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writingwithfolklore · 4 months

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Creating Fictional Holidays

Happy Holidays everyone!

Like mythology or folklore, holidays can add an extra bit of realism and magic to your fictional worlds, and provide for an interesting setting to portray characters, culture, or even family dynamic.

While you can use real world holidays and adapt them to your worlds, you may also want to create your own! Here’s a few things to consider:

1. What does your holiday celebrate?

Typically, holidays come from historical events or events believed to have happened by religious groups. Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Christ. Diwali celebrates the victory of light over darkness, or good’s triumph over evil. Passover celebrates Israelites’ escape from slavery. This would be a great chance to delve into the history of your world, and how it forms and influences communities.

Otherwise (and as well as), holidays can be expressions of important cultural values such as community, hard work, or family. The Day of the Dead (or Dia de los Muertos) is the celebration of honoring passed family members, Labour day is held to honour the struggle for unionization by working people. What does your holiday say about the society or community that created it?

2. How has your holiday adapted?

As much as holiday is entrenched in longstanding tradition, there is no escaping modernization and adaption to contemporary norms. As much as Christmas is a religious holiday at its roots, for many, it’s a celebration of family and gift giving. Rather than being a saint, Santa has become the jolly toy-maker separated from religion entirely.

If your holiday began to celebrate say Harvest season, but in modern times ‘harvest season’ is no longer regularly recognized, how does this society continue to celebrate this holiday? Where does tradition and modern standards intersect?

3. How do people perceive the holiday?

Even joyous, wholesome holidays are going to have haters. Just think of Valentines Day coming around every year—there are people who love it, people who hate it, and people who see it as a superficial excuse to fund capitalism and consumer culture. What do the people of your world believe about the holiday, or what groups/communities are invited or left out?

4. What rituals go into celebrating your holiday?

During Christmas, many families bring in a tree, wrap gifts to put under it, and bake cookies for a secret intruder in the night. A ritual is just a way people honour something—it doesn’t necessarily have to be cultish or ‘evil’. What longstanding rituals go into the celebration of your holiday?

Maybe gifts are exchanged, candles are lit, cards are given out, money is donated, certain foods are given up or certain times limit eating (such as fasting), families gather, parties are held, etc. etc. There are thousands of ways people celebrate what’s important to them. Consider how each family or character in your story might take a slightly different spin on the same rituals.

I hope no matter what or how you celebrate this year, you get time to spend with your loved ones <3

#writing #creative writing #writers #screenwriting #writing community #writing inspiration #books #filmmaking #film #writing advice #holidays #festiveseason #worldbuilding

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iwtvfanevents · 1 month

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Rewind the Tape —Episode 2

Art of the episode

Just like we did for the pilot, we took note of the art shown and mentioned in the second episode while we rewatched it, and we are sharing our findings with you. Did we miss any? Can you help us put a name to the unidentified ones? Do you have any thoughts about how these references could be interpreted?

Unnamed painting by Marius de Romanus

Created for the show (uncredited artist).

Armand (still "Rashid") tells Daniel that Marius was a contemporary of Tintoretto (1518-1594).

Transformation

Ron Bechet, 2021

Bechet is a New Orleans-born visual artist. He's a relative of the early jazz pioneer Sidney Bechet. [Identified by Gizmodo's Linda Codega, here.] Exhibition Prospect.5 says about the collection this piece belongs to: "Bechet carefully renders the ways vines wrap themselves around trees for support and access to sunlight. At times, this relationship serves both the vine and the tree. Works such as Transformation depict a harmonious symbiosis, as tree and vine both flourish. (...) Through his immersive compositions, Bechet invites us to see history and ourselves in relationship to the beauty, power, and violence of the natural world." And, from Xula Gallery: "Here, we are gifted with the physical proximity of life and death – How they share the same organic space, how they sleep together as equals. The flora of South Louisiana's natural landscape is cleaved open to expose its roots. (...) Here is botany that has every potential of becoming monstrous. All of these meanderings are used to symbolize the deep historical roots of a family home and exhibits the precariousness of nature, both human and environmental, with all of its nurturing and destructive potential. (...) It is a diaspora body, skin folded back to reveal its elegant and resilient backbone."

