“If it’s for the Divine Dragon, I’m not afraid to be a little ruthless.”

Hi i have a follow up question to your latest ask. I tried looking through your asks if you had answered something similar but only found a post about your book which is also good but not exactly what i was looking for haha. Anyway, so I was wondering what sources we have showing or referencing the historical alexanders relationship to achilles? And maybe his mothers too. Is it just in later authors works? Is it based on lost sources from alexanders time? Are there coins or anything? Thanks (:

TL;DR version: we don’t have anything from Alexander’s own day that firmly connects him to Achilles. His coins all show Herakles, and then later himself “Heraklized.”

IF the armor in Tomb II at Vergina is his (e.g., it’s his half-brother Arrhidaios in there, not Philip II), then we may have an artistic reference on the magnificent shield recovered and reconstructed via archaeological magic. The shield’s central boss shows Achilles killing Penthesileia. Is that the “Shield of Achilles” Alexander supposedly picked up at Troy, and then carried in battle like a standard? Maybe. But, either way, it’s a reference to Achilles.

Otherwise, Achilles just doesn’t show up in Macedonian artwork. As he was supposedly from Epiros next door west, that may not be a big surprise, whereas Herakles (who’s all over the place) was believed to be the ancestor of the Argead clan. Alexander’s claim to Achilles came through Mommy, Olympias.

So virtually ALL our references to Alex and Achilles are from literary sources. And those are also ALL later. Which brings us to our source problem….

—————————————

The sources for Alexander are a regular Gordion Knot. We’re gonna get into the weeds here. Stay with me. And you may want to bookmark this for yourself if you need a handy (if saucy) later reference on the Alexander sources.

I’m not sure how much the asker already knows, but let me lay out some basics for everyone, including common terminology. You can probably suss out a lot from context, but just to be clear:

“Primary” evidence means documents and materials from the time period under consideration, and “secondary” evidence means modern authors assembling/editing and writing about those sources. When we look at the ancient world, primary evidence refers to documents (writings, including inscriptions), artwork (vases, sculptures, mosaics, etc.), and material evidence (e.g., “stuff” unearthed by archaeologists).

Obviously, only a fraction of what once existed has survived. Sometimes we know of writings that are no longer “extant.” Extant means a document we still have, or at least have most of. We hear about a lot more via “testamonia” and “fragmenta.” Testamonia are mention of a document (or author) found in another document. And fragmenta are pieces of a lost work (typically) embedded as quotes in somebody else’s work. Unfortunately, ancient authors don’t always admit where they get their information. “Citing” wasn’t a thing, back then.

Now, that out of the way, let’s take a look at Alexander sources in particular.

We have 5 extant histories/biographies for Alexander, more than virtually any other ancient figure. That’s great!

Problem. Not a single one was written by anyone who knew him, saw him, or even lived when he did. Two of them aren’t even in Greek; they’re in Latin. I’ve listed them below from earliest to latest, with approximate dates, and a bit of info about the author. (While I prefer Greek transliterations, I’m using the most common spelling of the names for familiarity.)

Diodorus Siculus, Bibliotheca Historica, specifically books 16 (Philip), 17 (Alexander), 18-20 (Successors). As “world histories,” they do talk about events in other places, including Syracuse, Athens, Sparta, and Rome. As his name suggests, Diodorus was from Sicily, and died c. 30 BCE, just as the Roman Republic was morphing into Empire. We have only books 1-5 and 11-20 of a total of 40. Books 18-20 are incomplete (fragments).

THIS IS OUR EARLIEST EXTANT SOURCE: a guy who lived in the first century BCE and was born almost 300 years after Philip of Macedon.

Let that sink in a moment.

Curtius Rufus, Historiae Alexandri Magni, is the better known of our two Latin histories. The author is a mystery, which complicates dating it. He lived under the empire, while the Parthians existed. A consul suffectus in late 43 CE (Claudius) has been proposed as him, but speculation abounds he might have used a nom de plume—not unlike a fanfiction author. 😊 The best study of Curtius’s work is by Elizabeth Baynam. He probably belongs to the first century, just a little earlier than Plutarch, and his work bears all the hallmarks of the Latin Silver Age.

Plutarch of Chaironeia wrote a lot, including his collection, Lives of Famous Greeks and Romans, which includes Alexander (as well as some Successors) + a massive number of essays collected under the general title Moralia. These include The Fortune of Alexander the Great, and Sayings of Kings and Commanders. Plutarch was a Dionysian priest from central Greece (Boeotia) who lived in the late first century CE, and died c. 120…that’s when HADRIAN was emperor. He belongs to a group of writers typically called the Second Sophistic.

