darthvoxpo

Latest Posts by darthvoxpo

Something, something, they're the same person. anyway have the boi's illustrated as skills

sorry I didn't include combat couldn't think of anything really interesting for the portrait ;_;

doctrinal got the most love cos he's the most interesting to me/

Would that there were five of me, one for each child, so I might keep them all safe.

Just finished listening to Guards! Guards! again and the scene with the Watch asking for compensation really hit me this time around. Vetinari does his big speech about the absolute evil and darkness in humanity and then Fred Colon and Nobby Nobbs, who we know are not heroes, are not particularly nice people, are not, in short, “good” and they ask for barely any money and a new kettle and a dartboard and they worry that they’re asking for too much.

And Vimes just laughs and laughs at all the upper crust diplomats and Vetinari who can’t understand it. Can’t understand ten dollars a month raise. Can’t understand a kettle. Can’t understand a dart board.

I forgot how much I loved these books.

Unabashed Book Snobbery: GoT's 10 Worst Adaptational Decisions

Spoilers only through GoT S4.

Anonymous said: I recently discover your blog and I’m in love with it, I’m in full reading of all your posts! But at the risk of repeating something that someone you have already ask for you… I cannot resist the curiosity! Especially after your magnificent poll, cause I like how critical you are with Game of Thrones so… What would you say are the 10 worst decisions committed so far? Scenes, plots or characters. (btw, sorry, my english sucks)

Well, anon, at first when I saw this I smiled, jotted down a knee-jerk bulleted list, and sent it over to a friend of mine who also happens to be critical of the show. Then she and I began talking about it further, and suddenly it became a Google Doc with mini essays. The following is a collaboration between myself and the wonderfully talented Dornish enthusiast theculturalvacuum​.

To quickly preface, we are not the types of people who will criticize every minor change when a book is being adapted to the visual medium. Even with GoT, there are times we even kind of like changes. But the fact is, with this series, we have very good reasons for our book snobbery. Showrunners David Benioff and Dan Weiss (D&D) have, over time, demonstrated to us that they have a very limited understanding of the characterizations and themes at play in a series that is about so much more than twists and gasps. In the case of LOTR, it was clear that Peter Jackson, despite his changes, understood Tolkien’s vision. From our perspective, while D&D may know plot-wise where ASOIAF will end up, what they are giving us is a story that relies on overused tropes and trite interpretations, which ultimately misses “the point.”

So without further ado, the 10 worst adaptational changes, from least awful to most:

10. Masturbatory original dialogues:

Back when Season 1 was in production, D&D found themselves short in terms of run-time. It was a low-budget operation back then, so they added a lot of scenes of just two or three characters talking in one room as a way to pad their show. Originally, these scenes were thought of as the shining stars of the series (Varys vs. Littlefinger being almost like a spy vs. spy). Then they turned into…

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Read Along with Quincey Harker - 8th of May

This is a Blood of My Blood reading of Dracula, based on the Bad Ending AU created by @ and @ and others

First Read Along post with context

Blood of My Blood full AU in order

Helpful background reading for this chapter @bluecatwriter 's excellent novella Chapter 22 Indulgence, which has a lot of juicy interactions between Jonathan and Dracula.

This line hits him like a brick thrown at his head. What? Uneasy, unsafe? Things were going so well! What has happened in a single day to make Papa so frightened?

Only the Count, well, what's wrong with that? Father always explains things so well, so there is perfect clarity and no room for argument.

Papa was only shocked that Father didn't cast a reflection. Of course it may have seemed unusual, but there was no need for him to become dramatic.

Father! That's not responsible! So often Mum had repeated to Quincey the importance of being in control. Never act brashly out of anger or fear, she told him. Always be in control, or you will be controlled by others. For Father to lose control like that…

Father must have been frightened. People do all sorts of things when they're frightened, Mum had told him. He must have seen Papa's blood and been scared. After all, Papa's life and blood were always to be protected, and Papa was careless to cut himself like that.

And Father can move rather quickly, and it can be startling if you're not expecting him. Harmless, but maybe a little scary.

