#he loves him some lizard men magazine | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

notmuchtoconceal · 6 days

Text

Cpt. Schreibermachen knew desolation beyond words.

Though it was his occupation, his habit, and ultimately his pleasure to reduce what desolations he was able to the confines of words -- for anything which could be made smaller most often better off was -- some intangible enigmas, those which proved most painful as a consequence of multitudinous intrigues, continued to gnaw at him, resisting the easy characterization which would allow the serrated edges of his perception to pare down what irregularities made for the advancing blight of what tendrils begot always new growth, entwining new and more fruitful deaths, beckoning, in time, revelation and all corresponding upheavals which would disturb what beds you had lain chilly with frost; what lofty now-simply-abstractions you had pinned down, not quite yet ready to vivisect, for the die being rolled, you left all things to chance.

Cpt. Haruspex, it was his pleasure to report -- seldom occupied this category, though he seemed to fight daily for its consideration.

"Were those thoughts of things you cherish most dearly the gloss of a magazine always beckonin," he seemed to state, as he stared at you in mute idiocy, nearly on the verge of drooling. "I would give my heart, my soul, pay any price, lick any dick, to be your most frequent covergirl."

Cpt. Haruspex needn't trouble you, seated across the table -- you having the paper as you breakfast with your brother, neither of which the two of you touch, though the pepper of the sausage and blueberry of the muffins beckons always -- preferring to subsist on the sun, the air, the fresh water, the ink and the pulp for which you rationed only time.

Though you turned the page, and the song of its leaves rolled as waves over rifle fire in your ear, somehow you still heard him. Though he never spoke, never glanced up, simply thumbed his pen on the wood of the table -- tapping his cap on the lattice of its top: vents of chainlink running parallel as spokes from the hubs of wheels of silver lizard scale.

"You like me a lot. Tempestuous as I am beautiful, I am all which the man you profess to love could never be, and so you wear your repulsion of me openly and deign to spurn me, spurning only yourself for you wish to lay encoiled with me arm-in-arm and call me brother. Chastising yourself only for you know in time you will succumb to my sick fancies and find yourself incompatible with who you think you are, unable to recognize any longer which inadequacies you adopted of me, and which were always your own, you so willing and desirous to bare the endowment of all I take of you, reveling in those spaces in which I leave you to fester."

The things he couldn't say -- to which you seemed to give shape and clarity with a panache which needn't be telling, any difficult projections casting only light on smooth, marred surfaces -- simply elevated him, reductions though they were, for he was habitually enlarging himself in whatever confines you put him, as a foam perpetually boiling over.

"Hot pot with me, Joe. Give you a splash as you dunk em in."

Dunk tank goon. He would make an excellent dunk tank goon. The target which would dispatch the lever to send him splashing ought be water-sensitive as the type you'd see in carnival squirt gun games, modified along the duration of a trough where men could shoot of their distillations, flowing down to the basin of the tank proper, filling with the piss in which he would inevitably drop and need to drink himself out.

"We could work so well together. Is it really good for yourself, for me, for our shared brotherhood or the people of our land, if you continue to find me arbitrarily repulsive for no reason other than to suit yer idle fancy?"

There were reasons. Reasons you found men of his ilk tiresome, constraining, obnoxious, the height of tedium. For whatever reason, you couldn't remember what a single one of those reasons were, nor did you wish to. What was the point of remembering the precise reasons for a limitation you felt not at all inclined to humor anymore?

"When you have a girl with me. When you see how you she bows to you, worships you, makes a king of you just by how you show her yer cock, bonds herself and relinquishes all she is just by how you slap her round and stick it in, you'll come to understand ... the needless complications, the byzantine redundancies, what torrid obfuscations of how you mangle your thoughts attempting to circumvent the sublime simplicity of nature. One shape nestles another. One mind consumes another. Why do you resist, Brother Joseph? Why do you deny yourself your right to make a sockpuppet of your brother, feeding his will to suicide by leniency of imitation, stroking him further and further into the torture of his continued and collective lack of true and conspicuous knowing?"

"Why would I make myself blind?"

Putting down his paper, looking up.

He spoke to no one in particular.

"Losing one eye, I gain two. Seeing with three, I am four. Two steps backward, three steps forward, I am always taking one after another."

He sipped his coffee.

At last, he turned to you, his superior always beside him.

"The live televised slaughter in Tiko Tiko Square yesterday afternoon which Cpt. Haruspex streamed and repeated all night long, while engaging casually with those speaking machines which bless him with what sparse literacy he has, in such a manner where he could not help but repeatedly spell out your, I and his complicity in so many subtle tells, what few minds have slipped between the cracks of our ideological ballistics -- the carpet bombings always freshened by the ash of incense -- are surely now compiling the collective dissociations in longform essays to feed the synopsis industry which will surely spell out the ruse with a poignant mania. I have taken the form of nine separate wounded and conspiratorially-minded erotic poets (each with a distinct voice and mythic backstory) and descended to their local haunts to speak their own prosody to them as I pepper in the larvae which will beget the counterpropaganda always stirring; winding winds of doubt fear and disgust around what few scabrous openings to the truth remain that, in time, the inherited sickness will make any righteous man disprove himself, any virtuous ear willingly blighted by deafness."

He took another sip.

"In this morning's paper, the poignancy of which I am now reviewing in solidarity with our proud nation's collective intelligentsia, I have packed into the verve of two paragraphs the collective grief and ire of a people wronged, and to the mass of their wicked hearts, I have thrown the bone they yearn to whittle to a shiv, that they may impale themselves upon it to build -- arrow by flying arrow -- a staircase to our mountain realm of heaven. They require so many, our dear and ravenous dogs. The bones of many men, most preferably the giants among their ranks, on whom were they to stand, would be as ants upon logs. The fear which drives them you could never understand. The fear which drives them defies all reason. Behold the sanctity of nature. Pandemonium is a place on earth. The truth would be less a purging fire urging forth fresh yields than a cataclysm to shroud in blackness the atmosphere for years. How am I to live with myself, know that true and ever-enduring love, seated at the right hand of a beast, feeding sweets to sick dogs who long to die?"

Looking to him, you raised your teacup. He flattered himself your laughter as you stuck out your pinky like a proper lady. He fawned over such dichotomies as the supremacy of tea to coffee for its lower caffeine content which would beget a more serene and meditative idyll.

"Sacrifices," he reminded himself. "Must be gifted as a show of respect."

Cpt. Schreibermachen was still Joey.

Joey was your little brother.

It was not at all obvious to you, the many enduring proofs that Joey was by far your favorite little brother. The ways he was closest to you, and bore most stridently the hardness of your masculine form, polished as his diamond-bright mind whose luster would never dim, and revealed yours always most splendidly. Therefore, most assuredly, it was not at all obvious to anyone else, and none would have the gall to say otherwise.

Brux put his tongue between his lips and blew.

"You decided you were gonna be the one to write all the fake politiks, Joey! You decided you were gonna be the only one to write the fake politiks, now you gotta sit there and enjoy it, it bein your job to write the fake politiks. Write all the fake politiks yourself! You don't need Brux's help writin all the fake politiks. Brux has plenty of great worldbuilding ideas which would make for viable economic systems the state only needs to prop up through taxation and bloodshed. Why are you implying I'm some kind of gold-hoarding, money-grubbing ghoul? I can feel you accusing me of having a big nose not even with your body language, cause you're illiterate in body, which is why you can't fuck your own boyfriend who -- oh wait! Isn't anymore! I can feel my big nose gettin bigger and bigger by the second, and that is all on you! You want me to get down at the bare, dirt-encrusted bubbletoes of St. Sarkeesian and kiss her ankles in puritan scandal! You would be so gauche and pitilessly vile as to suggest I even peel up her frock far enough to expose fatty calf! The nerve of you! Brux is a gentleman and a scholar and a bestselling author and Brux's books would still sell very well, even if he was competing against real literature and didn't just invent a market for his own bullshit! How dare you imply Brux is good at makin people want things they don't want! Everybody needs Brux and nobody wants him cause Brux is a hero and a saint and the only man who's gonna save the world! You're all just so set in your ways, you can't even see the emerging truth right'n front a you!"

Joey, his paper being down at the moment, needed to bare the brunt.

"To be frank, what most delights me about your rhetorical style isn't the clinging to what meager thread of relevance you can pluck out, nor the shambling, barely-upright miasma-headed conclusions in whose stupor we yearn only to fall to our knees and beg for death, no. It's the fascinating glimpses into your sick and soulless sexual imagination which you find always ways to steer into once you've hijacked the topic. Sometimes speaking to you -- or rather, not speaking -- I get some inkling of what it must be like to be a long-haul trucker, staring at the pitiless and winding road for hours as I search for scant voices to remind me in this emptiness into which I am forever driving against the cleave of waters no longer there, that I am far from alone though can only always feel I am, so heavy and far and baring this weight, wide-awake in my stimulant-addled flesh, carcasses of my own making or many years rotting littering the periphery of that blank space which is my only aim."

Brux ... being given a lot, and not able to deduce what was immediately flattering, knowing well that every compliment was a four dimensional chessboard of double-edged swords less a mirror that a cheese-grater, on which he could not see his outers, but peel his innards ... decided it was still in his best interest to take it, all publicity being good.

"Thank you, Joey. I like the breakfasts where we talk."

Joey. His cup was running on empty.

"I can take them or leave them. The impulse in men for surrogate girlfriends reflects some hideous malformation of the spirit."

Joey set his mug down.

Joey stared into Brux's eyes.

Brux, meeting him defiantly, would not look away.

Brux, growing bashful, tried not to look away.

Brux, breathy and girlish, couldn't help but twiddle his thumbs.

"You're a jerk and you're mean," he bravely managed to give it all away at once. "I've decided I actually like it when we don't talk now."

What you most admired about Joey's rhetorical style was how he did multiple semantic twirls, as though a pony performing with a baton, opening gateways through the circles in the air it drew out, of which a stand-up routine of mortifying asides could enter into our world.

Joey was always opening doors and leaving them open.

Joey was always flicking on lights and leaving them on.

One day you noticed Laika had this same tendency, this semantic tic which was a calligraphy of ballistics spelling out smiles in bullet holes, for Laika had seemed to grow as attached to Joey as Joey had to you.

Truthfully, the awareness arose near simultaneously, as though you had been looking away for a moment, and in that freedom from the walled garden of your pitiless gaze, they had each rapidly evolved in isolation.

Turning again, he looked to you.

He was smiling. Still and proud as a sculpture he had carved of himself in molten brass, live before you with his bare hands.

You would look to him. You would receieve him.

You would not fetch a medkit.

Cpt. Haruspex ... in his official capacity as Brux ... needed to act up.

"You know sir, I think any clear-headed and thinking man ... having inspected personally all 70 + of Joey's mythic poet characters can start to find simply hilarious repetitions and redundancies of image and phrasing that you could improvise a bingo board live on the spot with em! I mean, come on, now! Are we really to expect that certain trade schools of aesthetic styles produce such overwhelmingly similar vernacular as to wholly incidentally Praise Ford and Venerate The Assembly Line? (Six and a half years a public schoolin, only book I ever made it all the way through cause it had pure and chaste hairy wildmen, well as frivolous drug-addled Russian goils and embryos under ultraviolet light -- these bein but a few a my favorite things!) Heck, no! We understand our aesthetic trade schools which teach hyper-strident blunt-force approaches to style to make dumb dumb apemen on the GI bill figure out how to prosy-wose are staffed solely by freethinking stylistic and ideological rabble-rousers who fought their way to the top! We should expect far more variance in vocabulary, syntax and overall capacity to process random variables in these sham canonical poets ... by which I mean each requires a radically individuated worldview which functions as the flat prism of a mirror reflecting the totality of its environment back to us as though a petri dish which were properly an encapsulation of the vault of the heavens! I want pages and pages of backstory pretraining to the lives, struggles, techniques, radical innovations, dead ends, quagmires, failures, triumphs and blissful deaths, of all 70 + of these motherfuckers properly bound, laminated and indexed, to really give me and my boys plenty of room to dream by hallucinating death visions in prison walls of verbiage as though asylum inmates in paper-mache straight jackets and piñata walls. Who's gonna be filled with candy? Brux is. Brux is gonna be filled with candy."

You watched. You listened.

You knew what needed to be done.

"He's perfect and amazing and brilliant, sir." Joey said, at last. "I want to marry him. Marry me to Brux right here, right now, and I shall break my fast on his cock live before all our couriers this morning bright."

Brux ... blushed and scurried away.

"Don't do it, sir. I'm not ready to inherit property. Oh God. My countless sham rental venues. There are real people living in them. They don't exist! What the fuck is going on there? How am I making money off this!?"

Joey looked to Brux, his intent the serenity of perpetual fallout.

"I will always be here for you, brother. Meet me in an open field, I will hold your hand. We shall kneel to one another and picnic as proper knights and I will confess my soul's love to you, profess my deepest desirings, and reveal to you the splendor of how you fill what multitude of fancies I conjure within and around you. Beckoning crystal studs from coral branches, you are comely beyond words. Your sexual appeal is a bizarre enigma beckoning me a thousand simultaneous quasi-oblivions as I am stirred to a multitude of pinpricks death-by-death, as if leeched by microtones in vortices of razorblades shearing my heart as the peals of a great ape, orange as a new day, tongues always tapping at three to twirl to a ballet of broken legs the crown of her severed knees, axon laurels of shins and ankles. The unspeakable violence of my yearning desolates me and I am wounded unto nonsense against myself. Why would you awaken the animal in me, yet refuse the courage to tame the beast? I pity you, Cpt. Haruspex. For you fear me, your brother and soul's only love, you despise me through a fetid jocularity of imagined sleight and self-deceit and keep me at a distance to preserve your woundings, for without these scars by which to be a map, you would have no compass, no rose, no reason to pose. You are so meager. You are a toxin. Wretched creature. It drains me to love you. That you are in my heart, I am weaker for it. Were you dead, I would have more strength, perhaps enough even to love the man I profess to love. Beautiful dreams. There are many I find myself too weary every morning to commit to paper, storyteller though I am, archiving experience to preserve their clarity as a gossamer more revealing for what it transpires. Sweet frame of distance beckoning us always further down distant alleys. You are death to me, Cpt. Bruxer Haruspex. You murder me daily. Why do I let you? Why do I not kill you now, slit your throat and eat your flesh as our brother laughs?"

You snorted.

Brux wailed.

"That is not funny."

That is hilarious.

Brux shambled.

"Sir... Sir, you wouldn't really let him eat me?"

That depends. Would you let him eat you?

"What the fuck does that mean? You tellin him if my own brother tried to cook and eat me, you wouldn't break that up? What kind of tyrannical biblical patriarch you is? Why am I out bustin my ass harvestin babydick pinky rings if you ain't gonna protect me gainst dual fraternal murder cannibalism and also, definitely yes, anal rape while still alive!"

You wanna let him eat you, no force on earth can stop it, buddy.

"I don't want him to eat me!"

Really sounds (por mi) like you wanna let him eat you.

"He's putting a bib around my neck as he waltzes about in the buff, splashing himself with butter and spices, grilling himself openly as if to invite the probings of my nostrils with his savory!"

Brux wanted Joey to eat him so fucking bad.

"No, no!"

"You heard him say it."

It's canonical now.

"It hath been declared."

"You monsters... you can't just declare things like that!"

"I, in my official capacity as Joey," Cpt. Schreibermachen declared, "that though Brux is properly of the neuter gender, it is correct to refer to her with female pronouns, she being a right proper cunt."

"Um... Brother Joseph, I confided that to you in the strictest confidence."

Cpt. Schreibermachen hath made a public record of Cpt. Haruspex's gender, and in doing so, clarified it for future annotation.

"My gender is not a thing to be tabulated by passing trends!"

You had known seasons, where Brux was sultriest of the heavy metal ladyboys, letting his hair grow long as his arms grew buff.

"Stop it, that was decades ago. In my mind, the aughts became the naughts when the spades became jades and I could tell no longer the Yaps from the Jyds all thins lookin beige the rage whenever we took to the stage. Why did I toss away my heart to stay but a passing gleam in the eyes of a stranger? Why would I think myself worth less than nothing, needing but a quaker to oat the feedbag of a neigh-sayer's nuzzle?"

Joey paused ... successfully unable to tabulate the meaning of Cpt. Haruspex's words in a way he couldn't immediately dismiss as nonsensical, for despite the clear obfuscation there seemed some poignant hinting, one perhaps even beyond his own compliance.

"Brux is a stupid idiot moron. Brux likes to sniff Joey's jock."

Brux snorted.

Brux snorted hard.

"How did you know!"

All occurrences before you, begotten of rational consequence.

"I am always making myself known," he admitted.

"I dream of you, Joey," Cpt. Haruspex confessed eagerly. "I dream of you taking me down by the sea, your manor the only home I have, I sweet orphan begotten of past obsession, lone wolf sired by a brood of ticks, I clean as a woodlouse always whitwashed, prim and proper lady that I am. I can't commit to words the passions you stir in me. I don't know how to deal with it. You bein such a gentleman, such a scholar and a beast. I despise you. I detest your valor, your sincerity, your freedom of thought, of expression, your sharp and angular brain, your barbarian heart. I detest how you are strong of body and bountiful of mind, so brave and unbounded by arbitrary convention. In the limitless summers I dream of you holding me and leading me by the hand, I know I am always safe and I wish to cry, I knowing in you a home I have never known. I can't say with words how much I love you, Joey. I am sick. I am leprous with envy, poisonous of how desirous of you I am. My needy, blighting love could only be the death of you, and I have no right to use that word. Abandon me, Joey. You have to throw me in the trash where I belong. It's the only way you can respect yourself as a man, the only way you can prove to your ever-observant soul that you's a bein borne a character."

"I wish myself presently..." Joey decided, "To make myself unknown."

Brux ... rotated counterclockwise.

"My spine, my spine!"

Joey had taken Brux to the tabletop. Around his head, the crook of his elbow crushed him in suffocation, descending down his face, a rolling pin in a harmony of notes ringing out in creaking leather. Flattening him down to dough, he rested there, cap-off beside his plate unruffled, in a headlock as he looked up at you swollen and helpless, Joey smiling as he pried his legs apart with his ankles and pinned him by the arches of his calves.

"His belly is open, sir. You could slit him right now like a pig. Fry up some sausage right quick, the two of us, sir. Breaking our fast man to man on the first of the morning's hunt, our sun growing only brighter as it rises!"

Joey was making you hungry. You confessed, however, thrilling as the notion would be, were you to eat, there existed already plenty of food in front of you. Certainly, it would be a waste, not only an insult to the chefs, but needlessly time-consuming to slaughter and prepare a fresh carcass for a meal already in progress, verging in fact on conclusion?

"Don't... don't let him kill me!"

"Fresh sausage, sir. Steaming in the morning sun."

Your stomach was grumbling.

That fuckin Joey kid was a bastard sometimes.

Musta learned it from his bitch cunt of a mother.

Joey exhaled.

A baleful expression came about, heavy as a metal shroud.

He dropped the butterknife from Brux's throat.

"Well, I seem to have lost my appetite, how about you?"

You tsk-chortled.

It elevated in pitch to a belly-laugh as you turned away.

"Sir ... !"

Being around him effortlessly elevated you to unprecedented new vistas of condescension. Kid needed to be fuckin experienced.

"Sir, you're my best friend, sir!"

Brux sobbed and buried his face in a Long John.

" ... I knew you wouldn't let him kill me!"

Looking up to you, the glaze smeared his face in the morning sun.

A fine day, it most certainly was.

"A fine, hearty breakfast we've certainly had!"

2 notes · View notes

rthstewart · 3 years

Text

More Narnia Spare Oom AUs

So I’ve like actually written a lot of this. But.... based on this lovely post by @athoughtfox and then @edmundjustking made the serious mistake of asking for me to elaborate and so I did , a little bit here . But... I have opinions about this, OK? And A LOT OF WORDS. REALLY A LOT OF WORDS.

Digory – Professor at Oxford, professor of philosophy and theology, renowned expert on the Oxford Franciscans, the Blessed Duns Scotus, and Gerard Manly Hopkins. Professor Kirke is trying to construct an elaborate theory of environmental stewardship and haecceity based upon his Narnia experience. An excellent theologian and a very bad Christian – he’s not been to church in over 30 years. Ace.

Polly – Amateur zoologist and naturalist --- “maiden” aunt HA! Always accompanied by a dog, a cat, an umbrella and a carpet bag. Drove an ambulance in France for the Red Cross in WW1 in France. Drives an MG. World traveler. Bisexual. Works at the Whipsnade Zoo and has a bad habit of always trying to curtsy in front of Peter.

Peter: Private, youngest member of Ox & Bucks 2d Battalion, D Company, Glider Corps (whose insignia is Bellerophon aboard Pegasus) and sees the first action on D-Day when his Horsa Glider crashes into the Caen Canal bridge (Normandy) (which becomes known as Pegasus Bridge). He’s wounded in hedgerow battles on the march to Paris, sent home to recover and (probably) never sees more action. (Unless he joins Captain America’s Howling Commandos and cleans up Hydra nests in former occupied Europe). Maybe ends up with T-Force, Ox & Bucks 1st Battalion, who are rounding up German scientists and high value targets and “persuading” them to come to England or America.

After he’s demobbed, he enrolls at Oxford and starts an affair with a married woman. He then drops out of Oxford as a dismal failure at the classics curriculum. He comes into some money and finally gets Aslan’s message and begins rebuilding a country for a 3rd time -- he ends up working in construction and literally becomes a rock on which England is rebuilt, as a carpenter and bricklayer. Ultimately he’s elected to Commons as the rep for Oxford-Cowley where his battles with Margaret Thatcher become legendary. Bisexual, married, two children, 6 grandchildren. Knighted in 1992.

Susan: Lying about her age and armed with forged identify papers, Susan begins running a spy through the British Embassy in Washington DC in the summer of 1942 to build support in the American Congress for the British war effort. She leaves school in 1943 and enters SOE training. She is deployed to Bénouville at a woman’s hospital to spy on the Nazi fortification of the Caen Canal which Peter’s Horsa glider crashed into on D-Day. Sometime thereafter, she is eventually able to return to England (and maybe hangs out with/has sex with Peggy Carter for a while in France on the road to Paris). Eventually, she is recruited to MI6/SIS with her partner from Washington and they eventually marry where they built networks of spies throughout the Balkans that are blown and murdered by the Cambridge 5. Her husband may die in Berlin in or around 1950 and/or she remarries. One daughter; one grandchild. COE Deaconess, international election observer, advocate for women’s pentathlon in the Olympics, always keeps wolfhounds and a really large handbag that she keeps a Little Joe crossbow in that she got during the War. Becomes Dame Commander in or around 1980.