Arrian of Nicomedia, The Anabasis and Indica, written in two different dialects of Greek (Attic and Ionic); he also wrote some philosophic stuff. We know a decent amount about him. He was an Asian Greek from modern Bithynia (the home province of Hadrian’s boyfriend Antinoos), a military man, a senator, a friend of Hadrian, a consul suffectus, and later, an archon of Athens, but most famously, governor (legate) of Cappadocia under Hadrian. He died in Athens c. 160 CE. He liked to call himself the New Xenophon and naming his work on Alexander the Anabasis (after Xenophon’s famous history) is pointed. Although Greek, he was strongly Romanized.

Justin, wrote an epitome of Pompeius Trogus’s expansive Liber Historiarum Philippicarum, which was a history of the Macedonian kingdom, written when Augustus was Empror. An “epitome” is a digest, or shortened version. Trogus’s work was 44 books. Justin’s is much, much smaller, but it’s not a true digest in that he collected what he considered the more interesting titbits rather than trying to summarize the whole thing. We do not know when he lived, precisely, and dates have been thrown out from shortly after Pompeius Trogus all the way to 390 CE! His Latin matches the second century or perhaps early third. This one doesn’t have a Loeb edition, so get the translation by John Yardley with Waldemar Heckel’s commentary on Justin.

In addition, information and stories about Alexander can be found scattered in other ancient sources, notably:

Athenaeus of Naucratus (Greece), Supper Party (Deipnosophistae), which is a weird collection of stories about famous people and food, told at a fictional dinner banguet. It’s long, and fairly entertaining reading, if you’re interested in Greek (and Roman) dining customs. Athenaeus lived in the late 2nd/early 3rd century CE, so he’s even later than most of our historians. Athenaeus used a lot of now-missing sources.

Polyaenus, Strategems. Military handbook from another late author—2nd century CE—but he’s of special interest as he’s Macedonian, our sole extant ancient source from a Macedonian, but keep in mind 500+ years passed between Alexander’s day and his. The Strategems is broken down by leader, which include Archelaus, Philip, and Alexander, plus some of the Successors, too. Until recently, there wasn’t a really good translation (the last was done in the 1800s), but it was finally updated by Krentz and Wheeler for Ares Press.

In addition, he’s mentioned in passing by sources from Strabo to Pliny the Elder to Aelian.

This gives you a good idea of what we do have, and the nature of our problem. It may also help explain what I (or other historians) mean when we talk about the danger of “Romanizing,” even with Greek authors. By the time any of them were writing, even Diodorus, Rome dominated the Mediterranean, and most of them really knew only the imperial period.

Besides the obvious problem of the distance in time, some also had axes to grind. Plutarch is probably the most obvious, as he admits he’s not writing history, but this new thing (he invented) called “Lives” (e.g., biography). More to the point, he’s writing moral tales. Ergo, his bio of Alex is really a long discourse in the old saw, “Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Likewise, Curtius had a lesson about the evils of Roman imperial debauchery, especially as influenced by Eastern Ways pulling good men away from Roman discipline and clemency.

So what about our now-missing historians who were used by the guys above, and lived closer to ATG’s time? Some of the more important include:

The Ephemerides, or Royal Journal: a daily account of the king’s activities similar to other Ancient Near Eastern traditions, kept by Eumenes, Alexander’s personal secretary. You’ll see them referred to chiefly when talking about Alexander’s last days, as they (supposedly) give an account of his deterioration and death. But they may (and probably were) “doctored” later. Ed Anson has an article about them: important reading.

Callisthenes, Aristotle’s nephew, the official Royal Historian…at least until he got himself in trouble with the Page’s Conspiracy and ATG had him executed (or caged, accounts differ). His history was noted even in antiquity for being flowery and effusive, despite his personal claims to be a philosopher and pretense of austerity. If Alexander wanted a Homer, it wasn’t Callisthenes. Among his failings, he attempted to write about ATG’s battles…badly (so Polybius). Still, this was the official record up till Baktria, used by all the historians still extant. Don’t confuse it with Pseudo-Callisthenes which is the chief source of the Alexander Romance.

Marsyas: Macedonian literati who went to school with the prince, and not only wrote about his childhood (his Education of Alexander was modeled on Xenophon’s Education of Cyrus) and career, but also wrote a work about Macedonian customs that I’d simply LOVE to have. If I could ask for one work from antiquity to be discovered tomorrow, that would be it.

Ptolemy I, of Egypt: Alexander’s general, the guy who stole his body and stole Egypt too in the Successor wars that followed. He was one of Arrian’s main sources when writing his histories. Despite Arrian’s declaration that Ptolemy could be trusted because it would be bad for a king to lie, we can’t trust him. Among other things, he set out to smear the name of his Successor-era rival Perdikkas, and also, apparently, made himself sound more important than he really was. 😉

Nearchus of Crete/Amphipolis, Alexander’s chief admiral and a player in the later Successor wars, wrote an account of his naval trip from India, et al., used chiefly by Arrian.