And sure, Father had smashed the mirror, but that was just to prevent more misunderstandings.

Very annoying - there. That sounded like the Papa he knew. Reasonable, unflappable. Like when Father was too taken by Papa's charm that he had kissed Papa's neck and shoulder all over and fed himself back to youth. Quincey hadn't liked it, hadn't understood, but then Papa had wryly explained that accidents happen, and Father made it up to him by asking forgiveness and taking him flying.

Just like the stone mentioned, Quincey's heart drops. No. No, he'd almost forgotten the shape of those sharp thoughts in Papa's mind. The memory had been smoothed over by happy family times, of stories and backgammon and fishing. Of Papa flying with Father and then Mum. But reading the fear in Papa's words in the diary, and the image of the falling stone... Quincey remembers.

This diary is revealing a dark and unknown edge to Papa's thoughts, just like those half-remembered nights.

Whether it's rational or not, Papa was scared. And he's thinking about the windows far too much for Quincey's liking.

He is being deceived. Papa is wrong about the castle and the Count.

He got scared and started seeing danger where he was actually safe, that's what it was. After all, what was he actually scared of? No reflection, a damaged castle and a few locked doors? That's nothing, that's just Quincey's childhood. He said he's a prisoner, but he hasn't even asked Father if he can go.

So there were no servants after all. Father was... pretending? Because he was ashamed, or embarrassed. A boyar should not be personally seeing to the needs of his guest, except that Father was personally invested in Papa's needs.

Quincey almost laughs at how Papa writes about the wolves again. What does it mean that Father could control them? He smiles. Only that Father is a powerful protector and knows how to use his power.

The unease that was building in Quincey disappates. It's all perfectly reasonable.

Such a familiar scene! How little Father has changed!

Quincey's eyes glaze over the passage about the battles of long ago, he knows those stories in detail. But Arabian Nights… Father had often told jokes about that story, more than once calling Papa his ‘little Scheherazade’, for all his skill at storytelling.

Quincey shakes his head, clearing the last vestiges of fear and tension from his body. He got so caught up in the vivid writing, the miscommunication that lead to fear, but he knows the end of the story. Soon the fear will give way to Love, and there will be the peace and happiness in Castle Dracula that he knows.

I'm still trying to wrap my mind around Men at Arms.

It's a fantastic book, but it is also so different from Guards! Guards! in tone. And maybe that's where the key is. It's not that the villain of the story is perhaps one of the most proficient killers in all of Discworld (all two and a half of them... D'Eath, Cruces, and The Gonne) and their goal is to actually kill. It's not even that the crimes that the watch are investigating are murder, because even though paid assassinations are legal death and murder are part of the setting. Death is literally a character here, though much more briefly than G!G!. Frankly, I don't even think it's because of the racial allegories.

The tone in Men at Arms is different because the first one to die is a clown. Because Pratchett literally killed the joke (the entire thing and all of its subsets). There's nothing funny about a clown funeral, the dogs are the biggest allegory for racial issues, a gun really is evil, Cuddy literally draws the short straw. It's all literal. Everything is extremely literal. For once, Ankh Morpork isn't a joke. For once, the city feels like a city. And it's the book where Carrot, the most literal character there is, becomes a man (literally and in every sense) and takes his mantle of leadership.

Everything in Men at Arms is literal. Because the villain killed the joke to death and it was the shining moment for Carrot to step up.

There's also an extensive running bit that even the silly construction of the silly, courtesy of Bloody Stupid Johnson, is actually stupid. Within the narrative itself, the book is calling itself out. It is saying that this absurd veneer that we have found ourselves on is just that. This city was built on itself, on its own bones, on the the bones of empires--fueled with the blood of many. The architecture beneath Johnson's flawed works, the aqueducts and sewer systems below the city, are vast and strong and powerful--maybe even beautiful. But they're dangerous. The past is incredibly dangerous. Even Carrot, whose potential is very much rooted in the past of the city, is dangerous. His victory is not one I expected in the moment it came. The line about how you must hope that whoever is looking at you from the other end of their weapon is an evil man... Was harsh and true and honestly a little frightening for a story which also contains a scene where a sentient rock man chucks a dwarf through the skylight of Schrodinger's pork warehouse to save both of their lives.