Edmund: With forged papers, Edmund passes off as a British army private in Washington DC in 1943, becomes fluent in German and Russian, and is involved in espionage efforts in Greece and the Balkans that preceded Allied operations in the Mediterranean in 1943. He narrowly avoids a honey trap and seduction by a man with the aim of compromising him into becoming a Soviet agent – the Soviets are seeking information on the Venona project. After flirting with the SIS, he decides to not join his sister in espionage. He reads law at Oxford and works the Judges’ Trial at Nuremberg. He becomes a successful barrister and renowned human rights activist, with a particular focus on war crimes (with Lucy) and tirelessly advocates for the Chagoss Islands. Edmund refuses a knighthood for years because he wants Peter to get his first. He finally relents and becomes the Right Honourable Sir Edmund Pevensie but hates being called Sir. Sits on the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council. Bisexual, married, three children, five grandchildren, married to a Holocaust survivor. Always keeps cats.

Lucy: Leaves school in 1943 with forged identity papers to begin agitating for Greek famine relief and more aggressive action to stop the Holocaust and allow more Jews into England. Joins the Red Cross. Eventually becomes involved in smuggling food to the Channel Islands which are under Nazi occupation. After the war, Lucy advocates for families of Chinese men in the Liverpool area after the Chinese merchant sailors are secretly kidnapped and forcibly repatriated back to China. She eventually goes back to school and becomes a doctor. She and Edmund are involved war crimes investigations all over the world. Through NGOs, she operates clinics and advocates for security of the whole person (income, education, home, political stability, healthcare) as universal human rights. Short listed for a Nobel Peace prize twice. Has arrest records in 5 countries for civil disobedience. Bisexual. Marries an American, has three children and four grandchildren.

Eustace: Becomes a world-renowned paleontologist, with a focus on trying to find fossil records that can explain the worldwide mythology of dragons. Discovers a species of flying lizard, Draco Scrubb. Marries Jill, two children.

Jill: A respected artist and cook. She sells art to sporting magazines her mother and father run in the U.S. and Caribbean and also to paleontological and naturalist publications. Also active with her family, in the cause of Jamaican independence and politics thereafter. She purchases a cottage on the Isle of Wright that has portals to a magical place with pink water and blue sand.

#The Chronicles of Narnia #narnia headcanon #everybody lives #narnia au

40 notes · View notes

absentcaryatid · 3 years

Text

Happy Birthday, Betty

An ATEEZ fanfic by AbsentCaryatid

About 4.9K fluffy SFW words set in the JC world some time after Yeosang’s Date In The Park. Also references earlier events from They Were Roommates and the epilogue but none are necessary reads to enjoy this story. Apologies and all my love to my favorite Tumblr follower whose life events I have borrowed for this tale.

The birthday of an important member of the ATEEZ family, Yeosang's fiancée Betty, brings the whole team together with friends, family, and lovers after a final world tour stop in San Francisco.

Content Note: polyamory, food, a brief but friendly lizard, alcohol mention

Annie is the coolest person you know which is saying something when you have actual idols as friends. In what begun as a chance encounter when she won a trip to the San Francisco opening of your family’s restaurant had led to her becoming a model for your grandmother’s company. Annie had become the face of the vegetarian and vegan line for the store which led to increasingly prestigious other jobs over the years. Quite impressively, she had made the rare leap from commercial work to runway modeling despite her nontraditional attributes like the many piercings. It was a testament to her stunning looks but also intelligence and hard work. There was also the matter of the lucky break when Taehyung of BTS had included a photo of her in a photography exhibition. The sultry portrait of Annie in San’s lap at a party had been quite popular, particularly on Tumblr in use as headers and fanfic inspiration.

In between comebacks Seonghwa and Hongjoong flew out to see their girlfriend regularly and were often photographed on her arms, among her many other lovers. Depending on who you asked, Annie was more popular than her ATEEZ boyfriends these days and the two men did not mind one bit. As a lover of luxury brands your husband Mingi was also seen in her company regularly at the very highest end fashion shows and you were grateful your exceedingly beautiful friend could share that interest with him when you could not.

At best, your style could generously be called comfortable and you relied on Mingi’s more informed input when you had to appear presentable for publicity events related to your work as the Vice President of KQ Entertainment. He had a good eye for fashion but also recognizing what was within your comfort range, both stylistically and accommodating sensory issues, while always making sure you would still feel like yourself.

Though far less necessary, he gave the same assistance to your mutual boyfriend Yunho and the two of them often received glowing coverage from the fashion magazines and websites for their street looks. Annie had even managed to get them a few runway modeling opportunities at some of her charity events making one of Mingi’s lifelong dreams come true. Her friendship had added so much to all of your lives in many ways and it meant a lot she had made time in her demanding schedule to come to San Francisco this week to be with you and Betty in person.

Nominally, it was Betty’s birthday tomorrow that brought Annie to town but if all went well there would be so much more and that is why today’s finalizing meeting to perfect the day was taking place at Greens, your favorite vegetarian restaurant in the Bay Area. As you enjoyed the marina view at Fort Mason Betty went over the schedule. She was the birthday girl but the real guest of honor would be her namesake honorary Great Aunt. At over 100 years old and in recovery from a stroke her attendance was still not a sure thing and the full events planned for the day hinged on her presence. Not even you or Annie knew the entire story of what Betty wanted to accomplish, only her fiancé Yeosang knew the entire schedule of activities.

An onlooker in the restaurant could be forgiven for observing the closeness of your group and thinking you might be sisters. With one Black woman, another both Korean-American and Black, and yourself Korean it was possible you were step-siblings and a shared half-sister but actually you were family in a different way. Annie, Betty, and you had the common bond of being partners to members of ATEEZ and your closeness with Betty predated that when you had originally met as college roommates in Korea years ago. That was what had led to her romance with Yeosang, the first friend in the group you had gotten to know through takeout chicken deliveries working for your family.

Over time you had fallen for Mingi then later Yunho. Annie was the newcomer to your select group of ATEEZ family members after her long-term relationships with both Hongjoong and Seonghwa began the last time they had been on a world tour a few years ago. Since then the group’s popularity had only increased and another tour was coming to a close with their arrival in San Francisco from L.A. a few hours ago. Each of you was looking forward to seeing your loved ones again and sharing some time off in the region. You and the two others had popped in on various points of the world tour but this was the first time all three of you had seen each other lately. Although you frequently were in contact other ways, it had been too long since the pleasure of laughing together in person.

With the last of the preparations assigned among you the birthday party planning work was complete and it was time to make your way to the stadium. There were tender reunions all around backstage and many hugs with the other members after so much time apart. While his hair was being styled Hongjoong made sure to give Annie her latest gift. He was always thinking of her and liked to pick up some jewelry as a memento whenever he traveled. In a tradition begun the day they met he was wearing the latest item on his ear and removed it, setting it in her waiting palm. She decided to place the exquisitely small rose blossom in her nose and smiled at the new look in the mirror.

“I was going to get you the eyebrow version with the stem and leaves but it was a good thing you let me know you were going to let that piercing close up.”

She sighed, “It is for the best, my eyebrows are drawn in a completely different place for each modeling job.” Giving her boyfriend a kiss on the hand to avoid his freshly applied makeup Annie complimented him on his taste. “You made the right choice, you always know what I will like. Thank you.”

“I would do anything to make you happy.”

“That goes for me too!” Seonghwa hustled by on his way to change into the first stage outfit and kissed Annie’s cheek in passing.

Just before he was able to disappear from sight Annie called out, “Thank you also, handsome!”

“I take compliments as well,” San fished from the makeup chair nearby.

Annie laughed. “San, you know I’d have you too if you were available.”

“I know,” he preened, “and it always thrills my heart to hear you say it. Unless anything changes though we just have that portrait to remember each other by.”

Overhearing your friends’ playfulness with each other always made you smile. They joked, but it would not surprise you if some day they did make their joke a reality, even if only for a night. Annie was very popular and her two current ATEEZ men knew she was not interested in settling down any time soon. Like sailors of old, as a model she traveled the world and had partners in every port leaving both men and women wishing for more of her time.

Your own pre-curtain pep talk with Mingi and final hug to Yunho now delivered you made your way to the stadium’s best suite where you and the other KQ family members would watch the show. This tour was unusual in that Yeosang’s parents and his sister had decided to travel overseas and see the final performance. That was part of their reason for the flight to the United States. The other, more important, was the chance to meet Betty’s extended family now that she was engaged to their son. Her parents and grandparents had been taking frequent trips to Korea due to half her relatives, members on both sides, being of Korean descent and the extended Kang family had already grown fond of their new friends.

Tomorrow they would have the honor of an introduction to the famed centenarian Great Aunt Betty, the family friend Yeosang’s Betty had been named for. Tonight though was about ATEEZ and his mother watched enraptured by the spectacle. “He always said they were popular internationally but I really did not comprehend it until now seeing such a large venue completely sold out.” She pursed her lips. “I do think they should be giving Yeosangie more lines. The others are so good but he should be the star of the show.”

“He is doing fine sharing the spotlight. As perfect as our son is, he has been working on his voice and will be given more as he improves. You know they originally hired him more for dancing and his good looks.” Turning to you her husband added, “He got his beautiful face from his mother,” the handsome man deprecatingly complimented as his wife blushed.

Joining the conversation you noted, “I have been pushing my uncle to make more use of Yeosang’s singing these days. Certainly his confidence is way up which coincided with meeting Betty I think.”

“We have noticed that too,” his sister agreed. “I like my future sister-in-law a lot. She really has been good for him.”

“Watching my college roommate get together with Yeosang I have seen how their relationship benefited them both. It is a joy to see them so happy together.” Your words were met with a toast to the engaged couple then attention returned to the spectacular performance.

Later that night as everyone collapsed into their hotel beds it was agreed the tour had been a success. “Tomorrow we picnic in the park with Betty for her birthday and then off to a week in Yosemite National Park the next day. This has been a lovely way to end a trip,” Yunho said with a yawn.

At your other side Mingi was almost too sleepy to comment but he managed to say “I hope we don’t run into any bears.” You smoothed his hair and reminded him even though they lived in the park it was rare to see a bear.

Yunho was reassuring in his own way. “They are only black bears, not grizzlies, and I will protect you, Mingi,” but the younger man was already beginning to snore before the sentence was complete.

“Goodnight Mingi,” you whispered. Then turning to your other partner, “and goodnight Yunho.” You snuggled against his arm and left several little kisses to his shoulder before falling asleep yourself. In no time at all the morning alarm on your phone went off and you squished Mingi a little reaching for it. “Sorry, love.”

With his face buried in the pillow all you heard in reply was “Mrrmph.”

“I have my errands to run but you two get more rest after your workout on stage last night. See you at the party midday!”

Yunho rolled over into the warm section of bedding you had left behind and Mingi’s arm reached out for his boyfriend to pull him even closer. With a smile you silently dressed for the day and left the room. First stop in Oakland was picking up some floral arrangements for the picnic tables and then on to the restaurant Betty’s family owned to place some of the food in your rental car. You would think their two catering vans would have been enough but her family had gone all out in what they saw as not only a birthday party but as a chance to celebrate her engagement to the young man they adored too.

Driving up into the hills of nearby Berkeley you were able to easily follow the directions to the rented picnic area in Tilden Park. “Padre,” you read on the site’s sign. “This is the one,” you said to yourself as you began to unload the items. Annie was already there with Seonghwa and Hongjoong bustling around her. Their mission had been picking up the vegan and alternate birthday cakes. Annie laid out supplemental frosting and other decorating supplies for the guests to participate in the celebration. With all her experience being at events she knew it was a good idea to offer ways people could have their hands busy if they were not as interested or good at making conversation with new people. Art projects always went over well, especially with so many creative people attending on a day like today.

The men opened the sports bag they had brought and began setting up a badminton net then croquet wickets on the lawn. A soccer ball was planted beside the nearby field and then they turned their attention to their girlfriend. Seonghwa let her know their plans, “We are going to make a quick snack run back into to town. Would you like anything from the coffee shop or the bakery we saw beside it?”

Annie declined the offer but you encouraged her to go with them. “Your work schedule is so packed you hardly have time to see your partners. Don’t miss a moment together these rare times you are on the same continent. I will be fine here on my own. Betty and Yeosang will be here soon enough.” She squeezed your hand appreciatively and took off with her two lovers.

You did not have long to be alone as the birthday girl herself pulled into the parking lot followed soon after by the two vans brimming with vegan, vegetarian, and token other foods just as the others were leaving. “It looks great already,” she said approvingly. Yeosang got out of her car on the passenger side and grabbed the bag of crepe paper rolls from the back seat to begin decorating. Soon the setting was complete from decor to food and beverages.

Family, friends, and the remaining members of ATEEZ began to trickle in, loudly in the case of Wooyoung who immediately headed to the soccer field to get some energy out dragging Jongho and San along behind him.

There was a yelp from Mingi and you rushed over to see Yunho calming him at the table where they sat. “You see? This little fellow is harmless.” The three of you watched as the small creature froze on the wooden surface. A young teenager came up, one of Betty’s Korean-American cousins who also had local Ohlone heritage. Recognizing the singers she took a moment to collect herself and hesitated to approach but Yunho welcomed her with a wave toward the table.

She had known Yeosang for a while now on his frequent visits before Betty had moved to Korea but meeting the rest of his idol co-workers was a new experience and like many, Mingi was her favorite ATEEZ member. In Korean she introduced him to the blue bellied lizard as they watched the reptile begin push ups flashing the vibrant namesake underbelly hoping to impress potential mates. “He may look like a little dragon but his teeth and claws are so tiny they can not hurt anything but insects. I see them on the path at my house all the time and they never hurt me even when I was a baby.”

Mingi smiled at the news. “Sometimes bugs scare me even though I am already a grown up.” She looked a little skeptical at this information but he did not notice. Yunho had to suppress a laugh though, it was not the scary bugs portion she seemed to have trouble believing but his adult status. “Anything that eats insects is a friend to me,” Mingi concluded. “Thank you for explaining that.”

The tween beamed in return then asked, “Would you like to play croquet with me? I can teach you how to do it.”

Mingi agreed and Yunho watched them go commenting, “He is so easy to like,” as the young girl began to skip toward the croquet lawn and Mingi joined in immediately. You sat together on the bench sharing your soda watching the large party chat, laugh, play, and fill plates. With one still hand on the picnic table Yunho coaxed the lizard for a walk on his warm palm. Softly you laid your head against his shoulder. Even this quiet time spent in observation was enjoyable simply because you were together.

You looked up to see Betty mingling and receiving birthday wishes while she stood with Yeosang��s arm around her waist. Her Nigerian-born maternal grandfather came up to the couple and after talking briefly a frown crossed her face. Wanting to see if you could help you left Yunho and got a report from Betty. “We really wanted Aunt Betty to be here today but her ride fell through and her aide does not drive. My parents are going to leave and get her but that means an hour each way in traffic and they have not eaten yet.”

“I will grab two sandwiches for them for the road.” She nodded at you gratefully. Job complete you now plated your own lunch from the generous spread. Time passed quickly at the party and you savored your meal seated between Betty’s Korean-born maternal grandmother who was an aerospace engineer and ran her university’s wind tunnel and her Black paternal grandmother who owned the restaurant providing today’s Southern American and Korean dishes. The women were a joy to talk to again, in Korean no less, just as when you had met them visiting Betty in college when you were her roommate years ago.

It made sense for the one from Korea to still have her native language and the other grandmother had gotten to a conversational level from her Korean-American husband who appeared at that moment. You had just learned he had grown all the vegetables the restaurant used including all the excellent food today. His arrival brought the good news that Aunt Betty had now made it after all thanks to his son and daughter-in-law, just far later than originally planned.

Betty relaxed to see her hoped for guest of honor present and she squeezed Yeosang’s hand giving him a knowing glance. He offered a shy smile in return and the comment “Looks like we really are doing this,” before kissing his fiancée’s cheek then going to greet Aunt Betty. As she sat in the car waiting for her wheelchair to emerge from the trunk he offered a kiss to her hand, charming her as always. Once settled in her chair, his future in-laws gently pushed her over to the closest picnic table and Yeosang scurried to fill a plate with her favorite foods.

After enough time for the latecomers to enjoy their food Betty cleared her throat and made a bilingual announcement. “With so many friends and family gathered here today, including Yeosang’s parents and sister who have kindly come from so far away, I would like to take this opportunity to tell you a little about my mother.” The older woman was curious about her daughter’s speech but came forward to where the engaged couple stood side by side. “When Yeosang and I agreed to marry we asked my mother if she would be willing to get an online ordination to be the one to perform our wedding. Last week I set that up with her and we would like to give her this gift in thanks.”

Yeosang passed over a black square and encouraged his future mother-in-law to unfold it. She did and the t-shirt bearing the word MINISTER in white lettering was revealed. “It is what she will wear when she marries us.” You wondered if Yeosang was nervous because he let a signature hehet laugh out at this point. “Would you try it on to see if it fits?” She nodded that she was willing and as she slowly and delicately worked the garment over her hair the onlookers began to murmur.

While her mother was busy, Betty had easily taken off her outer shirt to reveal another below and this white one was printed BRIDE in two languages. The excitement increased as Yeosang unbuttoned his shirt and the word GROOM in both Korean characters and English letters came into view. After working on the cuffs Yeosang now tossed his long sleeve shirt to San then maneuvered Wooyoung to his side as best man. Wooyoung’s eyes went wide and he happily accepted the role with a small jewelry box handed to him.

There were a lot of reactions as the situation dawned on the audience. Mingi’s “No way!” was a common one. By the looks on their faces everyone could tell this was a surprise to all but two, even the newly minted minister who now wearing her shirt had the chance to see the transformation happening before her. Taking it well, she began to laugh. “You mean you want me to do this here, now? I have never even performed a wedding before and I thought I was going to have months to study and practice! You two claimed it was going to be next year.” She shook her head tutting but her grin told the real story of happiness in this moment.

Betty knew her mom was quick-witted enough to roll with this very big shock and soon enough her mother gamely said “Give me a minute then I’ll be ready. I will make something up.”

Jongho thoughtfully stepped forward to take the shirt Betty had removed. He in turn passed it to Yunho leaving his hands free to record the ceremony for sharing in the private ATEEZ family chat. Betty took your hand and asked you to be at her side as matron of honor. “It is very fitting you stand here today. Not only have you been a good friend to both of us, you were also the one that brought us together so many years ago in college.” Almost everyone present knew the story but it was a good one. “As luck would have it my roommate was able to arrange the birthday gift of meeting my favorite idols because you had befriended them through your work. I can not believe how much would be missing from my life if I had been matched with another roommate.”

You both smiled at the memory. “I believe Yeosang wished that night he could have a ‘how we met’ story just as good as your grandparents.”

The about to be groom interjected, “I think I can top that memory with a ‘how we got married’ story today. Shall we?”

Seamlessly switching between the two languages she had grown up with, the bilingual ceremony in English and Korean was short but heartfelt. With mere minutes notice Betty’s mother had taken on the challenge of the first and likely only marriage ceremony she would ever perform. With a simple message of the obvious love and devotion between the two young people before her she then came to the ring exchange with a look to Wooyoung. He produced the box from his pocket handing it back to Yeosang who took out the two rings. Despite the differences both bands were a perfect match for their recipients, much like themselves. The first, a rose gold band with a simple twist engraved in black suitable for full time wear on stage and off was passed to Betty who placed it on his hand with a look of such adoration it brought tears to Yeosang’s eyes.

Her own choice was a stark break from tradition. In a nod to the style of American rappers she arranged collaborations for her ring was a far more dramatic rhinestone studded oval. It also showcased Hello Kitty dressed as a bride in the center. At first sight this ring was the one her mind was set on. On request Yeosang had dutifully purchased it and the band was now shakily being slipped onto her hand. He would have bought her the world if asked but she insisted she would rather spend to her heart’s content later when they would outfit a nursery in their home when they felt ready. At the time he blushed from head to toe but could not help but agree with their shared dream.

The ring was very unusual but also very much Betty as the colorful bargain item now hid her far pricier engagement ring underneath. She did not need to flaunt their wealth from both successful careers but instead reveled in a style that pleased herself, a trait Yeosang had long admired in his fiancée. He corrected his thoughts out loud. “My wife!” They both smiled at his enthusiasm and shared a gentle kiss to end the ceremony.

More than one sniffle was heard from the assembled family and friends, notably San, and possibly Hongjoong or Seonghwa, but also Yeosang’s dad. Everybody clapped and was in awe to remember even Betty’s mother had not been in on the day’s plan. She truly had conducted a wedding on no notice with no prior experience. The sound of popping champagne corks was heard and cake slices began to be passed around.

Not the only one to have trouble comprehending they had just been invited to a birthday party and attended a wedding too, Yeosang’s mother asked “Was that real?”

“Yes,” he joyfully answered and she hugged both her son and new daughter.

His father was just as pleased. “I have another beautiful daughter, sooner than I ever knew it was going to happen.” He looked at Yeosang. “No wonder you were so insistent we come see you on tour for the final city.”

“Thanks for taking the time off your jobs to humor me.”

“Oh I think it was worth it,” his sister said punching his arm.

“We had always planned this to be our wedding,” Betty explained to her in-laws. “Between the two countries we knew Aunt Betty was the least able to travel among our relatives so we decided to marry in the States as you knew.”

“Having her present meant so much to Betty,” Yeosang added, “that we did not want to get married if her health did not permit her to attend today. We would have married before her in a hospital room if that had been needed. So, the birthday today was a cover story and a fallback position if she had not been able to be here and it was a near thing too after her ride did not show up.”

“Thankfully my parents could get her even if they missed much of the party. They gave us such a gift today, we got to go through with the ceremony after all with everyone here.” Betty took her husband’s arm and beamed with giddy excitement. “We did it.”

“We did indeed. Happy birthday… wife.” Yeosang was really enjoying her new title and his heart melted when she called him husband in return.

The newlyweds held hands and stood for group photos with Yeosang’s birthmark on full display reminding guests that none of this was for publication. The wedding was private and the only photo ever to show up in circulation online from that day was a sweet shot taken and posted by you of Yunho charmed by the blue belly lizard on his hand.

As the birthday party turned wedding reception drew to a close Yeosang’s mother spoke up. “I think I have some calls I need to make once Korea is awake. We have a celebration to arrange and I hope your family can make it, Betty.”

“I think they would like that. I think they would like that a lot, mom.”

His sister nodded in approval at the name and plan. Arm in arm with Betty between them the three ladies walked back to the tables to discuss the next party.

Wooyoung waited for a moment to catch his friend alone. “I am impressed you were able to keep a secret from me.”

“I think it is the only secret I have ever fully managed to keep in my life. That and the location of Yosemite for our honeymoon.”