Aristobulus of Cassandreia: Arrian’s other chief source, he was an engineer, architect, and friend of the king; his main problem seems to have been a tendency to whitewash or explain away critiques of Alexander. It’s Aristobulus who claims ATG didn’t drink heavily, just sat long over his wine for the conversation (uh…I’m sure Kleitos agrees with that). It’s also from him that we get the alternative story that Alexander didn’t cut the Gordion Knot, just pulled the pin out of the yoke and untied it from inside (he didn’t cheat!). Hmmm.

Chares of Mytilene, Alexander’s chamberlain, wrote a 10-book history of Alexander that focused largely on his personal affairs. Boy, wouldn’t that be a fun read? Arrian uses him sometimes, as does Plutarch, et al. Chares is one of the chief sources on the Proskenysis Affair.

Cleitarchus, History of Alexander. Probably the best-known ancient “pop history” of Alexander, but given the ancient equivalent of 2-stars even by historians of his time. His father was a historian too, but apparently, he got more ambition than ability, and was accused of flat making up shit. He lived at Ptolemy’s court later, we think, and a recent fragment tells us he was a tutor. His date is in dispute as late 4th or middle 3rd, and he probably never actually met Alexander. Kleitarchos’s account was used heavily by Plutarch, Curtius, Diodorus, and Pompeius Trogus (Justin’s source). Even Arrian uses him occasionally.

Onesicritus, a Cynic philosopher who studied under Diogenes and later traveled with Alexander. Despite that, his reputation for honesty was even worse than Kleitarchos; Lysimakhos famously called him out publicly, and Strabo considered him a joke. It’s from Onesicritus we hear about Alexander’s sexual servicing of the Amazon Queen to give her a daughter (that’s what Lysimakhos made fun of him for: “Where was I when that happened?”).

These are the main ancient sources you’ll see mentioned, although parts of Alexander’s life are covered in smaller essays, e.g., On the Death (and Funeral) of Alexander and Hephaistion by Euphippus, which is unashamedly hostile to both men. All our fragments from Euphippos come from Athenaeus’s Supper Party, mentioned above.

We also have the Alexander Romance, but that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish and not my bailiwick. I refer folks to the work by Richard Stoneman.

There you go! Your handy-dandy potted summary of the ancient authors. To learn more about them, please see Lionel Pearson’s The Lost Historians of Alexander the Great, Scholar’s Press, 1983. There have been articles and material about them in other commentaries and sources, but Pearson remains useful, if somewhat dated, simply for collecting it all in one place, including mention of some minor sources I didn’t cover here.

Finally, I’m including a flowchart I’ve made for my ATG class that lists all the known sources (including several not discussed above); it is copyrighted to me, but may be used for educational purposes. Yes, yes, it really is as crazy as this chart makes it look. And keep in mind, some dependencies are speculative rather than internally confirmed. E.g., as I mentioned earlier, not all ancient sources say what/who they consulted because, againg, citing wasn’t a thing, back then.

8.4

Friday rolled out of bed only when her bladder absolutely insisted it was time to wake up. The sun was high in the sky, now, and the little hotel room was swelteringly hot - her fault for not closing the blinds properly.

Friday stumbled into her dirty travelling clothes, carrying an only slightly cleaner outfit under her arm with her out into the hall. The guests of the hotel all shared a bathroom, and it was blessedly empty at present. Friday locked the door and set to work.

The shower was pure heaven. The water was cold, and she was shivering by the end of it, but sitting in the tub, watching the layers of dirt run down her legs as she attacked every inch of herself with a washcloth, that was more satisfying than an ice cold Moscow Mule on the back patio of the Ace in the middle of June.

Once she was clean, Friday dragged her travelling clothes into the tub with her, decorum be damned, and wrung the dirt and sweat out of them under the water. Her only other outfit could have used a wash, too, but it would have to suffice. The thought crossed her mind that maybe she should wash Val’s things, while she was at it. She’d rather do his laundry than follow up on whatever hare-brained small town apple thief adventure she had set him to. Did she feel a little bad about that? Maybe. Doing his laundry might make up for it. Making him blush when she told him she’d washed his underthings was a definite plus, too.

Friday recovered her straight razor from her bundle of clothes and set to work on her face, going over it three times before she was satisfied. Then she put on her makeup. She’d had to make what she had, after the Macomber debacle, and the materials to be found on the road had not been ideal. When they had stopped to buy new bedrolls and fuel up the bike, she may have diverted a small portion of the Macomber money toward oil and pigment. What Val didn’t know wouldn’t kill him.