Untitled photographs

Vivian Maier, undated

Maier was a street photographer whose work was discovered and distributed after her death —she took more than 150,000 photographs during her life, and never printed or circulated any. You can learn more about how her work came to light here. We don't actually see the third picture, which hangs to the left, until episode four. Interestingly, that one is a self-portrait.

Dancers

Edgar Degas, 1899

Degas produced countless paintings of ballerinas throughout his career. While he is often considered an impressionist, he himself saw himself more as a realist and preferred harsh gritty subjects of working class backgrounds. Ballerinas at the time often came from working class or poor families and worked intense grueling hours. [Identified by @nicodelenfent, here.]

Berthe Morisot with a Fan

Edouard Manet, 1872

Manet was one of the first 19th-century artists to paint modern life, as well as a pivotal figure in the transition from Realism to Impressionism. The portrait in this scene shows his close friend, painter Berthe Morisot, wearing mourning blacks after the death of her father, but wearing a wedding ring —she was engaged to Manet's brother. [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

Portrait of Erich Lederer

Egon Schiele, 1912

The Schiele depicts a young Erich Lederer, son of art collectors Serena and August Lederer, whose collection was looted by the Gestapo. [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

Paddy Flannigan

George Bellows, 1908

The Bellows depicts a young impoverished boy on the streets of New York. [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

A Doll's House

Henrik Ibsen, 1879

Lestat tells Louis "They'll seat us late, and we'll miss Nora's entrance with the Christmas tree," which quite a few fans soon identified as a reference to this play, in which a housewife becomes slowly disillusioned with marital life and eventually leaves her husband. This conclusion led to the play being banned in certain countries, such as Germany and Britain, and Ibsen was compelled to write an alternative ending, in which Nora's husband forced her to stay. In the two stage productions pictured above, you can see Kelsey Brennan and Nate Burger on the left, and Assad Zaman and Anjana Vasan on the right.

Unnamed paintings of Papa du Lac and Paul

Created for the show (uncredited artist).

Unidentified painting*

* The running theory is that the woman in this painting is Gabrielle, Lestat's mother; which would mean this is another uncredited prop painted for the show.

Woman in A Fur Coat

Edouard Manet, 1879

Additionally, on the bottom left corner of the frame you can catch a glimpse of another unidentified painting, but we couldn't get any clearer looks of it either.

Autumn at Arkville

Alexander H. Wyant, 1909

The one in the mirror and the one on the other side of the door are too blurry, but we managed to place the one on top of the couch! [Identified by @vfevermillion.]

The Lone Tenement

George Bellows, 1909

The National Gallery of Art says about this painting: "Bellows has imbued the composition with a sense of eerie wistfulness, recording the precarious positions of those who were being displaced to make way for the future." [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

Don Pascuale

Gaetano Donizetti, 1842

The opera that Louis and Lestat go to at the end of the episode follows an elderly bachelor, who gets conned by his nephew Ernesto and his friend Malatesta into marrying the nephew's lover, Norina, under false pretenses. You can find a complete synopsis here.

The Storm On The Sea Of Galilee

Rembrandt van Rijn, 1633

Rembrant van Rijn, Dutch Baroque painter and printmaker from the 17th century, is best known for his biblical and allegorical pieces. Rembrandt's only seascape was stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston on March 18th, 1990, alongside other 12 works of art. The case remains unsolved. [Identified by Gizmodo's Linda Codega.]

If you spot or put a name to any other references, let us know if you'd like us to add them with credit to the post!

This week, we will be rewatching and discussing Episode 3, Is My Very Nature That of a Devil. We can't wait to hear your thoughts!