“We are all headed there. Wait! Yeosang, do you know what this means?” Wooyoung startled Yeosang by jumping into his arms. It was only through years of goofing off at dance practices together he was able to be caught by his teammate without warning. Stars in his eyes while held bridal style Wooyoung crowed, “All these years together and I never dreamed I would be honeymooning with you!”

Despite unceremoniously dropping him into the grass at the silly joke, Yeosang was quick to offer Wooyoung a hand up. Wooyoung gathered him into a hug instead. “Seriously, I am so proud of the way you and Betty pulled this off. Congratulations, I know you will always be happy together.” He then added, “If you will be having kids I would be honored to have them named after me. Just kidding, unless you wanted to of course!” Yeosang laughed at the way Wooyoung mimicked the finger pointing emoji and brimming-eyed facial expression with the words.

“We’ll see. But we already have a name picked out.”

“Oh, really?”

“We are hoping we can call our firstborn Betty.”

Wooyoung moaned. “So many good names in the world to pick and it seems like a lot of Bettys.”

“It is a wonderful name.”

“It is indeed.” Lifting his champagne flute from the nearby table Wooyoung toasted his friend. “Happy wedding day, Yeosang.”

On to Yunho’s Painful Decision

Masterlist

#ATEEZ Fluff #ATEEZ Fanfic #Kpop Fluff #Kpop Fanfic #ATEEZ #Yeosang #Kang Yeosang #ATEEZ Yeosang #JC World #cross posted on ao3 #polyfidelitous triad

6 notes · View notes

thenightling · 3 years

Text

What might have Been (Sandman fan fiction)

What might have Been...

Someone out there really does not want me to write Sandman fan fiction so naturally I must write more.

This story was inspired by the fact that over on his Tumblr Neil Gaiman was asked on at least two occasions that if Alexander Burgess had freed Morpheus, would he still have been condemned to eternal waking or if he would have shown mercy? Both times Neil Gaiman answered that Morpheus would have shown mercy. And yes, Neil Gaiman has a Tumblr. So this is a story of what may have happened of Alexander Burgess had freed Morpheus back when he probably should have.

Note: This story does contain a depiction of early twentieth century homophobia and some period accurate slurs. Based on my own personal experiences as a non-straight person I understand if the scene might make some readers uncomfortable. However you might find the end result of what happens to the abuser somewhat cathartic.

What might have Been…

The boy stared intently at the glass cage in front of him. It was domed and rather egg-like in shape and tall enough to hold a man or something very man-like. The leadened quartz-crystal was as clear as any well-made window. Alexander Burgess watched the creature with the fascination of a child watching a pet lizard in a terrarium.

The naked being in the cage stared back at him with cold intensity and a proud contempt as well. The creature was pale as chalk, and his eyes were like back pools of water with twin stars serving as pupils floating in the darkness. Later Alex would be able to compare this vision to the claimed “Grey” alien encounters he would read about in grocery store tabloid magazines. One stark difference from those creatures though was that this creature had a shock of wild, black, hair that reminded Alex of a disorderly pile of raven feathers, thick and heavy hair that framed the pale face staring out at him from behind the glass. The creature was improbably thin. It was clearly intelligent and generally humanoid. If Alex hadn’t seen the summoning for himself, if he had not detached himself so thoroughly from the alienness of this entity, he might have even found him beautiful or attractive. But all potential for that had been lost to fear and the unavoidable and frightening knowledge that this was not a human being.

Alex did not know why he found The Creature so fascinating. He had discovered who and what the creature was in the Paginarum Fulvarum. The King of Dreams. That revelation had somehow not resolved his sense of curiosity. This was the being accountable for everyone’s dreams, all of humanity’s secret fantasies and all those shameful imaginings that come late at night when people are at their most vulnerable. For Alex there was a secret shame in his own dreams…

“I hate you.” Alex whispered. It was a childish proclamation but there was some hidden pain there. The bony, wraith-like, creature moved his head slightly, acknowledging Alex’s words without responding verbally. He never spoke to them.

Alex wasn’t even twenty-years-old yet but he knew he was not like other men. He was not “manly” by the usual definition of the term. And he believed that if his father knew about his secret yearnings, his Desires… He would be disowned…

It was this thing’s fault, wasn’t it? The cruel bastard there in the box. He was the one who gave him those dreams. The dreams that Alex dared not describe to anyone. Dreams of other young men. The feel of their lips against his face. The tingle through his scalp as the lips vibrate against his earlobe as something gentle and inviting was whispered into his ear. Their affection, their touch, their love… How Alex dreamt of that love, that sweet, terrible, sinful love. And why? Why was this such a taboo? His father had used magick for so many cruelties. He had even killed with it. So why were his desires, ones that could never hurt anyone, considered to be so much worse? …And who decided that a form of love could be deemed evil anyway? Wasn’t love supposed to be ultimate redeemer? The ultimate absolution? As far as young Alex was concerned humans and the powerful beings that governed the universe- they were all hypocrites. All of them! Hypocrites who took pleasure in the befuddlement of others by tempting them with …with deviant dreams…

Alex had enough of staring at the alien-like boogeyman there in the cellar. He got up off the cold, damp, floor where he had been seated, eye level with the crouching, naked thing. Almost staring each other down, as if in a contest of wills neither was entirely sure about. Alex stood up. Unlike the pale creature imprisoned there, Alex could leave. He could leave at any time. …Then why did he feel just as trapped as if he was the one in the glass bubble?

The months passed and not much had changed. Alex had grown a bit, but that was normal. He had read somewhere that some men grow until they’re twenty-five. He was taller, leaner. He discovered he needed spectacles, which wasn’t too surprising. He had squinted often when reading father’s dusty old books.

One thing was different though. Father had hired a new gardener. A pretty, red-haired boy, barely Alex’s own age. And Alex had the distinct feeling that perhaps this young man was also… different. Different in his capacity to feel for men what most men usually only feel for women (or so Alex believed).

It was a warm summer afternoon when Father finally took notice of Alex and the peculiar way he watched the gardener. Alex, whom he often ignored. Roderick Burgess found it distasteful and rather Crowley-esque that his own son should look at another man in that way. He watched as Alex observed the gardener. Roderick hoped what he was seeing here wasn’t what it appeared. But it seemed so. Alex was as infatuated with the near androgynous gardener boy in a way that he should only feel toward women. Well, something must be done about that!

“Father, please!” Alex tried to shield himself with his arm as his father’s heavy, old, walking stick came crashing down on him again. “You are an EMBARRASSMENT! The heir to the Order of Ancient Mysteries, my ONLY son… a worthless, useless… Mary!” There was another crack from the gentleman’s cane being used in a very ungentlemanly fashion. “No, Father, I… Magus. Magus, Please, I-“ “It’s that boy, isn’t it? That Elliot? Well, he doesn’t work here anymore! I sent him away. You’re lucky I don’t just stop his heart to rid myself of this shame!” He was one to talk of Shame. His father, the infamous occultist, rival to Aleister Crowley, head of The Order of Ancient Mysteries, and source of scandal after scandal. The papers always had something to say about Father. They never spoke about Alex. Alex knew how to keep a low profile, to keep to himself, to go virtually unnoticed in his father’s shadow. The threat to stop Elliot’s heart was very real. Alex knew his father had enough magick to do such a thing to someone without the occult means to defend himself. “No! He’s innocent!” “Innocent?!” What did that matter to someone like Roderick? Alex had always been too damn soft and now he had gone over to fairyland as far as Roderick was concerned. Well, at least he knew his son hadn’t soiled his bed with his deviance yet- he had not acted out his profanity in the house, at least there was that. “Look at you! You’re a disgrace!” Alex was cowering and crouched in the corner of his room, which was in disarray from his father’s attack. He knew he couldn’t hide what he was from him. His father was just too powerful…

It also didn’t help that Alex had kept those old novels under his bed. The picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, a few selected Greek myths carefully bookmarked in a thick, leather-bound, volume, and the closet drama Goethe’s Faust parts 1 and 2 translated perfectly from German into English. Anyone with the ability to read between the lines, as they say, could tell what Mephisto’s relationship with Faust was really all about… Alex couldn’t tell what was worse, the words his father said or the cane coming down again and again. He was too afraid to fight back. There was no telling what his father or his father’s minion might do if he tried. Sometimes he had nightmares of his father’s darker wrath, much more extreme than this. “You dress like a fairy! Look at you! Growing your hair out like a girl, walking around in long velvet jackets like they’re frocks! You think you look like Henry Irving or something? No, you look like a little girl! No woman will ever find you attractive. I should have realized, the way you bury yourself in those books, like a little wanna-be priest.” Alex saw nothing wrong with dandy fashion and as for his hair, plenty of respectable men had hair longer than his. His hair wasn’t even really shaggy. Oscar Wilde’s hair had been longer than this at the time of his death. Though he knew that was, as far as his father was concerned, an awful example. He whimpered and tried to wait out the pain and dared not argue the accusations. “They stare at you, you know.” Roderick continued in his tirade to shame him. Alex knew the only person who actually scrutinized what he wore was his own father. He kept to himself too much to be the focus of anyone else’s attention. “You think I don’t see it? How they turn and look at you and whisper on the street what a pansy you are. Maybe if you dressed normal you wouldn’t forget you’re supposed to be a man!” No one was actually saying he was a pansy. That was clearly Father’s own insecurity about his masculinity talking.

“Clean yourself up.” Roderick said, finally too exhausted to beat him anymore. And in an after-thought “If anyone asks, you fell off a horse like the clumsy idiot you are.”

Roderick walked from the room, gentleman’s cane (if you could call it that) still clutched in his hand.

Alex slowly pulled himself to his feet. He was trembling yet, and sniffling, trying to choke back the threatening sobs. Alex had long ago abandoned the childish (as he saw it) hope that a parent’s love was truly unconditional. The child in him still insisted it was supposed to be unconditional, that parents are supposed to love you and accept no matter what, and Alex still craved his father’s approval and acceptance. It had been some naïve governess from Alex’s childhood who had taught him that foolish notion he could not shake, that a parent should love you without condition. And he never could quite let go of that belief even if all of his life experiences insisted that no parent (at least his parent) could not love in that way… Could Roderick Burgess love at all?

Alex finally left his badly disheveled room once he was certain his father was no longer nearby. There were papers and books scattered, along with a knocked over chair and some random knickknacks. Some ceramic and glass items were broken, fragments of childhood playthings lay on the carpet. Something had broken tonight and it was not merely some old toys… Alex walked …or more precisely he stumbled, down the hall. Alex’s back ached where he had gotten the brunt of the caning. He knew the marks were going to scar. Everything ached. His shoulders, his legs, especially his back. One eye was blackened and his cheeks were red from the heat of crying. He wiped furiously at his own tears. It was foolish to cry. And it was dangerous to dream…

He would never really be free. He was as much his father’s prisoner as the creature down in the cellar… If he tried to run away he knew his father and his magick would find him. And… he had nowhere to go anyway… Even if his situation was “Normal” and there was no fear of magical ramifications for his defiance, to whom could he turn? Where could he run? There was no sanctuary for someone like him…

Alex made his way to the secret passage, to the stone staircase that spiraled its way down to the windowless chamber. He knocked on the heavy wooden door and announced himself for the two guards his father had watching the prisoner. One of the guards opened the door for him. They knew better than to question the boy’s condition but there was a slight trace of pity in at least one of them, a softening to the man’s usually unreadable expression. Alex managed to steadily walk to the glass cage, hiding that he was in pain. He slowly laid his hand against the cool glass. “Please leave us.” “But the Magus says-“ One of the men started to protest. “My... Father,” Alex practically spat the word, “is the one who pays you. And I speak on his behalf. Now go!” The men exchanged looks and then shrugged, deciding not to argue with the young man. They both were eager to have a tea and coffee break anyway. Alex lowered his hand and stood outside the cage. He looked at the pale, emaciated figure behind the glass. He had never changed. Not since the day they had captured him. He had not aged, nor had he grown a beard. And yet Alex felt as if he, himself, had changed so very much in that time. Changed in such a way that he saw now that he was in no better of a situation than this creature here. Trapped in darkness, trapped behind the glass, unable to touch or be touched. Alone… Naked, exposed. Everyone could see everything about him. And yet he- The King of Dreams- was unashamed. Proud. Not trembling or cowering from a brute of a father. Alex’s contempt for the creature mingled with long, distant fear, was now being replaced by a different emotion. Something not unlike empathy and maybe even envy. Envy at the defiance of will, envy at the hidden power that such a fragile, delicate looking thing could have… Almost beautiful. The King of Dreams was almost beautiful…

Alexander Burgess saw this weakened, helpless wretch, and he saw himself. A prisoner locked away from light. A prisoner stripped of dignity. Utterly at his father’s mercy until he said or did what his father wanted… Would this proud creature eventually cower and break as Alex felt like he had broken. Alex bit his lip. If he freed this creature it… he might kill him… or worse… But maybe… Whatever his fate might be, it was better than this. Right now, as it stood, they were both prisoners. But if he freed him, this so-called King of Dreams… At least one of them would be free. And Alex would have some small revenge on his father, the Magus of The Order of Ancient Mysteries… Maybe it was some half-hearted attempt at self-destruction, a suicide without noose or razor- that Alex felt he would either die by this creature’s hand or by his father’s but he wanted this thing to end and let it end tonight. This felt like the only true way to end it. Alex had gotten a hold of the heavy brass key and placed it into the lock at the base of the crystalline cage. He was really doing it. The key fit easily into the hole of the metal base just within the binding circle’s confines. Alex dragged his foot over the old, chalk, binding circle, deliberately breaching it, as he turned the key. The crystalline cage opened at a discrete seam. The pale figure stood up slowly, cautiously, moving like an uncertain animal. He blinked those wide, black eyes, like doe reacting to being offered food by a human.

The King of Dreams stepped out of the cage and toward Alex. He tentatively moved beyond the binding circle as if worried that Alex might change his mind and try to stop him, or perhaps that someone else might. Alex stepped back but only slightly. Alex waited for whatever was to come next. The pale figure moved to him, the glassy black eyes stared at him, stared deep into his own and for a brief moment Alex felt… understood... maybe even accepted. And most importantly he felt… forgiven. Not for the sin of what he was- this creature saw that as no crime, but for how he had treated him. For taking part in the summoning spell, for being complacent in his father’s abuses and humiliation of this proud entity. “I’m sorry…” Alexander said, swallowing back fresh tears. “I’m sorry… It was my father, he…” The pale figure put a finger to his own lips.* “Shhh.” Alex was trembling, afraid of what he might do next. And for a second, there was such a softness to the usually cold creature and a slender hand touched Alex’s cheek but only for a brief moment. Alex had never heard him speak and he was startled by the soft sound of an audible voice coming from him. He didn’t say anything really other than the “Shhh.” Alex blinked several times. The King of Dreams moved past Alex, toward the stairs. Alex went to bed shortly after that as if nothing had happened. He had just felt so very tired. He tried to behave as if he had not just released his father’s prisoner. The next morning though things were different. Alex had slept peacefully and felt quite well rested. Even his black eye had seemed to have mostly healed and his back didn’t hurt anymore. There would be no scars after all. But something was wrong in the house of Fawny Rig. The servants were in a tither. Roderick Burgess would not wake form his sleep. He was alive. And he seemed to be dreaming. He would moan and mutter, and occasionally whimper or beg for it to stop, crying out in his sleep, but he would not waken. Alex stood to the side of the bed. “Father! Father, please! It’s me, Alex! Please wake up! …Please.” But the situation was hopeless.

And despite everything he had suffered at his father’s hands Alex still grieved. He wept as if his father was dead and he knew his father’s fate was worse than death. Alex still mourned. Alex still pined for what might have been, still longed for a father that would love him unconditionally and accept him for who and what he was without question. If the world’s most infamous sorcerer couldn’t even do that… who could? Who could… love him?

Alex was scared. He had been in his father’s shadow so long he did not know how to function without him and he had been so isolated, he had so few friends. All he could do was rely on the servants, the lawyers, and his father’s money to support himself. His father was moved to the hospital and eventually diagnosed with some sort of Encephalitis Lethargica. A sort of brain swelling related sleeping sickness but Alexander Burgess knew better… Somehow he knew…

His father would never wake up… The years passed and everything that was Roderick’s passed into Alex’s hands. His father died years later in that hospital bed but Alex was not sure of his father’s nightmares were truly over. He imagined his father’s soul was still trapped somewhere, still suffering an endless nightmare leading into another nightmare, and each time he thought he was waking he would just find himself in yet another new nightmare. Somehow Alex knew this. Where his father was now condemned to eternal waking did he know his body had died or did he have a futile hope that he would one day wake up?

The estate, Roderick’s fortune, everything was now Alex’s. No one was there to be critical or to tell Alex what to wear, how to speak, or… who he could love. And Alex eventually met a beautiful young man named Paul. Oh, how he loved Paul. They would travel to such places together. London, France, Berlin… They traveled together on a private yacht and drank Champaign on the deck as they watched the sunset over the Mediterranean Sea. There was no secret prisoner to worry about, nothing to shackle them to Fawny Rig like Dorian Gray shackled to his painting. They could go anywhere. They could do anything. They were free. And Alexander Burgess lived Happily Ever After… It was a pleasant dream. Too pleasant…

Elderly Alexander Burgess woke in a cold sweat. There were fresh tears in his eyes. He sat up in bed and Paul was there beside him. At least there was that… At least Paul was there. Paul was real.

But that’s not how the story played out, not really. Alex had never been brave enough to defy his father. He had not slipped down to the cellar the night that he should have. He had never freed the prisoner. Even when his father had died he had never freed the prisoner that he both resented and related to. And he had been the one punished with six years locked in a nightmare that would seem to end only to reveal a new nightmare was starting, and on and on it had gone. He had woken from that “eternal” curse to his beloved Paul waiting for him. He had been forgiven. He was relieved that Paul was here. Paul looked at him now. “What is it, love? Did you have a bad dream?” Alex nodded. “I don’t know what’s worse… that nightmare that I was trapped in or…” He bit his lip before choosing the words. “…knowing I could have saved us all… saved myself…if I had just done the right thing at the right time…”

“Hush now, darling. You’re still half-asleep. I’ll get you some tea.” Alex was soothed and sighed. There was no use dwelling on what might have been. But sometimes those dreams of what he could have done- what he should have done, if he had just been brave enough… Sometimes that felt so much worse than the actual punishment the Lord of Dreams had subjected him to before finally forgiving him…

But at least he was safe now. At least he had Paul. And at least he had been forgiven. And he was loved and accepted for who and what he truly was. And his cruel, old father, was very much dead. A loveless old man was gone. But Alex was alive. Paul was alive. And they were in love. And no one could take that away from them. And Alex and The King of Dreams were both free from the shadow of Roderick Burgess forever.

There was no point on dwelling on what might have been. That did not matter now. What mattered was the love that Alex had finally found and the freedom that he and The King of Dreams both had gained.

The End

#The Sandman #Sandman #The Sandman Fan fiction #What Might have been...

14 notes · View notes

spyvstailor · 4 years

Text

GRAVEYARD DIRT & SALT

CHAPTER ONE

So, it was brought to my attention people might not like the links to my novel, so I will be posting chapters here on tumblr as well. But please, don’t forget to head over to my KO-FI, and support an author.

Chapter One

Sometime in Summer 2014

The first sign that troubled times were upon them was the empty shelves in the toilet paper section of all the grocery stores.

There was no rhyme or reason to this and society fell too fast for top psychologists or sociologists to chime in with their two cents as to the reason why people thought toilet paper would save them during the troubled times.

The next thing to break down after the panic shopping were the roads and the highways.

If you think about the population of the earth, six billion and change, and growing each day. If you think about the population of the US alone, all of them fleeing the chaos of the cities and towns. Then you'd understand why the roads were the first to go to shit.

Humans run on instinct, their lizard brains demand fight or flight. But when they didn't know what exactly they were fighting, when they heard news reports of an epidemic. Stories of people dying and coming back running on pure animal hunger, their first instinct was to flee.

They've seen the movies, played the video games, entertained the idea of the dead rising up and walking the earth with their insatiable hunger. As humans, they knew what this meant. It meant the end of civilization as they knew it. No more cell phones, no more magazines, and no more internet. It was chaos and it was confusion.

Back when HQ was up and running. Back when the marines at the base were still receiving orders. When 'task forces' were being sent into hospitals and morgues, schools, churches even. All the places humans congregated in times of trouble to take care of the sweeping epidemic. Back when governments and commanders were still in control, the first thing to fall to the dead were the roads and the highways.

The highways were veritable buffets for the hungry horde. Panicked people just stuck in traffic, idiots who thought the threat wasn't real and were still out trying to get to their local fucking bar. They became a meal for the horde, delicious, soft, warm, living flesh.

After the roads and highways fell to the dead, the government sort of disappeared. There was no structure because the officials all sort of went the way of the one percent. Disappearing in the smoke of the burning society around them.

The next thing to fall was the media. It was all over the place, reports of the dead walking, reports of the one percent disappearing. With their need to know and to be on the scene, many stations began to mysteriously replace their reporters. Reporters changed, their faces different from hour to hour. Until in the end, all that remained was a single, sweaty, panicked looking young intern.

After the media went the churches, the mosques, the synagogues, even that real fancy cult place in Hollywood.

When faith failed, then everything just sort of fell away.

In the days just after the initial outbreak, he was still a marine stationed at HQ in Georgia. He still followed orders. Still went where they told him to go, did what they told him to do. But after a few weeks, the lines of communication went down. HQ went cold, dark. One by one his squad had left him, either picked off by a lucky uggie or just plain run off in the night.

Sixteen marines had set out from HQ. Thirteen marines had gone off to protect and serve the civilians of the state, and all that remained of that squad was him.

The men who had left in the night were just heading home, he assumed. And to be honest, the Lieutenant didn't blame them. The more they patrolled from small town to small town, the more he realized there was no one left alive to protect. The last orders he had received had been to keep clear of the major cities, that HQ had fallen, and then silence.

Hell, until a few months ago, he had assumed he was the only couyon left alive on earth.

Didn't matter. Everything he had he left back home in Eunice, Louisiana. And that was all inanimate and cold and long-buried in the ground, nothing that could warm him on dark nights anyhow.

For months, he walked the highways and the roads, just off in the woods in the shadows of the leaves and trees. He did his duty, killing as many of the damned as he could.

Didn't bother him much, he was recon, trained to do whatever needed doing. Improvise, adapt, and overcome.

He saw a lot from his place in the woods. He saw men and women trying and failing to survive, the dead roaming, ambling about by the handfuls. Great herds of them shuffling across the blacktop like cattle going down the Chisholm Trail.

There seemed to be no end to the uggies. Everywhere he went there they were. Old folks, young folks, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. Hell, he had seen a bride one time in her pretty white gown just wandering around.

