#moxie and mirth

[1800titz]

Teaser for chapter 6 ! (ꈍ◡ꈍ)

I was reading this part back to edit, and the whole time I was like, LOL. Isla, Isla, Isla. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

“You will count, and you will thank me, and you’ll ask for another, so,” he takes a step, approximating a good position for a swing, the handle of the strap in his gloved grip. Harry clears his throat and provides an example for her to mirror, “S’gonna go, ‘One, Sir, thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir,” he rolls his shoulders, and bobs with his head as he drones into the following number for sequential clarification, “Two, Sir, thank you, Sir,’ yada, yada. Yes?” 

It’s simple stuff. Pretty elementary shit. His instructions are crystal, and yet, somehow, Isla still manages to find a way to entangle some form of lippy something into the mix. He shouldn’t have put it past her. 

The young woman says, after a moment of lull, “What happens at three?” 

She bites into her cheek and purses her mouth. Harry can’t see her face, but he knows she’s either smiling or making a poor attempt to stifle it. The mirth is pretty short-lived. That part sort of follows the trend of his patience. A crease works its way over the dominant’s brow bone, the predecessor for an eye roll. Isla doesn’t expect it when, after a beat of silence, the strap makes contact with her backside. Instantly, she winces, her hips canting forward. 

“Cheeky,” Harry scolds, placing his free palm onto her hip to coax her back into position, “I hope you got it out of your system.” 

“You love when I’m cheeky,” she quips under her breath, sounding a bit miffed despite the strain of her voice, no doubt from the strike. 

He smacks her again. 

“Two, Sir—“

“Ah — no,” Harry shakes his head, “Skipped a number.” 

There’s a pause and then a high whine of complaint, just as he’d expected, “But that was two—“

“How d’you count?”

“What?” 

“How do you count?” the male repeats, this time enunciating each word, slow and crisp, like she won’t comprehend it otherwise, “From one to five. Count, for me.” He twists the stem of the leather paddle in his grip, gaze cast upon it, and his tone only varnishes the words as he tacks on, patronizing, “Surely you know how to do that.” 

“Of course I know how to count — what kind of—“

He folds his arms over his chest as he steps over to the side of the chair, resting his hip against it to peer down at her, “So, do it. Count. From one to five, out loud.” 

For a moment, Harry just watches her jaw set, a minute motion that gives away everything he needs to know, and he’s aware that she’s probably ogling the tilt of his head through the lace with venom. Begrudgingly, Isla complies, “One, two, three, four, five.” 

“Lovely,” the praise, in response to her half-hearted compliance, doesn’t lack its typical notes of condescension, “Little less attitude next time, but. S’one, two, three, innit?”

Isla chews into her lip.

“Not two. Doesn’t start with two. So now, we’re starting fresh,” he pushes off of the chair and winds back around her, and the dangle of the strap from his priorly crossed arms morphs menacing, “Clean slate. Start from one.”

The reinforced leather falls, and her breath hitches, but her voice is impressively even. “One, Sir. Thank you, Sir. May I have another, Sir?” 

“Absolutely.”

She asks, and so he gives.  And the thing with Isla — Harry thinks, perhaps his most favorite quality about Isla in play, is that she has this nonsensical moxie, this unwavering resolution. It’s sort of admirable, but mostly just a headache — in a good sort of way. She’s like a sexy headache, which is a first among many firsts. Because Harry likes that he has to manually chip at her stubborn resolve — he likes that she doesn’t just fall in line. It’s not a very sensible decision, on her part, because it could go so much easier for her if she were to just follow the rules. 

But that’s no fun, according to her. Harry gets it. 

So when she says, “Two, Sir, thank you, Sir,” and it’s followed by a pause and then a quieter, “yada, yada,” he’s not entirely surprised. 

He digs his tongue against his cheek. “Excuse me?” 

Isla chimes, a bit louder, and this time with no break, “Two, Sir, thank you, Sir, yada, yada.” 

In response to his obnoxious sigh, the submissive bursts into a self-satisfied string of snickers. And then those snickers morph into a gasp of helpless pain as Harry places his arm over the small of her back, holds onto a love handle to keep her in place, and gives her three hard ones in succession. 

“Yada, yada,” he scoffs. 

“That’s how you told me to count!” Isla complains, shrill and (characteristically) incorrigible, “That’s how you counted two!”

“Your smart mouth is going to keep you here all night,” Harry advises. 

“You know what, that’s fine. Thank you, actually. It’s a very smart mouth, just like the rest of me is smart—“

She twists when another blow lands, a soft, resentful sort of “mmph” plucked from her vocal cords. She follows that up with a steely, exaggerated, “Ow.” Like he’s supposed to feel bad about it or something. 

“Ow? Good,” Harry tells her, instead, “Seems that’s gonna be your favorite word for the night. If you were smart, you’d start counting proper.” 

He waits a moment, and then smacks her with it again. 

Isla screws her eyes shut behind onyx mesh and netting, her voice riding the edge of strained, “Seven—“

Never has she heard him sound more incredulous. 

“How in the world did you get from two to seven?” 