And, if you're just getting caught up, learn all about our group rewatch here ►

#louis de pointe du lac #daniel molloy #lestat de lioncourt #vampterview #interview with the vampire #iwtv #amc interview with the vampire #interview with the vampire amc #amc iwtv #iwtv amc #IWTVfanevents #rewind the tape #after the phantoms of your former self #analysis and meta #art of the episode

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int-writersmind · 5 months

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I Hate Christmas, Peter Parker! {Part 1}

Peter Parker x f!Reader

It’s simple: You don’t see what the big fuss is all about surrounding Christmas, but Peter Parker thinks that this is unacceptable and puts you through step one of a multiple step list to make you fall in love with the holiday.

Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 1.7k

Author's Note: I decided to put a Christmas song suggestion for immersion, not b/c I'm currently in love with Laufey right now...

“You what?!” exclaimed Peter, quite loudly.

“Jesus, calm down,” You lean forward, just slightly, over the table, careful to not tip your mug of half decent hot coffee. “All I said was that I don’t really like Christmas that much, that’s all.”

“You Grinch! You Scrooge!” Peter throws his hands up in an over exaggerated motion, he looked like an oversized toddler. Peter puts on a slight pout as he leaned against the wall, feet outwards, looking over the rest of the coffee shop. “I-I mean, you live in New York City, this place practically invented contemporary Christmas!”

“Now that’s an exaggerated statement.”

“I know that,” Peter turns back to you, folding his hands on top of the table. “But there’s a reason why so many Christmas movies are set here, why so many Christmas events are here. It’s because Christmas is just better in NYC!”

“More like Christmas is more annoying in NYC.” You gently pat Peter’s hand before downing the rest of your drink. “Peter, babe, honey, I’ve lived here my whole life don’t you think I don’t know all this?”

“Yeah, babe-honey, so have I. It’s why I love the holidays.”

“And that's why I hate the holidays!”

You thought Peter would grow bored of your Christmas conversation on your way out the coffee shop and down the street, but he only continued his long rant. It was the first day of December and with the new month came the sudden spark of festive, holiday flare, much to your chagrin. The addition of a new holiday drink at your favorite coffee shop had sparked the conversation in the first place. Peter had ordered it and once you decline the same, suddenly came the sudden barrage of questions.

The two of you held hands as you continued down the long city sidewalk, Peter using his other hand to gesture wildly about Christmas. You decide that enough is enough and pull Peter off to the side, dodging tourists with tons of shopping bags. You reach out for Peter’s other hand, bringing it down with the other, squeezing ever so gently. “Listen, Peter, I appreciate how passionate you are about Christmas, the holidays and what-not, but there’s nothing you can say to convince me to suddenly fall in love with this time of year. This feeling has been there for years.”

Peter looks into your eyes and for a minute it seems as if his attention is elsewhere until he jolts in surprise, eyes widening to match. “I’ve got it!”

You can’t help but roll your head back in defeat. “Oh no…”

“Maybe you're right,” Peter squeezes your hands, bringing your attention back to him. “Maybe there isn’t anything I can say to you to convince you that Christmastime is the best time of year, but I can do things instead.”

“Oh Peter! You naughty little reindeer..” You tease.

“I don’t mean that!” Peter quickly kisses your grinning face, “That could be on the list only after–”

“After?!”

“Only after you complete my list of activities that will definitely, 100 percent make you fall in love with Christmas and everything that comes with it.”

“Oh, you have a list?” You cock one eyebrow up.

“Hypothetical list, it’s being finalized.” Peter pulls you in close, his hands resting on the small of your back, your hands resting on his chest. “But I think I know what to do first. Do you have a Christmas tree? Decorations?”

“Tree, yes, my roommate left one before she left. Decorations…no, I’m sure my cousin has some extra, I’ll stop by after work today.”

“Ok, I’ll meet you at your place later tonight?”

“Yeah, and–,” You move in closer to Peter, eyes shut, lips millimeters away from each other. “Your little list is not gonna change my mind.” You kiss him gently, one hand resting on his cheek before pulling away, Peter slightly chasing you back. “See you tonight.”

“I can already tell i’m gonna hate this” You hold up a shiny red, classic looking ornament by the wire, looking at it as if it was dead fish caught on a hook.