The longer he survived in the land of the dead, the more he forgot what other humans, real humans, sounded like. He was beginning to go a little nutty if he was honest. It had been months since he last saw someone who seemed alive, and even they looked like they were on their way out. Tired, sickly, starving maybe. A shadow that had appeared and disappeared so fast he wasn't entirely certain they were real.

So he drove further back from the roads, deeper into the Georgian woods.

He did well there, flourished even. Hunting, fishing in the river, killing uggies at an easy pace. Every day, he lay his head in a different spot, never staying still too long, never growing attached to anything.

It was there, in the middle of the sylvan woods of Georgia, that he came upon a high, grey stone wall, beyond which towered an old looking church. There were some equally dated-looking buildings surrounding it.

At first, he thought it was a compound of sorts. Maybe some of those good ol' Georgian boys who had it in their mind to form their own militia. A ragged group of NRA enthusiasts with too much ordnance and not enough brains or balls.

When he had scaled the wall out of morbid curiosity, to perch high and get his bearings, he was startled to find a handful of nuns working in a vegetable garden below. At the time they didn't notice him as he perched on their wall. They seemed too intent on gathering the bounties of their good-sized garden, safe, and almost cocky behind their wall.

With his rifle shouldered, he had watched them at work, amazed to find life so deep in the woods. Feeling like a man who had just witnessed a miracle, an angel, a vision.

Sitting at ease on the high, eight-foot wall, the Lieutenant watched the ladies in their garden for the longest time, entranced by the simple beauty of their work and their pretty flowing habits that swished when they walked, before he settled his pack beside him to open it up for a snack of dried nuts he had found in the Piggly Wiggly in Blackshear.

It had been so, so long since he had observed actual human beings moving and chatting, laughing and living, that he seemed to forget where he was and he was only just a little hungry so he thought he'd have himself a snack while he watched them work.

It wasn't until one of them, the only one who wore all white, glanced up and spied him on the wall.

Her face was one of serene, simple beauty. Clear blue eyes, a classic beauty that would give Vivian Leigh a run for her money and a hard, almost stern look which changed from placid to startled at the sight of him on their wall. She dropped the basket of potatoes she was carrying to wash at the water pump just past his position and took a quick step back.

Shouldering his rifle slowly, he held up his hands to show her he was defenseless and offered her a smile he hoped was as charming as he wanted it to be.

She stared, gawped at him for the longest time, delicate brows knitting, lips trembling like she wanted to say something.

“Now hold on, I'm not here to stir the nest.” He cautioned as the woman took small, dainty steps back from him.

The other Sisters now noticed him and wavered between moving to protect the one close to him and fleeing into the shelter of their convent buildings.

He studied them quietly for a moment, almost as though he thought they were a figment of his imagination, a lie, a mirage on the horizon.

“My name is Lieutenant Layfayette Vancoughnett of the United States Marine Corps,” he greeted in a voice rusty from disuse. Had it been what? A month? Two months since he last said anything to anyone. “I'm charged with protecting the citizens of this country from the epidemic of the dead.”

The woman nearest him looked at him with hard, steely eyes, unwavering and unimpressed, but still, she said nothing.

“I'm not here to hurt any of you,” he went on. “I'm here to offer aid and assistance to any survivors.”

“We have a front gate for a reason,” the woman suddenly scolded him in the prettiest Southern Belle accent he had ever heard. Straight out of an old movie about Southern Belles and their airy, sweet fiddle-dee-dees.

Now, when the Lieutenant was a boy he used to stay up late and watch the old late-night showings of movies on Channel 15. He loved those old pictures, the actresses and actors were always far much more elegant than anyone he had ever met. Even dirty, even rugged and sun-scorched in Westerns and historical war films, they always looked so much more.

This woman, as soon as she opened her mouth, had him yearning for those old films. She had him thinking of Atlanta burning and cotillions and balls of the American South and the Civil War. She had him thinking of Scarlett and Rhett.

Recovering from the nostalgia of his youth, and feeling as though she had slapped him, the Lieutenant blinked at her for a moment. It had been a few months since he heard words coming from the mouth of someone rational, so he had to think whether he said something rude.

“Do y'all know what's going on beyond these walls?” He asked.

The woman wiped a smudge of dirt across her cheek with her wrist and sighed. “Are you here for trouble or to be a spider on my wall? Because I have no time for leering men peering down at me and my nuns like we're chocolate pie at the Easter picnic.”

Hopping down into the inner convent grounds, the Lieutenant grinned crookedly and took a step towards the woman in white. “Was I leering? Aw, Missy, that was not my intention. It's only that it's been a long, long, very long while since I've seen a living, breathing person.”

Wincing as she backed away from him, the woman frowned delicately, her mouth drawing in a thin line. Behind her the other nuns were gathering, they seemed less intimidating than the one in pure white. But she still remained resolute before him, the top of her head only coming up to his shoulder.

“I think you should leave,” the woman suggested.

“Is there really no one left alive?” One of the young nuns in a blue dress asked. She didn't wear a full veil like the older nuns, her skirts reached to mid-calf, black stockings and shoes hiding her feet and legs from sight.

“Not that I've seen. Then again I've been keeping myself clear of the major cities, could be some, could be less than some, could be none.”

“Please,” the woman in white said. “Just leave. We don't want trouble.”

“Maybe we could offer him some food and at least a place to rest for the night?” An older nun suggested. “We all were strangers in Egypt, Mother Mena.”

“Sister Mary Agnes, go inside, take the others.” The woman in white said firmly.

“Now, don't be so hard on them,” the Lieutenant amended. “I'm leaving. I didn't mean to shake things up. Just wanted to perch on your wall a little and take a rest.”

Hopping back up onto the eight-foot wall with a little trouble, he managed to collect his things with some dignity, before giving the women below him one last look.

The leader, at least he assumed she was in charge, raised her chin a little and gave him a real hard look, her pretty, clear blue eyes narrowing a little in a silent challenge. Her pretty little starlet looks, that soft edge of the dying breed of the American South, the Southern Belle, the debutante, hard as steel under velvet was all enough to make him reconsider stirring trouble. She looked like she'd take his eyes out without a second thought, like a she-wolf protecting her young.

Nodding, he leaped back down off their wall, heading for the little camp he had made for the day.

He had returned to what he did best for the next few days, killing uggies and scrounging for supplies. Surviving like a shell of a man, staggering around, putting down the dead, eating whatever he could find, it was a hollow life he had now and it had only just come alive again at the sight of those nuns.

Every now and then he thought of those nuns in their walled-in convent and it sparked life back into him. He worried about them, which was something he missed about people. Caring about them, whether they lived or died. He had become like a man trying to preserve the last of the endangered little critters, only with nuns and it renewed in him a purpose.

For at least two weeks he resisted the urge to return, not wanting to harass them. But he was a weak man and that drum that pounded in his chest told him 'go back, go back, go back'. And those grey stone walls of the convent seemed to draw him like a magnet to metal.

They weren't in their garden when he finally managed to pull himself onto the wall, using a tree and a lot of long reaches, but he remained on the wall for a bit, hoping to spy one of them. He just needed to know they were okay, that he hadn't imagined them.

He sat on that wall so long that before he knew it, it was beginning to get dark, and he realized he had to go find some sort of place to hunker down for the night, a tree or an old foxhole, something tucked away enough for him to rest up.

Pulling out a bottle of Aspirin and a box of feminine pads he kept in his pack, the former for pain, the later for emergency bandages, he left them on his spot on the wall just opposite the back door to a long, rectangular building, as a sort of offering, before he slipped down and back into his woods.

Slumping against the side of a house, he sunk down beside the latest uggie he had killed and sighed. Everywhere you went they were there. The dead, the uggies, the creatures he did his best to avoid calling zombies.

Zombies weren't real. They were movie monsters brought to life with CGI and latex.

These things, these uggies, they were something else entirely. They were infected, they were rotting. Some kind of nerve damage? Maybe they weren't dead. He didn't know. He just killed them before they tore him apart. Because they sure did have rage and hunger to them that wasn't normal. An entire group of them could tear a man apart in less than a minute.

Sighing, he looked over at the young man he had put down.

It hadn't occurred to him that before the nuns, he was lonesome. The Lieutenant was a social creature by habit, he enjoyed a good story and a better joke, but he had grown used to nothing and no one but the dead.

Now, knowing there were living people out there somewhere, people who didn't fire first, who didn't want what he had, or hate that he was untouched by the dead, knowing that somewhere in the Georgian woods were potential companions, had him distracted from the rut he had fallen into.

It was the same old thing, day in and day out. Wake up, crawl out from wherever he had bunkered for the night, kill some uggies, scrounge for some food and supplies, hunt if the food wasn't available, dig down like a tick for the night and do it all over again.

His pack was getting heavy with things he needed to survive, his boots were worn thin, nearly to the sole of his foot itself. He had slogged his way north, south, east, and west, but always somehow came back to the area surrounding the convent.

He needed some company, just a little chat with someone who didn't drool or moan, or at least didn't drool and moan until he bought them some dinner.

The farmhouse he had stumbled onto was a rundown shack, very little in uggie activity, but replete with goodies.

Digging through the pantry, he stuffed jar after jar of pickles, jams, and preserves into his pack, until his pack was too full for any more.

So he ducked outside to bury most of his found treasure, in case anyone else came upon his goldmine, he wanted some things left for himself. It was a dog eat dog sort of world now and while burying his treasure seemed juvenile, it would prove handy come crunch time when everything had been picked over and gone through. When nothing remained of the old world but trash and canned peas.

Finding an old water pump, he helped himself to some well water and settled down to clean up some, shaving the itchy goddamned stubble away and rubbing stains out of his uniform where uggies had spewed their nasty fluids all over him like some goddamned reject from a devil possession movie.

Ducking back into the house before he left, he stuffed the last of the jars of food into his pack and zipped it shut.

He had enough jam and jelly and pickled veggies to get him through some rough times and in a few more months winter would be upon him and those preserves would really matter.

Just as he was about to head out from the location, he spied some seed packs sitting on a windowsill in the mudroom and slowed down enough to read them.

As it did lately, his mind wandered to the nuns and their garden. So he snatched up the seed packs, stuffing them into his trouser pockets, before leaving the farmhouse.

Climbing onto the convent wall later that afternoon where he had found it easiest to climb, just opposite the back door of the rectangular building, he began his search for life, before pulling out a few jars of preserves to give up to the nuns as an offering. He stacked the jars in such a way as to create a sort of cairn, inside which he tucked the seeds, safe from birds.

He sat for a few more hours on the wall, before climbing down and slinking off into the forest with no nun in sight.

It would be another day of same ol', same ol'.

There was a small farm just on the outskirts of the woods, near the river where he had decided to make camp for the night.

It had been left pretty much alone, way out in the backroads as it was.

There were only four uggies, huddled around the carcass of some unfortunate kitty cat, eating their meal with all the greed of a biblical King, fattening themselves on kitty cat meat.

It was awful of him to think it, but humans he could abide, but a kitty cat being killed? It just sort of stabbed at him in his soft spot.

Standing over the five bodies, four humans, and one small feline, the Lieutenant realized how messed up it was that he had more sympathy for the cat than the humans. But the poor thing was small and easy prey, humans had the luxury of size and warfare tactics.

With a string of fish he had caught in the river waiting to be fried over an open flame and a hungry belly, he ignored the corpses in favour of setting up on the far side of the farmyard, building himself a nice fire to fry his fish dinner.

They sort of haunted him though, the corpses always did. It seemed unnatural, even to a marine, to just leave the dead out in the open as he did. There was never any time to really dispose of them though and to burn them meant the risk of the smoke being seen by other less friendly humans or smelled by the dead.

Huddled over the old frying pan he kept hanging from his pack, he tended to his dinner with care.

At first, he didn't hear it or it didn't register to him as a threat. He was so used to hearing only three things, the dead shuffling, the dead groaning, or absolute and terrifying silence.

But as he cooked, he began to tune back into the world around him.

Over the crackle of the fire and the sizzle of the fish, he heard a soft mewling, muffled it seemed, by distance or objects.

At first, worried about the dead not staying dead, he glanced over at the heap of corpses in the growing twilight, making out just dark shadows. Removing his pan from the flame, he set it aside in favour of wandering towards the heap, nervous. Scared the kitty cat was going to pop back up and get him with one well-placed chomp.

He had never seen the virus or whatever it was infect animals, but he knew somehow his dumb Cajun ass would be the first.

Hell, if zombies were real, maybe he'd turn into a werecat or something.

As he headed towards the heap, the mewling grew softer, quieter. He was putting more distance between himself and the sound.

He continued on, though, kneeling by the corpse of the poor unfortunate cat, reaching down to sort through the gore the dead left, feeling the swollen teat of a mother cat.

“Shit,” he swore.

There were kittens somewhere.

Standing up, he looked around.

Beyond his fire, was a barn, he figured that would be ideal for a nest, so he headed towards it.

Passing by the fire, he heard the mewling grow louder, but not much, so he stopped at his pack and pulled out a flashlight.

Entering the dark barn, he shone the light around cautiously. He was weaponless, but there was no real threat of the dead, the door had been latched securely.

Inside the barn, the stench of death was strong, but he figured it was coming from the heap that lay in one of the stalls.

“Poor baby,” he murmured.

Whatever it was, horse or cow, it had rotted where it dropped.

God. As cold as it seemed, he could handle human death, it was familiar and sometimes necessary, but the death of an animal always got him.

The sound was louder in the barn, but he couldn't exactly place it.

He walked the aisle up and down, looking in stall after stall.

His growling stomach called him back to the fire and his fish, but every time he considered selfishly going back for dinner, the kittens would call him and they sounded hungrier than him.

It broke his heart.

“Where are you, babies?” He called out, knowing no answer would come.

It seemed like an hour he spent, tearing apart square straw bales and looking in the cracks between wooden slats in the stalls and in the manager part of the stalls before he remembered most barns had a hayloft.

Shining his light upwards, he saw only wooden floorboards overhead decorated with cobwebs.

The Lieutenant was trailer park trash or at least one step up from that (which in Louisiana meant his granny had a trailer in the middle of the woods near Eunice), he had never been on a farm beyond a few times in passing, so he didn't know how the hell to get up there. He couldn't see a ladder or a staircase, but as he shone his light across the ceiling above him, he spied a part that had rotted away, near the door he had come in and moved towards it.

As he moved, in near-total darkness save for the beam of light from his flashlight, he spied a pair of glowing eyes peering down at him, before they ducked out of sight.

“Found you,” he cooed gently up at the hole.

Looking around for something to climb on so he could poke his head up into the hole to find the kitten, he came up with an old five-gallon pail and hoped to God it would be tall enough.

Wobbling a little as he climbed onto it, he realized it was still too short, so he jumped down and looked around again.

The mewling continued.

“I'll be right back, yeah?” He called up to the kittens.

Ducking outside, he began to look around the farmyard, knowing how dangerous it was to be outside at night, shining a flashlight like a beacon beckoning the dead to come home to eat. If he could find something, a ladder, or something tall enough to climb onto, he could pull himself up into the hayloft.

Throwing a bundle of dry branches onto his fire as he passed, he headed for a nearby shed. It looked like a tool shed.

The door was locked, but it didn't take much for him to kick the weathered door off its hinges.

Entering like a criminal into a bank vault, he looked around. There wasn't a ladder, but there was a riding lawn mower that looked tall enough to park under the hole. Grabbing up what looked like an old birdcage, he set it on the seat and putting the lawnmower in neutral, he clamped his teeth down on his flashlight and began to roll the machine out.

It took him a good twenty damned minutes to get it through the door of the barn and for him to crawl over the top of it before he finally managed to get his head up and into the hayloft.

That pair of shining eyes blinked at him from way, way back in the dusty, moldy hay-filled barn attic, and then another pair blinked at him and another.

“Hey,” he soothed to the babies. “Come on over here. Come on.”

After five minutes of gentle cooing, one of the kittens came close, curious about the man who had wedged himself up and into their hole.

He hoped like hell there were no dead coming at him at that moment. His bottom half was exposed and he didn't want them eating his tender bits first.

A grey and white kitten, nothing but fluff and eyes and ears touched a wet nose to his outstretched hand, before jerking back nervously.

“Hi there,” he whispered. “You're a lovely little thing, aren't you? Come on. I've never hurt an animal and I won't start today, baby.” That was a bit of a white lie, he did have to hunt and fish to survive, but he never kicked a dog and never once tossed a kitty cat out of his way.

Carefully he scooped the fluff ball up and tucked it into the birdcage. Taking that time to glance around at his surroundings for threats, he pushed the cage up into the hole and climbed up in after it.

Sniffling and sneezing due to the old straw and hay and whatever else was up there, he felt like he was going to catch at least something from it all. Cholera or something else.

Underneath his six-foot-something weight, the old floorboards groaned, so he moved cautiously, stepping only where he thought the joists underneath were.

Stopping a few feet from the other two pair of eyes, he cooed and called to them, before finally he was still enough that they cautiously came over to him, one was easy to catch, but the other retreated as he did so.

The one he had caught was a beautiful short-haired calico and she looked at him in the light of his flashlight with such big eyes that he fell in love a little.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted. “I'm not going hurt you. But mama's not coming back, so y'all gotta come with me now.”

With two kittens in the birdcage, mewling hungrily, he tried coaxing the last one over. When the short-haired grey tabby refused to come any closer, the Lieutenant realized he was going to have to go after it.

“Come on now,” he said gently. “I'm not going hurt you, baby. Catching the kitten, he carefully moved back to the cage and added him.

Taking one last look around to ensure he got all of the kittens, he headed back for the hole.

Carefully he poked his head down first before blindly emerging from the hayloft.

Seeing the coast was clear, he crawled down, bringing the kittens down with him.

Most of his fish had been consumed by the kittens, the poor things were hungry.

With a small bowl of water from the well in the cage with them, he moved everyone into the house finally, the land had grown dark a long, long time before.

Settling upstairs, he secured the door to the room he was going to bed down in, before opening the cage door and letting the kittens out.

They moved carefully around the room, inspecting everything, before launching themselves at the blanket on the bed where the Lieutenant had settled.

Dragging themselves up one by one using their claws and the blanket, they sniffed around him for a bit.

“Bedtime,” he commanded softly, picking up the little calico and smiling as she instantly began to purr. “Aren't you just the sweetest thing,” he said. “What are we going to do with y'all?”

He couldn't leave them to be eaten as their poor mama had been, but he couldn't travel around with kitties in his pack.

As with everything as of late, his mind drifted to the nuns and their high walls.

He hoped they were charitable to kittens.

Scaling the wall was never easy, but he had a system at this point.

There was an old gnarled oak tree just behind the convent, close enough to the wall that if he leaped from a thick lower branch and kept his balance he could make the wall.

It was a little more dangerous with a cage full of kittens, but he managed to make the jump safely.

Once upon the wall, he realized, however, that he had no escape plan with a heavy pack and a cage of precious cargo. He couldn't just jump down, the kittens would get jostled too badly, but he didn't see any other option.

Just as he was considering the physics of jumping, he spied a flash of white appear from the back door of the large rectangular building beside the church.

A nun had emerged, a laundry basket in her hands.

Not wanting to startle her, the Lieutenant let loose a low, soft whistle to get her attention.

It failed, the nun still jumped a little, dropping her basket of clothes.

“Sorry,” he whispered, pointing to the kittens in the cage hurriedly as an explanation.

Exhaling a relieved breath, the nun hurried over to stand below him on the wall.

Kneeling, he handed her the cage, explaining himself, “sorry,” he apologized again. “I found these little fellas and didn't know where else to bring them.”

The nun looked up at him with large, beautiful brown eyes and a sort of amused grin. “You're that marine, aren't you?”

He nodded. “I don't want to make trouble.”

“I know,” she returned. “Sister Gertrude has cats, so...you brought them to the right place.”

He smiled. “Good. I'll bring y'all some kitty food if I find it then.”

“You've been leaving us things,” the nun went on.

“Have they been useful?”

She nodded.

Looking up and out at the convent, he asked, “what is this place, exactly?”

“Veil of Tears of the Sacred Virgin Convent,” she said.

“Which one are you?”

The nun smiled. “Sister Dymphna.”

“Dymphna. I'm Lieutenant Vancoughnett, USMC.”

“Lieutenant.” She repeated.

They both looked up as another nun emerged from the back of the building, a laundry basket in her arms.

“You'd better go,” Dymphna said. “Mother Mena will be out soon. She doesn't want strangers in the convent.”

He nodded, watching the other nun who was approaching them cautiously. “Thank you for taking these little guys. Their mama got nabbed by a couple of the dead and I didn't want them to starve.”

Dymphna smiled. “Thank you for bringing them to us.” She hesitated, before adding. “Stay safe out there, please?”

Thinking of the nuns the next morning, he remembered his promise to Dymphna; cat food. And he recalled the town nearby had an agro-center with all manners of animal feed.

So he headed there, with no better plans for the day but wandering around and surviving.

The town had been cleared of anything living, or at least anything with a thinking, rational brain, but he still walked into it with all the caution of a man going to battle.

The dead lingered in places where people once inhabited, either because they could smell the living scent lingering or because somewhere in the backs of their rotting brains, they recalled that this was a place where they were supposed to be, like salmon returning to spawn or birds migrating.

If he was quiet enough, moved silently enough, the lingering scent of the living would mask his own and he could slip in and out without any problems.

And even though he swore he'd avoid areas that had once been heavily populated, he went into the town on a mission.

Kittens would need soft food at best, maybe a smallish bag of special kitten chow, he wasn't sure, he emptied his pack to make space for both.

The agro-center was dark and quiet, the shops always were now.

Someone had already broken the glass door wide open but had pulled a heavy, empty snack stand over the hole behind them as they left, possibly with the intention of returning for more scrounging.

The Lieutenant tread carefully once past the stand and inside, worried that maybe the stand had been pulled in behind someone entering, but determined to get his kitten food and leave. It would be an easy in and out, once he found the cat aisle.

Passing by garden aisles and chemical aisles, both raided for tools to be used as weapons and chemicals he could only imagine were to be used for bombs or other methods of self-defense from the dead, he turned down an aisle containing small appliances and barbecue equipment, following the signs overhead that pointed him towards the cat aisle, moving slowly and cautiously around each corner.

It was so far quiet and empty, but that didn't mean the next corner didn't have someone or something waiting in surprise for him.

The cat aisle was at the very back of the store, last aisle and as he glanced around the corner, he spied a small form sitting on the floor in the very corner, playing with some cat toys, her back to him.

It was a child, he realized. And she looked very much alive.

Approaching her slowly, eyes moving constantly, looking for someone who may be with her, the Lieutenant moved down the aisle, a new mission at the forefront of his mind.

If this child was alone, he had to get her out of here and to the safety of the convent, whether the nuns wanted strangers there or not.

About five steps away from the little girl, she happened to look up and over her shoulder, a cautious, searching glance, watching for the dead he assumed.

She saw him, gasped, and stood up.