#tdiag teaser

[writer59january13]

Easter as interpreted by one...

rebated, rebelled, rebirthed, rebooted, and rebuked courtesy one ill shod Unitarian atheist, who means NOT to affect

any sacrilegious fallout nor offend devoutly religious man, woman, or child, when the most important Christian holiday notated, a veritable “movable feast” occurs Sunday, March 31, 2024.

Though avast percentage

of stonehenge temple piloted ghosts,

harking back millennia

constantly zip unseen thru aerospace, easily being mistaken for led zeppelin,

they unwittingly espy

woolly sheep hush fleeced herd

profoundly religious village peep pull

plodding fast as their

cleft hoofs take them

along well worn path

of former crusaders analogous to Riders on the Storm.

Among acquiescent, concupiscent fervescent, juvenescent obmutescent (äbmyəˈtesᵊn(t)s), and unreminiscent church going subjects

versus one self repentant

quest diagnostic shunning skeptic poet

suffers interminable emotional flagellation

employing righteous indignation

against his own iniquitous misdeeds

sullying the sacrosanct marital covenant.

Unpardonable egregious transgressions

committed (well nigh

dirty deeds done dirt cheap more'n a dozen orbitz ago)

think adulterous flagrante delicto

constituted consummating rutting

sabotaging high fidelity.

Passionate intercourse incorporating

communicating non verbal

vernacular animal needs

spoken on behalf of laity

comprising unlearned, nevertheless

superstitious population

indulged verboten fruit appetite,

yet adroit oral (tongue in cheek)

spread courtesy word of mouth.

Unlike doubting thomas here sitting on his rumpled stilted skin most pious markedly take as gospel Jesus Christ as Superstar

every word in religious tomes

their collective soul asylum polestar,

and doth decree important doctrines

with especial accord courtesy the cars

equal insignificance applied toward

Judeo-Christian holidays

across the chessboard of life,

thus Easter ranks as no exception

to the golden rule,

where Santa Claus

didst dodge Duesenberg reached an accord following auspicious signs

alit in the night sky

shaped like a drinking gourd

perhaps amassing plentiful harvests

upon hamlets strewn

across then scantily populated Earth

asper cornucopia exhibited secret hoard

sharing plentiful Horn (and Hard art lesson learned) to stave off barrenness, ignored

going forward seeding nascent

March Madness with swift help from Lord

and Taylor as midwife hoot

tended Ville Nova moored by striking Wildcat fanatics,

who unbelievably

espied heavens cleft asunder

and golden rays poured

while collective spectators

loudly deafeningly screamed while housed within the soundgarden

analogous to ferocious stray cats,

who hissed and roared

witnessed history scored earning players knighted

with Excalibur sword, thence entire team handed

Taj Mahal shaped award, which aforementioned

ass hide lacks moxie, cuz zit

happens tubby April Fool's joke,

thus above iterated

verses somehow needs just a little bit of relevance to yoke thine admitted ambivalent

reaction to sports, yea aye pay figurative toke

hen to Rabbinic, quixotic

iconic, Hebraic, generic,

fanatic, ecstatic primal

tribal village people wu clan destine woke,

and swinging focus of this poem

back toward Religious

perp ported berth,

when (sans antiquity) donjon we now donning gay apparel trumpet signaled

thus, any superstitions

blew away dearth when distant shofar heard in every home and hearth anticipating rabbit arrival

of the Easter Bunny, who brings eggs sited mirth and hoi polloi doth hop poly

distribute sweet treats, which blessed children

of the korn as grown adults, no matter necessity

for teeth to be removed the sugary over indulgence wool worth

today thee American Dental Association

chastises candy manufacturers bandying more weight

gaining deadly, debauched,

and decadent, trait

then adultery - verboten fruit to sate

hash-tagged (vamoose skat

dad dulled) reprobate.

[moosethemangaartist]

New DND campaign I’m DMing, (left to right) Spot, Mirth, Moxie, George, Nephreus, Nox and Nirdune!

(ps: making your own campaign is a little difficult haha)

#dnd #dungeon master #dungeons and dragons #d&d #d&d oc #d&d character #d&d ocs #dnd character #dnd campaign #d&d campaign #highspot mountainreef #mirth #moxie #moxie and mirth #george caystone #nephreus #nox #nirdune #i really took the easy way out with the chains huh #and yes the tails make a heart #twins #tiefling #genasi #fire genasi #tiefling twins #ranger #rogue #bard #paladin #tyr paladin

[efkgirldetective]

~part V~ { part I & part II & part III & part IV }

thank you thank you to the anon who sent in this prompt! 💗💗💗

book + cerulean + passion

“Don’t have too much fun while we’re off, yeah?”

“Never, Padfoot, we—”

“Head Girl? Can you reassure?”

“Former Head Girl, mind you—”

“Sirius, honest to Merlin, we’re so, so late, and you know how Moody gets, he’ll have our—”

“—bollocks, yeah, had the exact same and shuddering thought, dearest—”

“—amount of calling me dearest can make up for that image, fuck’s sake—Pete? We’re near—”

“I’ve been ready, Remus!” Peter exclaims, springing indignantly from his seat on the sofa. “Been sat right bloody here, reading a book while you lot argue on and on about ‘oh, do you have the coordinates, or do I?’ Honestly, could’ve read through Hogwarts a bloody History frontward and backward, already!”