Friday made faces at herself in the mirror, scrutinizing the rouge on her cheeks and the maroon gloss on her lips. Good enough. She attacked her hair, next. It was at such an awkward stage, and she missed having her powder blue wig. Like the rouge and the lip pigment, the wig put another layer of distance between the world and herself. Not having it was like walking around without a shirt on.

Fortunately, Friday had some experience.

She finally dressed, in a sensible yellow button-down shirt and skin-hugging denim. She straightened her back and gave herself one last look in the mirror. She looked the same. She had expected herself to look changed, somehow, as the ache of what she had been through these past few days began to creep up on her. Leaving her home behind. The mutie blood on her hands, her arms and legs and heart buckling under the strain of throwing bodies into a truck - performing that morbid burlesque for her and Val’s lives. Being chased through the Colorado woods under threat of being torn apart.

Friday gave herself a little smile in the mirror, almost hesitant, almost like she expected a gaunt and ghoulish version of herself to smile back at her. But it was just her own face. She sighed and gathered up her wet clothes. There was sure to be a clothesline she could put to use.

She found one, sure enough, and after she had thrown her own clothes over the line, she went back for Val’s. The black shirt and slacks brightened under the water - they’d been nearly gray with dirt. She washed off his white priest collar for good measure, a little surprised he wasn’t wearing it today.

In no time, his clothes were waving like flags in the wind, side by side her own. She spared a moment to admire the sight, not really sure why it gave her such satisfaction. She let herself back inside the Grand Hotel via the back door, eyes adjusting to the dim hallway. Friday paused outside the door to her room. She was running out of excuses. She should really catch up to Val.

Friday sauntered past the bar, toward the front door - but paused. Miss Ueno was sitting in one of the chairs by the bookshelf, her feet propped up on the little coffee table. She was reading a newspaper, drinking from a steaming mug. Friday could smell it from across the room - rich coffee.

Ueno looked up at her as she approached, politely folding her newspaper. Friday gave her a crooked smile.

“You have to tell me where you found a cup of coffee,” Friday said, taking the seat across from her.

“I’m afraid it’s your turn to buy me a drink, so you’re out of luck.” Ueno raised her eyebrows, a bright red-painted lip quirking up in amusement. She paused for a moment, looking Friday up and down. Friday hoped her rouge hid the natural flush creeping onto her cheeks. “You aren’t as much of a mess as I thought you were.”

That surprised a laugh out of Friday.

“Does that mean I have another chance?”

“I’m thinking about being capricious,” Ueno said mysteriously. “After I finish my coffee.”

She disappeared behind her newspaper again. Weird. Friday got up from her seat and slowly paced the foyer, taking it in, considering her options. Andy was nowhere to be seen; she probably had more important things to do than man the front desk all morning. Hopefully she wouldn’t mind if Friday and Val were a little free with their interpretation of “one night.”

Friday glanced back to Ueno. She couldn’t tell if she was meant to wait on her, which was probably Ueno’s intention. But the guilt of leaving Val to do all the unpleasant work was beginning to mount, even though she’d done his laundry. How unfair was that?

“If you’re still feeling capricious, I’ll be out finding apple thieves,” Friday called over to Ueno.

“Fun,” Ueno muttered into her paper.

Friday strolled down main street, taking in the town. It was a lot bigger than it had first appeared, last night. There were more people out of the house, so many of them that the wide street was packed tight. A market had sprung up while Friday was sleeping, and the town bustled with buyers and sellers, as well as craftsmen working in the open air, close enough to the action to gossip while they wove baskets out of prairie grass or whittled apple wood into bowls and cups and knife handles.

They were all mutants. Every person in the crowd had something not quite typical about them, from extra eyes to extra fingers to starburst pupils set in alarming, lime rind green eyes. It was a shock, like a cold bucket of water poured over Friday’s head. No, cold showers she was used to - this was something she had never seen before. She’d had no idea she and Val were stopped in a mutant colony. Friday got out of the way of a donkey cart, squeezing between a stall selling corn and a stall offering to grill the corn you bought right in front of you for only an extra three pennies.

Andy hadn’t been mutated, though, Friday argued to herself - but, then again, would she have known? She hadn’t known about Val. She sometimes forgot he was mutated at all - well, not that she forgot, exactly, but just twenty minutes ago she had done his laundry without even thinking that the bandages he used to bind his stomach were missing. They must be filthy.

Mutants back home weren’t like this. They… well, they didn’t walk with such confidence. They were used to being drops of oil in the bowl of vinegar that was Vegas. Just passing through, rarely finding a place to belong, unless they could play off their mutation as exotic, or they could hide it when they knew people like Fig would be at a party.