Someone stepped around the corner, handgun aimed at the Lieutenant. They must have been right beside her, scrounging the endcap of the aisle.

Raising his own rifle, the Lieutenant kept it trained on the man with the child.

The two could not be any different. The small black girl wore the uniform of a Fox Scout, dirty, worn sneakers and had the sweetest, most open face he had ever seen on a child. She looked at him with big, dark eyes, before reaching up and rubbing in irritation at her button nose, tucking in behind the man.

The white man with her wore an expensive suit, brightly patterned silk shirt underneath, boots that had at one point been polished and expensive, looked dangerous and prepared to kill. His predatory look was ruined a little by how big and green his eyes were, fringed by dark lashes. Altogether with the freckles on his face adding to his boyish appeal and softening the threat if only a little made him deceptively dangerous.

They were not father and child, and yet the girl hid behind the man, trusting him to keep her safe.

For a minute the two men just stood there, guns trained on the other's face, before the Lieutenant spoke carefully, “I'll put my weapon down if you do the same.”

The man narrowed his eyes a little but kept his weapon trained on the Lieutenant.

“I'm just here for kitten food,” the Lieutenant said. “I don't want a fight.”

“Kitten food?” The man asked, almost a breathy laugh.

“If you put the gun away I'll tell you the story,” the Lieutenant lied.

Grinning, the man tilted his head and gave the Lieutenant a sort of admonishing, playful look, his mouth lifting in the right corner crookedly, before palming his pistol and raising his hands defensively. “Well now I've gotta hear this one,” he said in a tone that sounded like the man had once been born in the American South, like the distant memory of a twang was hidden just behind his calm, smooth voice.

Lowering his rifle, the Lieutenant paused for a second, watching as the man watched him, before both men put their weapons away, the man sliding his pistol back into a holster inside his suit jacket, resting it at his breast, the Lieutenant sliding his rifle onto his back.

“Was scrounging some farm,” the Lieutenant said, carefully turning from the man, keeping one eye on the two at the end of the aisle and one on the selection of canned cat food, “found some orphaned kittens.”

“And you're taking care of them?” The man almost teased. “You know the world's fucking decimated, right? Doesn't really matter.”

Giving the man and the girl with him a simple look. “Guess we both have soft hearts.”

Placing a hand on the girl's head, the man in the expensive suit tucked her behind him further, shielding her from the Lieutenant's gaze. “Don't look at her. Just get your fucking cat food.”

Both adult men, prickly and on their guard, remained in their respective spots, before the Lieutenant deferred slowly, moving down the aisle, keeping one eye on the man and the girl as he browsed for canned kitten food.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the girl tug the man down to whisper something to him, and at first, the man ignored her before he stooped a little.

Cupping her hand, the child whispered to him.

“I'm not...this isn't the time, kid.”

After a bit, the man with the child sighed deeply and asked, “how many kittens?”

“Three,” the Lieutenant said, speaking directly to the child, knowing the question came from her.

Once more the man in the fancy suit gently pushed the kid behind him fully, eyes warily on the Lieutenant.

“You her daddy?” The Lieutenant asked, finding the kitten food and dropping his pack to stuff as many cans inside as he could.

“Do I look like her fucking daddy?” The man demanded.

The Lieutenant tilted his head. “The world is a diverse place.”

The three of them were silent for the longest time, before the man said, “it's just the two of us now.”

“What are you two doing here?” The Lieutenant asked. “Is this where you hole up?”

The man scowled a little. “What the fuck do you care?”

Again the Lieutenant backed down into silence, hefting his pack back up onto his back.

“Ran into some good ol' boys a bit back,” the man in the suit supplied. “Seems the NRA survived the end of days and they're just as nasty as they were before it all went to shit. Thought it'd be best to hole up until early morning, then duck out of town.”

The Lieutenant nodded.

“You? Still serving the government?”

“I don't think so,” the Lieutenant said. “If HQ is still up and running ain't nobody told me.” Eyeing the two of them, the girl and the fancy man, the Lieutenant asked, “you got a place to be or you just moving?”

“El Dorado,” the man said simply, still on his guard. “Hey, where's your cats?”

“Pardon?”

“You got them stashed somewhere safe or you just fucking with us?”

“They're safe.”

The man nodded.

“I could think of eight better lies I could have told than kittens,” the Lieutenant said. He took one last, studious look at the two of them, before that small part in him, the one that wanted to protect people kicked in. “Why don't you two come with me? There's safety in numbers.”

Folding his arms, the man tilted his head back a little and stared hard at him, before saying, “get the fuck out of here.”

#graveyard dirt & salt #please support an author #my severance package from work was really horrible #novel #writing

7 notes · View notes

kc-anathema · 4 years

Text

I’m so sorry I did another long post so soon...

So a long time ago, I received a flame on Spec Ops 98: Jazz's Interrogation at Soundwave's Pedes. I hadn’t received a flame in a long time, and I haven’t received one since (which is amazing, since this was on chapter 26 back in...dear heavens, 2015. This fic is officially an epic.)

In fact, I stopped reading the flame once I realized it was a flame, about four chunks in. 2015, five years ago, I was changing principals, changing schools, trying to figure out how to marry my Canadian then-fiance and figure out immigration. (Fun type--marry her in Vegas, wait a couple years, bring her over. Use a lawyer to make sure it’s all kosher.) So yeah, didn’t read.

And then a concerned reader mentioned to me that I didn’t deserve this awful flame and that they loved the story. And I thought...oh yeah, there was a flame on this. That was a couple months ago.

I finally decided to break the flame apart like I used to. This feels very nostalgic to me. I found out that this is really the flamer’s only claim to fame--they flame fics and troll writers. I’m not going to name them then, although you can find the easily on the ff.net review page for this fic.

My father once told me that, if anyone ever spraypainted slurs across my house...leave the slurs up. Don’t pay to remove them. Let the awful words stay up until everyone in the neighborhood is begging us to take them down again.

I think leaving the review there says more about her than me. And I’m going to enjoy clawing this apart, I think, like a cat scratching apart a lizard.

Flame begin:

We’ve got a problem if Soundwave is involved here and he’s not pulling his usual ‘Decepticons, Superior’ line. Add on a fic about perverts and we get this. Ah, well. What are you gonna do?

Remember the character Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory, and how he said “Bazinga” all the time? That kind of went from a joke to an overused character crutch. Like ‘dynomite!’ or ‘did I do that’? Is it really good to rely on a character line to the point where we can call it ‘usual’?

“I’ll take my pleasure and that sweet aft” – Sounds like a cheesy commercial for Robot Chicken. Fireflight is locked up in a dungeon and is about to be whipped by a BDSM Starscream. That’s not at all OOC. Basically it’s a fanfiction that talks about fanfiction.

I...um. Yes. Yes, it’s an OOC line modeled directly after pulp fiction zines and tijuana bibles. I literally looked up several of those on the Internet Archives and various old men’s magazines covers. It’s not fanfiction directly, although it’s certainly what fanfic evolved out of.

Do these look subtle? Low key? Classy? Tasteful? It’s cheap trash and it’s fun as hell. I don’t think readers at the time thought that these were in any way true. This is right along the lines of drawn hentai. So I think the flamer admitted despite themself that I did good.

“We’re stuck here in the middle of a war...we don’t have time for sex” – That’s right. But that fact doesn’t apply does it?

...reading trashy, porny magazines is not sex. It’s actually something you do when you can’t get sex for whatever reason. I would know. A lot of us would know. Apparently not the flamer. No one thinks that “hey, I got a chick/dude willing to bang right now...but the new issue of Men’s World is out! Can’t miss that!” Unless you have some serious fetishes that your partner is too weirded out by, I think this does indeed apply.

Then Jazz gets captured and lo and behold, Soundwave is revealed to be the Christian Grey of the story. I hope he has some maid outfits for Jazz.

...our flamer hits the sludgy bottom of the joke well and grabs their shovel. They do not try very hard for originality in their insults. And, while Grey was a jerk, Fifty Shades wasn’t quite a prisoner of war scenario. No, that was a cheap romance for chicks. I’m writing more akin to men’s...oh.

The flamer is a chick.

Their only bdsm or bad romance experience is with Fifty Shades.

I don’t think they read much.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnd we have a shower scene. Damn if it’ll be Carrie!

Iiiiiiiiiiiii did not write a shower scene?

Dudette, did you even do the reading you say you did?

There’s no point in adding moral ambiguity, especially in regards to Soundwave. He won’t be swayed easily, or at all, by Jazz’s speech. He’s cold hearted for a reason. He serves the Decepticon cause until the very bitter end. He’s a lot like Shockwave that way. Highly doubtful he would find meaning or even the relevance of writing pornographic fanfiction, but eh, this was never meant to be serious, was it?

...no. It’s a humor fic. The flamer is criticizing a humor fic for being humorous. Kudos for identifying the genre? I mean, the flamer is also complaining that I did not write Soundwave as a one-dimensional factionalist without examining what that means for him and how the mission creep has left the original political crusade behind. It’s not like I took pieces of Soundwave from Gen1, IDW, and the comics and blend them all together.

This reminds me of the fanboys in the TMNT fandom who keep pushing for every iteration to simply rehash their nostalgia boner for the original toon. I feel like I’m getting the Transformers version of wanting less of this:

because it isn’t the familiar characterizations of this:

“So what’s the down low?” – You, Jazz. You’re going to give the down-low to Soundwave. I can’t wait to read how shiny his robo-vagina is.

...wow. Classy there, flamer. Also I really don’t think they read anything. This whole fic is plug n’ play. There’s exchanging of cables, talk of code and positronic souls and sparks and revving engines. There isn’t a drop of sticky, spike, or fluids.

Chapter 15’s sex scenes bore me. Nothing is worse than having a guy ask to remove every bit of clothing. Just do it already! And why is Jazz a virgin? Come on!

Look--the thing about sex and fetish and whatever revs your engine is that it’s not going to rev everyone’s engine. You don’t like the type of interfacing here? Fine. I don’t like those kind of sex scenes in my porn either. But I wasn’t write that scene for porn. I wanted write warbuild Jazz dealing with violent subroutines while interfacing with Prowl. I had fun with it.

Why is Jazz a virgin? The previous 15 chapters discuss that.

I really don’t think the flamer read the fic.They scanned for anything remotely sexual, so I don’t think I’m going to take anything they say about this fic being ooc for perversion’s sake.

“Everyone here is damn pervy” – In which a character talks about the author.

“We gotta get Soundwave to finish writing his story” – Why? I mean, what’s the point? It’s not doing anything for them, unless it’s to show how castrated Soundwave is. I’ve seen him act better in Mary-Sue fics.

There is a whole plot about Starscream and Skyfire, and I thought I could trust the readers to be intelligent enough to make the leap with the parallels between Soundwave and Jazz.

This is literally the only review that questions why Jazz said that.

The Mary Sue shot just echoes the Fifty Shades swipe. I think this flamer did most of their flames roughly ten years ago--the insults are pretty dated.

The Decepticons don’t know about Ratchet? Why? I mean, he’s one of the oldest dudes there. He has a reputation. When you have a reputation, people know about you. It’s inevitable. I think your inner logic slips a lot.

At this point, I literally have 21 previous chapters of world building.

I am not surprised that the story’s logic was slipping away from one of us.

It’s funny to read the forum responses in the story. It’s like the author is trying to make fun of detractors yet ends up making fun of herself.

Okay, this part is hilarious for a reason only briefly noted in the fic. I think that the only things this can refer to are the comments from the chapter titled Flames of the M4gn1f1c3ntSkyPr1nc3--because those are literally the first flames/comments I put in the fic. And I didn’t write them!

My wife wrote them! I don’t write Starscream well but she just poured those out like water--she’s seen more of the hysterical side of fandom, particularly the earlier TF fandom, and I snipped out pieces for the fic.

So...I mean, we’re pretty happily married, so I don’t think she counts as a detractor. ^___^ Ultimately I started writing this fic for her.

“Your optics make me crazy” – Not at all a cliché.

Good thing I didn’t write that, then. Here is that little section in the Prowl/Jazz section. (Took me a bit to find it since I plugged that into the Find and couldn’t bring it up.)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I like what you do to me. Jazz allowed him in, tilting his helm. I never really understood it, y'know? How mechs could lower their guard so much. Let someone this close.

And now? Prowl drew back, wanting to see Jazz for the answer. With a quiet ping, he warned the other mech even as he raised his hand, touching Jazz's visor.

I still think you're crazy always going on about my optics, Jazz said, venting even as he disengaged the locks and let Prowl gently remove the blue polycarbon.

Your optics are perfection, Prowl corrected him. And you let me see them. Hundreds of mechs wondering what's under that visor, but I get to see.

Still shy about letting someone else see them, Jazz turned his head, only for Prowl to touch his cheek and turn him back, coaxing his optics to open with a soft brush of his thumb.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Not bad for an asexual, I think. I mean, it’s not like I have a ton of hands on experience, being kinda broken that way. But I have read plenty of pulp magazines and pulp radio shows!

This didn’t take long. I skimmed through this work, because there was so little content. Lots of ridiculous shit, though. Soundwave writes fanfiction, the Autobots are weirded out/turned on, capture Soundwave, Soundwave realizes that his whole life was a life and decides to defect. Yeah, about that. He wouldn’t do it lickety split, let alone EVER. Hell, the reactions in the forum bits show what some would think of this, if they weren’t too busy fapping.

The funny thing is I don’t think the mechs can even fap. I don’t write them doing that. But yes, flamer, I do believe that you skimmed through the work. Particularly since you’ve recounted it backwards...Soundwave captures Jazz as the capstone to a long internal conflict within himself, but rather than go through chapters of internal monologue and Decepticon politics, I started the story as close to the inciting action as possible, not quite in media res.

I won’t hash out why Soundwave defects. I mean, I spent 22 chapters at that point explaining it. But it’s my fault the flamer skimmed, I guess?

Needless to say: the romance bored me senseless. It was poorly written, and overall there’s really no skill attached to this. You don’t grip the audience and Jazz’s virgin mode made me roll my eyes. Reads like a first-time waifu manga.

Nah.

I’ve been writing way too long and am more than self-aware enough of my own failings that I’m also pretty self-aware of my own strengths, too. And no. It’s not poorly written. I definitely feel I could improve the first few chapters a bit, but that’s because I wrote those over five years ago and I’ve improved since then, too.

Empty insults. Maybe if the flamer had gone so far as to give a critique beyond a couple of misquoted lines and their own headcanons, I might have listened, but there’s literally nothing of substance here beyond a child tantrumming that I’m stupid and bad and should feel bad.

As for the other pairings, booooooooooooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring.

Usually I have a fun time setting these fics on fire, but this one bored me senseless. Yes, it was stupid, but the author’s attempt to authenticate it are just as sloppy as anything else.

“Authenticate”?

Is this person talking about using fandom tropes as my setting?

There are 22 chapters at the time, and now 51 chapters, building up this world and using roughly 20 years of fandom background to inform the fic.

Maybe if they hadn’t skimmed, they might have found something interesting. But considering that they skimmed over anything character related and stopped for the sex scene--I don’t think that says anything about my writing and more about their own proclivities.

They were trying to read one-handed. A plug n play fic. A long meta look at fandom in war in a humor fic. And they came here for the sexy times.

I don’t have to draw the conclusion here, do I? Well, for the flamer, probably. And then they’d glance at it for a second, call it sloppy, and say I showed nothing, and what I showed was boring, and that boring stuff was ooc anyway.

One thing I am thankful for is the fact that it is not long.

51 chapters later and I’m still not done.

Nothing’s worth remembering in this and I don’t need to tell you that these characters either act like simpering imbeciles, or are virginal waifus. All I’m missing is a senpai in the bed, some tissues, and some high quality lotion.

...why do they keep referencing gay human sex? I mean, I get it, they’re saying that it’s similar to yaoi fics, but.

This is anti-yaoi with its last hurrah, isn’t it? The late 90s, early 2000s, rising from its sludgy well to try to shame the easily cowed and intimidated, the young writers easily startled by long lines of text. No wonder the citations used are so...15 years ago. I mean, who was talking about Sues even 5 years ago. That criticism kind of faded a long while ago, even then.

I think the sad thing is, even the badly written Sue sex fics end up being more interesting than this. If Ebony Darkness D’Mentia Raven Way were to come along, I think this story would get better. What with her ‘I shot him a gazillion times’ lines.

...and there’s the cherry on the top. Third cheap shot firing blanks. Sue + Fifty Shades +...shit, I can’t even remember the title for that infamous fic. It’s that old.

...this fanfic flamer is old.

Like, don’t get me wrong. We’ve got fandom moms and grandmoms who cut their teeth on fandom print zines in the earliest conventions. They’re not “old” in the same way.

This person has lost any joy, humor, or playfulness that fanfic comes from. No one should go into fanfic expecting fine art. I mean, sure, it happens sometimes, but this is a playground of pulp, experimentation and just plain childish fun.

All in all, not worth remembering. It’s makes me tired to read it. It’s not even stupid enough to make me laugh. You’ll still get a fail rating for me, especially with the shitty version of Soundwave here.

Yes, fanfic flamer. You are indeed tired.

He should be on Big Brother. He’d be great making soy lattés and purees.

Big Brother in 2015 was in its 17th season. There were roughly around 6 million viewers at the time. The demographics for the tv viewing audience were graying even by the 2000s, and by 2015-18, it was significantly older.

Granted, it’s a very tenuous conclusion to draw, but combined with the old fandom references, the anti-yaoi vibes I’m getting, and the fanboyish desire to curate their own headcanon of a character to the point of insulting writers on the internet...

Flamer grew from being a reader to a bitter, old person angry and the whipper snappers for writing stupid, trashy crap that they criticize with broad, unspecific insults.Flamer is the stereotypical mean adult in any 90s cartoon or heavy metal rock video.

A little depressing. Poor flamer. I do hope they found more creative, engaging, and positive things to do.

Me? I just wanna rock.

Thanks for coming to my ted talk on pulp fiction and bitter cultural creators.

#in a nutshell #sorry for another long post #I just wanted to finally do this #after thinking about it for awhile #felt like a loose end #fandom #fanfiction #transformers fanfic