Perhaps this puts the rest of the book in context as well. Especially the things that made me cringe when I read them. Like everything about Coalface, Angua being included in the story because she was a woman and every book needs at least one (preferably one that can leap over a building or deadlift a draft horse), the high school clique-ificarion of all the guilds, Vimes talkin to the nobles after dinner and almost letting himself believe he could be like that (even though he ends up laying into them with some excellent biting sarcasm), Vetinari not being in control and not realizing it. It's all very real, but real like a real serial killer in real life and not a crime drama. Maybe even real like a normal guy in a costume with their mask off.

Maybe not.

It's not a perfect book (which bites, because G!G! was nearly there), but it remains a very intentional book. I feel like less people have read it than G!G!, and I can see why. It's messier, it's not as funny, there's a lot more allegory and it's a lot more blunt.

But it's still extremely topical (sadly). I retain my opinion that it may be one of the most important books I've ever read. And I'm beginning to understand, finally, why.

I'm still trying to wrap my mind around Men at Arms.

It's a fantastic book, but it is also so different from Guards! Guards! in tone. And maybe that's where the key is. It's not that the villain of the story is perhaps one of the most proficient killers in all of Discworld (all two and a half of them... D'Eath, Cruces, and The Gonne) and their goal is to actually kill. It's not even that the crimes that the watch are investigating are murder, because even though paid assassinations are legal death and murder are part of the setting. Death is literally a character here, though much more briefly than G!G!. Frankly, I don't even think it's because of the racial allegories.

The tone in Men at Arms is different because the first one to die is a clown. Because Pratchett literally killed the joke (the entire thing and all of its subsets). There's nothing funny about a clown funeral, the dogs are the biggest allegory for racial issues, a gun really is evil, Cuddy literally draws the short straw. It's all literal. Everything is extremely literal. For once, Ankh Morpork isn't a joke. For once, the city feels like a city. And it's the book where Carrot, the most literal character there is, becomes a man (literally and in every sense) and takes his mantle of leadership.

Everything in Men at Arms is literal. Because the villain killed the joke to death and it was the shining moment for Carrot to step up.

There's also an extensive running bit that even the silly construction of the silly, courtesy of Bloody Stupid Johnson, is actually stupid. Within the narrative itself, the book is calling itself out. It is saying that this absurd veneer that we have found ourselves on is just that. This city was built on itself, on its own bones, on the the bones of empires--fueled with the blood of many. The architecture beneath Johnson's flawed works, the aqueducts and sewer systems below the city, are vast and strong and powerful--maybe even beautiful. But they're dangerous. The past is incredibly dangerous. Even Carrot, whose potential is very much rooted in the past of the city, is dangerous. His victory is not one I expected in the moment it came. The line about how you must hope that whoever is looking at you from the other end of their weapon is an evil man... Was harsh and true and honestly a little frightening for a story which also contains a scene where a sentient rock man chucks a dwarf through the skylight of Schrodinger's pork warehouse to save both of their lives.

Perhaps this puts the rest of the book in context as well. Especially the things that made me cringe when I read them. Like everything about Coalface, Angua being included in the story because she was a woman and every book needs at least one (preferably one that can leap over a building or deadlift a draft horse), the high school clique-ificarion of all the guilds, Vimes talkin to the nobles after dinner and almost letting himself believe he could be like that (even though he ends up laying into them with some excellent biting sarcasm), Vetinari not being in control and not realizing it. It's all very real, but real like a real serial killer in real life and not a crime drama. Maybe even real like a normal guy in a costume with their mask off.

Maybe not.

It's not a perfect book (which bites, because G!G! was nearly there), but it remains a very intentional book. I feel like less people have read it than G!G!, and I can see why. It's messier, it's not as funny, there's a lot more allegory and it's a lot more blunt.