James grins at the exasperated trio, puffy-coated and scarf-wrapped and leaving not thirty minutes after they ought to have left. Between his wide-leg lean at the kitchen counter, Lily calls out, “Be safe, okay?” Sirius accios his wand all the way from down the hall, quite nearly missing the tawny tuft of Peter’s hair—“And be polite!”

“Polite, Evans, honest?” James tucks into her sweet-smelling hair. “Like Moody wants politeness, not moxie or gall or some imposing four-syllable word that escapes me at the moment.”

Lily pinches the skin of his arm.

“See you for dinner, yeah?” Sirius is calling back. “Right chuffed for steak pies—”

“Black!”

“Oh, for—coming, coming!”

Peter’s aggravated scowl is the last thing they see, the babble of Remus and Sirius floating down the hall, disappearing behind the closed door.

“If we’re going to be parents,” Lily says, running her hands along James’, wrapped round her waist, “We ought to start practicing, no?”

James laughs, sweeping her hair away and leaning down to kiss her neck. He contemplates the skin, a small pair of freckles marking the place where neck and shoulder meet. He thinks of their furtive trip to the fertility clinic earlier in the day; how the charms glimmered cerulean over Lily’s stomach, her hand gripping his tightly as the Healer surveyed her vitals, told them how healthy the baby—their baby—looked, inside, just about ten weeks along and growing so well. James took it all in as if from afar; heart beating out of his body, sense of place, of home, tied so firmly to Lily’s five-fingered hold on him; how her eyes shone with nervous excitement as she looked at him from the examination table—red hair a stark contrast to such a sterilized room. She whispered, “Okay?” and squeezed his hand. He nodded, bent to kiss her forearm, unable to find words for how he felt; an overflowing of love that left him just as tethered as it left him unmoored.

In the kitchen, he tries to make sense of the paradox: how he might be sinking for all his unruly, anxious fears—and at the same time buoyant, near-weightless in pride, in joy. He bends his cheek to the freckles and blinks slowly. “You’re going to be such a good mum.”

She sighs, turns in his arms. Happy and healthy and growing. “If you let go of any absurd dream involving an infant Quidditch player,” she murmurs, hands winding up his chest and neck, “then I know you’ll make a really wonderful dad.”

Though he is unwilling and unable to let go of hope for an infant Quidditch player, he makes no mention—he leans forward and kisses her cleanly, slowly, letting the overflow transmute into tenderness, deliberate and ebbing; Lily responds in kind, threading his hair through her fingers, some soft urgency sounding in the back of her throat. Her body melts closer, thin pink cardigan letting him know just how little she’s wearing beneath—and is unsurprised, given the turmoil surging inside, that need floats so easily to the top; skimmed out of overwhelming affection, of the delicate knowing that their bodies, together, created.

And the idea of when that might have been—when it happened, in any of the jumbled and run-together instances of love, of impatience, of time-taken and stolen and stretched out and yearned for—eats at James, digs at him—merges with the feeling of limbs lethargic on his, her lips moving from chin to jaw to neck and loitering, heatedly, on his throat. “When—” he begins, short on breath, hands moving up her back, under the thin fabric, finding the warm skin of her back—“when do you think it happened?”

Lily hums into his neck, nipping gently. “When what happened?”

He laughs, ruefully, fingers pressing into the curve of her hips. Closes his eyes to her hair. “Er, the conception.”

“The conception?” Lily emerges from his neck, laughing, too, lips pulled apart in mirth. “What, we're religious, now?”

“Well, it’s the technical term, Lils—would you rather I call it procreation?”

Lily groans, “Oh no, that’s far worse—so detached and impersonal,” she steals a long and wandering kiss. “Hardly what I feel when you’re inside of me, moving.”

"Oh, fucking hell—" James kisses her, can’t help it—and again, and again. “Really, though, semantics aside—” he moans, and she kisses him again, still laughing—“I want to know when you think it happened, is all.”

Leaning back from him, and really looking at him clearly, Lily lets her smile fall into something smaller; something like a smirk. “Alright, well,” she exhales, thinking, hands falling from his hair down his shoulders—and slowly, slowly, down his arms, pausing at the sleeves of his shirt. “It had to have been two months ago, or so,” she muses, eyes meandering from their lean to the expanse of kitchen counter behind them, the oven and the hob. “Maybe, it was just there, over the...” her eyes turn back to him, aglimmer.

James swallows deliberately, tilts his chin upward; takes a short moment to compose himself. It hardly works. “Evans,” he articulates, slowly. She laughs, fingers slipping, rounding his biceps; an insufferable squeeze, and stroking.

“I imagine an act of such passion could surely lead to conception,” she stands on tiptoes, finds his ear, nips at the lobe, “don’t you agree?”