“What?! You have the easy job!” Peter calls back as he clicks the last piece of your ex roommate’s Christmas tree together.

It was night now, Daylight Savings causing the city to look later than it actually was. The two of you had stayed committed to this little game of Peter’s. After calling your cousin about picking up some spare decor (which she eagerly shoved into your arms), and lugging the oversized box on the train back to your place, Peter showed up with a determined expression and a carton of egg-nog.

You take out the other ornaments from their box, inspecting each one, before setting it off to the side. Peter saunters over and plops on the floor next to you, going through the rest of the box to find more decorations for the tree. “This feels tedious.” you say, looking at all the stuff you laid before you.

“Oh c’mon, this will be great.” Peter says as he untangles some garland.

“That’s what you said about the egg-nog.”

“Yes, yes I did say that, but to be perfectly honest, I’ve never tried egg-nog until today so…that’s on me.”

You smile at him as you take the final ornament from the box in hand, a golden ball that had swirls molded into the plastic. “Ok let’s decorate this stupid tree.”

Half an hour in, with tolerable Christmas music playing in the background, the tree was finally starting to come along. You and Peter stood on either side of the tree, hooking various ornaments on branches. As the last ornament looped on, Peter went over to the box to pick up the garland he detangled earlier as you stood back and admired the tree.

“See, beautiful.” Peter said coming up from behind you.

“What, me? Of course.”

Peter just rolls his eyes as he hands you one end of the garland, you each start to place it around the tree, passing the end from one hand to the other. “Doesn’t this remind you of being a little kid, putting up all your favorite ornaments?”

You just shrug your shoulders, “The older I got I just dreaded putting up the tree. It’s started out fine of course. But then someone puts the wrong ornament somewhere, or one side of the tree lights are not working, a favorite ornament gets broken…boom arguments. Mom, Dad, pissed at one another, little ole me just trying get the hell out of dodge.”

Peter gets the end of the garland, securing it at the bottom of the tree. “Sounds like…an experience.”

You just smile at him as he comes to stand next to you. The two of you look at the tree, its soft, golden white lights, the shiny, almost sparking ball ornaments on each branch. “No, no, it’s ok, my parents love each other, but they're just…really good at arguing with one another. I, personally, don't care for it, so I try my best to avoid it.” You reach for Peter’s hand, interlocking your fingers with his. “After my dad accidently broke one of my favorite ornaments and got into a fit with Mom, I just decided it wasn’t worth it anymore. Swore off decorating Christmas trees.” You lean your head on Peter’s shoulder. “It’s funny, I wasn’t even that mad that it broke…”

“What was it?” Peter rests his head on yours.

“Some old time-y phone box, something silly I saw at a Christmas pop-up when I was like 6-7 years old.”

The two of you just stand there in the silence for a moment.

“Pick a new one.”

You move your head off Peter’s shoulder, turning to look at him, “What?”

“Pick a new favorite ornament.” Peter answers, “You don’t have to keep it forever, but it can just be your favorite for this year.”

“Hmm, fine.”

Your eyes skim over the tree, you land on the red ornament before jumping to the golden one, before your eyes find something much more garnish. A little ceramic coffee cup, what better to remind you of how you ended up here. Decorating a tree for the first time in years with your boyfriend who’s hellbent on getting you to like the holiday again.

Your fingers wrap on the ornament, lifting it off its branch, “How about this?”

“Prefect.” Peter says as you hold up the ornament in hand, the light glinting off the piece. Peter tosses something in the air upwards, shooting some webs to stick it to the ceiling. You put the ornament back in its original spot before looking at Peter. “Oh, wow what’s that?”

You look up, mistletoe dangling crookedly. “You know those things are poisonous right?"

“To eat, not to kiss under,” Peter pulls you in close by the waist, eyes darting from your lips to your eyes. “Plus it’s fake.”

Your own eyes glance at Peter’s mouth before looking back at his eyes, “Just because I didn’t run away from decorating a tree, you think you deserve a kiss?” You smirk, a hand going to the back of his neck.

