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kindaeccentric · 3 years

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When I was writing my university bachelor's degree thesis (that I'm still to defend) about Penny Dreadful as a modern adaptation of Frankenstein I noticed how the original novel's homoeroticism is realized by the series in an interesting way.

In the way he is presented, it seems to me that Victor secretly desires men, but thinks that only through creating a perfect one by himself he's allowed to touch other man's skin. His endeavour to pierce the veil between life and death is an excuse, since Victor from the series grew up lonely after the death of his mother and he searches for companionship, for someone who would love him unconditionally, like his mother used to. He believes he can find such love only in a person he creates himself, brings from the dead, and who would see him as his only friend, calm and obedient. Yet his first instinct is to make a man, not a woman, and a handsome man at that.

I can imagine both Rory Kinnear and Alex Price are not everybody's cup of tea (I do find them attractive, they are quite charismatic), but the way the original Creature and Proteus are shown makes them attractive. Proteus we see through Victor's eyes, when he is tending to his body before its even reanimated, when he sketches him (a sure sign of affection) and when he teaches him how to eat in a way that becomes seductive, because of how the camera lingers on his lips and then, in a closeup, on his fingers running down his long throat, immediately bringing to mind erotic imagery. Some may argue that Victor tries to emulate the relationship between his mother and himself taking the parental role and projecting onto Proteus the role of his childhood self, and as much as it is partially true, their relationship bears these marks of hidden desire on Victor's part from the start. The image at the end of the first episode when Proteus is born shows Victor trembling, teary-eyed, looking at the body, a torn and stitched back together, but human body, of a naked man. He's afraid, but not necessarily of the man, but of finally getting what he wanted, it's a fear resulting from excitement. Then the man is touching his face tenderly and Victor, still trembling, cannot stop himself from a little smile. Their faces are softly illuminated by the orange light of the gas lamp, creating an intimate atmosphere of a warm bedroom. Victor practically gasps hearing his own name smoken by Proteus. I doubt all of it was intentional in the way I read it, but it doesn't change the fact that the final scene can be easily interpreted this way.

Then the original Creature, with the violence surrounding his return, presents him as highly masculine, smart, powerful, a direct opposite to the delicate, clueless Proteus Victor could easily form into whatever he wanted. The Creature throughout the entire series is perceived as ugly by some and easily tolerated by others, making his ugliness purely subjective, since, despite his small deformities he remains strangely alluring with his gothic qualities (black long hair, black lips, white skin, yellow eyes, proportional features) of a dark brooding gentleman. With blood on his face he becomes vampire-like (vampires always a symbol of hidden desires and 'depraved' sexuality, the Creature and Victor becoming a mirror image of Vanessa and vampire Mina, both Creature's and Mina's monstrosity an indirect result of Victor's and Vanessa's desire towards having a same-sex companion). The Creature touches Victor's face, a callback to Proteus doing it, but the Creature is not gentle, he smears blood all over Victor's face (blood in vampire narratives was always a symbol for other bodily fluids, that's why it seems so sexy, it also gained another meaning in the 80s, due to the HIV epidemic, which no filmmaker can shake off if they tried, I could discuss it more with The Lost Boys, but no time for that right now).

The dynamic between Victor and the Creature is a reversal of Victor's budding relationship with Proteus, experience winning over innocence. Victor is under another man's rule, and it terrifies him, because it would force him into a position of having to admit his attraction, whereas as the one in control he could have still easily deny it. The Creature, with all his attributes, symbolizes carnal love, he's all 'body', where Proteus was virginal, pious love (to an extent). In one of the scenes where we see Proteus he looks up into the skylight at Victor's apartment and appears angelic, as if in a halo of white light.

It's revealed Victor never had a woman, and the series wants the viewer to believe it's because of his awkwardness and passion for science that consumed him, but his dedication to creating himself male companions instead of searching for a living female one is exactly what makes him seem more queer coded.

It's clear that the lack of paternal figure results in Victor quickly becoming close with older men he encounters (Sir Malcolm, Van Helsing), but it also puts him into a position where he's constantly surrounded by men, with whom he feels more at ease, and is intimidated by women. The rivalry between him and Ethan is that of siblings, until the moment when Ethan teaches him how to shoot a gun. It might be a stretch (it is a bit of a stretch, I admit), but a gun often, especially in horror, alongside a knife, represents manhood and masculine power. Victor allows Ethan to touch him and encourages him to show off with the gun, which is a scene all too familiar from many other movies where the role of Victor is reserved for a woman and the interaction is flirtatious (can't pull examples out of thin air, but if you saw over 1400 movies like me you know I'm not lying). All this adds to the general image of Victor.