7 notes · View notes

canaryrecords · 4 years

Link

"Love - the absolute circle of trustfulness - that's the secret of it all. I love the birds, the snakes, the society person, the academic, and the baby - all creatures of the universe are alike, and they will never harm you unless you fear them." -Charles Kellogg, 1915 Charles Dennison Kellogg was unlike any performer in the history of the American stage. He developed a few key obsessions - the forest, love, vibration, fire - into an irresistibly charismatic package and then sold that package in the form of himself through an uncanny use of the press, a vigorous appetite for travel, and a need to be the center of attention through a serpentine five-decade career as a pontificator and showman. In the early decades of the twentieth century, he amused and astounded heiresses and industrialists, yogis and artists, scientists and, most of all, the plain folk of most states in the union with demonstrations of his vision of a wholesome and interconnected world of all living things. His memory has largely faded, but he left behind a memoir, riddled with gaps and touched with hokum, many photographs, hundreds of press notices and reviews in newspapers, over an hour of sound recordings, at least one fragment of film, and a legacy of naturalism and invention that has entered into the lore of his native California. Kellogg was born October 2, 1868, the fourth of five children to Henry Kellogg (b. 1822 in New London, Connecticut) and Mary E. Carlisle (b. 1845 in Jefferson, New York) in the Sierra Nevada mountains of northern California’s Plumas County in a settlement called Spanish Ranch “nearly a hundred miles from the nearest railroad,” according to Kellogg. His father’s involvement in a nearby goldmine in the 1850s paid off, and he used his share of the profits to establish a provisions store for the area prospectors. Kellogg wrote that his mother was the only white woman in the area, and that he “lost her in infancy.” In fact, she left the family when he was about 3 years old, and his autobiography gives us an indication of the wound her abandonment left through the pains with which he purposefully wrote her out of his life’s story. (She died in Long Beach, California in 1917.) In his auto-mythology, Kellogg was as a child close to a Chinese servant named Moon and an unnamed Indian woman, who, he wrote, “taught me to fear no creature [and] taught me, too, the habit of minding my own business, letting the other fellow alone - bird, bear, snake, Indian and other humans. […] My earliest recollection is sitting with the Indians about their campfires or watching the Chinamen boil their rice between stones.” The impressions of the sounds and feelings of the wilderness in early childhood embedded themselves deeply in young Charles. He recalled it as a period of immense freedom, a world with “no doctors, missionaries, telephone, telegraph, schools, saloons, poorhouse, jail or gamblers; no police for there was no disorder. There were birds, grizzly bears, deer, wolves, foxes, skunks, badgers, mountain lions, wild cats, snakes, and all the smaller wood folk.” It was also here that before the age of six, he witnessed a wedding for the first time and learned about death and funeral rites among the Chinese. In this powerful paradise of vivid experiences, he was “lonely, but not unhappy,” spending his days “always preoccupied with birds and insects, listening to them and talking to them in their own languages.” It was between the ages of four and six that he began to experiment with his ability to imitate birds, forcing air through this nose with his mouth closed. He claimed throughout his adult life that this remarkable ability came down to an anatomical formation in his larynx similar to that of a songbird. This claim, repeated thousands of times, often backed up with the validation of unnamed doctors, was, of course, utter nonsense, but it is not clear whether he believed it, on some level, himself. It was many years after Kellogg had been sent off to live with his mother’s relatives in Syracuse, New York at the age of six or seven that Charles realized that he was in possession of a remarkable skill. In Syracuse, he learned to work with tools, to build furniture and fireplaces - skills he valued and worked into his persona as a woodsman. He attended Syracuse University and sang in the choir, aware that a relative of his father’s (by marriage) Clara Louise Kellogg, had become a famous soprano. But apart from mentions of his education in the manly, manual crafts, the period from the ages of seven to twenty-two when Kellogg became a civilized, college-educated Yankee were never mentioned in Kellogg’s stories. They didn’t serve what he was selling about himself. Almost immediately after graduation, we have the first press notice of Charles Kellogg as a performer, August 1891 at Chautauqua, New York, a hotbed of aspirational “edutainment,” where he debuted his unique bird-imitation talent. Realizing that he was on to something, he gave at least a half-dozen concerts of music with bird imitation at YMCAs, churches, and meetings around Pennsylvania and New York at the beginning and end of the year and another half-dozen in California a few months later. There were more shows in California in 1893-94, then back to Pennsylvania and Massachusetts in 1896-97. All of February and March of 1898 was spent touring Pennsylvania and Ohio. January through April of 1900 was spent on the road through Pennsylvania, Ohio, Maryland, D.C., and Virginia, by which time he was claiming to have anywhere from a 9 1/2 to 12 1/2 octave vocal range. After getting married for the first time, he spent November 1900 to April 1901 touring the same states again plus Connecticut and published an article in Success magazine called “The Wickedness and Folly of Killing Birds.” In early 1902, through Horace Traubel, friend and executor of Walt Whitman, Kellogg met the naturalist John Burroughs, thirty years’ Kellogg’s senior, with whom he traveled to Jamaica during January and February. Kellogg held Burroughs (as wells as naturalist John Muir, with whom he also spent several days with at one point) in esteem and treasured the memory of their trip. Burroughs was certainly an influence on and model for Kellogg. Whether Kellogg was aware of Burrough’s fierce denunciation in a 1903 article for the Atlantic denouncing contemporary nature-writers tendencies to anthropomorphize the natural world is unclear, but it was major news among naturalists for years, ultimately drawing comment from President Theodore Roosevelt. In 1904, Kellogg and his brother bought a 45 acre plot in North Newry, Maine, where they built the Kellogg Nature Camp, a Summer vacation resort for city folk wanting to spend time in with the woods. They built cabins connected by boardwalks, a common-house with a large fireplace (a specialty of Charles’s) and powered it with a waterwheel. It is now part of a nature reserve with many of the structures they built still standing. And each year during each late Fall, Winter, and early Spring, in an ever expanding radius, Kellogg began to cover the country with shows of his knowledge of and ability to replicate bird song - Tennessee and Kentucky by 1903, Nebraska and Kansas by 1907. By that time, shows regularly lasted two hours and received glowing reviews everywhere he went. His break came at the age of 43 in 1910, by which time he had left his first wife Emily and relocated to San Francisco and had ingratiated himself within a world wealthy socialites, where he was a favorite at parties. On December 4 The Call newspaper ran a, glowing illustrated full-page article on him titled The Man Who Sings With Birds in Their Own Language, which crystalized in print the stage-show that Kellogg had been assiduously developing, year after year, for nearly two decades. "He has the uttermost faith in the power of love and kindness,” the article asserted. “’It is all love," he says. 'Anybody who goes into the woods with the spirit of love in his heart without the faintest desire for destruction or possession can make friends with the birds if he is merely tactful and patient. Birds can read the heart better than men. They know their friends and are ready to love them.' In Kellogg's mind, there is no place for fear or hatred [...] Fear creates fear. Hatred breeds hatred. Love engenders love. These are the cardinal tenants of Kellogg's creed." His count of 3,000 performances in 24 years was, like almost everything else he said, likely an exaggeration but not so far from the truth that you could discount the claim out of hand. Twenty years of stories, stage patter, and tricks caught the public imagination. Less than a month after the article appeared in San Francisco, Kellogg went to Camden, New Jersey to cut his first trial disc for Victor Records on January 24, 1911 and then another four performances on the 28th. Victor didn’t release any of them. When Kellogg went back on the road on the east coast from October to December 1911, he had a new repertoire of claims for his abilities. This is when his press notices begin to claim that his throat is abnormally formed like that of a bird’s. And that: -He’d been to Paris and Berlin and received high praise. (His sister-in-law did invite him to perform at a private salon in Paris, where he met August Rodin, but not until 1912.) -His throat had been examined at Harvard. (He had been claiming that he’d “baffled scientists” there for years, and that they’d measured his vocal range from 64 cycles a second to 49,560 cycles.) -He speaks 15 animal languages and can communicate with bears, rattlesnakes, worms (who, he said, can sing), lizards, squirrels, etc. -That a man could (theoretically) be pinned motionless to a tree with the use of sound. -And, most crucially for his career from this point forward, that he could extinguish fire with sound. In February 1912 an article making many of these claims along with his belief that “vibration will ultimately take the place of electricity as a motive force” ran in syndication across the country in advance of his having signed with the Orpheum chain of vaudeville theaters for whom he performed three shows a day (a matinee and two at night) for months across the west coast - Winnipeg, Spokane, Los Angeles, etc - from April 1912 until April of the following year and then, without his standard Summer break, for the rest of 1913 across the east coast plus Indiana, Illinois, North Carolina, and Kansas. In New York City, he gave a demonstration of divination for water for another syndicated news article. He spent 1914 touring the west coast and midwest before returning to the Philadelphia area where he remarried to Sarah “Sad’i” Fuller Burchard on January 14, 1915 in Wilmington, Delaware. One month later, he went again to Camden, New Jersey in February 1915, where over two days he recorded the first four performances that were issued on discs. He was almost 47 years old and had spent the past 25 years on the road developing his act in halls, theaters, auditoriums, clubhouses, churches, tents, homes, and high schools. Kellogg’s assessment of vaudeville does not have the ring of disreputable behavior that has often been handed down through the years: “Back stage is not such a fry cry from the forest, for on these vaudeville stages I find conditions that are congenial to my own habits of the woods - conditions I do not find elsewhere in the world. In hotels, railroads, and even private homes, tobacco and other noxious odors, and not infrequently even uncleanliness such as cuspidors, are not unusual. System, punctuality and order are seldom the rule. In the forest, in all nature, punctuality, order, and system are the very breath of life. The stars, the tides, the migration of birds, the appearance of herbs, the trees, the flowers are all on time, giving that sense of harmony felt, and rejoiced in by all. Back stage, I find pure air in perfect ventilation, no tobacco, no bad odors, scrupulous cleanliness, system, order, punctuality - in a word, the perfection of organization, bringing quiet and a reposeful atmosphere in which to work.” Kellogg’s first vaudeville tour was a 1912-13 run at the west coast Orpheum chain, run by Percy Williams who was known as the first vaudeville impresario to pay high fees to the acts he wanted. The west coast Orpheum houses were run locally and, according to Joe Lurie Jr’s Vaudeville: From the Honky-Tonks to the Palace (1953), unlike many of the rowdier and down-market vaudeville theaters, “they were all fine, clean, well-appointed theaters, running clean shows, and were a credit to their towns.” Kellogg performed at shows with as many as eight other acts on the bill. The shows in Washington opened just after Bert Williams’ run and included a spoof of the domestic morality play Everywoman titled Everywife, the blackface comedy duo McIntyre and Heath, the Fearless Ce Dora (“one continuous thrill through the seven minutes which she spends revolving at railroad speed inside [a] golden globe”), and Thomas Edison’s early, abortive attempts at talking pictures. Through 1915 and 1916 Kellogg was headlining in the eastern U.S. for both Orpheum and B.F. Keith’s circuits of vaudeville houses in the eastern U.S. and Quebec as well as Majestic Theaters in the midwest and Texas, where others on the bills included dog acts, monkey acts, the Dennis Brothers’ rotating ladder act, and various acrobats, singers, and comedians. At the end of each show was Kellogg, standing in front of a painted woodland backdrop. Second on the bill for at least one of those shows was the Three Keatons, including 20 year old Buster, who was on the verge of leaving for Hollywood. Kellogg himself appeared second on the bill in late 1916 only under Nora Bayes, arguably the most popular singer in the U.S. His proclamations to the press at the time ranged from the flatly false (that he did not believe “that wild animals die unless molested by man or that they struggle with each other, because I have never seen them do either,” that he did not know his own age, that hat he spent 9 months of the year in the wilderness and came “into civilized society only when the call of a friend proves too strong to resist”) to the simply peculiar and the nearly-true (that he had “never read a book through - print disturbs me - although I believe in the teaching of the Bible as I have heard of them from others, because I have seen the proved true in my own life,” and “I have never tasted fish, flesh, or fowl, although I am not a vegetarian,” that dogs will die from long durations of discordant sounds) to the charming, bordering on visionary (“Fear - that’s what causes all sin. Fear of money, fear of getting caught, fear of wounded vanity, fear of public opinion, all all the rest,” and “I can take the recorded songs of a thousand birds and they will be harmonious. That’s because they are in tune with nature, while man and his instruments need to be attuned.”) Kellogg was an avid photographer, claiming never to take a gun (or a compass, claiming an inborn sense of direction) into the woods, but producing photographs prolifically from 1902 onward. We know that he had performed in Rochester, New York, home of the Eastman-Kodak company, by December, 1900, around the time of the introduction of the “brownie” camera - the first cheap, popular device for making photos. It is unclear whether he might at that point met Gertrude Achilles Strong (b. May 4, 1860; d. May, 1955), a recent divorcee and the daughter of Henry A. Strong, co-founder and first president of the Kodak company, or whether they met much later in the late 1910s in Hawai’i. Regardless, their meeting and relationship was pivotal for Kellogg. His first disc for Victor certainly sold very well, likely in the tens of thousands, and he claimed that he could earn $4,000 a week (a staggering $100,000 in today’s money - and more than half of the $7,000 a week that the Orpheum paid Sarah Bernhardt, their highest-paid entertainer) performing in the 1910s, and his family was relatively wealthy. But they weren’t Gertrude Achilles Strong wealthy. Almost no one was. When she died in 1955, she left behind a fortune of over nine million dollars, making her the single richest person in the history of the state of California at the time, well into the top half of the richest 1% nationally. In 1913, Kellogg bought over 88 acres in Morgan Hill, south of San Francisco, an area he dubbed “Ever Ever Land,” where he built an inventive and “environmentally responsive” open plan cabin that he called “The Mushroom.” Around 1920, Gertrude Achilles Strong bought his land and more than 500 additional surrounding acres. She built a mansion for herself there at a cost of $276,000 (four million today) as well as a house for Kellogg and his wife and put him on her permanent payroll as property manager. He built water systems for her property and built and patented a riding fruit and nut picker for the property, while he lived comfortably with his wife Sad’i and two young live-in maids for the rest of his life. Each winter from 1915 through 1919, Kellogg toured from coast to coast, stopping in Camden, New Jersey to record a few performances for Victor Records, where he cut a total of 26 performances, six of which the company the company destroyed without having issued them. On February 15 and 16, 1916, he recorded four light classical pieces, imitating birds and following along the well-known melodies, as if a bird were singing the tunes in its down language. On the 15th, Alma Gluck, a star of the Metropolitan Opera and one of the most popular sopranos in the U.S. also recorded three of her best-selling performances. Although she did not record on the 16th, and Kellogg possibly traveled more than 100 miles north to Dalton, Pennsylvania near Scranton to visit friends on the 17th when Gluck recorded “The Bird of the Wilderness,” with words by Rabindranath Tagore, he joined her again in Victor’s studio on the 18th for two bird-themed performances on which Kellogg provided bird imitations. When the single-sided 12” disc of “Listen to the Mockingbird” was released in the Spring along with a significant marketing push by Victor, its sales exceeded expectations. When “Nightingale Song” from a mid-19th century operetta called Der Vogelhandler (The Bird Seller) by the Austrian composer Carl Zeller, was released a month or two later as a less-expensive 10,” it became one of the best-selling records of the decade. Apart from the two sides recorded with Gluck, Kellogg’s recordings are evenly divided between the bird-imitation novelties with musical accompaniment (an unenduring genre that grew in popularity both on stage and on records in the early decades of the 20th century) and segments of his stage act in which he would lecture on his relationship with the wilderness with demonstrations of bird-calls interspersed. Seven of those sides remain a fascinating glimpse of Kellogg’s performing persona. The last of them, titled “Bird Chorus,” recorded without commentary on January 14, 1919 is an extraordinary and unheralded moment in the history of sound recording. Starting in January 1915 and through all of 1916, Kellogg added a section of his stage act in which he turned on “an orchestra” of six Victrolas borrowed from local dealers in each town, and played discs of his bird-imitation and then proceeded to perform with them, simulating, as one reviewer put it, “a voice from the deep forest.” For the “Bird Chorus” disc Kellogg simplified the process to a single disc of his own performing along with a live performance, ingeniously weaving two continuous sequences of songs together to give the impression of multitudes of birds singing together. It is the first instance of overdubbing. Notably lacking from Kellogg’s discography are examples of his most spectacular and longest-lasting piece from his stage act - the “Blade of Flame.” By the beginning of 1912, Kellogg introduced a gas burner on stage which produced a four-foot blue flame inside a glass tube. Kellogg told his audience that because all of nature is connected through vibration and because of the gift he possessed of a vocal range many times that of highly trained singers and larger than that of a grand piano, he could cause the “blade of flame” to dance and ultimately to extinguish it using only his voice. It was, next to his bird-imitating, his best-known and best-loved routine. He augmented it with a demonstration of the technique of building fire by wood friction (a skill he imparted to the then-nascent Boy Scouts). Naturally, his fire performances in enclosed theaters were of some concern to local fire departments, and he made it a regular public relations stop to visit fire houses in each town during the afternoons to demonstrate the act, reassuring them of his control of fire and wowing them along with the local press. The only footage apparently extant of Kellogg is one silent minute of a newsreel outtake Kellogg giving this demonstration for a group of Boston firemen on November 5, 1926. (The film, including ten precious seconds at the end of Kellogg demonstrating his bird-imitation technique facing the camera is available online at the University of South Carolina’s Moving Image Research Collections site.) He continued to elaborate the routine, using bowed tuning forks. In the mid-20s he arranged a series of radio broadcasts intended to demonstrate his hypothesis that vibrations broadcast at sufficient amplitude could extinguish house fires. His proposal was that in the future each house could be scientifically tuned such that fire departments would need only to broadcast the appropriate frequencies to put out the fires. The seed for the idea seems to have originated with Kellogg’s exposure to Herman Helmholtz’s book On the Sensation of Tone which had already been published in two editions in America before Kellogg began making theatrical use of its central concept, that the air around us is a medium through which vibration is transmitted in waves. Kellogg was so enamored with the idea that in May and June of 1913, Kellogg added a bit to his stage act in which he explained to the audience that mental vibrations are crucial in love and marriage and that “tuning” of a silent “mental wireless” to a compatible frequency with one’s mate was central to harmonious love. Newsprint reviews of his attempts to demonstrate this with his wife were decidedly snarky. The audience didn’t get it, and it was quickly dropped from the act. Kellogg’s greatest and most enduring “hit” as a showman was neither a stage-act nor a recording. It was a vehicle made from two large pieces. The first was a Nash Quad, a four-wheel drive truck capable of hauling four tons. The second was a 22-foot section of a fallen redwood log eleven feet in diameter. He obtained the former in early Summer 1917 from the Nash Motor Company in Kenosha, Wisconsin while they were being produced for use in the First World War. Kellogg convinced the company’s namesake president of a vision of the beauty of California’s enormous redwood forests (and, very likely, the publicity benefits of Kellogg’s scheme) and took the Quad to Bull Creek Flat in Humbolt County, where with the help of several axemen from the Pacific Lumber Company they spent months sawing off a section of a fallen tree, stripping its bark, and carving out its interior into a living quarters with beds, cabinets, kitchenette, and bathroom. Mounting it on the chassis of the Quad, he polished and varnished the whole thing a copper color and installed electric lights. By November of that year, he drove the wooden cabin-on-wheels that he dubbed the Travel-Log cross-country, stopping in Kenosha for work on the radiator and “finishing touches” (including their brand name, it seems). Using his celebrity and press-savvy, he toured the machine, giving talks on the beauty of the great redwoods and the dire need for their preservation, taking a piece of the forest to the people. In the process, he introduced America to the idea of a mobile home. It now resides in the Humbolt State Park’s visitor center, reportedly only yards from where the tree from which it was hewn grew for centuries. Kellogg recorded 11 more performances for Victor during the period 1924-26. Seven of them were discarded by the company without having been released. The remaining four were re-recordings of his first two records using the new invention of microphones. While he continued to perform, his schedule gradually slowed as he shifted his first to attention to Gertrude Achilles Strong’s property and then to a fascination with Fiji, where he first traveled in the Spring of 1925 from Hawai’i. Fixated on the idea of wooden lali slit-drums and their use in communication over distances, Kellogg arrived alone and presented himself as a naturalist to the Chief of the Native Department on the island of Suva, who showed him a the instrument and for him to visit to the island of Baqa to witness fire-walking (after Kellogg had given a demonstration of the “blade of flame” routine, having thoughtfully packed the gear needed for it, and gave a performance of “Narcissus” as a bird-imitator) in the company of a British medical doctor. Kellogg was suitably impressed and incorporated discussion of both lali drumming and fire-walking as further evidence of his central theme of the need for vibratory attunement in his subsequent performances through the 1920s and 30s. In 1929, Kellogg survived a near-fatal car crash immediately before he self-published The Nature Singer: His Book, a profusely photo-illustrated collection of impressions drawn from his life and career and a document of his own self-invention, which went through at least two printings (all of them signed; the first 1000 are numbered), wrapped in the attractive but exceedingly brittle birch parchment that he used as stationary and for press notices. That year, he also patented an automobile ignition that started with whistling. He continued to criss-cross the country, giving talks based on his experiences in nature combined with pleas for conservation. There was talk of a movie that never manifested. In 1940, he and Sad’i adopted a 9 year old girl named Shannon who had been born in Honolulu. (She subsequently married a Charles Newton, nine years her senior, in 1961, divorcing him in 1967, and died in 2007.) When in 1946 Paramahansa Yogananda published his Autobiography of a Yogi, describing his encounters with spiritual teachers and his travel in India and U.S., he briefly recounted in a footnote having seen Charles Kellogg do the “blade of flame” bit in Boston in the ‘20s. And that’s who Kellogg has been for the past century - a remarkable and unlikely figure at the intersection of science and art and showmanship and the spiritual. Charles Kellogg’s health declined through the 1940s before died of a heart attack on September 3, 1949 at the age of 80.

#CaliforniaHistory #vaudeville #78rpm #78 rpm #naturalist #whistling #birdimitation

5 notes · View notes

a-wlw-reads · 5 years

Photo

Theme: All in the Family

Since it’s pride month and I’m sure you’re all tired of hearing/reading about cishet people, here are a group of books with absolutely nothing in common except for the fact that all (and I do mean all) major and many side characters are LGB and/or T.

The Brightsiders by Jen Wilde : Emmy King is the drummer for the newest teen sensation: the band The Brightsiders. Being suddenly shot to fame is difficult for most, and especially so for Emmy, who has emotionally manipulative parents, a toxic girlfriend, and substance abuse issues that gossip magazines are happy to spread around to the entire world. While she’s dealing with the fallout from a particularly bad night she’s also falling in love with one of her bandmates and is preparing to tell the world that she’s bisexual. Basically this whole band is LGBT and so many of their songs are about being out and proud and loving yourself while inspiring others. Read it for a story about the freedom of living openly and leaving behind the toxic people in your life. (bisexual girl main, NB love interest, prominent gay side characters)

Love in the Time of Global Warming by Francesca Lia Block : When an earthquake and tidal waves destroy Pen’s home in Los Angeles and turn much of the west coast into a wasteland, she sets off on a cross country quest to find what’s left of her family. She’s guided by nothing but her copy of the Odyssey and her own visions, and she soon picks up a motley group of LGBT youth just hoping to not be alone. Total destruction of the world’s climate and the arrival of murderous cyclopes (yes that is the plural of cyclops, and yes I had to look it up) doesn’t seem like the best time to fall in love, but that’s not always something we can choose. (bisexual girl main, trans boy love interest, prominent gay side characters)

Chameleon Moon by RoAnna Sylver : Welcome to the city of Parole, home to the gifted and/or cursed (depending on who you believe). When the miracle drug Chryesdrine was found to cure all ailments, thousands of people took it. And then thousands of them started dying. Those who didn’t ended up addicted and... different. Everyone with a Chryesdrine ability is shunted off to Parole, a little city slowly falling into the fires raging underneath it. Enter Regan, a man with lizard skin and the ability to turn invisible, who remembers absolutely nothing about his life or how he got to Parole. Luckily he has Evelyn Calliope, resident singer/superhero, and her two wives to help him pull together the pieces. Meanwhile, they’re running from the paramilitary group Eye in the Sky that keeps Parole citizens afraid that they’ll be the next to disappear and trying to uncover exactly what is going on in the Turret House on the hill. (f/f/f main couple including one trans women, asexual man lead, NB lead)

Rat Bohemia by Sarah Schulman : Set in New York City in the 1990s, this novel centers around a friend group who’ve all faced rejection from their family and friends for coming out as gay now forming their own community and relationships with one another. These characters all have their own struggles apart from their relationships, David is HIV positive before some of the major breakthroughs in AIDS research and they all grapple with financial difficulties in an increasingly gentrifying area of NYC. Compared to the others on this list this is definitely not as happy a read, but one that shows the incredible solidarity between gay men and lesbians who’ve had to make their own families and support circles, especially at the peak of the AIDS crisis. (alternating POV between one gay man and two lesbians)

#pride #happy pride 🌈

124 notes · View notes

shipper-trash-bag · 5 years

Text

Moms Always Find Out

“Are we getting nachos?”

Sam wrinkled his nose at Dean. Nachos at this place would be too much of that processed crap and wouldn’t be worth the money. Dean grunted in response, already knowing what Sam would say. He pointed at the selection of wings instead. “They have honey garlic and blue cheese. I don’t know about you, mom, but I think plain bbq is best. Do you want-“

“Are you boys dating?”

Dean dropped his fork on the floor in shock, Sam fumbling the menu. “Uh, What?”

She levels them with a look, turning her chair to stare at them both without moving her face. “I asked: are you two dating?”

This wasn’t what they had expected. Mary has asked them if they could go out for a bite to eat but Sam just thought she wanted to bond, to hang. Not an interrogation! “Um... why?”

She raised and eyebrow and instantly Sam knew that he answered the question wrong. Dean usually pulls the one eyebrow shtick himself whenever someone answers a question in a way he doesn’t want. “I’m your mom and I think I get to ask if you’re in a relationship with someone, Sam. You too, Dean. And I think it’s time we talk about that. I’ve been back a few years now, and,” she folded down her menu, putting it on the table so she could do something with her hands. “Look. I missed a lot of firsts with you boys. First crush, first date, first kiss, first school dance-“

“We didn’t go to school dances,” Dean cut her off, ears going red. Dean definitely went to a school dance, though he never really made into the auditorium, choosing to hang by the bleachers instead.

Her lips turned thin as she nodded. There were so many holes in their history concerning her, and Sam knew that there was only so much John wrote in his journals that could help her fill those blanks in. Sam wished he could tell her, but how do you tell your mother you were on demon blood for ober a year or how your first kiss was to a kitsune? “Mom, Uh, What Dean’s trying to say is... what... what do you consider to be.. ‘dating’?” He hated himself for using air quotes but he kind of was backed into a corner here.

She frowned. “What do you mean? Has the definition of dating changed that much?”

“Eh,” Dean jumped in, tilting his hand side to side. “Some people ‘date’ like... commited to one person, some just date one person per night, some-“

“Like one night stands?”

Oh Jesus, this was going to some really awkward places now. “Um, sometimes?” Dean added. Sam chugged his ice water hoping maybe if he drank fast enough, he could drown. “Sometimes it’s just a dinner or a movie or both and that’s it. We don’t stay in one place for long, you know that.”

“But-“

“Besides,” Sam interrupted. “We have Jack to look after, now. We have to put his needs before the need for... companionship.”