“Oh come here you little Grinch.” With a soft hand on your cheek, Peter pulls you in for a kiss. Those lips, which you became so familiar with, soft and warm, sweetened by the eggnog, engulf yours. His tongue entering yours, playing with yours like it did so many times before. This action was so common, kissing each other was almost like second nature, but sometimes–like moments like this, it almost felt like kissing for the first time, but better. Kissing someone you could really trust, someone who really cared about. It was gushy and corny and everything else that people made fun of, but it was so worth it.

The two of you break off the kiss, foreheads resting on one another.

“So, step one of your list completed?” You ask.

“Nah.”

Your head shoots upwards, looking at Peter with a confused look, to which he chuckles at.

“We still have the rest of the apartment to decorate.”

You groan, falling limp in Peter’s arm. It was all for show of course, but you had to commit to the bit, letting all your weight on to Peter’s one arm. You knew not matter what, he wouldn’t drop you. “God I hate you.”

Hello there! Thanks for reading Part 1 of this multi-part X-mas fic that was definitely not inspired by me at all hahaha... Anyway, I'll post on Sundays to get this series done by Christmas but no promise, but expect weekly uploads at the very least. Also this is meant to be mostly Fluff but if you Naughty Reindeers want some Spice/Smut I'll think about it 😉. Alright bye Void!

{Read Part 2}

#peter parker fluff #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker #peter parker x you #christmas fic #christmas fanfic #spider man fluff #spider-man fluff #spider-man fic #spiderman fic #spider man fic #spiderman fluff #christmas spider-man

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sapphicbookclub · 5 months

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Season of Love by Helena Greer

Miriam Blum has no choice but to face the past she thought she’d left behind when she inherits her great-aunt’s Christmas tree farm in this witty, glittering, heart-filled romcom.

Thanks to her thriving art career, Miriam Blum finally has her decoupaged glitter ducks in a row—until devastating news forces her to a very unwanted family reunion. Her beloved great-aunt Cass has passed and left Miriam part-owner of Carrigan’s, her (ironically) Jewish-run Christmas tree farm.

But Miriam’s plans to sit shiva, avoid her parents, then put Carrigan’s in her rearview mirror are spoiled when she learns the business is at risk of going under. To have any chance at turning things around, she’ll need to work with the farm’s grumpy manager—as long as the attraction sparking between them doesn’t set all their trees on fire first.

Noelle Northwood wants Miriam Blum gone—even if her ingenious ideas and sensitive soul keep showing Noelle there’s more to Cass’s niece than meets the eye. But saving Carrigan’s requires trust, love, and risking it all—for the chance to make their wildest dreams come true.

Genres: contemporary, romance

Get the book from Blackwell's with free worldwide shipping here!

Listen to the book on audiobooks.com here!

#sapphic books #lgbt books #wlw books #booklr #book recs #contemporary

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robsheridan · 1 year

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Stills from the unaired 1967 Rankin/Bass Christmas special "Krampus Drags All The Naughty Little Children To Hell."

Following the success of 1964’s “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” NBC was eager to market new Christmas mascots, and greenlit a pitch by Rankin/Bass to reach beyond contemporary American Santa Claus stories and explore darker international Christmas folklore. Apparently misunderstanding the Krampus lore, one exec reportedly believed they had found “the next Rudolph,” saying “every little Jack and Jill in America is going to want a stuffed toy of our adorable ‘Santa Goat’.”