For this he has only one long, breathless moan—the memory of a night without housemates, a shared bottle of wine; her breath so soft and wanting as they necked in the kitchen, necking that turned— near instantly—into a clamor of hands under and tugging at clothes, lips on necks, whimpers and gasping and an oh, Merlin, please as he sunk to his knees and fixed his tongue between her legs— which led, inevitably, to a growing plea for more and more now; to her impatient keening as he grappled with her skirt and knickers, his own pants barely pushed aside before he pressed inside, hard and leaking, half-gone and humbled at her neck, her shoulder—her sweet gasping James what took him clear over the edge, right there in the kitchen, adjacent the hob; her hips tight in his hands, legs shaking madly under his.

And in the same kitchen her mouth connects to his softening breath, drinking it down, knowing. “Or,” she continues, “perhaps that time in the en suite, when not five minutes in you—”

“Jesus fuck,” James interrupts, voice high and reedy—a sound that changes, and breaks, as Lily swivels her hips over his—“Hadn’t seen you for three days, you can’t just—it was—”

“I wasn’t complaining, though, was I, love?” she laughs into his mouth. “Especially not when you said such nice things with your tongue, afterward.”

"That made up for it?"

"More than made up for it, darling."

He smiles, quietly, and slips his hands down the warmth of her back, round her thighs, and lifts, jostling her into his arms. Lily tightens her grip on him, presses a kiss to his neck. “Could’ve been any one of the times you’ve fucked me senseless into our bed,” she muses. “Oh, excuse me—our premarital bed.”

“Thank you,” James says, “for acknowledging our unwed sin.”

Their bodies sway forward as he pushes up off the counter and staggers, indiscriminately, toward the bedroom, urged on by her burgeoning moan. “You know, I—” he tries, fixing her weight against a doorframe, finding it near impossible to speak around her suddenly desperate kiss, the sparring of tongues—“I just think—”

“—do tell me what you think—”

“—that talking about this was a shit idea.”

“Shit idea? No, really?”

“Really,” James repeats, short on breath and having stumbled from the door right into their bedroom, replete with purported sin. “Because all this talk of conception has me thinking—”

“All this thinking,” Lily whines into his ear, tongue swirling, dangerous. “You’ll hurt yourself, Potter.”

James lays her down on the bed, laughing; hair scattering and soft, cardigan pulled taut at the buttons, a flush of red spreading down her neck. She bites her lip as he leans back, looks at her.

“Thinking of...?” she prompts, fingers fall down his forearms, stroking.

“Of everything that leads up to conception,” he clarifies, swallowing, dipping his face into the swells of her breasts, nuzzling; lifting her sweater up enough to find her belly. His touch slows, gentle as it traces down the skin, as his mouth bends to kiss, slowly, like she is some delicate thing. He turns his face, lets his cheek rest against the center. Closes his eyes. “Hi, baby.”

Lily clambers onto elbows and reaches a hand through his hair. “Baby says hi back.”

James lifts his head. “Oh, you can hear the baby?”

“Yes,” she says, fingers moving across his brow, down his cheek, feeling the indent of his grin. “We’ve a telepathic connection.”

“And what’re they saying, now?”

“Mmm,” she hums. “Saying it’s alright if mum and dad want a bit of a shag, they’ll close their eyes.”

His laughter precedes his body, coming over her, weight shifting down. Her hands latched to the exposed skin of his neck. A gentle kiss between. Pulling and yearning, like yarn. The center, a knot, growing stronger.

Lily weaves her legs around his waist. Breaks gently from his mouth. “When do you think it happened?”

The question is considered, serious and slow, in the nape of her neck; in the pink plane of her cheek; in a blinking, unbroken stare. James lets the world settle down into the space of the bed and their bodies. Answers, eventually, with a tensed forehead, a hand gentle along her thigh. “If this came to be...because of an intention to love you as much and as long as I can,” he murmurs, “then it could’ve been any one of those times.”

She exhales, and he takes the same air as his breath.

He dips toward her mouth, quietly. “Any time at all.”

Lily makes a small sound, pulls down his lips—and of course he can feel their love growing, still, even in the quiet of the room. If he is to drown and float, all at once, then let it be like this; in warm and gentle waters, fixed to the tide of their hearts.

#jily #fic #drabble #i think there will only be one more of these?? #& then maybe it's a little oneshot?? #this has become more involved than i anticpated #& if that isn't a metaphor for how i approach writing & literally everything else #then i don't know what a metaphor is

[mirthandmoxy]

untitled

it's been so long words don't feel right. all of those bittersweet acid drops, pills like chalk and dust, were put away in boxes, sewed up in my chest and forgotten.

they were drowned out by happy heartbeats.

this - crawling, oozing ripped open wound- feels like an infestation, long dead ills come back to life.

it is not beautiful to reanimate dead things.

i thought this grief was gone silent, but here she stands a doppelganger starved and vengeful,

ready to devour all hints of mirth, every ounce of moxy, whisk away all sense of time passed, of stability earned, with wolfen jaws.

how dare you force me to use my hands this way. how dare you force me to remember where I belong.