But it's still extremely topical (sadly). I retain my opinion that it may be one of the most important books I've ever read. And I'm beginning to understand, finally, why.

Just finished listening to Guards! Guards! again and the scene with the Watch asking for compensation really hit me this time around. Vetinari does his big speech about the absolute evil and darkness in humanity and then Fred Colon and Nobby Nobbs, who we know are not heroes, are not particularly nice people, are not, in short, “good” and they ask for barely any money and a new kettle and a dartboard and they worry that they’re asking for too much.

And Vimes just laughs and laughs at all the upper crust diplomats and Vetinari who can’t understand it. Can’t understand ten dollars a month raise. Can’t understand a kettle. Can’t understand a dart board.

I forgot how much I loved these books.

Personally, I don’t really see anything wrong with giving Luke to Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru. What else was Obi-Wan gonna do? (He pretty much raised Anakin and look how that turned out, he’s not gonna risk Round 2.) (He could have given both kiddos to Bail and Breha Organa, actually. Luke and Leia Organa is a cool as heck AU.)

I like Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru. As much as people like to say Luke really is Padme’s son, he didn’t get those morals from her. (Keeping in mind I have read no comics or novelizations, and not seen the Clone Wars TV show) It’s pretty clear that Luke’s iron spine and goodness and refusal to abandon his friends come from his upbringing. Owen and Beru Lars are kinda the Ma and Pa Kent of the Star Wars universe. 

And they are Luke’s family. Owen is Shmi’s stepson. Owen and Beru probably knew Anakin’s mother for years. It’s a neat circle, and in some ways it has the feelings of an apology, for Obi-Wan to bring Luke back to his family on Tatooine in the same way that Qui-Gon took Anakin. Obi-Wan can’t undo what’s been done, and he can’t start over, but he can give Luke what the Jedi denied Anakin: a loving family and normal upbringing. 

Tatooine is Darth Vader’s home planet? Yeah, sure, but did Anakin ever go back to Tatooine? (Probably once or twice, I’m guessing, in the comics at least.) Darth Vader hates that place. Bad memories. Damn sand would fuck up his suit. He’d burn it all down and then the Hutts are gonna be pissed. And how many people actually know that Darth Vader is Anakin Skywalker? Like, about five? (Bail, Obi-Wan, Yoda, R2-D2, and Ahsoka?) Dude is not exactly getting invites to school reunions and the weddings of childhood friends, is all I’m saying. 

Even if Darth Vader ever went back to Tatooine, Tatooine is a big place. The Lars Farm is in the middle of nowhere and Obi-Wan is hanging out left of the funky rock five miles past nowhere. Anakin met his stepbrother once in the entire film trilogy and idk if they even exchanged words, much less space e-mail addresses. I kind of doubt that Uncle Owen and Darth Vader are sending each other Life Day e-cards. (That’s really funny, actually.) 

Anyway, the point of this rant is that I want you to imagine new parents Owen and Beru Lars caring for toddler Luke, it’s just after Life Day, and someone rings the doorbell. Owen Lars opens up to Darth Vader holding a fruit basket, because he didn’t know what else to do for Life Day and spontaneously decided to visit distant family rather than mope in his Evil Castle again. 

(Everything Obi-Wan hoped would never happen, just… happening.)

Owen, after introductions, panicking, “Uh… the suit is… new.” 

He has to invite Vader in, because it’s Life Day and how exactly do you tell Darth Vader to fuck off? Then Owen and Beru have a hushed argument in the kitchen while Darth Vader is sitting awkwardly in their living room with a drink that he can’t actually drink but took to be polite. When they come out, they introduce Luke as Luke Whitesun, Beru’s late brother’s kid, which they guess makes Luke… Darth Vader’s… nephew. (They can’t hide him, Vader’s already seen this 2-3 yr old Luke and the house is COVERED in baby and kid stuff.) 

And Darth Vader just… fucking falls for it. 

