways the texts play off each other.

Ahhh love when people come into my inbox to talk about F&H!!!!

I did read Til We Have Faces, years before I started reading Diana Wynne Jones, actually, which means I don't remember a lot of it except that it had some of the most beautiful prose I had encountered up to that point. But it absolutely did cement my interest in the Cupid & Psyche story, and I still remember appreciating how Lewis--as he did with everything he wrote--drew out or drew attention to the philosophical/religious aspects in the idea. Love and faith must be blind, sometimes. Sometimes, you cannot (and should not) see the thing you are striving toward because you're just not ready yet. For him, that was how to craft a relationship to God. But I think F&H does echo that in a lot of ways! Polly can't save Tom (or herself) until she's old enough to see all around their friendship and who he is as a person. It's not just understanding her feelings for him; it's understanding how she can save him and herself at the same time. I'm sure DWJ must have had TWHF in mind when she wrote F&H, just knowing her connections to Lewis and also the very purposeful and erudite way she put so many motifs in that book!

Also, good luck on your thesis! It makes me so happy that you're putting some more DWJ-related scholarship out in the world!

#blake's mail #fire and hemlock #diana wynne jones #til we have faces #c.s. lewis

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burningvelvet · 1 year

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Back at the Villa Diodati… (the poll game continues!)

After seeking shelter in the middle of a storm at Lake Geneva, you find yourself in the infamous Villa Diodati for the very first time. You’ve heard all the rumours about what goes on in this place late at night—orgies, opium, rituals, poetry, sodomy, the usual—but is any of it really true? You’ve been warmly welcomed by Lord Byron’s valet, Fletcher, who took your wet coat and helped you settle in, introducing you to all the residents. After some length of conversation, you find they don’t seem that bad at all. Now you’re in the parlor sitting next to Mary Godwin-Wollstonecraft, the daughter of two of England’s most radical writers, who helps you warm up by the fire.

MARY: “If you’re the frightful type then you’ve come at the perfect time. We’ve been quite lively tonight over a book of ghost stories called Fantasmagoriana, and the last story just ended before you came.“

Y/N: “I regret missing it—but I was battling something of a terror myself. The wind outside is ghastly! I can see why you’ve chosen a night like tonight for such an occasion.”

MARY: “Oh, indeed—but we do recite stories quite often, and prefer the strange ones. We are all literary people ourselves. Do you do much reading or writing?”

Y/N: “Yes, but not as often as I’d like to do.”

MARY: “I concur—I am hoping to have more opportunity now that my boy William and his nursemaid are away, though I do miss him.”

Mary guides you back to the others, sitting on one of the sofas next to Mary’s strange—husband? lover?—Mr. Shelley. Beside him is Byron’s surprisingly young doctor, Polidori. Across from you on the other sofa, Mary’s—sister? step-sister?—Miss Clairmont sits smiling with a glass, and the famous Lord Byron lounges beside her with a leg thrown over the side of the couch. He leafs through a book before putting it down and pouring himself some more wine. He pours another glass and hands it to you.

BYRON: “Here, this should restore your spirits. It is the finest wine this side of the Alps.”

The wine is a dark red, like blood, but sweet and rich. You thank him for his hospitality.

BYRON: “I can assure you it is my pleasure. Strangers fascinate me! And how fitting it is for us to take in a mysterious stranger on such a dark and stormy night. You aren’t some apparition are you? The last story we read was about a ghost who seduced a man…”

CLAIRE: “Y/N is quite real—I can tell because I am actually of the dead myself. Or at least it often feels as such. I think I have died of love.”

Claire gleams at Byron. Byron ignores Claire and addresses you.

BYRON: “I overhear that you’re something of a writer yourself! In that case, you shall feel at home here. We are all a bit mad—the art preserves our wits.”

POLIDORI: “But as a warning, some of us are quite a bit more mad than others.”

Shelley glares at the doctor. Byron only gives a breezy laugh.

BYRON: “Oh, Polly Dolly, speak not of yourself. It bores us all to death. And you’ll frighten off our dear guest!”

Polidori pours himself another glass. Claire glances somewhat speculatively from Byron, to you, and then back to Byron. The latter jumps from the sofa with a sudden gaiety.

BYRON: “I’ve just been struck with the most brilliant notion, as if granted by some celestial being which I know poor Shelley doesn’t believe in.”