A mother with a baby strapped to her chest stopped at the corn stall, then had the stall next door roast up a few cobs for an early lunch. The street smelled like food, as lunchtime vendors started up their grills. Sizzling wild hen and syrupy grilled apple, charred soupy tomatoes… Friday’s mouth was watering.

“Good morning,” Friday said to the mother, politely. The mother nodded. The baby turned to look at her with big eyes that drank Friday’s face in like dry soil drinks in rain. Its eyes had two black pupils each, floating in pale pink irises. It put its whole fist in its mouth and sucked it intently, still staring at Friday.

Friday’s stomach growled again, and she gave the mother an embarrassed smile, before ducking past her and rejoining the busy street. Food. She needed money, if she was going to have food.

Well.

She knew how to get money.

Making money and getting money were two different things, in Friday’s book. What Val was doing off in some apple orchard was making money. What Friday was doing, that was getting money. Lunch was the perfect time for this one, though it had been a lot less heartbreaking to pull off in her street days, when the only clothes she’d had to spoil were costumes swiped from the nightclubs and theaters too cheap to have good locks. Goodbye, yellow shirt.

Friday flipped through her map as she walked, keeping one eye peeled for a good mark. It had to be a man who didn’t know the value of women’s clothes, who was a little older, or less attractive than average, who wouldn’t be used to getting much female attention. And he had to have money.

Friday cocked her hip cutely to one side, biting her lip as she pretended to study her map. She didn’t have to wait too long before she found her mark. He looked about fifty, and she watched him get out his wallet to pay for some sort of saucy partridge and apple tart, wrapped up in paper. He ate as he walked, and he walked quickly, like he had somewhere to be. Perfect. Friday looked down at her map and stepped into his path.

She hissed as steaming hot syrup and chicken juices soaked through her shirt, and the tears in the corners of her eyes were real as she swore and ripped open her buttons, struggling to get the burning hot fabric away from her skin.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow,” she wailed, loud enough to attract attention from other onlookers. Her shirt clung to her by the last few buttons, her brassiere and stinging red chest on full view.

The man looked horrified.

“My dear, I’m terribly sorry - ” he began, eyes searching for a sign of what he should do.

Friday covered her chest with her hands in pretend modesty, lower lip wobbling.

“It’s my fault, it’s my fault,” she said. “Oh, my mother’s going to kill me. I don’t know what I’ll tell her,” she said, becoming more hysterical with every word. “I come up north looking for honest work, and my first day - my family saved for a month so I’d have something respectable to wear - It’ll be soiled for good, now, and I won’t be fit to be seen, and I’ll have to till fields - ”

“W...well, that’s respectable work, young lady.”

“- And my hands will grow calloused, and my marriage prospects back home will turn their backs on me as sure as my prospects of lady-like employ, and I - and I was the last hope of my mother, and all, to make some money for the family, before my five younger sisters starve.”

The man swished his long cow-like tail anxiously. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice.

“Now, are you from one of them, ah, them somewhat backwards thinking towns, as far as a woman’s place is concerned?”

Friday looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, letting one run down her cheek.

“Well - well, let’s not make a scene in the public square, dear. It should be cool, now, and you can cover yourself…” The man held his hands unhelpfully in front of her chest, as if to guard her from public view. Friday very slowly shrugged her shirt back on, buttoning it wrong, and sniffling.

“How much was your shirt, dear?” the man asked, hesitantly.

“Fifty Texas silver,” Friday chirped.

“Fifty - ”

“But I suppose I could find something just to cover myself for… for twenty.” Friday let out a shuddering sob. “Anything would be better than the flour sacks mother would dress us in, even far past the time when it’s appropriate for a woman…”

The man was caving, flushed up to his ears at the thought of an attractive girl wearing nothing but a scandalously short flour-sack dress.

“Here, dear, I have fifteen, but it’s really all I can spare for you, at least without talking to my wife.” The man pressed fifteen silver into Friday’s palm, giving her hand a tight squeeze. “If you don’t find work soon, come down to the mill, we’re a touch far from the town proper, but it’s the north road, there. My wife always has mending…”

He trailed off and gave her a weak smile before hurrying away.

Friday smiled down at the coins in her hand.

“I saw that,” came a voice from behind.

Friday whirled around. Ueno was smirking at her. As soon as Friday acknowledged her, Ueno abandoned the wall she was leaning against and came over.

“Your shirt is buttoned wrong,” she said.

“Oh, look at that, so it is,” Friday said, quickly pocketing the money. Before she knew what was happening, Ueno was inches away, unbuttoning and re-buttoning her shirt.