The Creature and Victor, when they are on a walk, have a very revealing conversation in which the Creature points out how quick Victor was to grow attached to his more perfect man, and Victor doesn't deny it, he admits that he did in fact feel affection towards Proteus, although the meaning of it as the scorned past partner expressing jealousy over the love he didn't get while someone else did is largely subtext. When the Creature says that he's lonely, Victor answers 'I cannot love you' (paraphrase, because I can't find the exact quote right now) and the Creature, disillusioned, mocks him, 'I do not want what you cannot give' suggesting that Victor, by making himself a meek obedient man, is selfish, cruel, manipulating, and a coward, therefore could not have loved Proteus truly. Then again, Victor cannot bring himself to love his original Creature, because he's not the ideal man he envisioned and by then the Creature being too aware of his flaws of character. The Creature/Caliban/John Clare knows that Victor is 'monstrous', not just because he's someone who desecrates dead bodies, plays God and abandons his creation, but because of his queer desire. It's important that in the case of Penny Dreadful 'monstrosity' signifies many different things, literal (being a vampire werewolf, witch, and so on), metaphorical (bad deeds, like letting your son die a horrible death, cheating, killing etc.) and wholy subjective, merely condemned by ignorant society (Sembene's blackness, Brona's sex work, Lily's want to be equal or greater than men, Vanessa's want for sexual freedom, the Creature's ugliness, Angelique being transgender and other cases), so it's NOT that much of a stretch this time.

We also have the whole problem with Lily. Victor is so attached to Lily (who takes up both Elizabeth's and creature's bride parts in the novel) because he believes that only by possessing a good woman he'll be redeemed for his 'sinful' desires, but he's foolish to think that. This belief reduces a woman to a semi-maternal, semi-virginal angelic ideal with no sexual urges or agency, like virgin Mary. Lily is a true replacement for Victor's mother, and his imagined redemption. As long as she's similar to Proteus, in that she's not sexual, and pure like an angel. Yet Lily is not a woman in that sense. She is another of Victor's creatures, so she partially also takes over the role of the original Creature from the novel, a male. She's not an ideal of a Victorian obedient wife, she has power, or tries to have it, but power in the context of patriarchal society is masculine by nature. The moment she drops her pretenses of a weak delicate wife-like girl Victor does not want her like this. He doesn't want a woman that is sexually liberated, because he doesn't like women in this way, and yet, by being similar to the first Creature (from Victor's perspective, from hers John Clare is similar to Victor-a man, I could delve into Brona's sexuality, but later, this thing is already way longer than I intended) she's 'the man' he wanted.

There is also Henry. Henry Jekyll takes the role of his namesake in the novel, Henry Clerval, Victor's closest friend, and a character most often cited to have homoerotic tension with Victor. It's true that some of the eroticism might be accidental, stemming from the prevalence of homosocial interactions in 'Frankenstein' which in turn is a result of misogynistic nature of 19th century Genevian society and in-novel universe reflecting it, but like I mentioned before, it still feeds into the queer reading of the text and translates beautifully into Jekyll and Victor being both extremely misogynistic towards Lily and their mutual homoerotic tension. In the scenes where Henry purposes his plan to Victor he practically seductively purrs it into his ear, Lily becomes merely a female buffer that allows for that interaction, a female presence which is an excuse for male closeness (here I have a couple of examples actually: Dead Ringers, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Scream (in a roundabout way, through murder) and a couple others, but that deserves its own article). I won't even mention more references to the novel, because that's a lot already.

Penny Dreadful, although I believe largely unintentionally, expands on what is already there through the changes it introduces in relation to the novel's plot. I have nothing else smart to say, I just think it's worth considering.

*I use the word 'queer', because that's the umbrella term we use in academic writing for years now and even our lgbt+ group at university is called 'queer', so don't come at me with stupid takes

#Penny Dreadful #queer readings #Frankenstein #Victor Frankenstein #lily frankenstein

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kob131 · 4 years

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https://rwdestuffs.tumblr.com/post/625369121618640896/done-dirty-gods

I’d like to make the point that the light god, the dude who killed Oz repeatedly and abused Salem to the point that she became the villainous being that we know today, is somehow on the “Heroes Wiki.”

You know, not like she demanded special treatment, tried going behind his back and tried to destroy him and his brother all because she demanded that the cycle of death not apply to who she wants.

Because I guess abusers are heroes now.

Says the creator of the ‘Savivor Mom Raven’ series.

Oh, and also, I HAD TO USE GODDAMN SOUTH PARK AS PART OF MY OPENER!

Incorrectly might I add as both the Light and Dark gods are not portrayed as directly opposing each other. So you’re mad you ‘had’ to use a show’s meme...incorrectly.

Let’s get this out of the way for any of idiots out there: Salem was NOT responsible for Humanity 1.0′s death. She may have provoked these two asshats, but she wasn’t the one who

1: Loaded the gun.

2: Aimed the gun.

3: Fired the gun.

By the same logic, people say Yang murdered Adam. How does that go with you again?

What did Salem do?- She just stood up to them and, inadvertently, gave them a target.

She directly lied to the first iteration of humanity after being punished for lying to the gods and being directly told she shouldn’t have done that all over demanding her husband be brought back to life even though God knows how many people die and aren’t brought back by the gods despite having just as much reason to want them back as Salem.