Shelley opens his mouth to speak but Byron continues.

BYRON: “We will each write a ghost story! What better way to entertain our new guest, and cure this incessant boredom of ours—“

POLIDORI: “You mean yours—“

BYRON: “—than to attempt to frighten each other to death! What fun! The person with the most horrifying story wins—and by horrifying,” he faces Polidori, “I mean in subject matter, not in quality of prose.”

You turn to whisper to Mary,

Y/N: “Do they do this all the time?”

MARY: “Oh, yes—I can tell you much more about all that later, if you can bear to hear it.”

BYRON: “Now, for those of you who are brave enough to accept this challenge… we shall begin!”

Claire and Polidori begin setting aside parchment and pens. Mary and Percy eagerly discuss their ideas. Byron saunters over to you.

BYRON: “Will you care to put your writing prowess to the test by joining us? I would love to see some of your writing, but alas, can’t assume any would have survived your perilous journey here—and we have more than enough parchment for another writer!”

Claire twirls around to interject, taking Byron’s hand while addressing you.

CLAIRE: “Or perhaps you should rest after all the excitement of tonight… after all, you could be our voter, since we know you would be the least biased.”

BYRON: “Or perhaps if you do stay, you’d rather become one of our muses? They say those who cannot write great literature often inspire it.”

POLIDORI: “Well, as long as you don’t become one of Byron’s muses, you should be fine.”

MARY: “I think Y/N has had a long night, and should consider whether they would like to stay tomorrow. I have the feeling that none of us will be finishing our stories tonight, at any rate, and I would like some time to ponder ideas myself.”

Y/N: “Oh, I agree. It is getting quite late.”

BYRON: “It’s only half past four in the morning!”

POLIDORI: “Not all of us are as nocturnal as Your Lordship.”

BYRON: “Oh, alright. Fletcher! Can you show Y/N to one of the spare rooms?”

FLETCHER: “Certainly, my Lord. Right this way, Y/N.”

Fletcher guides you by candlelight up the beautiful staircase and into a spacious room.

FLETCHER: “My Lord has just started renting the Villa recently, and the previous occupants left quite a few fine clothes in these wardrobes. You shall find everything you need, and if you need me for whatever reason, you need only call!”

Y/N: “Thank you, Fletcher, I appreciate the kindness.”

He leaves. A few minutes later, there is a knock at your door.

Y/N: “It is unlocked. Come in!”

The last person you expect walks in somewhat sheepishly.

PERCY: “I hope I’m not disturbing you! Only, Lord Byron told us he is sending Polidori to check on you in the morning to see if you’ve caught cold. Mary asked me to inform you.“

Y/N: “Oh, thank you for letting me know—I don’t mind.”

PERCY: “I only wanted to warn you, because the thing about Polidori is…”

You sigh and sit on the bed as he talks wildly.

PERCY: “He is an excellent doctor, but he is not to be trusted. We are generally civil… but he has challenged me to a duel before—I cannot explain it—he is constantly antagonizing someone. And he is in love with my Mary. And he and Byron… well, I cannot tell you the rest, you have been scandalized enough. He is a fine man most times, but do not believe whatever he tells you.”

Y/N: “I see. Only, it seemed to me like Byron and the doctor were antagonizing each other?”

PERCY: “Oh, the two of them… well, I cannot explain their past—but you mustn’t worry about Byron. Claire, however… she has a good heart, but will probably be cold toward you at first. She is in love with Byron, and when she loves, she loves with her whole being and is a jealous creature… ask Mary or Polidori. Or rather, don’t—it will only get us into more trouble.”

He pulls out a bottle of some mysterious black liquid out of his coat and takes a swig before handing it to you.

PERCY: “Alas! Here, take some of my laudanum. If you do catch cold, it will help. If you take enough… it will give you plenty of story ideas—not that I would advocate it. But, pray! Do not tell anyone I have lended it. Polidori and Mary will have a fit. Byron won’t care.”

He sits down,

PERCY: “Oh, speaking of Byron, he and I have just decided we are going sailing tomorrow alone if the weather permits. We have not told anyone. Would you like to come with? We are always so gay together—“

Percy is interrupted by a strange noise coming from the next room. He startles and grabs your hands.

Y/N: “What is that damnable sound?”