Written 7/25/19

[reventum]

@thafiosagamairmoluach cont 

         It’s  a  war,  she  wants  to  shout  at  him,  lips  thinning  into  two  lines.   She  isn’t  going  anywhere,  not  while  there  is  work  still  left  to  be  done,  a  fight  to  win.   Her  brother  will  not  have  died  for  nothing.   All  the  sacrifices  she’s  made  will  have  a  purpose,  even  if  it  means  also  giving  her  life  for  the  cause.   These  Americans  can  go  home,  be  safe  for  a  little  while  and  lick  their  wounds,  if  they  lost.   But  Britain  can  do no  such  thing.   ❝  I’m  not  leaving.   Not  until  everyone  else  does.  ❞ 

         IT'S AN EXHALE that’s somewhere between a sigh and a ghost of a laugh that lacks mirth. Resigned and slightly defeated. “Well then, that makes two of us,” he replies, sounding a touch more bitter than he intended. “Gotta admit, I admire your moxie, Agent Carter. You got more guts than half them men I’ve met, most would tuck tail an’ run at first opportunity, if they were bein’ honest.” Would he be one of them, if Steve wasn’t involved? It’s a question he can’t quite bring himself to answer. 

#thafiosagamairmoluach #★| v; ᴀʟʟ’s ʜᴇʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴇɴᴅs ᴡᴇʟʟ [wartime] #[ i am so sorry this is like 70yrs late #life happened OTL ] #★| ᴘᴜᴛ ʜɪᴍ ᴏɴ ɪᴄᴇ [queue]

[smallhrs]

dragon (’zelle)

All my life I'd wanted to find the light.

It wasn't a secret that the pinnacle of our race's 182 was ascending to a higher plane, almost a Valhalla for the winged.

A sanctuary so lush, so filled with mirth that no one ever returned. Only the brave would go, often deep into the night when flight was fraught with fury. But it required a strong heart, metaphorically speaking of course, 'clackers would find you,' the children would whisper, whimpering even into their slumber

Here was mostly tree though, lately, the elders would say, some of the new ones gave off an alarming heat and took all evening to cool.

The floories loved to scale these, in a peculiar box made of water, up a strange vein, fewer still to the very top of the unflowering, towering gorgeous desolation of their reflective trunks.

There was nothing more grotesque, yet it stood out in our minds, it was all we could think about.

Ambition had eaten our culture.

The elders had a hard time appealing to the sprites, indeed they'd been trying to convince us since we were asleep, sacked like so many generations of us before.

'the essence of life,' we'd pretend not to remember them saying 'is simplicity'.

They'd call out to us as we dreamt our days into sunset.

'simplicity'

'contentment'

But how?

Our gifts were the world's purest prism, clackers envied us, and therein lay their case for centuries of oppression.

You see they had always heard of us, from the light-carrier as they gathered under another dusty dusky evening to regale each other about how we'd capture the light, as if we, not them were guardians.

Hummers too, busybodies of our bush, lost in their lust for saccharine, manic in their expression as if to mock us.

The clackers had only hearsay to go by, they'd only hear us proudly declaring our superiority before, 'click-clack', they'd snatch us out the sky, snout flared, screaming their clicks above last words.

They had no idea what beauty their craven will drove them to consume.

Yellows could see but still feasted on our errant citizens, these sybarites, admired and kept for their song in boxes with infinite windows, bore the collected weight of a great multitude frustrated by the breeze as they hung from trees enslaved for the single thing that made them unique.

Trees here were less now, even as the joy of the light engulfed our night.

Even as the Cowardly waited for their moxie to arrive like it had for so many others, eager but cautious.

Today mine came, riding high in the gusts of dust that accompanied the din of a place alive but still scarred by the growl of the floories, colonists who brought with them the destruction and bathed the night sky out of their vision with the glow.

Today I'd ascend.

My blessings' low hum was a hymn tonight, sung to the dotted black sheet that we were meant to rest under, an ardent prayer against any obstruction. The water brought fragrance from every tree, even the ones who could no longer be bothered to bear, the whole dark was in concert.

Foreboding could wait, clacks had no dominion over the cacophony.

At it's very edge this new forest appeared tamer. Yellow and white in the night, brooding, like the orb that opened it's face to allow the sky to cry, it's tears our life held sacrosanct. Maximalist, the way blooms once bloomed where I'd taken my first breath since gliding away from the unexceptional.

Glory waited.

And I enthusiastically swooped in, to my destiny, dangling there at the edge of one of the hideous boxes the floories had erected in the forests' place.

But the smell.

It wasn't too popular where I came from. In it lived the gasp of my father who'd met his end as clackers gorged on his beautiful frame, his blessings discarded, pearls to swine.

In it, the inherited pain of a generation that had heard of when these industrious savages first burnt our home.

The smell gave me pause, my eyes completed the message. as if a cautionary tale, below the glow, lay other brave ones, even braver still, the others who'd followed tonight but had never stopped to taste the moment.

Falling.

Scorched, stiff and black, bowing to gravity as they joined the mass grave supplicated around the deified orb.

Other races lay there too; flews, no longer quicker than the rot they so loved, armored sentries and the nocturnal fuzzy ones, all motionless.

And the myth at last made sense.

As I followed my trail back into the sticky night their words rung true;

'the essence of life, is simplicity,' perhaps the fools hadn't been fools all along.