That seemed to appease her a bit, and she muttered “I guess,” before the server came by and took their order.

After ordering, Dean practically rushed to the bathroom, leaving Sam trapped with their mom at the table, her hand closing over his so he couldn’t escape. “I just...” she looked behind her shoulder to make sure Dean did in face disappear to the men’s room. “Castiel and Dean: there’s nothing there? Nothing?”

Sam sighed, closing his eyes a moment. “Mom, I wish they’d get their shit together.” He opened them, smile sad, bittersweet. “They just... something always stops them. I don’t know how many times I remind one of them that that just gotta get their heads out of their own asses and just.. talk. But it’s no use. They’re too stubborn to see the other loves them.”

She nodded, squeezing his hand. “Okay. I won’t push tonight. I just...” she bit her lip looking around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “I know about you and Gabriel. I didn’t think you’d want Dean to know, but I thought maybe he’d mention he was seeing someone and it would be Cas, and then it’d be a Segway in case you’d want to... you know.”

To say Sam Winchester’s eyes bugged from his face would be an understatement. “Uh... what?”

“You and Gabriel. Dating. I saw you come out of your room with hickeys that weren’t there the night before, and the only one I ever see leave your room is Gabriel. I also see the way he looks at you when you don’t notice. And vice versa. I’m getting old, not blind, Sam. I also saw the movie ticket stubs he pulled from his pocket last week when we were translating text in the library. It was from the same movie you saw that same week, but Dean didn’t go with you, and-“

“Okay, okay.” He felt his whole face go red. He thought they were being careful. Stupid, stupid, stupid! “We were... trying to be secretive. It... it looks bad-“

“No it doesn’t. Why? Cuz you’re both men?”

“No, mom, though there’s still homophobes around, unfortunately. But, mom,” he sighed, squeezing her hand back. “Mom, he’s an angel. An archangel. It’s against heaven to... date.”

She looked all the more confused at his paltry explanation. “But that only works for copulation. You won’t be making any nephilim together, so why should heaven give a shit? Besides, Gabriel is heaven’s best chance of survival. I would think they’d be more lenient with rules like that.”

She was right, but it still hurt Sam. “I know, just... keep this between us for now please, okay?”

“Sure,” she nodded, smiling small at him, pulling his hand up to her mouth to kiss his knuckles. “Whatever you need sweetie.”

He pulled her knuckles up to his own mouth to kiss, a habit they formed a while back that he wasn’t ready to ever give up, no matter how cheesy dean thought it was.

——————-

Getting back to the bunker, Sam made a bee-line for his room, kicking off his shoes before the door was even closed.

“How was dinner?” Gabriel sat up in bed, National Geographic magazine slipping to his lap.

“She knows,” Sam wrestles with his nice flannel, annoyed at himself for something or other.

“About...? The ice caps melting? The earth being round? How you can save ten percent on car insurance with a lizard?”

“Be serious, Gabe.” He leveled the angel with a look. “About us.”

Gabriel was off the bed in an instant, hands coming up to cup each side of his face, pulling him down for a gentle kiss. “Okay, that’s okay, babe. You wanted her to know, anyways. What changed?”

Sam laughed, a hollow, dead sounding thing. “She figures it out on her own, which means we weren’t careful which means Dean might find out soon and I’m terrified.”

Gabriel led Sam to the bed, pulling his flannel off him the rest of the way, moving on to the belt next. “It’s okay, babe. It’s not the end of the world if the rest of the bunker found out.”

“But he’d never stop ribing us! I just... I want some peace with you, that’s all.” Sam pulled his lover into his lap, one hand coming up to run in his hair, the other on his back. “Is that okay?”

Gabriel’s smile always made Sam happy and now was no different. “Okay. We can keep playing this like you want, so long as I still get to take you out once a week.”

“Deal.”

Gabe leaned down, kissing his lover, luxuriating in the hands roaming his back. “Maybe even sleeping over a few times a-“

“Get in bed, I have plans.”

Gabriel never moved so fast in a bedroom before.

#spn #sabriel #fanfic #sabrie fanfic #sam winchester #mary winchester #dean winchester #gabriel #my fanfic

45 notes · View notes

dzmoot · 2 years

Text

THE MAGNIFICENT ZONKO

This is a poem I have written for a friend's magazine back in October. It's time I post it here for those who weren't able to read it! Hope you like it!

A long time ago, as most stories go

There was a far off land with a haunted meadow

There were pumpkins with faces and ghosts in the sky

Odd looking flowers and black cats with one eye

Here in this land were several spooky creeps

Mummies in coffins, sentient body parts in heaps

Sumo wrestler vampires, a zombie unicorn with a horn

Octopus men with heads like candy corn

And haunted superheroes, a giant fire breathing lizard

And last but not least, the great Zonko, a chef wizard

Zonko was angry, embittered and jealous

All the other monsters in the land had their own cereal and he was becoming zealous

He wanted his own cereal, unlike anything before

One so tasty, you’d want to eat more and more

It couldn’t be chocolate, strawberry or vanilla

Orange Creme, Liverwurst, Bologna, Nutella

Something scrumptious, delectable, delicious with milk

Like his own favorite breakfast, Scary-Os made from spiders’ silk

He set out on his quest, trying to find the right flavor

All the kids in the land would love it, be excited, they’d waver

That night in his cabin, Zonko and his assistant Goobo got right to work

And he put his magical cooking spells to good use with a great big smirk

He leaned over his cauldron with a giant wooden spoon

And in his excitement, he even howled at the moon

What a loon!

He tried parrot beaks, worm feet, the wings of a fish

Marshmallow termites, ladybugs, pizza, deep dish

He mixed in chicken lips, lizard hips, alligator eyes

Octopus fangs, rat saliva, even glowing lightning flies

A dash of cyanide, some poison oak for good luck

Goblin fingers, pincher bugs and the breath of a rubber duck

And when Zonko’s concoction was ready to go

He opened his spellbook as the steam began to grow

He found the right spell, it didn’t take him long

And with his mighty voice, he started to chant it….in song

Azora denora clippata clonkey coof

Delona Detrona Boop Boop Beedoof

Expelliarmitus Pillamarticus Chim Chim Cheree

Globbity Glob Zippity Zoop Mogity MOREE!

And before Zonko and Goobo’s very eyes

A thousand or more edible ghosts began to rise!

Tiny marshmallow treats and tasty sweets

Multicolored vittles, wonderful EATS

And Zonko so pleased, he and Goobo shook hands

Time to shoot off the fireworks and strike up the bands

But there was still one lingering question on Zonko’s mind

He needed a name for his cereal, something one of a kind

Finally, it came to him, when he least expected it

Zonko just settled on the name Delectaghosts, it was the perfect fit!

0 notes

cyrelia-j · 6 years

Text

[Drabble/Ficlet idfk] Inside A Dream II (Garak/Bashir)

Well it was supposed to be a one-shot... and then I wanted to keep writing it. And I still want to keep writing it but it go a little longer than the last so I don't know what to call it. A continuation of the last, I won't spoil for those who hadn't read it.

You can read the other one here so this isn't confusing.

Still AU but not really an AU set at the end of everything show/books. Angst, Drama, Romance, falling in love [again maybe] but lots of angst and bittersweetness to be had, This next part is based off the second son of Echosmith's "Inside A Dream" album "Get Into My Car".

"Get into my car, get into my life Get into my heart, you know what I like Come give me something that I won't know how to live without I don't wanna miss and I can't let this could pass me now"

Julian meets the lizard man again along the river. Sometimes he likes to spend his days slowly making his way down watching the ice floes in the winter when everything is frozen. It makes him feel like he’s on a distant world in some far off future where humanity has taken its place amongst the stars. He had said to Dr. Parmak- that he’d started dreaming of outer space nearly every night after meeting Garak again. He was concerned that he might disappear too far into his own mind. Dr. Parmak had assured him that such fears were normal but encouraged him to keep going out every day as he had been even just to walk. Julian listened to him and followed his directions exactly. Dr. Parmak, Julian realized without ever noticing before was also a lizard man. He wanted very badly to ask Dr. Parmak if he knew Garak but that seemed awfully presumptuous so he kept silent on the matter.

Julian thought perhaps they’d given him a lizard doctor because of the Medicaid cuts. That was what Mary had said to him. His neighbor, Mary was an old woman of indeterminate age that he imagined to be somewhere between eighty and two hundred. She said it was only a matter of time before they replaced her own doctor, Dr. Obaray with a lizard doctor too at the rate the country was declining. She spoke often of the war and her husband though Julian couldn’t rightly be sure which war she was referring to. She found it funny that Julian had a pill cocktail comparable to hers. She also tended to frequently drift off into dream worlds while the two of them shared company on her sofa at night watching the old television in her room. Mary also told him if he didn’t listen to the lizard doctor he’d never be well enough to no longer need the cane. So even on days when it snowed Julian was sure to go for a stroll.

Julian doesn’t know why sometimes he can hear things and sense things that others can’t. Mary had said to him that it was the government experimenting on them they way they had done to her grandson some twenty of thirty years ago. She was convinced they’d done the same to him and he had to promise whenever he entered the house that she could “de magnetize” him. She spoke often of her family but had no pictures. Neither did Julian. It made Julian wonder if they really hadn’t done something to him while he was asleep. Sometimes he wonders if he hadn’t dreamed being alive before now. So in that way meeting Garak was a blessing. It was something that he could look forward to. Dr. Parmak had asked him as he always did if he had any goals. Before now Julian couldn’t imagine any. Now he had one at least: seeing Garak again.

Well Julian, s’pose now you’ll need to find something else. He finds his head turning before Garak should rightly be close enough. He sees the gray and black shape before Garak really comes into focus. Dr. Parmak had suggested a pair of spectacles similar to his but Julian found they gave him a terrible headache. He think or rather somehow he knows that his perfect eyesight is a small price to pay for... for something he isn’t sure of. Julian shakes himself back to the present as Garak comes closer. He’s curious as to whether or not Garak drove. Cars intimidate Julian. He’s certain that he’s never driven one in his life. He usually relies on the buses or the train.

“Garak?” He asks from the bench where he’s seated. There’s an acknowledging motion from that figure, and before he comes into focus Julian quickly puts his cigarette out. He’s almost certain that the smoke must have bothered him the last time. Julian has his cane with hm today, the walk along the canal far more difficult than others he’s taken. Julian waves feeling himself pulled into some excitement that he thought he’d lost. God the way my heart would jump whenever I’d see you enter the... the... Julian blinks away whatever’s trying to crawl towards the surface and doesn’t let the slipping memory upset him as it sometimes does. Perhaps being near Garak will trigger more of those slipstream moments. perhaps he may even be able to catch some of them.

Garak manages a smile for him today too and it’s still that terribly painful looking thing. Julian can feel his own joyous expression falter but then he decides that well that just must be the lizard way of trying to mimic a human expression. He tries to remember if Dr. Parmak’s face looks that same way but it slips away too. Julian hasn’t been able to remember anything else about Garak no matter how hard he’s tried. He’s sat on the pull out bed that he sleeps on trying some meditation stuff he’d seen in a magazine at the store but he’s never been able to focus right for it. His head is unable to be silent without a painful swimming buzz. The nicotine helps that though. He doesn’t trust himself to start drinking though sometimes he will nick a bit of vodka from Mary if it’s a particularly rough night. They’re not supposed to have anything like that but she always keeps a small bottle beneath her sofa and has said he’s welcome to it if he shares his cigs here and there.

“Ah, Julian, you’re looking well. Please, you don’t need to stand for me. I confess, I have more than my fill of that in my current duties.” “Oh,” Julian sits back down, not sure what Garak means by that. “Are you ah... in the military?” Did the US military recruit lizard men? Was that some area 51 thing they talked about in the rags at the grocery? Mary may have been right after all then about the experiments. Garak laughs softly, taking a seat next to him on the bench. His coat looks warm and Julian can see the wool hat and scarf. Garak is wearing gloves today is well. Julian’s wearing an old green army coat he’d picked up at the donation at Thanksgiving. He doesn’t usually feel the cold though sometimes his legs will go pins and needles and one days like today hands hands never seem to be warm. Julian isn’t sure why that’s funny and Garak fortunately feels the need to explain it for him.

“No, my... no, Julian,” Garak says as if he were about to say something else before thinking better of it. “I’m a tailor, that’s all. Just a tailor. When we first met you had some amusing misconceptions about my occupation as well. You’ve made a few curious guesses since then as well so perhaps I’m just... remembering.” Garak turns to him and Julian can see those blue eyes searching his face. He tries to smile. “Oh, I see that sounds... I sound a bit foolish there and I’m sorry that I can’t remember but um... I was hoping talking to you might... bring something back? Were you and I friends?” Julian asks just as he thinks even with the scarf pulled up over his mouth, even with the funny scales, the ridges marbling his forehead and that weird blue dip that the older lizard man, that Garak is still one of the most handsome men that he’s ever seen. "Still"? Where did that come from?

“Yes, Julian, we were friends. A long time ago, we were friends,” Garak says as if he’s agreeing with something rather than saying it. Julian isn’t sure what’s causing him to react in such a way. He isn’t sure how lizard people comfort each other either. Alright then, we were friends. He’s a tailor? Does he live nearby? Why haven’t I ever seen him before now? Did we quarrel? Was he angry with me? Was he visiting this entire time without my knowing it? I don’t think so. i’m sure that it’s been... Julian tries to remember how long he’s been awake but it’s difficult without his notes. He should have brought a notebook with him but he didn’t think that he was going to see Garak again. He had a moment of panic that he may never see him again and even if he does he doesn’t know if he can remember the book every time....

“Julian?” Garak’s voice cuts through him and Julian realized embarrassed that he’s blanked out again. Garak’s hand is on his shoulder as it was the other day they’d met. That steadies him for a moment. He wipes his hands on the faded jeans that he’s wearing. A cigarette would help but... but he doesn’t need that right now. He can wait. He can make himself wait. He’s sure that Garak isn’t going to want to hang around all day with him. Julian doesn’t talk very much anymore. He thinks he may have said more but he’s more at ease now listening to other voices. “Sorry, lost myself there a moment but it’s okay. Promise. Happens all the time. Cracked my head open or something I think. I think I... er... car accident. Met a car and we had a bit of a disagreement,” he says staring hard at Garak’s coat.

Julian feels a belated shiver at Garak’s hand on his shoulder but it isn’t a bad one. He isn’t sure why but he feels a bit cold now as well. It might be the sun starting to go down again but he couldn’t help but stare out at the low winter rays hitting the frozen water. He doesn’t know how long he sat there or when he ate last but it couldn’t have been that long because he doesn’t feel hungry. Julian’s fingers tap a soft melody on Garak’s gloved hand and his head tip over, resting on it a moment. He looks at Garak uncertainly. “Is this alright?” he asks quietly, ready to move back if it’s too familiar for just friends. Garak looks absolutely miserable again and Julian just hates himself because it’s him that keeps doing it somehow. “Right, you don’t have to ah... I get a bit weird sometimes... cracked head and all.”

He lets go and Julian scoots a bit further away as a precaution. “No, Julian I...” Garak’s hand drops down and Julian can see him struggling with something. “If there’s something offensive I’m doing, please tell me, Garak.” “”It’s just difficult seeing you like this, though I can certainly appreciate the true difficulty lies with you-” Again there’s something else he swallows down but Julian just sighs and looks out through the black iron rails and watches the birds waddling along the ice. Of course. You’re right. I... I can’t imagine if it was me, I mean and I had a friend in this sort of sad shape. Think I’d be upset as well.” Julian shakes his head then looks at Garak with a speculative tilt of his head.

“Do you... do you suppose that might be why Sarina left? Of course I’ve asked all around but no one seems to know or want to give me the answer. Likely think I can’t handle the truth but I mean I think... I think I can accept that. I mean I don’t... I don’t remember her or anyone so it’s ah... it’s hard to miss what you don’t remember.” Julian crosses his arms tightly, sitting back on the bench like he could sink back into it. “Do you think that makes me a terrible person, Garak? I... I should think if you truly loved someone that it would be impossible to forget them.” Julian’s voice catches at that last bit of the question and he wishes that it wouldn’t upset Garak to lean into him. These are the sorts of things he hasn’t been able to bring himself to ask Dr. Parmak or Mary, or anyone else he’s talked to since leaving the hospital. He can feel his sinuses burning, and that blur of his eyes that goes beyond his lack of focus. It stings a bit as well and he closes them thinking that surely Garak isn’t going to think he’s a mess and it will be better to have nothing to do with him.

It’s because his eyes are closed that he doesn’t immediately realize that Garak’s pulling him closer until warm arms are around him and he can smell clove and bergamot and it’s really the best damn smell in the entire galaxy. The galaxy? “You’re one of the best men that I’ve ever had the privilege to know,” Garak says into his neck and Julian thinks that his voice trembles. He can’t be sure but given Julian’s penchant for upsetting him, it wouldn’t surprise him. “I...” He doesn’t know what to say to that so here simply enjoys the embrace. He enjoys being warm, realizing now that he didn’t know what it was to be cold until he knew what it felt to be warm like this. He doesn’t know how he’d every forgotten Garak the first time but he says a silent prayer to all the angels and saints may God strike him dead should he ever again. “Garak?” he asks, throat scratchy, legs starting to get numb, arms tingling. “Would you tell me how we met?” He thinks it’s a good place to start, and sees that when Garak pulls back, that the sky has begun to darken. He frowns. He should be getting back instead. “Of course, Julian,” Garak agrees. Julian can’t make out his face as well now.

“I’ll tell you all about it, and then I’ll take you home.”

It’s dark when Garak returns to the land of the living as some with a more glib tongue might call it. The world shimmers out again, and he doesn’t have to wait long before Kelas walks slowly into the room. “Elim?” he asks softly, face an obvious picture of concern. Kelas is about as effective hiding his emotions as Julian is. Guls, Julian... Garak feels as if the smile on his face will freeze there, a testament to stoicism. Julian is still behind him on the bed, and Garak doesn’t think that he can bear to turn around. “Kelas?” he starts, clearing his throat when he realizes that his voice doesn’t quite seem to be cooperating properly. Garak doesn’t waste words telling himself that it wasn’t necessary to stay up, that at his age it’s going to wear on his health to worry after Garak like this. Instead, he lets that smile slip, lowly removing the coat and what Kelas knew he would need today for his trip. He’ll likely need it again tomorrow once all the meetings are concluded. Garak is still shivering in the warmth of Julian’s room when Kelas takes everything wordlessly, neatly folded, and waits for him to continue. Garak’s breath is deep but shaky.

“Do you think I might sleep with you tonight?” “Always, Elim.”

"And I, and I, and I've got my head spinning, spinning And I, and I, and I feel like I've been running And I, and I, and I've got this feeling, feeling That you and I, that you and I will just keep driving"

(Part 3 now up HERE)

#star trek ds9 #star trek deep space nine #ds9 fanfic #fic drabble #Garak/Bashir #garashir #Julian Bashir #elim garak #angst #romance #fanfic

12 notes · View notes

thebibliomancer · 6 years

Text

Essential Avengers: Avengers #174: Captives of the Collector!

August, 1978

I’ve been kind of excited to get to this issue. Because this was the very first Avengers cover I ever saw.

Back when I was a tiny bibliomancer, perhaps a novellamancer or even a pamphletmancer and I didn’t know what the Avengers even were.

My conception of superheroes was mostly X-Men, Spider-Man, and Batman. Because of cartoons.

But I had a few issues of Wizard magazine and there was a price guide in the back. Because this was back in the heady, foolish days where the speculation market was booming and comics seemed like a real investment.

And the price guide sometimes had tiny images of covers to keep it from being just a page of letters and numbers. And I saw this cover and thought ‘I have no idea what’s going on here.’ I think I might have thought it was a Justice League thing.

In fairness, Justice League would totally have people in tubes on the cover.

So I don’t really have anything to say about this cover because I just get drawn into a vortex of memory. But I do have to point and laugh at Hawkeye who tied a cable around himself so he could swing around like Flynn but it doesn’t seem like its long enough for him to touch ground.

Anyway, lets get down to business. To review. This comic.

Last time: the Avengers met the Guardians of the Galaxy and agreed to help them with a time traveling cyborg called Korvac. Unbeknownst to anyone, Korvac married a supermodel and settled down in Forest Hills to pursue his dream job of taking over all of existence.

Meanwhile, the Avengers have gotten into shit with the government and gotten their sweet governmental perks withdrawn because their security is shit and the asshole Peter Henry Gyrich won’t brook that nonsense.

They’ve also been dealing with a strange rash of disappearances that have taken all their members and tangentially related characters until all they were left with was Thor, Iron Man, the Wasp, and Hawkeye. With the Guardians’ help, they tracked the disappearances to a non-TARDIS orbiting Earth where they discovered... THE COLLECTOR!

And now... the rest of the story.

The Collector gloats that actually the Avengers finding his secret hiding spot is a good thing because now his collection is complete and he’s not at all worried that now they’re in punching range.

When Iron Man and Hawkeye point out that they’ve been through this song and dance before, the Collector menaces them with a shake weight.

Or apparently a Vandarian Power Wand.

Which apparently only has one charge because when Iron Man deflects the Vandarian power blast with his iron abs, Collector just doesn’t use it again.

In fact, when Thor comes at him (the Vandarian Power Wand having been explicitly stated to be able to harm even Thor), the Collector (or Acquisitor as Thor calls him) summons... THE ENERGY CREATURES OF ERDILE!

They look like lightning peeps with kirby krackle but they are in fact, probably not lightning.

When Thor hits one in the krackle with Mjolnir, Mjolnir becomes stuck and Thor becomes unable to release his grip on it.

According to the Collector, hitting the ENERGY CREATURE OF ERDILE in the tum caused Mjolnir to pass into another dimension where it is held fast by the dimensional interface. And if Thor manages to pull it free, IT WILL DESTROY THAT ANOTHER DIMENSION! DOOMING BILLIONS!

The Collector is fun, provided you have a tolerance for villains whose whole thing is pulling new powers out of their ass. Like a kid in a sandbox who keeps making up new powers so they never lose make believe. Or like Gilgamesh from Fate.

The Collector is more fun than Gilgamesh though. Get rekt, Archer.

Speaking of archers, Hawkeye hangs back to help Thor... with morale support? while Iron Man tries to tackle the Collector.... ‘s hologram.

FOOLED YOU

Such a troll.

He then attacks Iron Man with “a simple child’s toy” he acquired on the planet Dergos, where the children MOVE FASTER THAN THOUGHT ITSELF. Which is good because this simple child’s toy shoots dozens of missiles which burst open to release gas on impact.

Iron Man seals off his armor from the gas but it wasn’t a poison gas or sleep gas. It was a gas that locks up metal joints, imprisoning Iron Man in his own iron, man!

FOOLED YOU!