The result, however, was a different story. Shelved before it ever aired, the film was described by NBC president Julian Goodman as “among the most foul and blasphemous affronts to God and man I have ever had the misfortune of witnessing.” In the film, naughty children are visited by Krampus, who warns them of their fate if they don’t change their ways before Christmas. When the children continue to misbehave, they find familiar holiday scenes like tree lightings and snowball fights dissolving into vivid nightmares; even Santa Claus is stripped of his flesh and becomes evil “Skelly Claus.” The nightmares conclude with Krampus and his demons dragging the children to infernal dungeons at Satan’s command, where their souls burn in hellfire for all eternity, as visualized in the film’s surreal 20-minute final sequence, described by those who have seen it as “an agonizing maelstrom of non-stop screaming.”

more nightmAIres by Rob Sheridan

#rob sheridan #alternate history #nightmaires #ai art #ai horror #gothmas #krampus #creepmas #spooky christmas #satanic art #hail santa #christmas tv #christmas #midjourney

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gisellelx · 5 months

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Twilight Advent Calendar, Day 3

Dec. 3 - Pick one deceased Twilight character to draw or tell us more about. How would the Twilight universe be different if they were still alive?

"Or Does It Sag"

(~2,000 words)

December 3, 2023 Ashland, Wisconsin

Bella had been the one to break this particular dam.

It was a problem they all suffered from, if Edward were honest. The world changed so quickly around them, and it was easy to lose track of new possibilities on offer, especially when they were personal. An advancement in engine mechanics; sure, Rosalie would keep on top of that. A contemporary pianist rising to new fame; Edward would be aware. And with his daughter, these days, it was simple to be aware of other things he would once have not noticed: memes and new phrases, fashion trends too pedestrian for his sister to pick up on, Greta Gerwig and Christopher Nolan opening polar opposite films on the same weekend.

They all would forget, often, that the world changing might mean that certain things they had taken for granted needed reconsideration. That over time, the arc of history bent toward making the impossible possible.

His wife was sitting with their daughter on the the piano bench, Renesmee’s hands aglow from the white Christmas lights his mother had strung on the banister in the foyer. The tree would come later—Christmas Eve, their tradition since that very first serious fire hazard Carlisle had lit in the room of an inn on the shores of the Bay of Fundy, trying to coax, if not joy out of Edward, at least something a bit more like delight—but the house was already filled with other greenery, the air thick with the scents of white pine, ripened pinecone, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Across the room, Alice and Esme discussed the tree’s placement, how big it would need to be, as they hung ten stockings on the mantle in order by their entrance to the family: J, R, B, J, A, E, R, E, E, C. Although Edward knew Carlisle and Esme always hung them all anyway, this would be the first Christmas since the pandemic had begun that all ten of them would be filled. Jasper and Emmett had taken their Christmas cheer outside on Esme’s orders, and Rose had followed them, the living embodiment of the saying that behind every great man was a woman rolling her eyes.

And then there was Carlisle, whose newest schedule thrust him into two weeks of boredom at a time, curled up into one of the wingback chairs in his socks, staring at a page dense with text in the smallest font on his Kindle, but only pretending to read.

It had been earlier this year. Seventeen years of marriage, nearly nineteen of a relationship, and somehow Edward had never mentioned this crucial fact to his wife. They had been at the Toulouse house, discussing their next visit to the States, when Edward had mentioned something about his sire’s past; the knowns and the unknowns, and had let slip a crucial bit of missing information, a basic fact everyone had always taken for granted would forever be irretrievable.

Bella had just blinked at him a few times, and then, in the cutting way she had, offered, “Edward, haven’t any of you ever heard of Ancestry dot com?”

It had taken Bella all of twenty-four hours. A new account. A deep dive into church registers in London, 1600-1650. The parish records of one Saint James Aldgate, kept from 1625-1668 in a cramped handwriting that looked for all the world like Carlisle’s, which, when remarked upon, had only earned him a large eyeroll from his wife. “Edward. I know you think Carlisle sprang fully formed from the head of Zeus”—this time it was his turn to roll his eyes—“but you do realize that at some point someone had to teach him to write?”

And so they had pored over the records of births and marriages, baptisms and deaths, until they found her. Married, just barely twenty-two. Dead, just shy of twenty-four. One child, baptized the day she died. And the name, lost to the centuries until now.

They had presented this information for Father’s Day. Printouts of the pages; the dates, the eerily matching handwriting. Carlisle had swallowed deeply, thanked them, and shortly thereafter, left the room.