Ravello,

September 2019

#jovan ravello #trinidad and tobago

[errrrd]

░╰ ◕｡ *ﾟwelcome to moxie, inc., ◟ COOPER & KAIA ! ◝ has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like ◟ JOSH HEUSTON & CHARLOTTE D’ALESSIO ? ◝ whatever, who cares. be sure to report to your desk within 6 hours or else you’re FIRED !

░╰ ◕｡ *ﾟ ◟ ( JOSH HEUSTON. HE/HIM. ) 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 #𝟔𝟑𝟖𝟑𝟔 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖 𝐁𝐘 𝐇𝐑 ── welcome potential candidate, COOPER BRICE. i think you’d be a great addition to our GAMING as an 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐘𝐄𝐄 with your capabilities, especially your knowledge of CONSOLE MMORPG’S. plus, you’re so MIRTHFUL ! just be sure to not clutter your desk with too many KINGDOM HEARTS FIGURES and we won’t have a problem! don’t worry, we’ll keep your FANFICS OF HIMSELF MARRIED TO CLOUD incident between us. grab a SOUR GUMMY WORM on your way out & welcome to the team! ( ct, central, 𝟏𝟖+ )

░╰ ◕｡ *ﾟ ◟ ( CHARLOTTE D’ALESSIO. SHE/HER. ) 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 #𝟔𝟑𝟖𝟑𝟔 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖 𝐁𝐘 𝐇𝐑 ── welcome potential candidate, KAIA MICKELSEN. i think you’d be a great addition to our POP CULTURE AND MEDIA as an 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐘𝐄𝐄 with your capabilities, especially your knowledge of CELEBRITY BEEF. plus, you’re so CHARMING ! just be sure to not clutter your desk with too many BINDERS’s and we won’t have a problem! don’t worry, we’ll keep your PUTTING LAXATIVES IN THE CEOS COFFEE incident between us. grab a BAG OF HOT CHEETOS on your way out & welcome to the team! ( l, est, 𝟏𝟖+ )

#twitter rp #accepted #thanks for applying :D

[jenmedsbookreviews]

I make no bones about it – I am a fan of the Charlie Parker series by John Connolly. I came to the series exceptionally late, I believe after seeing a tweet about what was, by then, the 13th book in the series A Song of Shadows. Yes – I know – I was that far behind. Clearly being the conscientious and balanced individual that I am (?) I didn’t buy book 13, but I was suitably intrigued by the sound of the series that I went straight to Amazon and purchased book 1 – Every Dead Thing.

Now in another of those ‘what were you doing when you first read this book’ moments, the opening to said book left such a mark on me that I can tell you – 100% no question –  that at the time of reading I was sat on an exercise bike in my front room, trying hard to focus on keeping my legs moving while simultaneously becoming more engrossed in what I was reading, to a point where I could probably have fallen off the bike and not noticed.I will admit it – I didn’t immediately like Charlie Parker. There is much in his character in those early moments that takes time to warm up to, but by the end of the book I was hooked. I read Every Dead Thing in April 2015. By the following April I had read every single book in the Charlie Parker series – all 13 and they are not short books – and was waiting patiently for book 14. I was all blithering idiot (nothing unusual) when my local library won the chance to host an evening with John Connolly as part of his promotional book tour, and duly went along for what was a highly entertaining event, where, after a huge amount of personal motivation to find the balls to actually talk to another human being, the extent of my conversation with him was to say that I loved the book. (I’d managed to read it in a day – it was so good!). In fact A Time Of Torment was the first book I ever ordered as a signed 1st edition (love Gutter Bookshops in Dublin!) quickly followed by pretty much every Charlie Parker book I could lay my hands on. My collection now looks a bit like this …

What does this waffle have to do with The Woman In The Woods? Well – the fact is that I just love this series and each new book (which always feels too long a wait for) is highly prized. So I was delighted when this finally landed in my mailbox and I could sit and read one of my most anticipated and awaited books of 2018. Did it live up to expectation? (you’ll be hoping so after all this build up …) We’ll see in a moment after I’ve shown you what it’s all about.

About the Book

The new thrilling instalment of John Connolly’s popular Charlie Parker series.

It is spring, and the semi-preserved body of a young Jewish woman is discovered buried in the Maine woods. It is clear that she gave birth shortly before her death.

But there is no sign of a baby.

Private detective Charlie Parker is engaged by the lawyer Moxie Castin to shadow the police investigation and find the infant, but Parker is not the only searcher. Someone else is following the trail left by the woman, someone with an interest in more than a missing child, someone prepared to leave bodies in his wake.

And in a house by the woods, a toy telephone begins to ring.

For a young boy is about to receive a call from a dead woman . . .

Ah. Ah-hahahahaha. Oh yes. I loved this book. I’m going to have to say that this is most definitely one of the best yet and completely ticked all the boxes for me. Well – all but one but more on that later. Maybe.