And the Lars family has to spend the holidays with Uncle Darth Vader who is super keen to have a step-nephew-in-law. Beru is showing off her cross-stitching to Darth fucking Vader as Luke plays at their feet. Owen is in the kitchen sending a desperate space text to Obi-Wan, who basically has a heart attack on the spot when Owen sends a shitty stealth-pic of Darth Vader on their couch. 

Bonus points if the Lars’ don’t even move after this, because Vader left without issue and Uncle Owen afterwards was like, “It turned out fine. I don’t want to move, that’s too much hassle.” So, every major holiday, Luke gets a visit from his Uncle Darth Vader, which works out fine so long as they instigate a “Don’t Talk About Politics” rule when Luke starts getting excited about Rebellions and starts bad-mouthing the Empire (Vader making small talk at a Star Destroyer water cooler to his terrified staff: “Ugh, I’m going to have to debate my liberal 13-yr-old nephew at the dinner table again.”), and Vader even helps with the dishes and stuff, and every time Obi-Wan ages an extra year from stress. 

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.   They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

You know that Ada Limón poem where she’s like “i can’t help it i love the way men love”? my dad recently confessed to me that he became a shoemaker because they buried my grandma shoeless

oh…………………………………

See the notification ping into my email that there is another story. 

Feel temporary spark of delight for another of your excellent stories.

Remember the outline involves ozi and improvised exorcisms.

Feels flame of brutal soul quenching terror.

Just like zuko 

 in all seriousness always a delight to see another one of your fabulous stories.



Larva by MuffinLance

Read on AO3

Summary: That was a very, very big tree. A purple light pulsed at its bulging, split-barked core.

“Hello, mortal,” the tree said.

At which point Zuko scrabbled backwards until he splashed back into the stiller, warmer, deeper water of the turtleduck pond.

“Evil tree,” he told Azula.

“Dum-Dum,” she said, and stomped off.

A Chaos Avatar Zuko AU. Behold, the tumblr ficlet is officially posted.

I think you’re probably right that of Harris as the nominee it might be difficult to hold more Senate seats, but I also don’t think she is likely to be the nominee in 2024 unless Biden dies between now and then. The old guy has wanted this his entire life and I don’t think he’s giving it up for anything other than his death.

Dysentery Florida guy is probably a better candidate to run against Biden (because of the age thing)  I’m not actually too sure how he’d hold up against Harris, although my instinctive reactions is that he get the benefit of the sexism assumption.

Do you think it’s better if the Democrats don’t manage to scrape together a ultrafine minority and instead let the Republicans hold the house without trying to break off any of the Republicans into switching sides?

How bad 2024 Senate is probably comes down to Georgia, and whether the Dems have some wiggle room to let their most vulnerable incumbents take some unpopular votes.

And of course Joe Mansion probably use this as an excuse to vote against all of Joe’s agenda and then somehow managed to get re-elected in a R +40 state because he sold his soul to Satan.

Looking ahead to 2024 (never too early, haha), do you think Dems controlling the Senate and having a 50-50ish House could actually hurt them? My fear is that Dems will pretty much have to own whatever happens over the next two years, whereas if the GOP had won both chambers, Dems in 2024 could have more easily campaigned against them.

Also, to the extent that the midterm fallout hurts Trump and boosts DeSantis, I worry that Dems will be facing a decent GOP nominee in 2024 who they're going to underestimate. Anyway, sorry to rain on what was a shockingly good week for us!

ladyofpembroke asked: I know this might be too soon, but for the senate elections in 2024, where do you think dems should focus their attention on flipping a seat considering they have very competitive elections for incumbents in WV and MT? All republicans incumbents seem to be in extremely republican states. to me, the mostly likely would be trying to unseat Hawley in MO but that’s still a long shot. What’s your take?

I agree with you both in that the 2024 Senate map is a bloodbath for Democrats since we hold Ohio/Montana/West Virginia Senate seats, which are likely to flip red since people don't ticket split anymore. So, I agree with @ladyofpembroke the DSCC should focus on protecting Brown/Tester/Manchin as well as Baldwin/Casey/Stabenow/Sinema in Wisconsin/Pennsylvania/Michigan/Arizona as well since especially is Harris is the nominee, there's no guarantee she wins those states either although I think Biden wins the latter 4 and carries those Dem Senators over as well.