“There. All better.” Ueno’s eyes twinkled at her in amusement. “Lunch?”

8.3 || 8.5

diopucci week - college au

The music’s so loud that he can feel the bass pushing through his body, even though the stereo is two rooms away and he’s in what is supposed to be the quietest area of the house. It’s empty at least, with only the occasional person passing through to look for a washroom, or to head upstairs. There are some other rooms along the hall, but the host’s marked them as off-limits and people seem to be obeying that for the moment. Pucci’s great at looking like he’s checking his messages on his phone, so nobody stops to talk to him. 

He’s got about fifteen minutes left, and then he can head back out, say goodbye to host, and disappear. That should be long enough to count as making an appearance, and he can go back to turning down party invites for at least another month without anyone feeling the need to feign concern for him. It’s a well-practiced routine he’s been doing since he was fourteen and he realized that he had to maintain some kind of social interaction or risk developing a reputation as a weird loner. He liked meeting at coffee shops well enough, and even the occasional afternoon in the quad, but parties weren’t in his wheelhouse and never would be. But if you didn’t attend parties, people assumed you were the kind of person who judged others for the amount of recreational drinking and pre-marital sex they were having and they would start focusing on that. 

Frankly, Pucci got enough of that because he was planning on becoming a priest. He didn’t need even more. 

There’s a couple wandering down the hall and, just like before, Pucci brings his phone up and takes a few steps down the hall like he’s just come here to check his messages. He has his texts up and there actually is a new one from Perla.

Perla: Are you still there? Pucci: For a little bit longer.  Perla: Did you actually talk to anyone this time? Pucci: I always talk to people. Perla: 

Pucci: Next time I’m home, I’m uninstalling that app.

He can see Perla’s typing something but before she can send it, he’s suddenly tripping over something in the dark. Pucci barely keeps from falling over, hitting the wall. His phone falls out of his hand and ends clattering across the floor.

There’s a foot sticking out of a room. Someone’s passed out on the floor. He scowls at whatever idiot decided this was the best place to lie down, half inside one of the off-limits rooms. It looks like someone’s bedroom, from what little Pucci can see. Pucci walks closer to see if he can wake them up - or if not, then to pull them out of the room and close the door. 

But they’re not passed out. The man he tripped over - the man with absolutely atrocious shoes - is awake and reading Pucci’s phone. He looks up at Pucci. The bass is still thumping loudly but the music itself is muffled enough that Pucci can hear the man on the floor ask, “This seems a little saucy to read in public.” 

Pucci’s about ready to roll his eyes and correct this fratboy on the fact that Pucci’s texting his little sister (though perhaps not, he doesn’t want to hear anything about Perla’s supposed attractiveness, she’s still in high school), but the man with a mullet turns Pucci’s phone to face him, and Pucci realizes that it’s not on his texts anymore - it’s opened his e-reader. And of course, it’s in the worst possible place. 

He quickly snatches his phone back. “I wasn’t.” He says and turns the screen off. “I was texting a friend. What are you doing? No one’s allowed in there.”

“I had too much to drink.” The man says. He doesn’t sound drunk. Then again, he’s the one lying in the hallway. “I need somewhere quiet to rest for now. Everything upstairs was full of people. I’ll only be here another half hour.”

Pucci waits a moment to see if he has any other explanation but... that’s it.  “I see...” Politeness kicks in, despite the fact that this man is somewhere he really shouldn’t be. “Do you need any help?” 

“Not particularly.” The man on the floor says.

Pucci really isn’t sure what to make of this. But then, he doesn’t have to make anything of it. While he shouldn’t be there, and he really shouldn’t be lying half in the hallway, the man does look like he needs somewhere quiet to be, and this is about as quiet as a house party gets.

“Then I’ll leave you be.” Pucci tucks his phone away. “You might have better luck upstairs, but you can stay here if you want.” 

That gets the man to sit up. There’s something in his eyes that makes Pucci pause. “I’m where I’m not supposed to be, but you aren’t concerned. Aren’t you worried I might steal something? Or are you already planning on ratting me out the moment you’re out of sight?” 

“I can tell the host if you want, but I don’t see the point. I think you were going to steal, you wouldn’t have left the door open.” Pucci can’t understand why he’s lying on the floor half in the hall, but he finds that he doesn’t doubt what the man said, even if it is ridiculous. “I hope you feel better when you’re done lying down.” 

Pucci turns to go. Enough time’s passed that he can probably say goodbye to Don and head home. 

He doesn’t go anywhere. The man’s in Pucci’s personal space in an instance. He doesn’t smell drunk. Instead, he smells like sandalwood and oddly enough, like myrrh. The man is huge and he leans over Pucci easily, boxing him in against the wall. 