The Wasp tries to distract the Collector by giving him a chance to exposit. Its the best thing for distracting villains, usually.

The Wasp: “Why are you doing this? What do you want from us??”

The Collector: “Why, a complete set! A perfect collection -- of Earth’s mightiest heroes! The only such collection of its kind -- that will survive the time soon to come!”

And then - not distracted at all - he shoots Thor and Hawkeye with a positron cannon. Because by this point, Mjolnir had absorbed enough negative energy from the ENERGY CREATURE OF ERDILE that the sudden positive energy knocks him the hell out.

And the Collector was lying about the other dimension.

FOOLED YOU!!

The Wasp has had just about enough at this point so she shoots the Collector in his wrinkly mug.

So he unleashes a flying roomba that catches her in an electrified net.

And now that just leaves Hawkeye.

The Collector: “Now, archer -- you are the last Avenger... and the least!”

Hawkeye: “That depends on whether you’re judging by raw power or skill, Collector! I may not be much in the first category! On the other hand -- in the second... Hawkeye is the best there is!”

Disarmed with a clamp-arrow (because of course Hawkeye has a clamp-arrow. He has a bouquet arrow and an antigravity arrow, a clamp-arrow is baby stuff), the Collector flees deeper into his not-TARDIS and unleashes a not-pterodactyl at Hawkeye.

Hawkeye manages to dodge its SKAW swoop and then uses a bola to ground the lethal flying lizard.

Oh how the table is on the other foot now. Before, it was the Collector who was pulling out new toys to triumph over every challenge but now Hawkeye is doing the same with arrows.

I guess the third best superpower (after squirrels and ants) is just having an indeterminate amount of stuff on your person.

Or, I guess. Versatility? Fear not the man who can punch really well, fear the man that carries arrows for esoteric purposes.

The Collector is starting to warm up to Hawkeye. In his own way.

The Collector: “You are resourceful! Perhaps you are even worth collecting for yourself -- and not just for your membership in the Avengers!”

But he continues fleeing and Hawkeye continues chasing. And the Collector is like hey rude, I’m going to prepare something horrible for you so stop follow.

And he drops some incendiary capsules which burst into flame.

So Hawkeye grappling hook arrows over the fires.

The Collector is apparently really spry because he’s already way ahead of Hawkeye but on a lower platform.

So Hawkeye gets a wonderful idea and summons his inner Flynn.

He uses his sharpened croissant arrow to cut a cable so he can swing down in front of the Collector. And now he has him cornered on a catwalk. Not able to grab any new collectibles. And if he had something on his person that was better, he would have used it by now.

So I guess Hawkeye wins. Although this is only page 12. Weird.

The Collector gives Hawkeye one last chance to surrender. Which. I mean, he must have something up his sleeve, right? Perhaps some last collectible that he didn’t want to use because it was mint in box.

Hawkeye: “Sorry, pal, I don’t buy it! I figure our surprise entrance caught you more off-guard than you’ll admit! You lucked out against the others, with gadgets you had lying around... but if you had anything to throw at me now, you wouldn’t be standing there flapping your lips!”

The Collector: “Bah! One needs no gadgetry -- who commands POWER COSMIC! I am old beyond your ken, insect -- and it has been eons since I wielded the energies I possess! It is a chore at my age! I resent being forced into this!”

And he or she who possesses the power cosmic can do all kinds of things like breath in space, talk to squirrels or apparently cause the catwalk to warp and wrap around Hawkeye to crush him.

Hawkeye: (*Uhh* What an idiot I am! Why didn’t I try to free the others? Why did I try to take him alone? Now we’ve all had it! Why did I have to be... the last?)

But he fires off one last hail mary arrow on one last physics baffling bank shot.

Except I was lying. It wasn’t a hail mary arrow. It was a taser arrow. And it hits the Collector right in the shoulder, causing him to collapse in pain.

Victory: Hawkeye!

He goes to revive the other Avengers and free them from their comfortable tubes.

And now it looks like the Collector has some ‘splainin to do.

The Collector: “I -- ? Explain to such as you? Absurd!”

He then proceeds to explain his entire backstory and motivation.

Because. Villains CANNOT resist. Exposition.

He explains that he is one of the Elders of the Universe. Extremely old people that have obsession based immortality. Basically, as long as they’re obsessed over their one thing, they’ll stay alive to do that one thing. Like the Grandmaster and his games. Or the Collector and his collecting.

Although much of the nuance of the Extremely Old People of the Universe is something we learn later.

The Collector explains that although his brother roamed in search of games, he only wanted to study the simple creatures of the universe. I guess he started off as more of a the Zookeeper or the Botanist than a hoarding the Collector.

But the Collector also had the gift of prophecy and he foresaw the rise of Thanos, a power that would rival the Elders and threaten universal death.

Concerned over the fates of the primitive creatures he loved so much but afraid of challenging Thanos, the Collector set out to preserve them. Gathering samples. Collecting, basically.

But to his surprise, Thanos was destroyed. Turned into stone by Adam Warlock.

The Collector might have stopped collecting then (which would have killed him, as losing your obsession can make an Elder just drop dead) but he foresaw the coming of another, even more dangerous power.

And this time, he chose to interfere.

Annnnnnnnnnnnd that brings us back to Forest Hills where Carina is confessing to Korvac that she was to betray him but couldn’t bring herself to.

She confesses that her father sent her to spy on him and that he is a prophet who foresaw that Korvac would be cruising for a date at a fashion show.

Korvac is peeved.

Not that Carina was sent to spy on him, it doesn’t seem.

Korvac: “If he is a prophet, can he not see that this troubled planet is destined to find peace only under my proprietorship! Nothing... no one can be allowed to interfere!”

And even as Carina begs him not to, Korvac finds the Collector’s hidden not-TARDIS in orbit and reaches towards it crackling with energies.

Back on the Not-TARDIS, the Avengers are still quizzing the Collector.

Iron Man: “-- So you were playing a sort of galactic Noah, huh? Preserving us helpless ‘lower lifeforms’ from a horrible fate!”

Indeed. But the Collector feared that just preserving the creatures he’s so fascinated by won’t be enough.

This newest enemy might cause a war among the great powers of the cosmos (your Odins, your Zeuses, your Mephistos, your Eternitys. Those guys) in his attempt to achieve universal sovereignty. And such a war could obliterate all reality.

Which is why this time, he interfered. He sent his daughter to spy on the enemy in hopes of finding a weakness.

Iron Man: “You sacrificed your daughter?”

The Collector: “Perhaps... and it seems she now returns the favor!”

But before the Collector can reveal the name of the enemy (Korvac), a bolt of energy strikes him from out of the blue, disintegrating the Avengers’ old foe.

RIP the Collector. You were one of the greats.

The Avengers are horrified that the unnamed enemy (Korvac) so easily struck down the Collector, just when he was about to reveal the enemy’s identity.

Iron Man: “And right before our eyes -- as if to show us how insignificant we are! Fleas compared to a being -- who can kill a god!”

And the issue ends back in Forest Hills, with Korvac telling a crying Carina that she is now an orphan.

Because he just killed her dad.

So here we are on issue #174 of the Korvac Saga which started in issue #167. For the first time, the Avengers are actually aware of the nature of the threat. They heard from the Guardians that Korvac was up to something but his machinations are so subtle and so above the Avengers, they likely never would have found out until it was too late if it hadn’t been for the Collector.

Although Korvac is the big overarching threat of this saga, the plot has been driven by the Collector reacting to it, rather than Korvac himself.

And that’s interesting to me.

The Collector goes back to issue #28 of the Avengers so he’s about as classic an Avengers foe as you can get. And this saga is kind of his story too.

Its backloaded into this issue because mystery. But we learn so much about the Collector here. A little about his origin, about his secret powers, that he has a daughter, and his motivation.

And considering what a nerd he’s been, ranting about his perfect collection of Avengers (was collecting complete runs as much of a thing back then?), he has a surprisingly sympathetic motivation.

Its even a little bit of a retcon given how he’s acted before. But as of this story, all he wanted was to preserve the things he loved. And that included the Avengers with all their daring and adventure and melodrama.

Although, its kind of hard to ignore how much the Collector was just worfed. He was never a powerhouse but as I said, he is a classic Avengers villain from their third year in print.

And he got new, never mentioned powers in this issue. THE POWER COSMIC. The same juice that makes Silver Surfer and Galactus so peppy.

With little effort, Korvac killed him from afar. How scary he must be to manage that. Even when the Collector saw it coming literal miles away.

Oh, speaking of retcons. It is interesting to me to trace the Collector going back and forth from fantasy to sci-fi.

In his first appearance, he used flying carpets, giant summoning beans, potions, and a catapult. At the end of that appearance, he used a time machine though.

In his second appearance in Avengers #51, he has a spaceship and he uses aliens and robots to fight the Avengers.

In Avengers #119, he strikes during Halloween and uses the legendary coats of Hercules, the birthstones of the half-mythical Vultures of Nepenthe, and two rocks that summon infinite bats.

And now in this issue, he has a not-TARDIS that hides in another dimension and uses power wands, energy beings, a child’s missile launcher, and a positron cannon. Plus he reveals his sci-fi origin as one of the oldest beings in the universe.

I don’t think this means anything but its interesting. I think the Collector is more solidly on the sci-fi side of things going forward but its interesting to see his inspiration sine wave like this.

Next time: the Korvac Saga starts to wind to a close. The Avengers now know there’s a mysterious enemy who threatens all of reality. What do?

There might be a delay in new posts. I’m taking a trip to the cold lands this week and I don’t think I’ll be able to get two more posts done before I have to leave.

Use that time to not google ahead for spoilers. Also, maybe follow @essential-avengers. That would be cool of you.

#Avengers #the Collector #Hawkeye #Iron Man #Thor #the Wasp #weirdly it was Hawkeye's time to shine #Korvac Saga #backstory for our favorite villainous nerd #Essential Avengers #Essential marvel liveblogging #I wonder if there are any Collector stories set during the speculator boom or bust #It seems like you could get some great meta there #but overall I think writers were more concerned with holographic trading card wraparound covers than... writing #maybe that's unfair

8 notes · View notes

zuggtmoylovesyou · 4 years

Text

First Post - Intro & Characters

I had the impulse to start blogging about my Pathfinder 2e game, because it's been a lot of fun and I'm starting to get to the point where I need to rubber duck at someone, anyone, even the void, to keep my scheming straight. If you're reading this I hope it's entertaining!

I am using the D&D 5e adventure Out of the Abyss as a starting point. It's all about the players fighting their way out of the underdark which, by some freak accident, is full of rampaging demon lords. However, I've changed so much, added so much homebrew world building, and patchworked in so much dungeon magazine material that it's barely recognizable.

Most notably, there's a penultimate scheme with Zuggtmoy, demon queen of fungi, that knocked my socks off so hard that I decided to expand it and make her the big bad of the entire adventure instead of the big monster mash that the original culminates towards. I love the idea of tricking all the other demon lords to brawl for supremecy but I love Zuggtmoy and her bullshit even more!

I thought to kick this blog off, I’d give you a rundown on the stars of the show, my player characters. Next post I’ll start getting caught up on the plot leading up to this point, and after that I’ll try and keep session logs.

Let’s dive in!

Allywick Bramblesnoot: (Gnome Druid) Normally gifted with eternal life, this gnome was robbed of her natural inheritance by a cruel sorcerer who stole her away from her family at a young age. Experiments left her extraordinarily gifted with magic, but at the cost of a greatly reduced lifespan, only having 5 years left to live. After the sorcerer concluded his experiments, he left Allywick to the wilds, assuming she would quickly die. Instead, she found her way to a Druidic circle through careful mapping of her surroundings and a kinship with the animals around her. She now eagerly maps uncharted territories, hoping to see all of the world before she dies, and maybe to be reunited with her family.

Asmoryn Starshaddow: (Elven Ranger) Asmoryn's parents defended the city from unusual threats from the wilderness. They kept an eye on goblin and orc movements, but they specialized in tracking and killing honest-to-gods monsters. Although Asmoryn's twin sister never took to the trade, Asmoryn trained hard with her parents so that she could become a monster hunter like they were. Despite a terrible accident claiming both her parents and her eyesight, she now works mercenary, and has a modest reputation bc of her skill and her parents legacy.

Rue Xeutola: (Human Fighter/Warlock) When Rue was young, she traded her meager and hungry life as a leatherworker for one as a soldier, and later a guardsmen in the city-state of Ramailya. She joined the system to try and make her home a better place. But when a greedy sweatshop owner burned down his shop and killed all his employees inside to avoid paying fines, she was forced to face the fact that the law was on the side of men like him. She took justice into her own hands, personally killing everyone she knew to be involved in the coverup of the fire, and left town. She has been doing odd mercenary jobs ever since.

Massana Tio: (Elven Elemental Sorcerer, not pictured) Massana was captured by Drow and brought into the underdark as a slave about 4 years ago. When the mad wizard, Bargle, had a falling out with his family, she was one of the possessions he swiped on his way out. She has only very recently come into her latent sorcerer powers, escaped, and met the party - who had their own reasons to confront and kill Bargle.

Elizabeau "Lizard" Quinn Al-Naadira: (Human Wizard, Transmuter) Lizard is a young wizard, daughter of Nadira Al-Naadira, the greatest swordswoman in the world. About 12 years ago, Lizard recieved a prophecy promising a life of misery, and her mother shipped her off to boarding school in an attempt to keep her safe. She worked diligently at wizard school until a few months ago, when she skipped out on her thesis project and hit the road. Since then she has met her familiar, Boop the goat, solved a murder mystery with the rest of the party, and fallen into the underdark as her prophecy fortold:

"Lost in heart, Lost in head, Lost in winding pathways dread Under shell so black and bleak Where light will never grace thy sleep Dreams of misery, Dreams of madness, Dreams of Goats, thy apparatus When Dawn caresses twilight's gloom, Only then may thou escape thy doom"

0 notes

lgbt-teenager-support · 7 years

Text

Warning: Long post!!

@mercialachesis said:

Hey I was wondering if you could recommend some books or films with an agender character either main or side? Thank you !!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hello! I'm sorry I couldn't answer your ask straight up, this post includes a lot of links.

I couldn't find very many books that describe the character as specifically agender, but there are a lot that use the words "gender fluid" "gender flux" "gender queer" and the like if you're ok with that! Summaries taken from Goodreads

Mask of Shadows - by Linsey Miller

"Sallot Leon is a thief, and a good one at that. But gender fluid Sal wants nothing more than to escape the drudgery of life as a highway robber and get closer to the upper-class and the nobles who destroyed their home. When Sal Leon steals a poster announcing open auditions for the Left Hand, a powerful collection of the Queen's personal assassins named for the rings she wears -- Ruby, Emerald, Amethyst, and Opal -- their world changes. They know it's a chance for a new life. Except the audition is a fight to the death filled with clever circus acrobats, lethal apothecaries, and vicious ex-soldiers. A childhood as a common criminal hardly prepared Sal for the trials. But Sal must survive to put their real reason for auditioning into play: revenge."

Symptoms of Being Human - by Jeff Garvin

"The first thing you’re going to want to know about me is: Am I a boy, or am I a girl? Riley Cavanaugh is many things: Punk rock. Snarky. Rebellious. And gender fluid. Some days Riley identifies as a boy, and others as a girl. The thing is…Riley isn’t exactly out yet. And between starting a new school and having a congressman father running for reelection in uber-conservative Orange County, the pressure—media and otherwise—is building up in Riley’s so-called “normal” life. On the advice of a therapist, Riley starts an anonymous blog to vent those pent-up feelings and tell the truth of what it’s REALLY like to be a gender fluid teenager. But just as Riley’s starting to settle in at school—even developing feelings for a mysterious outcast—the blog goes viral, and an unnamed commenter discovers Riley’s real identity, threatening exposure. Riley must make a choice: walk away from what the blog has created—a lifeline, new friends, a cause to believe in—or stand up, come out, and risk everything."

What We Left Behind - by Robin Talley

"Toni and Gretchen are the couple everyone envied in high school. They've been together forever. They never fight. They’re deeply, hopelessly in love. When they separate for their first year at college—Toni to Harvard and Gretchen to NYU—they’re sure they’ll be fine. Where other long-distance relationships have fallen apart, theirs is bound to stay rock-solid. The reality of being apart, though, is very different than they expected. Toni, who identifies as genderqueer, meets a group of transgender upperclassmen and immediately finds a sense of belonging that has always been missing, but Gretchen struggles to remember who she is outside their relationship. While Toni worries that Gretchen won’t understand Toni’s new world, Gretchen begins to wonder where she fits in Toni's life. As distance and Toni’s shifting gender identity begins to wear on their relationship, the couple must decide—have they grown apart for good, or is love enough to keep them together?"

The Tiger's Watch - by Julia Ember

"Sixteen-year-old Tashi has spent their life training as a inhabitor, a soldier who spies and kills using a bonded animal. When the capital falls after a brutal siege, Tashi flees to a remote monastery to hide. But the invading army turns the monastery into a hospital, and Tashi catches the eye of Xian, the regiment’s fearless young commander. Tashi spies on Xian’s every move. In front of his men, Xian seems dangerous, even sadistic, but Tashi discovers a more vulnerable side of the enemy commander—a side that draws them to Xian. When their spying unveils that everything they’ve been taught is a lie, Tashi faces an impossible choice: save their country or the boy they’re growing to love. Though Tashi grapples with their decision, their volatile bonded tiger doesn't question her allegiances. Katala slaughters Xian’s soldiers, leading the enemy to hunt her. But an inhabitor’s bond to their animal is for life—if Katala dies, so will Tashi."

Love Spell - by Mia Kerick

"Strutting his stuff on the catwalk in black patent leather pumps and a snug orange tuxedo as this year’s Miss (ter) Harvest Moon feels so very right to Chance César, and yet he knows it should feel so very wrong. As far back as he can remember, Chance has been “caught between genders.” (It’s quite a touchy subject; so don’t ask him about it.) However, he does not question his sexual orientation. Chance has no doubt about his gayness—he is very much out of the closet at his rural New Hampshire high school, where the other students avoid the kid they refer to as “girl-boy.” But at the local Harvest Moon Festival, when Chance, the Pumpkin Pageant Queen, meets Jasper Donahue, the Pumpkin Carving King, sparks fly. So Chance sets out, with the help of his BFF, Emily, to make “Jazz” Donahue his man. An article in an online women’s magazine, Ten Scientifically Proven Ways to Make a Man Fall in Love with You (with a bonus love spell thrown in for good measure), becomes the basis of their strategy to capture Jazz’s heart. Quirky, comical, definitely flamboyant, and with an inner core of poignancy, Love Spell celebrates the diversity of a gender-fluid teen."

Chameleon Moon - by RoAnna Sylver

"The city of Parole is burning. Like Venice slips into the sea, Parole crumbles into fire. The entire population inside has been quarantined, cut off from the rest of the world, and left to die - directly over the open flame. Eye in the Sky, a deadly and merciless police force ensures no one escapes. Ever. All that’s keeping Parole alive is faith in the midst of horrors and death, trust in the face of desperation… and their fantastic, terrifying, and beautiful superhuman abilities. Regan, stealth and reconnaissance expert with a lizard's scales and snake's eyes, is haunted by ten years of anxiety, trauma and terror, and he’s finally reached his limit. His ability to disappear into thin air isn’t enough: he needs an escape, and he’ll do anything for a chance. Unluckily for him, Hans, a ghostly boy with a chilling smile, knows just the thing to get one. It starts with a little murder. But instead of ending a man’s life, Regan starts a new one of his own. He turns away from that twisted path, and runs into Evelyn, fearless force on stage and sonic-superheroic revolutionary on the streets. Now Regan has a choice - and a chance to not only escape from Parole, but unravel the mystery deep in its burning heart. And most of all, discover the truth about their own entwining pasts. They join forces with Evelyn’s family: the virtuosic but volatile Danae, who breathes life into machines, and her wife Rose, whose compassionate nature and power over healing vines and defensive thorns will both be vital to survive this nightmare. Then there’s Zilch, a cool and level-headed person made of other dead people, and Finn, one of Parole’s few remaining taxi drivers, who causes explosions whenever he feels anything but happy. Separately they’d never survive, much less uncover the secret of Parole’s eternally-burning fire. Together, they have a chance. Unfortunately, Hans isn’t above playing dirty, lying, cheating, manipulating… and holding Regan’s memories hostage until he gets his way. Parole’s a rough place to live. But they’re not dead yet. If they can survive the imminent cataclysmic disaster, they might just stay that way…"

Black Sunrise - by Christina Engela

"When a single Ruminarii Hammerhead arrived to invade the small backwater Terran colony of Deanna, the people of Atro City went to meet them at the space port with open arms. (Perhaps ‘exposed’ is a better word?) Life as a private investigator, slash bounty hunter isn’t all Gary Beck wanted it to be. There weren’t any big mansions on a palm beach owned by an affluent writer generous enough to let him live rent-free and use his spare Ferrari. But then, you have to ask yourself, what could you expect living on a planet like Deanna? As a third rate colony in the Terran Empire, Deanna had more than its fair share of dull moments. It orbited a star called Ramalama. If you think that’s funny, Deanna’s two moons were called Ding and Dong, respectively. (This is a local joke.) Cindy Mei Winter hoped to put her violent and somehow depressing past behind her, but now it seemed her new beginning (and her holiday) were going to have to wait."

If Found Return To Astropop - by Lucas Hargis

"Unaware of one another’s gender or appearance, a poor, aspiring architect and a spoiled, free-spirited astronomy fanatic find themselves mutually smitten by reading each other’s journals. Genderfluid, sixteen-year-old Robin “Astropop” Chicory lost a journal three months ago. When a stranger (known only as Pippopotamus) secretly returns it, Astro discovers that Pip read their innermost thoughts and meticulously traced Astro’s past movements. Without meeting, Pip believes s/he is smitten with Astropop. Astro knows this because Pip wrote a heartfelt journal in response. Astro reads both journals side-by-side, amazed at how simple words on paper can exert a mutual gravity between complete strangers. As their tandem confessions and intimate stories tangle with the drama in Astro’s everyday life, Astro ends up hopelessly smitten with Pip, too. But because of distance, timing, and interference from the universe, it’s impossible for them to ever meet. When Astro flips to Pip’s last precious page, a supernova of hope explodes—a precise time and place where shy Pip will be waiting. Astro can finally meet the intriguing Pip, but fears their deep, inexplicable connection will be broken. And there’s the world-shattering chance the revelations of who they each truly are will eclipse their imagined versions of one another."

And here's the entire Goodreads list in case any books I didn't include speak to you! Hope this helped! For the life of me I couldn't find any agender movie characters :( If anyone knows of other books in this vein feel free to add!

-Mod Gaby

#goodreads #queer lit #books with agender characters #books with gender queer characters

29 notes · View notes