But here's the key thing: voters don't really know the difference between a 219 Republican House majority and a 290 seat Republican House majority, they just know Rs hold the House, so when Republicans overreach and repeatedly say and do insane shit, voters will punish them. Also, if Democrats hold a trifecta, they'll be held accountable for things that aren't even their fault like government gridlock due to the filibuster but if Rs hold the House, Dems can just blame them for the gridlock.

And, I'll worry about DeSantis once he's polling above Trump in primary polls when weighted by education lol.

this whole situation is very funny

credit to @cryptvokeeper for the idea!

#

ALT

ours is the holiest love.

so um. about that promise jonathan made??

Hi there I adore your wriding on Dracula and especially how wonderful and sinister/sweet (is there a word for that? There should be a word for that.) Your Jonathan/Mina is. Is your plan for the novel/sequel to be published? Or will you be putting it up online either behind a pay wall or for free? If it's to be published formally I hope and wish you all the success with finding a publisher that you deserve because once again your writing is terrific.

if you have already answered this my apologies.

First, thank you, my ego is always happy for the confidence boost

Second, hopefully it gets finished and published! Something about Dracula Daily really hammered home how disappointed I've been with the bulk of Dracula-based media and how shoddy the pop culture understanding of it is. I want Barking Harker (and maybe some other Dracula-adjacent projects I'm poking at right now (🤐) ) to get out on the bookshelves.

Likewise for SO MANY COOL IDEAS that other folks have come up with since this book club started. Everyone should take a crack at writing and publication for their plots too! Don't just leave it in fan fiction where only a few of us will see it! We have to get our stuff out in the wider world so the characters and ideas we love get the limelight they deserve.

They also teach you not to give off serial killer vibes and he didn't listen to that either

lmao

Having read Dracula all the way through now, every adaptation of the story that puts Mina and Dracula together and frames them as being in love makes me physically ill.

Dracula didn’t love Mina. He assaulted and violated her after doing the same thing to her best friend. She was an object to be coveted and nothing more. How anyone can read that and see a love story baffles and infuriates me.

Jonathan and Mina loved each other. They were willing to condemn themselves to hell just so that the other wouldn’t be alone there. Both of their characters get gutted in so many adaptions to make way for sexy vampire shit, it’s infuriating. Making Mina be in love with her assaulter is fucking rage-inducing.

Gimme an adaptation where Mina loathes this pestilential demon with every fiber of her being. Where she’s just as driven to stamp out this stain upon the world as her husband is. He murdered her friend. He violated her body and soul. He mentally tortured and traumatized her husband. Gimme a Mina with all the fury of Hell behind her.

the ‘ooh NO brer fox, don’t give my post a bunch of notes, noOOo i would HATE that!’ style of clout fishing is so obnoxious. if you’re going to chase clout do it in an honest and god-fearing way. im holed up in a skyscraper and every ten minutes that go by without someone reblogging this post i shoot another hostage

The U.S. Midterms are Tomorrow, November 8, 2022

If you're eligible to vote in the midterms already and haven't yet, make a plan for how to go vote tomorrow.

Know your polling place and when it opens and closes. Know the rules in your state and at your job about taking off from work to vote. Be prepared to wait in line.

And then go vote!

i keep telling myself i can’t handle longer projects but in the last four days i wrote 23,377 words just totally by the seat of my pants

Love how tumblr has its own folk stories. Yeah the God of Arepo we’ve all heard the story and we all still cry about it. Yeah that one about the woman locked up for centuries finally getting free. That one about the witch who would marry anyone who could get her house key from her cat and it’s revealed she IS the cat after the narrator befriends the cat.

this is disgusting

my favorite picture ever is the one that says “HELL IS FULL, BITCH” and then it has the national suicide prevention hotline on it. it makes me smile every time 

The more I think about it the more I realise that no ancient civilization would be at all interested in taming dragons.