As far as I’m concerned, these gods were the villains of the story, and what I wouldn’t give to see Yang punch one of them in the face.

Probably because it’s a penis vs. vagina for you.

When making these “Godly” characters, it’s okay to give them flaws. In fact, that’s what makes the Greek Gods, Norse Gods, Japanese Gods, and Egyptian Gods so interesting. They have flaws, weaknesses, and more relatable personality aspects that makes it seem like we could have the guy responsible for the ocean’s tides as our next door neighbor, or the adorable little dog across the street as the one responsible for the sun coming up… and beating up a fish in a giant mech suit. Goddamn, I want to play Okami again.

I got off-topic. The point is, is that it’s okay for these Gods to give flawed advice… Provided that they gave advice at all.

See, Light God was insensitive to Salem’s plight, and in all likelihood, used the same rhetoric that her father used to lock her up in that tower as an excuse to just brush her off.

Salem: (falling to her knees) Please... Please, bring him back to me.

God of Light: I understand your pain, but you demand of me that which I cannot make so. Life and death are part of a delicate balance.

Such terrible rhetoric.

BTW, funny how you mention the Greek Gods. You want to know what the role of most Greek Gods are in their home myths?

Living Embodiments of Punishing Pride.

Helena Of Troy’s mother, Narcassist and Echo, Odysseus, Arachne, Midas-

Most of the targets of the gods were people who dared to act arrogant and like they were better/deserved more with the Gods smiting them for their fatal sin. Even the Gods themselves weren’t exempt from this, as many of them fell prey to their own pride and arrogance with the few (mostly) unscathed Gods being that way because they were significantly less prideful. Fuck, the Greek Gods came to be because Chronos was so cocky he could just eat his kids that it never occurred to him that his wife Rhea would trick him.

In fact, an always noteworthy story I remember was the tale of Orpheus and Euradyice, where a man traveled to the Underworld using his musical talents and demanded to have his wife brought back to life. It ALMOST didn’t work but he was just able to convince Hades on the condition that he not turn back on his way home. Spoiler Alert, he did out of a lack of faith in Hades, his wife WAS following him but he lost her because of it.

I bring this up because the Greek Gods were the INSPIRATION for the Brothers and I’d bet dollars to donuts that Orpheus’ tale was the inspiration for Salem and Ozma. You try to act like you know something about these things but completely ignore that hubris, the thing that fucked Salem over, was a running theme in the source of her backstory.

So when Salem goes to Dark God, and he does fulfill her request, it’s honestly like Salem is now picking a side. Except, it turns out that Dark God actually has to answer to the Light God.

God of Light: I know we have our differences, but I have not come here with the aim to control you. The same, however, cannot said for her. This woman came to you only after I denied her pleas – pleas that would have disrupted the balance that you and I created. Together.

The younger brother ponders this revelation.

God of Darkness: Then it seems I owe you an apology. Allow me to correct my mistake.

No he doesn’t. But nice cut context.

Does the relationship between the gods seem… manipulative to anyone? Like… The Light God (Fuck it, let’s call him “Lumin” for now, I’m not typing out that whole thing) is abusive to his brother?

Considering what I quoted above- Nope.

Acording to… I think it was Qrow, possibly in a WOR, the Dark God (Let’s call him “Ebon” because that’s a badass name, and I’m honestly not in the mood for “Light = Good, Dark = Evil” to be the underlying theme here) made his creations first. then Lumin was all “I can make something too!” and made humans to one-up his brother.

RWBY Volume 4 Episode 8 “A Much Needed Talk”

Qrow: They were two brothers. The older sibling, the God of Light, found joy in creating forces of life. Meanwhile, the younger brother, the God of Darkness, spent his time creating forces of destruction. As you can imagine, they both had pretty different ideas about how things should go. The older one would spend his days creating water, plants, wildlife. And at night, his brother would wake to see all the things that the elder had made and become disgusted. To counteract his brother's creations, the God of Darkness brought drought, fire, famine, all he could do to rid Remnant of life. Life always returned. So one night, the younger brother went and made something - something that shared his innate desire to destroy anything and everything.

Ruby: The creatures of Grimm.

Qrow: You guessed it. The older brother finally had enough. Knowing that their feud couldn't last like this forever, he proposed that they make one final creation... together, something that they could both be proud of, their masterpiece. The younger brother agreed. This last great creation would be given the power to both create and destroy. It would be given the gift of knowledge, so that it could learn about itself and the world around it. And most importantly, it would be given the power to choose, to have free will to take everything it had learned and decide which path to follow - the path of light or the path of darkness. And that is how Humanity came to be.

You misrepresent the show AND got it backwards. The God of Light created things first, then The God of Darkness and Humanity was a joint project.

Why should we consider you at all reliable, especially given how easy it would be to research this?

Like… Does that at all seem healthy to you?

No in fact, The God of Darkness is kind of a jackass. But nice job portraying your delusions as the exact opposite dumbass.