PERCY: “Oh, it sounds like a terrible wooden creaking… or, no… like a moaning, by God! It sounds like the ghost from the story we read tonight… Y/N, do you believe in ghosts? I do—I have been haunted for many years—oh! There it is again!”

Again, the creaking sound starts up, as do the haunting groans. Shelley grabs a candle with one hand and takes your arm in his other, shaking, gesturing toward a door on the far side of the room. The noise does sound ghostly.

Y/N: “I don’t know which room that door there leads to—I only came in through the other door, the one that leads through to the hall!”

PERCY: “Could it be another spare room? Oh, we must… do you think we should alarm the others, or brave it on our own? I can be persuasive—we may be diplomatic with the Spirits. They may prefer it if we confront them in small numbers instead of overwhelming them with the others…”

Y/N: “It’s probably just the wind—or the storm starting up again, or causing damage to the Villa—I shall see myself.”

You approach the door, but Percy pushes you aside. The groans and creaks continue.

PERCY: “No! I cannot let you be harmed if the spirits are demonic. I have already witnessed horrors beyond man’s comprehension. I will see them for myself.”

He finally swings the door open. Then, just as quickly, he slams the door shut. He turns to face you. Then he begins to laugh. Madly. You stare at him with fear, eagerly awaiting his response.

PERCY: “Did you know your room is connected to Lord Byron’s?”

A/N: This is the 2nd installment of Diodati Drama (oh, it has a name now—so you can search for it in my tags). Link to the first & previous poll: https://at.tumblr.com/burningvelvet/the-year-is-1816-and-you-get-caught-in-a-storm/jtf5ipwsz2l2

This is an interactive poll story/game where you get to explore the infamous Villa Diodati in 1816–where Mary Shelley pioneered horror and science-fiction by writing Frankenstein, Byron and Percy wrote some of the most famous poems in the English language, and Polidori wrote the first ever vampire novel, The Vampyre (based on Byron’s story). But that’s not all they got up to… vote to find out what happens next!

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isfjmel-phleg · 10 months

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May 2023 Books

The Night Gardener by Jonathan Auxier

I really liked this one! The style felt classic, the atmosphere was intriguing and eerie, and the plot sucked me in.

Moongarden by Michelle A. Barry (reread)

This one is kind of sort of a sci-fi retelling of The Secret Garden, and while I like the concept, I didn't love it the first time I read it. The reread helped me pinpoint why: the arcs and themes of the original were absent. There's a prickly heroine and a secret garden (of sorts), but the emphasis of the narrative is not on healing from emotional neglect, or even healing in general. It's a fairly standard tale of a girl who is frustrated by having to live up to her parents' lofty expectations and who comes to realize what her true talents are, along with some dystopian sci-fi conflict. Despite the interesting concept of the world, it feels like a bland version of a tale that's been told many times.

The Well-Wishers by Edward Eager

Light and fun in the typical Eager style.

Mr. and Mrs. Bunny--Detectives Extraordinaire! by Polly Horvath (reread)

My youngest sister read this one years ago and some of its details ended up in our bank of references (smartcars driven by rabbits in platform shoes! The Marmot ordered the most expensive thing on the menu! it makes sense in context). The reread reestablished that it is indeed hilarious, albeit odd.

Anyone but Ivy Pocket by Caleb Krisp

Goodness knows I love insufferable literary children. But I couldn't stand rude, brazen, self-centered, grandiose Ivy. I could understand where her behavior comes from, but that didn't make it any less painful to read about. The fact that she is a maid and acts like that made the behavior difficult to swallow; although the story didn't seem set in any particular era, it seems intended to be vaguely old-timey, and in those days a smart mouth from the domestic staff would never have been tolerated. But what made her particularly difficult to like was that she is utterly incapable of character growth, the thing that makes insufferable literary children endearing rather than loathsome. Someone like that could function as a minor character, but in a protagonist that just doesn't work.

Going Postal by Terry Pratchett

My first foray into this series! I enjoyed it, although I was frequently confused. Not sure that I'm ready to return to the series soon, but this one was indeed amusing.

Home by Sarah Prineas

...I had to look up this title in Goodreads to recall what it was.

The Mysterious Case of the Allbright Academy by Diane Stanley (reread)

I read this as a teenager and recently picked it up at a library booksale out of nostalgia. It may not be Great Literature, but I still found it entertaining.

Marianne Dreams by Catherine Storr (reread)

I had a hankering for this book and others like it again.