“Do you believe in gravity?” He asks. There’s a rich tone to his voice, deep and almost hypnotic. “That there might be a reason why you tripped over me of all people?”

He doesn’t smell high but he sounds like he is. Pucci’s face waivers a little. “I... don’t understand.” There’s a fairly obvious reason why he tripped after all. This man was lying in the hallway. They were both looking for somewhere quiet and private. 

Pucci doesn’t say any of that. It’s a little hard to talk with your mouth full, which it promptly is because the high floor-man decides that this is the perfect time to kiss Pucci. The bass thrums through his chest from the other room and Pucci feels like he’s the one who’s intoxicated, because he’s never been kissed before - and this feels like something mythic. 

When they break apart, Pucci’s too overwhelmed to do anything but stare up at the man. He reaches into Pucci’s pocket, takes his phone out, and punches his number into the contacts. “Thank you for believing me. I believe that all meetings are a form of gravity. We were drawn together for a reason. If you ever wish to see me again, you have my number.” 

And like that, he tucks Pucci’s phone back in his pocket and kisses him again. It’s as overwhelming at the first one, and Pucci finds himself having an out of body experience. He can very nearly see himself in the hallway, kissing a man whose name he doesn’t know, in a house part he attended only out of obligation, having an experience he can only describe to himself as remarkable. 

As abruptly as the kiss happened, it ends, and the man withdraws. By the time Pucci’s head is clear, the man’s gone. He isn’t in the room that’s off limits, or in the hall, or in any other room at the party that Pucci looks through. The only proof that he happened and wasn’t an illusion is the number in Pucci’s contacts. 

DIO, it says, all-caps.

Pucci leaves the party without saying goodbye to the host. The cold midnight air is sobering and he stands there for a long while in the light of the house, staring out at the night and trying to understand what just happened.