But regardless of that relationship, Lumin basically acted like that one abusive parent who destroys all of the child’s toys just because they went to the other parent to do something that the first parent was callous in denying them to do. Sorry if that brought up any bad memories for people.

More like they took the toy away when the child tricked the other parent into buying it even though the first said no.

Not to mention the relics. Outside of their purpose to resummon the gods, they don’t really do much. But these are literal artifacts left behind by said gods.

Plus, Lumin give Oz an impossible task of uniting humanity. It’s like he wants Oz to fail because he just wants an excuse to wipe them all out again.

How is it impossible when Humanity was united BEFORE SALEM?

Lumin treats humankind as an “experiment gone wrong” as if he’s just playing with peoples’ lives for his own amusement. If anything, Ebon is more sympathetic because he actually listens to their problems and wants to help them out.

Yeah-

The God of Darkness created the Grimm that make Remnant such a horrible place to live and was the one that killed all of humanity.

God of Darkness: My own gift to them... used against me.

The God of Light looks away in disappointment as the God of Darkness squeezes the sphere within his hand, creating a massive shockwave that envelops the world, smiting everything and everyone in its path. Humanity has been turned to dust, only Salem remains due to her immortality.

How is he more sympathetic?

Meanwhile Lumin is all “Sucks that your man died. Now get out.” at best.

We get it- You’re delusional.

Let’s take a look at another set of flawed gods in the form of The Norse Pantheon. Namely, Odin, Loki, and Thor. In myth, these guys were all given tasks that were basically impossible. Thor was tasked with drinking the ocean, and failed. Odin wrestled with time, and was brought down. And Loki lost an eating contest to fire. These flaws and weaknesses in regards to their hubris are part of them.

Meanwhile, Apollo lost a love to Eros because he said that he couldn’t shoot as well as him but I guess you’d assume Eros was the bad guy.

I mentioned this briefly in my “Done dirty: Oz” post, but Oz was basically brought back to cause conflict. Because… I guess Lumin was bored?

Or you know- a second chance to have the gifts of the Brothers again.

But the narrative wants people to see that Lumin and Ebon are “All good. All caring. And all knowing.”

Which is a load of bullshit. The narrative tries to paint Salem as some unsympathetic witch who couldn’t let go. When…

1: The woman was abused and locked in a tower until Oz came to rescue her.

2: She was willing to fight God to get him back. If anything, that shows true love. If you want my opinion, if you’re not willing to deck a deity in the nose for your loved one, then you don’t care about them (Take that, Abraham. Willing to sacrificing your own son just because your God told you to. Bet you wouldn’t see that from Amaterasu).

1. Doesn’t matter. There have to be people living just as bad if not WORSE than Salem and lost loved ones- it’s literally the rules EVERYONE has to abide by.

2. No, she tried to fight two gods because she was pissy. She never tried to fight them until AFTER lying to the God of Darkness and lead people to their deaths. All in the name of a legendary HERO, someone who WOULDN’T want to be brought back after all this death.

What I’m saying is that these gods are detached. Which would be an interesting aspect if the narrative had bothered to show that as being a bad thing.

So were the Greek Gods. Not the point of either one.

Then again, this is all being told by Jinn, a creation of the Gods (Namely Lumin). So maybe there’s some bias in there where they’re trying to make Salem out to be irredeemable while the gods are the undisputed good guys- and holy SHIT!- Jinn’s in on the gaslighting.

i mean… I still want everyone to eventually realize that Salem was gaslighted into being the villain of the story. because that sounds way better than the “Abused woman lashes out and becomes evil” angle that they seem to be going at.

Yeah and Adam was branded. Guess that means you think Adam was in right to chop off Yang’s arm then.

Funny thing there- You literally can’t redeem Adam OR Salem and keep the other evil without looking hypocritical because they committed the SAME FUCKING SINS.

But given the writers’ ability to handle racism (or lack thereof), I don’t exactly have a lot of confidence in this.

Way to reference the plotline with the walking counter example in it.

Then again, the did call her Salem…

… But also again, they did write the WF plot as that horrible mess…

But they also looked into a lot of fairy tale aspects for their characters…

While you didn’t do a lick of research or else you’d know the shit about the Greek Gods.

Then again, you couldn’t even be bothered to confirm the shit about the Brothers even as you openly say ‘I don’t remember this clearly.’ So what really should I expect?

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agonizingjest · 3 years

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The Tellstales Heart - E.A. Poe Parody

Yes, I’m annoyed. Ridiculously annoyed I had been, and still am; but mad, you say? You’d think putting up with those terrible stories would dull my senses to reality, but no -- rather, it has destroyed my imagination. Above all, it destroyed my ability to think about anything decent. As a philosophy major, I have considered heaven and earth. I have thought of hell, but those tales put me through it. Listen! I’m going to tell you what happened, and it’s going to have an actual damn POINT to it.