Dragons are carnivores, so they’re really inefficient and costly to feed. They’re solitary, so its really frigging hard to form any kind of relationship with them. They’re darn right dangerous, so why risk your life taming one when there’s loads of llamas in the world. And worst of all their life spans are insanely long; if you had an opportunity to breed one, you wouldn’t live long enough to see the fruit of your labour mature, so you wouldn’t even bother.

If you are scrolling through Tumblr trying to distract yourself from something you don’t want to think about, or you’re looking for a sign. It is going to be okay. Just breathe. You are alive and you matter. 

Human: Deal.

Fey: Very well. When you return home tonight, your mother will be in pristine health again. It will be like she never fell ill at all. Even the memory of her suffering will fade…

Human: Thank you so much. She means everything to me.

Fey: I know, I know. Let’s hope the price wasn’t too much for you after all… Only time will tell.

Human: So, when do we start?

Fey: …If I may ask you to elaborate?

Human: You said you wanted my firstborn.

Fey: Yes? And you agreed?

Human: Yeah, so, when do we start?

Fey:

Fey, blushing: Ah.

It’s 20fucking20 and here we are, still writing Barriss meta, apparently.

Tonight it’s lightsaber symbolism, because Anakin is very much fighting Barriss using her own lightsaber, and there’s a lot to unpack there.

On the one hand? This is…perverse. It’s viscerally wrong. It’s made very clear in TCW that lightsabers are powerfully magical weapons–soulbonded, in a sense. Your lightsaber is an extension of your being. “This lightsaber is your life.” The most powerful moments are the ones in which lightsabers willingly change hands. 

Cody handing Obi-Wan his saber is literally him handing him his life back. Barriss and Ahsoka, trapped in a tank under a mountain of rubble. Ahsoka casually hands her lightsaber to Barriss to hold while she works to save them; when Barriss gives up and accepts that no one is coming for them (and this is a running theme–Barriss gives up and accepts her fate, while Ahsoka will never stop fighting for a chance at hope) she lets her own lightsaber fade. But Ahsoka’s she keeps lit, a thin blade of light against the darkness, as she takes her friend’s hand in the one that had previously been keeping her own flame lit so that neither of them will be alone when the end comes.

So let’s…talk about that.

Because there was no saber exchange this time. The first sign to Barriss that something is very wrong is that Anakin walks into her room and casually uses the Force to pick up her lightsaber where it rested on a small altar. He used the Force and immediately took control of her life with that casual movement. Picked it up against her will, to stop her from being able to take it, specifically to limit her options. And then he used it as a weapon against her–

Barriss is furious during that fight, and it’s not just because she’s finally expressing her pent-up rage. Anakin swung a live saber straight at her head at combat speed, in order to test her. If he had been wrong, he could very easily have killed her. With her own lightsaber.

Of course, there’s the flip side of that equation. Yes, Anakin fighting her with her own saber is…obscene. But he was also, this time, completely justified in taking it in the first place. Barriss is the one who set her Jedi lightsaber aside in the first place. Barriss is the one who chose instead to take up Sith blades, stolen by force. When Anakin attacked her, she didn’t use the Force to hold him off, or dodge, or try to take her lightsaber back. No. She reached for the Sith lightsabers she’d taken in order to pull off an elaborate deception to cover her own tracks.

(And spare Ahsoka. The only reason to try to frame Ventress in the first place is to spare Ahsoka, which is why it’s very clear Barriss didn’t intend to frame Ahsoka when she first bombed the Temple. She lost control of the situation, and framing Ventress would solve the clusterfuck she created by trying to solve the wild spiral.)

(But you’ll notice she doesn’t confess or try to come clean. If all that mattered was sparing Ahsoka from the mess Barriss accidentally created for her, if this was about righting a wrong–you’ll notice Barriss does not turn herself in.)

The reason Barriss doesn’t have her own lightsabers is because, well. She decided the Sith blades suited her.

Which is how we got to this scene:

Anakin wielding as a weapon against her the reflection of her own untainted soul.