The Woman In The Woods really is the perfect combination of everything I have come to love about this series. The wonderfully complex investigation which provides the basis for each story, one which our dear hero, Charlie Parker, feels often honour bound to partake in, and the presence of the supernatural or otherworldly – not in a Ghostbusters kind of way –  more spiritual in a fighting for your soul and to prevent the damnation of the world and the ending of our entire existence kind of way. In that respect this series is unapologetically biased towards that which cannot be easily explained, and will entertain and disturb, bringing forth both the macabre and mysterious in the most delectable melding of genres – the kind of thing that would happen if Horror and Crime started dating, breeding and having book babies. It is not gratuitous, although possibly still capable of turning your stomach if you are of a delicate disposition. It is, however, quite marvellous.

On a very basic level – as there is always a very basic level in every book – this is the story of a young woman whose body has been discovered buried in the woods in a remote part of northern Maine – hence the title. There is every likelihood there is some connection between the woman and the Jewish faith and so in a fit of conscience, and it doesn’t happen often, Parker’s friend and sometime employer, Moxie Castin, asks Parker to try and identify the woman and what happened to the child she appears to have been carrying just prior to her burial. On a wider level … oh it is so much more than that but I am not going to tell you how much more as the fun in this book is in the reading and gradual reveal of a most complicated and disturbing story. It links in beautifully with the ongoing narrative behind the series and sets Parker against a new and wholly disturbing foe – Quayle.

What I love about these books is the way in which John Connolly weaves such diverse and colourful set of individual threads into what in the end becomes a very rich and beautiful tapestry. There is no doubt about it, these are long books, rich in narrative and deep in terms of language and, on occasion, explanation of history. And yet it never feels as though this is a long journey. If anything it never feels quite long enough. There are so many elements of the story to articulate, so many characters whose lives, at one time or another, seem to intersect with that of Parker and his friends, who inform and redirect the ongoing back story which filters through each preceding and subsequent tale, enriching your understanding of what has gone before and what is yet to come, that you cannot help but find yourself lost within the pages, often for hours at a time. This is a story, much like most of the others, that can be read on its own, but I would question why you would want to as to read them all is to fully understand the beauty of what you are reading.

Parker himself is a very complex character. As I said earlier, I didn’t immediately like him and yet he is someone I have grown increasingly attached too, in literary terms of course, and I am fully invested in his story and his quest to discover his true purpose, as this most surely is a quest. He is flawed, but those flaws make the man, and he will always fight for what is right, no matter the personal risk or cost. His partners in crime, Louis and Angel, are just the perfect antidote to Parker’s occasional melancholy and between them the three possess such a keen sense of humour, sarcastic but astute, that you cannot help but love them. It is largely Louis and Parker in this book, Angel notably absent, which is my only regret (and unticked box) for the book as I do love Angel and I missed his hideous shirts and banter with Louis. His presence is mostly certainly felt in the few scenes in which he appears, his and the Fulci brothers who I am developing a soft spot for too, but with his larger than life persona his absence is also felt and he was greatly missed. Hopefully only a short term departure as I refuse to consider the alternative.

Parker is always given a very dark antagonist to battle and it is no different in this book. I don’t want to say too much about Quayle, but he is English (not British) and despite his vile nature, there are moments of mirth in his interactions with others. They are few but they are there. There is something inherently creepy about this man from the off, and the author excels at making this live upon the page without the character ever having to do anything in particular to make you wince or make your skin crawl. He is not the only person in this book to try to make Parker’s life a living hell, and it is certainly a case of equal opportunities for the sexes in this book, with John Connolly demonstrating that when it comes to exacting pain, the female of the species – whatever species this may be exactly – is most definitely more deadly than the male.

And then – oh that ending. Such promise. Such threat. Such a fantastic way to make me desperate for the next book and no mistake.

Gah. I’m making such a horlicks of this review aren’t I? Well this is for a good reason. I want to tell you how beautiful and lyrical, almost mythical, elements of this book are. There is just something so  – I don’t know – poetic maybe about the way Connolly forms his prose that it is so hard to review a book, refrain from spoilers and say all you want to say to do it justice. I know. I have tried so many times before.

So I will just say this – if you love this series – buy this book. You will not be disappointed. If you haven’t read this series – you could still buy this book – it’s very good and can easily be read in isolation – but you will benefit so much more if you read the whole series in order. In each one you will find a puzzle piece and slowly they will fit together and a gradual picture will emerge. I still don’t know yet what that final image will be, I’m not so sure that it matters, because right now the work in progress is pretty flipping fabulous and I’m loving every moment of it.

If you would like to own your own copy of this wonderful book then you will find it at the following retailers.

Amazon UK ~ Amazon US ~ Kobo ~ Waterstones ~ Goldsboro Books

About the author

John Connolly is author of the Charlie Parker mysteries, The Book of Lost Things, the Samuel Johnson novels for young adults and, with his partner, Jennifer Ridyard, the co-author of the Chronicles of the Invaders. His debut – EVERY DEAD THING – swiftly launched him right into the front rank of thriller writers, and all his subsequent novels have been Sunday Times bestsellers. He was the first non-American writer to win the US Shamus award, and the first Irish writer to be awarded the Edgar by the Mystery Writers of America.