It’s not easy to put into words how the idea first entered my mind; but once I thought it, I could think of nothing else. There was nothing I wanted, I couldn’t feel anymore. Sure, I loved the old geezer. He had been a nice enough fellow. He’d always been supportive. He didn’t have money, and if he had, I wouldn’t have wanted it. It was his storytelling! Yup, definitely that. He had the wit of a goat -- his stories were drawn out, his characters were flat, his grammar was atrocious, and his plots, oh don’t even get me started on his ambiguous, dry, tangled, boring plots! Whenever he would start telling me a tale, I would have to zone out for hours; and then -- over time -- I decided that I had to kill him, to put an end to his rancid taste in words.

So here’s what I’m getting at. You think I’m crazy. Insane, out of my mind. But you should have heard what I had to put up with. You should have witnessed how well I tuned out that blathering idiot -- how hard I worked to stay awake through his -- how tough--how immensely difficult it was to pull this off. I was so patient with the old fart and his awful stories for the whole week before I finally shut him up. Every night, from around eight until midnight, I’d sit next to his bed and let him disappoint me with his flat works of fiction. Then, after he’d finished his tale of an orphaned boy who lost his parents to a murderous pyromaniac and went on to become the world’s fastest swimmer after having given up at becoming a figure skater, or the tale of a mouse who befriended a cat and travelled across the Great Wall of China in a post-apocalyptic world in search of the last samurai in order to -- well, you get the point. I let him tell me these tales and I pretended, with oh such difficulty, to enjoy them, and over time, I even started to act them out as he told them. Oh, you would have laughed to see how I acted out a little girl who found a lost, rusty bicycle and rode it every day until she was an old, decrepit woman, and was seen by a handsome young prince who claimed it was his when he was a child (which, yes, I already know doesn’t make sense in terms of how time works) and who married her for finding his lost childhood bike and his magic kiss turned her young again. It was awful. Yet, I acted every step out, fooling the old man into thinking I was just so caught up in his tales that I couldn’t help but to react in such a jolly way. It took hours of sweat and misplaced modifiers and lack of originality and gaping plot holes to convince the guy I was actually enjoying it. Ha! Anybody with a mind less keen than my own would have cracked under the pressure, if not the appalling prose. And every night, every night after being afflicted with awful anecdotes, after the old fart talked himself tired, he would take his book (self printed, of course, since not the most desperate of publishers would dare touch his work), tuck it under his pillow, and snore, unaware of his disgrace, his lack of attention to detail or originality, his non sequiturs and nasty narratives. For seven long nights I listened to his crap, and it was impossible to do the work; see, it wasn't the old man himself that vexed me, but his stories, his words, his evil writings.

And so, after every night of this nonsense, as he slept, I crept back into his room and slithered toward his bed. I slid his book out from under the pillow and cautiously, oh so cautiously (for the book sleeve crumpled) -- scribbled out the pages with a marker, one by one, ever so slowly, to seal those lousy words from innocent eyes. I did this for seven long nights -- there were a lot of pages, you see. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into his room, spoke to him in a courageous manner, calling him by name in a tone so hearty, and inquiring as to whether he dreamt any dreams -- boorish cliches of dreams, no doubt, if a mind so simple as his could dream even any dreams. So you see he would have been a very profound old coot, indeed, to suspect that every night, at the witching hour, I looked upon him with hatred while I destroyed his work. But he had committed them all to memory, his horrible stories, and never did see the inside of that hardcover monstrosity.

On the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than mine did. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers -- of my keen mental judgement. I could hardly contain my feelings of triumph. I had rid the world of his book. But in that triumph, I knew, with his book no longer readable, the tales he told existed in but one place, still looming over me. His mind. His dull, dreary mind. To think that there I was, opening his door, bit by bit, and he couldn’t even dream of my secret deeds or thoughts -- no, he definitely wasn’t creative enough for that. Which is why I had to snuff out that mundane mind. I chuckled lightly at the idea; and maybe he heard me, because he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back -- but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (you see, he had blackout curtains, to block out the bright city lights), and so I knew that he couldn’t see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it, steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to do the deed, when my thumb slipped from the handle and the doorknob clicked and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out -- “whoozit eh what?” I kept quite still, obviously, and said nothing. For a whole hour I didn’t move a muscle, but in the meantime I didn’t hear him lie back down. No, no, he was still sitting up in his bed, listening; just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to his damn crappy stories.

Suddenly I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror, not of pain or of grief. It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. The groan of a total wuss! I knew the sound well. Far too often, just after sunset, when all the world readied for sleep, it has swelled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terror of seeing that old codger walk toward me, book in hand, ready to lay upon he is ill-written words wrecked terror upon my mind. Oh yes, I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him -- although not really. Sorry not sorry and all that. Yes, I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. I knew his fears had been growing and growing ever since then. He’d been trying to imagine them as no cause for concern, but his imagination, weak as it was, could not do so. He was probably trying to say to himself -- “It’s nothing but the wind in the chimney, maybe a mouse on the floor. Or heck, maybe it was just a cricket that chirped, like, one time and one time only, right?” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these thoughts; but he had found them all in vain. All in vain, because Death, in approaching him, had stalked his black shadow before him; death had enveloped him, the victim. And it was the mournful influence of that unperceived shadow of Death that caused the uncreative old man to feel -- though he had neither seen nor heard -- to feel the presence of my head within his room.