Noel Streatfeild's Holiday Stories by Noel Streatfeild

The highlight of this one was the short story that included Harriet and Lalla from Skating Shoes / White Boots, whom it was a pleasure to encounter again.

The Hollow Boy by Jonathan Stroud

The second book in this series dragged for me, but this one restored the breezy pace. The characters and prose continue to be delightful.

Mystery of the Hidden Hand by Phyllis A. Whitney

Not one of her stronger mysteries. I had to look this one up to remember it.

Complete Fairy Tales of Oscar Wilde by Oscar Wilde

These vacillated between heartbreakingly beautiful and wow-I-am-not-on-board-with-this-philosophically.

Bellwether by Connie Willis

I loved this one more than I expected. It spoke to me. It's a brilliant examination of how our lives and decisions are influenced by inexplicable fads and what it takes to get out of that mindset and I know putting it like that doesn't do it justice but it's just really good. I even liked the romance. (And this has nothing to do with the story itself, but it's set in the Denver and Boulder areas and the protagonist goes to my old town to buy a McGuffin, and that makes me irrationally happy.)

I also read various Wonder Woman 1987 comics specifically dealing with Cassie in order to get a sense of her background. She's a supporting character and gets less development than she does in YJ 1998, I think. And she's the only child on that team who does not have a heartbreaking backstory. Good for her. Somebody in this group has to be kind of normal. Why not the girl who has superpowers because she talked the actual Zeus from Greek mythology into giving them to her.

#random personal stuff #@lady-merian I read another of those books feel free to ignore

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whumpcloud · 1 year

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thought about this concept too much so i wrote a lil thing

content: god whumper, god caretaker, mortal whumpee, sadistic whumper, whumpee dies but it isn't permanent, religious whump(? whumpee is a follower of whumper), amputation

"Whumpee?"

Whumpee immediately looks up, their anxious eyes fixed to their god. "Y-Yes, my lord?"

"What is the most you have seen a mortal survive?" Whumper asks, getting up from their seat and approaching their darling devotee. "The worst pain that you have seen someone suffer through and yet live."

"Um..." Whumpee hesitates. What is Whumper planning to do with this information? "Amputation, my lord. A friend of mine had their arm crushed in an accident and it had to be cut from their body. They survived."

"Mm." Whumper produces a knife from nowhere. "And do you think you could survive such a thing, dear Whumpee?"

Whumpee's eyes widen. "M-My lord?"

Whumper smiles, and leans down, pushing the kneeling Whumpee into the wall, a tight grip on their arm. "Shall we find out?"

"N-No!"

Whumpee's protests never deter their god, and they scream as the knife swiftly cuts through their skin at the shoulder. Whumpee closes their eyes so that they don't have to see the blood.

"I- I'll bleed out, my lord, b-before you--" Whumpee screams again as the knife cuts deeper.

"That's still useful," Whumper says, and even though Whumpee can't see, they know Whumper is smiling that sharp, sadistic smile. "You'll survive losing a little blood, won't you?"

"A little, a little!" Whumpee writhes in Whumper's grip, but it's no use at all. "My lord, I'll lose too much blood, I--"

"Shh, shh, Whumpee," Whumper says softly. "You will be brought back at my command, you know that. Nothing to fear."

"But the pain, please, my lord, it hurts to die!" Whumpee begs.

"Are you not devoted enough to suffer for me?" Whumper asks, in a mockery of care. "Are you not mine, Whumpee?"

"I- I am," Whumpee says, ever loyal Whumpee. "My lord, I am, but-"

Whumper shushes them, and does not stop. Whumpee cries and pleads and screams as the knife pierces their body, cutting through flesh and muscle and bone until their vision grows dark at the edges.

"A shame," Whumper says, their voice further away than the sky that Whumpee hasn't seen in so long. "I thought you'd survive a little longer than this, dear Whumpee."

"I'm... sorry..." Whumpee gasps.

When Whumpee's vision clears, they are in a much different place. A warm fire crackles in a fireplace not far from where they sit on a soft rug. Like home. They know this place uncomfortably well.

"Is it my time, yet?" Whumpee asks softly.

Caretaker, sitting on a wooden chair in the corner, sighs. "No."

"Please don't send me back," Whumpee says, their voice breaking. "Please."

"You know I must," Caretaker replies, standing and leaning down beside Whumpee.