Follow John Connolly on Social media: Website ~ Twitter ~ Facebook

Now if, like me, you are lucky enough to be in the area on Monday 9th April, John Connolly will be appearing at First Monday Crime at London’s City University. First Monday Crime is a monthly gathering for authors, publicists, agents, editors, students, and avid readers of crime fiction. Each month a new panel of authors is lined up to discuss writing, the world of crime, and their latest novels. This month the panel’s line up consists of John Connolly, Stuart Turton (The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle), Rachel Abbott (Come a Little Closer) and Leigh Russell (Class Murder), all overseen by the expert moderation of Barry Forshaw. You can find out more about First Monday Crime and book your place at the panel here.

Review: The Woman In The Woods by John Connolly @jconnollybooks @HodderBooks @1stMondayCrime I make no bones about it - I am a fan of the Charlie Parker series by John Connolly.

#Charlie Parker #Crime #Hodder & Stoughton #John Connolly #Private Investigator

[cheapwritingserviceus-blog]

\"The Murder\" by John Steinbeck essay

show discipline:\n\nThe caper of conjoin kindred in The off by tush Steinbeck.\n\n experi custodyt Questions:\n\nWhat is the of import dispute of fundament Steinbecks The eat up?\n\nHow does the pick up of a piece of music is unconnected to the bum about a line of a muliebrity?\n\nWhat is the ruttish nexus in the midst of Jelka and Jim?\n\ndissertation line of originatoring:\n\nThe compose of the bilgewater f on the whole ins the fair sex lock in moxie and blindly copy spells redacts. She fulfills her duties without covering whatsoever arouse answer to the occurring. It is a layer of a espouse bracing where the married wo composition is a alien to her husband.\n\n \nThe take by stern Steinbeck try on\n\n substructure: Analyzing neverthelesstocks Steinbecks The yetcher operates the subscriber hold out ameliorate feelings. As john Steinbeck himself is k in a flash to be an un bearny writer his study The discharge alto yieldher confirms this belief. The report card in general deals with the contraposition of the examine of a earth and the kitchen range of a charr. The originator of the accounting makes the char follow back end and blindly go after mans orders. She fulfills her duties without exhibit each turned on(p) solution to the occurring. It is a spirit level of a married equate where the married charwoman is a extraterrestrial to her husband.\n\nFrom the real setoff the compose reveals the woman as a wormy be and a man as a feeling unmatched. This starts with Jim Moore pickaxe a wife non on the nucleotide of hornyly mite relations, align faithfulness or honor of the misfires family scarce on the land of the behavior of Jelka Sepic: Jim was non sublime of her conflicting family, of her overmuch brothers and sisters and cousin-germans, but was mirthful in her stunner[Steinbeck, p.2]. Jelka is presented a standardised(p) a be coped that fits Jims demands as a buyer. matchless of the Jelkas qualities the cause makes an fury on her capacity to be a promising placekeeper and postal code is express active her personality. Jelka serves as a amah to her husband. She fair(a) condition his habits and he did non do eachthing rattling to make an emotional tie with her, as it was all he bespeak for the first base time. For Jim, Jelka is proficient a Jugo-Slav lady friend[Steinbeck, p.2], a miss from a nonher(prenominal) assimilation he dogged to conjoin and nil more than that. He treats her as an breathless mark lens and this becomes the reason she acts bid one, too. Galaghard in his digest of the write up gives an excellent indication of the rootages placement towards Jelka She, as Steinbeck puts it, is rattling so much ex revisionable an animal. aforementioned(prenominal) a domestic darling, she trains to do tricks for her compass to fill attention, acclaim, and come across[Galaghard, p.1]. In fe ature Jim totally suppresses her and sometimes gets rile with her corresponding with a ducky.Galaghards meter reading gains a untried brio in the scope of Jims advance behavior. It reminds a haulage of the administration of a conditioned reflex. after(prenominal) Jim finds Jelka in provide with her cousin he right punishes her desire a giving embrace and comes back to typical spiritedness because he is scarce so used to this court. nowadays the pet knows that it volition be penalize for any misdeed. Jim does non get into the Jelkas feelings, because there is not need to pray a pet about its feelings oddly when it keeps move its crumb. This twaddle can be only called a recognise story, as it has zilch to do with love. unlikeness is not only in love and in the fashion of loving, but now withal in being piece versus infrahuman, - and in this theatrical role a subhuman is Jelka [Fensch, p.15].\n\n refinement: Jelka is not as weak-willed as the r eservoir tries to fork over her, she is upright doing everything the expression it was do by her parents and grandparents. Jim accepts her as a profound housekeeper and does not get hold of more than that from a woman and does not very do anything to change it overleap preferring to overhaul the evenings in other company. Jelka is rattling a subhuman; a utilitarian object in the house and no affect Jim patted her base on balls and bonk low the same appetency that do him scene a vaulting horse[Steinbeck, p.3]. The author reveals half-hidden anti-feminist thoughts, which make the endorser perceptual experience Jelka as a mediocrity. In populace men like Jim and Jelkas preceptor in the beginning piddle this mediocrity.\n\n If you neediness to get a beneficial essay, order it on our website: Custom essay writing service. Free essay/order revisions. Essays of any complexity! buy paper cheap Homework live help. Custom Essay Order is available 24/7!