(Typical. Absolutely no skill when it comes to writing, but an acute spatial awareness of his surroundings. Gosh, this man choked me -- not, obviously, literally in the way I planned to choke him, but... well, you get the picture.)

Anyway, after I’d waited a long while, very patiently I might add, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to push open only slightly -- very, very slightly the corner of the curtain next to the door. So I pushed it aside -- you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily -- until, at length a tiny ray of nighttime light pollution, like the thread of a… I don’t know, neon spider? (Ugh, his inability to create basic similes or metaphors is rubbing off on me.) Anyway, a tiny thread of light, just enough for my eyes to adjust and see his silhouette, fell upon him as he was -- I just cannot believe this -- writing. Yes, apparently I had been waiting there for hours, unmoving, barely breathing, thinking he was all paranoid and attentive, when really he was just night-writing. IN THE DARK! Who even does that? Jotting down ideas for his next incohesive instalment of story-time drudgery -- and I grew furious as I gazed upon the sight. I knew without a doubt he was coming up with a bunch of ridiculous ideas that have nothing to do with each other, his pen scribbling out more and more nonsense onto the page, a dull, blue-ink stream of terrible writing, the idea of which chilled the very marrow in my bones; it was all I could focus on, that damned pen in his damned hand, writing in that damned notebook, his damned awful ideas! And didn’t I mention to you that what you mistake for madness is merely over-awareness of this godawful writing? Yes, I majored in philosophy, but I also minored in creative writing, so it’s not just that I personally didn’t like his writing, but I knew, from a technical standpoint, that it wasn’t merely unenjoyable, but also just… just really, really bad! Now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull sound. Despite its softness, it was not unlike the deafening chirp of spring cicadas, enveloping the entire atmosphere for hours upon hours, in just a few moments of his mumblings. It was the old man muttering his ideas out loud as he wrote them, just as horrid in their first draft dribble dripping monotonously from his mouth as they become in their final draft. This heightened my rage as the dripping of a leaky faucet in an otherwise silent room drives a man’s mind to unrest.

But like, seriously, this guy’s prattling is way worse, because on top of his voice just sounding outright awful, there are the words -- which, by this point, I don’t have to tell you again are just -- oh but I will -- they’re the worst! The absolute worst!

But despite my inner turmoil, I refrained and kept still. I barely breathed. I stood motionless, steadily holding the curtain so as not to draw attention to myself, to burn into memory exactly where his pen was, how it slid on the paper, writing that filth, that garbage, as the hellish hand moved quicker and quicker, and his mumbling grew louder, yet more incomprehensible.

I continued to stay still, though. I didn’t move a muscle. I barely even breathed. Completely motionless. I was completely still. Through all that, the old man kept mumbling. In fact, he started mumbling faster. Like he was hoping writing some crap down on paper would calm him down or something, I guess; and apparently he can’t write without murmuring out loud to himself. His creative muscle, had he even one in his entire body, must have been straining. The scribbling of his pen grew faster. At such a pace, the flow and syntax of his words must have been extremely messy. And yet the ferocity of his writing grew harsher, I say, harsher every moment! -- I told you I was nervous, right? Well, I was. Still am. But seriously, at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of this old house, so annoying the noise that was his scribbling and mumbling excited me to uncontrollable irritation. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the mumbling and scribbling grew louder, louder! I thought he’d rip through the paper with how aggressively he was writing. And suddenly a new fear came up -- the fear of what another of those rancid stories being finished, being fully brought to reality, what it would do to my very soul. I was very much personally offended by how bad these were. Seriously. If you read one, you’d understand. But don’t. No, really, don’t read one. Don’t subject yourself to that type of torture. Trust me.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, the story. I couldn’t have him finish it. So then, I decided, the old man’s hour had come. With a loud yell, I threw open the door and leapt into the room. He shrieked once -- just once. In an instant, I ripped the writing utensils from his hand and dragged him to the floor, then suffocated him with his own pillow, keeping from him the air like he, with his horrid stories, had snuffed the light from my very soul. I smiled, knowing the mumbles I heard through the pillow must not have been the tellings of terrible tales, but the sounds of muffled terror. This didn’t vex me, because I couldn’t make out any poorly-chosen words; and, of course, because that’s totally what he gets for instilling within me the terror of both poetry and prose. For turning fiction into some sort of severe psychological torture. Seriously. Like bad-writing ptsd or something. I just can’t even. But, like all things, it eventually came to an end. The old fart was dead. I removed the pillow and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon his heart and held it there for a while. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His stories would bother me no more.