He hadn’t spoken of it. Edward hadn’t been sure if it had been an offense.

The composition under his daughter’s nimble fingers was over forty years old now, otherwise sounding like any other contemporary piano piece except that something about it sounded wintery, a musical affectation of the rapid whooshing of the Wisconsin wind against windows Esme had insisted upon keeping single pane. And as Edward listened, he let his mind drift along with his family's. It will need to be shorter. Esme, contemplating the tree. An expensive pair of earrings, no a necklace, no earrings, and…goddamnit, Emmett as Jasper tried valiantly to hide his holiday thoughts from his wife.

Pride, in equal measures, Jacob and Bella, listening to Renesmee at the keyboard.

And then…a little girl. Well, no, Edward realized at once. Not a girl, a child. Blond hair hanging in ringlets down to thin shoulders, a hat in the child’s—his—hand. The hat, falling to the ground from an open fist, as the dress swung around the child’s ankles, the hair flying in the wind as the child—the boy—giggled, racing into a woman’s round, pregnant belly.

“Carlisle,” the woman scolded gently. “You’ll wake your sister. Quiet, child.” A glance across a room, firelight dancing from the hearth, where a cradle sat on the floor, a warm glow across the cheeks of a plump toddler. Then the warm laughter again, a hand caressing the swell that was to be the third child. A boy, Edward knew somehow, through that strange alchemy that was his own mind and the mind he knew almost every bit as intimately. Then the boy, scooped up, held tightly to the ample bosom even as he giggled and squirmed. The imagined scent—roses, fresh air, sweat, soot.

As quickly as it came, the whole scene vaporized, replaced with live piano music, the scent of resin, Esme’s gentle laughter, the glow of LED twinkle lights. Edward looked up, catching eyes from across the room. A muttered excuse, and the sound of denim on upholstery as his sire excused himself, nonchalantly, as though he’d forgotten something.

But when he hadn’t returned ten minutes later, Edward also made soft noises about needing to find something, pressed his lips to the crown of his daughter’s head, and said, “Keep it up, Sweet.” His wife, ever perceptive, looked up from the bench.

Carlisle? she mouthed, and Edward nodded.

The house wasn’t large. The two of them had chosen it for themselves a hundred years ago, only later to share it with the woman Carlisle had, in all his impulsivity and to Edward’s initial dismay, saved from her own attempt at death. Following a scent—especially this most familiar one—was easy, and a moment later, Edward found himself in the study. His father’s chair was turned toward the wall, staring at a bookcase full of all manner of tomes organized in some system which after a century, still remained impenetrable even to Edward.

He didn’t say anything; it wasn’t as though he could sneak up. They both said nothing, the only sound in the stillness of the room their inhalations and exhalations.

“A sister?” Edward said finally. The head turned, and two pairs of golden eyes met.

“And a brother,” Edward added, and Carlisle shrugged.

It was the 1640s. Six would have been common.

“That’s not at all what I was commenting on, and you know it.”

Carlisle gulped. Edward came closer, perching himself on the perpetually messy desk.

“I wasn’t even sure you appreciated the gift,” he said quietly. “You’ve said so little about it.”

The blond head shook furiously. “I’m sorry. I’m grateful. It’s just—”

A flurry of images. The boy, giggling again. Older, hair shorter, wearing breeches this time. The sister, just as towheaded, her long ringlets dancing behind her as her brother pulled her through a small churchyard, scattering the handful of hens which lived there. The woman, a stern and wry look on her face, bouncing a toddler in her arms. Then blankness, again, the cutting off that Edward knew, like the slamming of a steel door, as Carlisle closed off his thinking to protect Edward from things he did not wish Edward to be privy to. Then came the sensations: the twist in the pit of the stomach, the raw, searing grief as fresh as it ever had been.

When this quiet had continued for several minutes, Edward spoke up. “You would’ve died, you know.”

A nod.

“And none of us would be here.”

Rosalie’s face swam suddenly in Carlisle’s mind. Not necessarily a bad thing.