"Is death not meant to be merciful?" Whumpee clutches their sleeves and sobs. "I can't take this. I've been a devoted servant all my life and this is what I'm given!"

"...death itself is not merciful," Caretaker murmurs. "But I try to be. I do not have to send you back immediately. Whumper will assume that the God of Death has more important matters to attend to."

Caretaker offers Whumpee their hand, and Whumpee takes it, clutching it tightly.

"Let's sit," Caretaker says, and how Death is softer than Life is something Whumpee will never understand. "Mortals enjoy speaking with each other over meals, yes? It is a small comfort, but--"

"But it is enough," Whumpee interrupts. "It... It is more than enough, for me."

#polly's prose #whump #whump writing #90% chance i won't continue i just wanted to write it and be silly

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biboocat · 4 months

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Villette, 1853

Wow, I was so impressed with this noveI! I was struck by its deep introspection, courageous exploration of loneliness, and somber realism. The protagonist, Lucy Snowe, is a highly perceptive and repressed young woman who, having no better option, stoically faces life’s hardships as a teacher abroad without family, fortune, or exceptional physical beauty. She is an outsider who can acutely observe her world but is constrained from fully participating in it. It is a heartbreaking and dark masterpiece with great psychological insight and beautiful, emotive prose. By the time it was written Charlotte Brontë had lost her five beloved siblings and mother. She died two years following its publication in 1855 at age 38.

The story does have several remarkable coincidences that may be criticized by today’s standards, but I’ve encountered this in other Victorian novels. I read an opinion that postulated classical literature’s influence, in particular the theme of Fate, and religious belief in Providence, both extant in the 19th century, made this device more commonplace.

Some memorable passages:

It’s early on, and I’m charmed by precociously sensitive 6 yo Polly. I like Lucy Snowe’s observant nature that is wise beyond her years in her observation of Polly: “‘A very unique child’, thought I, as I viewed her sleeping countenance by the fitful moonlight, and cautiously and softly wiped her glittering eyelids and her wet cheeks with my handkerchief. ‘How will she get through this world, or battle with this life? How will she bear the shocks and repulses, the humiliations and desolations, which books and my own reason tell me are prepared for all flesh?‘

“Many a times since have I noticed, in persons of Ginerva Fanshawe’s light, careless temperament, and fair, fragile style of beauty, an entire incapacity to endure. They seem to sour in adversity, like small beer in thunder. The man who takes such a woman for his wife ought to be prepared to guarantee her an existence all sunshine. Indignant at last with her teasing peevishness, I curtly requested her to ‘hold her tongue’.”

“I seemed to hold two lives – the life of thought, and that of reality.“

Her nerve and psychological acumen: first teaching day coup. 79-80

She is a depressive during the school break.

Where the bodily presence is weak and speech contemptible, surely there cannot be error in making written language of the medium of better utterance than faltering lips can achieve?

This hag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope; she cannot rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken in, and broken down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece of bread, to await the pains of death, and steadily through all life to despond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad of times to defy her, to rush under her rod and give a truant hour to Imagination, her soft, bright foe, our sweet Help, our divine Hope. We shall and must break bounds at intervals, despite the terrible revenge that awaits our return. p223

No mockery in this world ever sounds to me so hollow as that of being told to cultivate happiness. What does such advice mean? Happiness is not a potato, to be planted in mould, and tilled with manure.

If life be a war, it seemed my destiny to conduct it single-handed. p288

Life is so constructed that the event does not, cannot, will not, match the expectation. p395

Yes, it (solitude) is sadness. Life, however, has worse than that. Deeper than melancholy lies heartbreak. p410

There is, in lovers, a certain infatuation of egotism. They will have a witness of their happiness, cost that witness what it may. p410

In this outer rank I took place. I’d rather like to find myself the silent, unknown, consequently unaccosted neighbor of the short petticoat and the sabot, and only the distant gazer at the silk robe, the velvet mantle, and the plumed chapeau. Amidst so much life and joy, too, it suited me to be alone – quite alone. Having neither wish nor power to force my way through a mass so close-packed, my station was on the farthest confines, where, indeed, I might hear, but could see little. p438

1 5Feb'53: Villette! Villette! Have you read it? I am only just returned to a sense of the real world about me for I have been reading Villette, a still more wonderful book than Jane Eyre. There is something almost preternatural in its power. - George Eliot

#charlotte bronte #villette

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