PLOTS: Little people come from a country resembling England to defeat the evil wizard/king/complete the quest/save the world/etc. Hero has a wise old teacher who turns out the be his grandfather or mother. Hero falls in love with someone he knows he can’t have, but gets her in the end anyway. The quest is for a jewel/sword/ring/box or other artifact that can destroy/save the world. Retelling of Arthurian legends or the Robin Hood story. A rag-tag band of adventurers who don’t get along have to team up to save the world and along the way discover that they really do like each other. Untrained/untried novice goes up against a battle-hardened veteran and wins. Modern human, usually an American, gets pulled into a fantasy world, usually a pseudo-medieval one, and manages to save the day without dying of disease or ignorance. Virtual reality used to create a game environment that becomes real, trapping the players in that created world. The people the hero thinks are his parents really aren’t–he’s actually the son of a king/wizard/famous warrior. Villain is hero’s father. Twins separated at birth meet accidentally and fulfill a destiny. One twin is good the other is evil. Hero goes to dwarves to get magical gifts. Hero falls in love with heroine at first sight. Hero becomes ruler of the land and all is good and peaceful, even though he spent his formative years as a swineherd. Woman is raped, becomes and adventurer to avenge herself. Child sees family killed, becomes adventurer to revenge him/herself. Revenge as a motivator. CHARACTERS: Evil guy wants to take over the world just because he is evil. Heroes who are utterly selfless and only think of the Greater Good. Evil rulers/wizards in general. Girls who disguise themselves as boys in order to adventure. Spunky/feisty/spirited heroines. Handsome/rugged/dashing heroes. The wise old wizard/hag/witch/herbalist/shaman/healer/etc. Hero saves the world to win the heart of a woman. Hero is identified as the one true heir by a birthmark/ring/sword/other artifact. A loyal servant who knows the true heir’s identity lives with him/her as a guardian/protector/teacher/etc Priests who go adventuring. Hero is too humble for his own good. Novice hero is too competent and/or never makes a mistake. Hero and heroine have constant sex and she never gets pregnant. Evil men who are pedophiles/homosexuals/male chauvinists or any combination of the above for no other reason than to make them more distasteful. Evil = ugly, stupid and mean while Good = beautiful/handsome, wise and kind. Mages who use their powers indiscriminately and to ridiculous excess. Mages who are also master swordsmen. SETTINGS/WORLD ELEMENTS: Doomsday weapons. Totally good/evil races. Someone has a cute pet. Lots of apostrophes in fantasy languages without good linguistic reasons. Fantasy names beginning with X, Z, G, K, or any other hard consonant. Fantasy names/words with a lack of vowels. Fantasy names with too many vowels. Names that are too suggestive of a character’s personality, i.e. someone named Cipher is an enigma. Person sacrifices life to save others, but is resurrected later. Evil villain is physically scarred in some way. Evil villain must always kill at least one henchman no matter how loyal he is. Slightest infraction/failure is punished by death. Big dark castle/tower/fortress/keep, usually impenetrable except for the secret passage only the hero’s guide knows about. Dark minions are idiots. Parents of hero are dead. (Or, in the Disney variation: mother is dead, father is loveable buffoon.) Fight breaks out in a bar. Innocent people rescued from nasty death/fate worse than death just in the nick of time. Secret passages are never booby-trapped. Sidekicks/flunkies who are mindlessly loyal/devoted. Deformed man with a heart of gold/Handsome villain with a heart of darkest evil. Fantasy societies based off of the Celts or Norsemen. Fantasy empires based off the Romans. Warrior cultures based off of the Samurai or Spartans. Elves, orcs, dwarves, trolls, dragons, unicorns and any other race that has appeared in Dungeons and Dragons. Amazons/stoic women warriors. Large-breasted Amazons in tiny brassiers who have no trouble keeping their clothes on, let alone their balance. Artifacts of power. Pseudo-medieval societies with 1990s liberal sensibilities about things like womens’ rights and homosexuality. Hero’s culture has no brothels, no bars and everyone smokes a pipe but nothing stronger. Black magic vs. White magic. Magic systems that follow laws too much like modern physics. Magic systems that follow no discernable rules at all. Magic systems that change when its plot-convenient. Virgin sacrifices. Human/animal psychic bonds, especially with dogs/wolves/cats/horses/dragons/etc. Characters speaking in 1990s flavored English. Churches based on the medieval Catholic Church but that have a history totally unlike the Catholic Church. Matriarchal religions/societies are good while patriarchal ones are bad. (Ditto for polytheism vs. monotheism.) Everybody in the world worships the same god/pantheon of gods. Noble savages/barbarians/etc. Everybody in the world speaks the same language. City dwellers are automatically corrupt and weak. Female warriors wholl only surrender to a man if he defeats them in battle. Cities in the middle of the desert with no water or food supply that somehow survive. Women as prizes/booty for barbarian (or even civilized) heroes. Societies where no one seems to do anything but adventure. True feudal societies where the king holds absolute power. Shops called Adventurers’ Supply or the like. Village taverns, especially those populated with saucy tavern wenches. Worlds that read as though they were created by a really bad Dungeon Master. 50-pound broadswords. Swords that shoot lightning, glow, etc. Fur loincloths and chainmail bikinis in winter. Worlds where morals are strictly black and white. Societies where the morals are exactly the same as ours. Slavery. Boy slaves get released after 5-7 years of service; girl slaves do not. Worlds where the nobility are all corrupt and/or perverted. Prostitutes/brothels. City neighborhoods where you can get anything anytime for any amount of money. Healing potions work instantly, so death is never a real threat. Zombies, vampires, werewolves, shape-changers, etc. Vampires as tragic, romantic figures. Vampires/werewolves/the fey exist among modern humans without detection despite there being a whole lot of them. Pantheons based directly off of Greek, Norse or Egyptian religions. Elite guards who aren’t. Worlds where the fairies are always good and the witches are always evil. Perfectly balanced parties of adventurers Fantasy worlds populated entirely by sentient animals. Worlds where all the humans look alike, regardless of geographic location. Animals who raise human children. Riding dragonback. Friendly dragons. Animals who act like humans Someone goes to the underworld, either spiritually or physically Magic users/psionics harassed and persecuted for their powers. Horses treated like cars with legs. Men and women have different sets of psychic/magic powers. Brutality is excused so long as the good guys are the ones doing it. Thieves having organized guilds and public meeting places that are known to the general populace. Medieval cities with immaculate streets. Grid-pattern streets in medieval cities. Plucky young beggar boys/girls. Magic shops that appear and disappear at whim. No drug except alcohol exists in the world. People running around after dark without lanterns and not falling down or getting hurt, especially in wooded areas. Elaborate tests to determine if a woman is a virgin, no such test for men. Heroines who always remain pure no matter what, even if all the other women around them are defiled. No such thing as an atheist in the world; everybody believes in a god/gods (the exception being worlds where the gods are a real physical presence.) Societies that never evolve. The language has been the same for the last 10,000 years; there is only one Olde Language and no intermediate languages. No bathrooms anywhere. Societies with no discernable economic structure.

By Kathy Pulver and J. S. Burke

Inspired by the “The Grand List of Overused Science Fiction Clichés” by Jon VanSickle. This list, like the SF list that inspired it, is intended only to list various cliches common to the fantasy genre. It is not our intention to say these ideas should never see the light of day again (though some we could do without). Rather, we’ve compiled this list to amuse and educate.