Look, if you still think I’m mad, you won’t think so after I tell you about all the wise precautions I took in concealing the body. The night went on, and I worked quickly, but silently. First things first, I dismembered the corpse. I removed the head and arms and legs. And to top it all off, I cut out his heart and stuffed it into his blabbering mouth. Eat your heart old, oh man. Hah! Then I took the book, that bloody awful book, and stuffed it into a bag with the head. Even with its pages unreadable, I wanted the damn thing out of my sight. Anyway, then I took up a few floorboards -- they’re mahogany, you know -- and stuff his, uh, parts, right under there. Then I replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out -- no stain of any kind -- no blood-spot whatsoever. What, you think I don’t know how to lay out a tarp? Not to mention I used the tub. Anyway, when I was done all that, it was about four o’clock. Still dark. But then, right on the dot, just as the old grandfather clock chimed, there was a knocking at the door. Pretty coincidental timing, eh? I knew I was in the clear, so I went down and opened it with a light heart. Three cops. Apparently someone heard the old bugger’s shriek and called it in. Annoying. But hey, I had nothing to fear; like I said before, they couldn’t have found anything. I let them in, even though they didn’t have a warrant. No need to raise suspicion. I smiled and told them the shriek was mine -- night terrors. The old man, I said, was out of town. I gave them a once-over of the whole apartment, told them to check out whatever they wanted. Eventually, we got to the old man’s room. I showed them that all his stuff was undisturbed. Being a little overly enthusiastic, I must admit, in my confidence, I dragged in some chairs and told them to take a load off. I had the audacity of my perfect triumph to actually sit right on top of where I hid the old victim’s corpse. Yup, right there.

The cops were satisfied. I’d convinced them with my manners. I was completely at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted openly. But before long, I felt myself getting pale, and wanted them gone (ACAB, after all). I had a headache, and there was a ringing in my ears. Yet, still they sat and chatted away. The ringing got worse. It went on and one, louder and more distinct. I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling, but it continued and gained definiteness -- until, at length, I realized that the noise wasn’t in my ears. Now I was getting really pale -- I talked more fluently, and slightly louder. But the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was a low, dull, aggravating sound -- like the sound of neighbours chatting through poorly insulated walls. No, no, not neighbours chatting. That old man, telling his stories, reading them out from beyond the grave, through the floor. I gasped, but the officers didn’t hear it. I spoke more quickly -- more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I got up and started ranting about trifling things, high pitched and with passionate gestures; but the noise kept increasing. Why the heck wouldn’t it stop? I walked back and forth quickly, almost as if I was getting frustrated by the cops’ observations -- and that noise still kept getting louder. Oh gods! I could almost make out the words. I could almost visualize him writing out poorly planned passages right there in the space under us. What could I do? I ranted, raved, swore! I flipped over the damn chair I’d been sitting on, and grated it along the floor, but the noise was everywhere, continually getting louder and faster. Louder and louder and louder! And still, the cops chatted pleasantly, and smiled. How the heck couldn’t they hear it? No, wait. Yeah, of course they heard it! --They suspected! --They knew! --They were mocking me, making fun of my horror. I thought so and I still think so. But honestly, anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this mockery! I couldn’t take it anymore, those hypocritical smiles! I knew I had to say something or die! And now -- again! --listen! Louder! Louder! Louder!

“Villains!”I I shrieked, “enough of this sham! I admit it! --Tear up the planks! Here, here! --It is the bothersome blabbering of his hideous head!”

#edgar allan poe #poe #short story #fanfic #fan fiction #story #literature #creative writing #writing #writing community #telltale heart #fiction #short fiction #parody #storytelling #comedy #dark comedy #murder

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bronanlynch · 3 years

Text

recent media consumption summary time

could’ve sworn the last one was only two weeks ago but apparently it was three. sorry for becoming unmoored from the passage of linear time

listening: you know when you use a song lyric as a fic title and then you get that song stuck in your head for the next week? anyway Whirlpool by Sea Wolf sure is a song that I enjoy and also have had stuck in my head for a week. I feel like I should have smarted musical things to say here but I like Sea Wolf, they’re nice to listen to, they’re sad man with guitar music without being identical to every other sad man with guitar band

reading: finished my reread of Crooked Kingdom by Leigh Bardugo, and my main thought this time around is that I love Kaz with my whole entire heart. also love a good multi-layered heist scheme. also also Wylan/Jesper is cute but I do think they don’t get nearly as much relationship development as the two m/f couples and like, I really like these books but that is very much a trend especially in sff YA these days

also finished Lord Seventh (Qi Ye) by Priest and. god I love the characters so much. a friend group can just be a bunch of horrible gay people pining for each other and betraying each other in order to save each other’s lives. extremely tasty. also,