Edward raised his eyebrows. “You’d trade us? Esme?” A pause. "Me?”

His father bit his lip, an uncannily human fidget that had once been put into his repertoire on purpose, but had now become so ingrained it was just part of him. The image shifted again: a series of flashes, rapid, one after another. The boy, school-aged, holding bravely still while the woman bandaged a knee. A teen, lifting a playful toddler out of the sacristy of the church—the sacristy remembered, the toddler imagined. A fourth child, Edward realized. The towheaded boy grown tall, his face the face of the young man Edward was used to. Clutching hands with a woman in white, anxiety and adrenaline and joy as he stood before an altar, the woman beaming at him from the first pew. And finally, the woman, older, her hair graying, as the young man placed a squashed-face infant into her arms.

Edward knew this part now, understood that Carlisle was so deeply content that he lacked the ability to imagine a family other than the one he had. That his dreams had a way of mixing the present with the past with the imagined, as though all of it were true. That if Edward had been able to lift the imaginary bride's veil, he would've seen the woman whose voice he could still hear floating down the hallway. That the infant being handed over in the memory now was the only infant Carlisle had ever imagined having: even though he had met Edward at age 17, he had a firm idea of what he would’ve looked like at six pounds. No hair—redheads were usually born bald—a grip surprisingly firm for a one-day-old infant. He saw the way the imaginary Carlisle beamed as he handed the bundle over to the woman. The way her eyes halfway closed in delight. Edward felt in the memory the way the baby felt in the hands, and recognized the way Carlisle’s mind was mixing this imagined baby and his imagined weight with a concrete memory from September, seventeen years before: Edward’s daughter; Carlisle’s palms.

I wish she could meet you.

Swinging his legs off the desk, Edward let out a bark of a laugh.

"Carlisle, you’re the one who believes in heaven. You really think she hasn’t?”

The image which surfaced this time was so similar, it was hard to tell if it was Edward’s alone or Carlisle’s, or both. The woman, fully gray haired now, her face wrinkled and her hands beginning to show liver spots. Sitting in their living room, laughing and giving tree advice to Esme, listening attentively to Renesmee, joking about Edward and Carlisle with Bella.

“Come on, Carlisle. If she’s anywhere, she’s here.” He hopped off the desk. “And you hiding in your office is probably not what she’d want.”

The nod came slowly. I suppose you’re right. He ran a hand through his hair and attempted a smile. Standing, he placed a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “I am glad you’re here. All of you. Even though the house is way too crowded.”

He chuckled. “We’ll leave before New Year’s.”

“Is that a promise?”

Edward punched Carlisle in the bicep, but they both laughed. Carlisle gestured to the door.

Come. Let’s see what your mother has figured out about the tree.

Edward nodded, and followed Carlisle’s steps. But at the door, his sire stopped, gazing back toward the desk where Edward still stood. The young boy resurfaced, lying against the woman, the girl, still asleep, the unborn infant a flutter under his brother's rib. Slowly, the boy's eyelids, too, grew heavy.

Carlisle blinked, snapping his mind abruptly back to the study. The boy was replaced by books. Thank you for giving her back to me.

And Edward saw it. Obscured by two pieces of mail, but still on top of the pile, the scent of Carlisle’s fingers still fresh, as though he’d rifled through it as recently as this morning. The envelope that he’d prepared, lettered in Bella’s handwriting, given for Father’s Day. The name, lost to time, resurfaced with technology, and with it, memory, imagination, grief, and somehow, love. As he moved, he brushed aside the bank statements on top, leaving the whole envelope visible as he exited the room.

Sarah

it read.

Closing the study door, Edward turned out the light and headed back toward his family.

Masterpost/Prompts Montage Masterpost

#twilightadvent23 #my fic #you knew this prompt was going to result in an addition to Montage #montage #carlisle cullen #edward cullen #sarah crawforth cullen #Music: Renesmee is playing George Winston's “Night” from the album December #and this piece was banged out to a band setting of O Magnum Mysterium on a loop

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