(I would say that missed opportunity is my one complaint but like. my actual main complaint is that as much as I love the characters, I think that if the racism in your text is blatant enough that I, a white american with very little knowledge of the specific racial coding happening can pick up on it, then it’s uh. probably pretty blatant and that’s Not Great)

also did some pride month impulse purchases at my local indie bookstore, including Molly Knox Ostertag’s The Girl from the Sea, a lesbian selkie graphic novel, which did so many things to my heart. first of all the art is so pretty

second of all, I too have been lonely and starting to realize that I’m gay while living in a beach town with a summer tourism economy, drifting apart from a friend group that I didn’t feel like I was part of and wishing I was literally anywhere else even though I loved the ocean. third of all, gay selkies

also read The Witch King by H.E. Edgmon which I enjoyed even though I am definitely not the target audience for first person present tense novels, even if those novels are portal fantasies about fae power struggles and arranged marriages. I really enjoyed the three main characters and their relationships, and the worldbuilding was fun, though the twist at the end (and lots of parts of the ending tbh) felt a little bit abrupt to me. also, and this is a personal thing, but someday I would love to read a fantasy novel with a transmasc character that actually feels like it reflects my experiences. I guess that’s part of the problem with looking for this in YA, but that’s where I tend to see transmasc protagonists so here I am. anyway, valid for anyone but especially trans teens to want to read a narrative about someone being loud and open about their identity but that’s not my experience. which I think is why I tend to construct my own trans narratives around characters who like, aren’t canonically trans but have themes about lying and hiding and being defensive about their image because *that’s* a trans experience I actually relate to.

I’ve started In Deeper Waters by F.T. Lukens, which is not a book I intended to buy but 1) look at the cover

2) I am weak for gay people on the sea. it’s fun so far, I’m not expecting any sort of in-depth anything about royal power but it’s cute and light and I’m having a good time. my main complaint is again a personal thing, which is not actually a complaint about the book itself and more about twitter discourse about how there should never be homophobia in sff that takes place in different worlds and how we’ve had enough of that so everything should take place in a world where it’s fine and normal to be queer. and again, that’s fine! I do enjoy books like that! I am currently enjoying a book like that! but again, I have a harder time relating to characters whose queerness isn’t mediated by fear the way mine is (this book sidesteps that by making the main character a very anxious person, which helps increase the relatability, but also. there’s this whole thing about how people distrust him and there are rumors about his ~perversion and yeah it’s about his secret hidden magic but. felt very weird to have that set-up and then not have homophobia play any part in the way other people talk about him, y’know? like please, stigmatized magic as a parallel for stigmatized sexuality is Right There)

watching: finished Nirvana in Fire and am having lots of normal and moderate emotions about it. belongs in my mental categories of “media I want to consume over and over again and take it apart and figure out how to write like that” and also “things I want to rewatch when I have enough energy to appreciate it” because I do think if I weren’t so tired these days I could’ve tried to have predictions instead of waiting for the characters to explain their plans to me, as much as I do love it when attractive people smirk at the screen and monologue about their schemes

also watched most of Castlevania season 4 (I have 3 episodes left) and it’s. well. it’s not Good but it’s a lot better than season 3. however, I only care about a few of the plotlines and everything else is kinda boring. I like Alucard’s plotline and I like Greta and I liked the two scenes where Hector and Isaac interacted and I liked the vampire lesbians deciding that being gay was more important to them than doing war crimes. cannot be bothered to care about anything else though, especially St. Germain. more importantly, Alucard’s new look fucks. love the whole cape + tits out thing.

finally got around to watching the end of the first season of Elementary and once again, I enjoy it when people explain complicated plans to me. love a good mystery. also, predictably, I’m in love with Moriarty. her first two dates with Sherlock are about art forgery and Roman artifacts in the London sewers, how was I supposed to *not* fall in love with her. also every time she interacts with Joan after the reveal has extremely homoerotic energy. ladies is it gay to become psychosexually obsessed with a woman who outplotted you

also, very importantly, my roommate realized I’d never seen Tsubasa OVAs, and they sure are an experience. I read the entire manga in like two days in a fugue state last winter and remember very little of the plot of the second half of the story, so the second OVA which is like. a random section of the late plot was kind of a lot to try to process at once, though I do appreciate one of the main ships doing a Gift of the Magi thing except instead of selling treasured possessions to get each other gifts they’re sacrificing parts of themselves. however the first one is my favorite arc, because it should not surprise anyone that the post-apocalyptic vampire arc is my favorite. also, I don’t need to remember the actual plot to remember and appreciate how much of an Eliot-core character Fai is. look at him. prettyboy ice wizard pretending to be flirty and performatively useless to hide his trauma. also he’s a vampire. he sets off the cosplay and gender envy parts of my brain so much

playing: nothing new since last time, just more Tidepools and Beam Saber. maybe someday I will play a video game again

making: got to cook for just the two of us last week instead of having to find something that everyone would eat, so Zan and I finally got to make chicken marsala from this recipe and it was extremely good. next time we’re gonna double the mushrooms though I think, the recipe didn’t make quite enough compared to the amount of chicken

someday I will make non-food things again but unfortunately, when most of your energy has to go to either cooking and cleaning for other people or trying to get other people to cook and clean,

writing: posted three new fics: the Persona selkie AU, the Nirvana in Fire miserable sapphic makeout fic, and a slice-of-life Persona fic for an exchange, and worked on a couple of other things that are still secret for zine reasons

#dreaming.txt #tuesday no problem extended universe #long post /

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