New fic just dropped!! I'm really proud of this one. If you read it, please tell me what you think!! I have a three part series planned, but it helps to think people might actually want a continuation.
(just an excerpt, the rest is only on AO3)
The Process of Forgetting
The Promise
"S-Swear it!" Stuttered a boy in a dingy flannel shirt. The other six children sitting around him looked and listened as if anything he said could be the most important thing any of them would ever hear. He held a shining shard of broken glass over his head as he stood. "Sw-swear that i-if it ever comes back, we'll come back too."
One by one, each child stood up with him. They watched, as he slowly and deeply cut across his palm with the glass, whimpering, but never stopping.
One by one he approaches the children and cuts their hands. First, a boy with wild black hair and coke bottle glasses. He cried out and shook his hand, trying to will away the pain, but snapped to attention when the next boy's hand was taken. The boy next to him was the smallest of any of the other kids in the group, and he had a broken arm. He couldn't look as his hand was slashed, but the bespectacled boy stroked his arm to comfort him, trying to ignore the pain in his own hand.
Each of the other children let him deeply open their hands without a single objection. The power that the boy held was palpable. He could suck all of the air out of the space while all of the attention snapped to him and his mission statement.
The ring of children stood, hands interlocked, as though they were a circuit or a delicately woven ring of flowers. They were covered head to toe in dirt, blood dripping all over them from the cuts on their hands, their eyes shining with adrenaline and determination. They had seen something no child should ever have to see. They did things no child should be expected to do. Their grips tightened, all together like one single breathing organism.
It went without saying. They swore. They made a blood oath to each other. To that stuttering boy they all adored. To themselves. They would be back. If It ever returned they'd be ready.
Bev: The First Gone
Beverly Marsh had experienced so much in her life. More than any young girl should ever have to. She palled around with a group of six boys that she adored, but that could never understand what she was going through, not really. There was one trauma they all shared and she was grateful she could talk to them about that, but she was hiding something from them.
The boys had their suspicions. They all loved Beverly and wanted her to be happy and healthy, and she was good at pretending, for a while. She couldn't keep up the "cool girl that doesn't need help from anyone" act for forever though. She was drowning. Every forced laugh was a fight to keep her head above water. She was beginning to sink. Better to sink than to float, she'd tell herself with a bitter laugh.
They'd noticed things, at first they were simple questions, simple observations.
One day Ben said to her, "Geez, how'd you get that bruise? It looks like it really hurts." She brushed it off as a fall from her bike.
Eddie would lecture her on proper bike safety with his silly little Sesame Street full safety pad set. He didn't even wear them once his mom stopped watching. The second Richie teased them he'd be tripping over himself to get them off. He insisted on bandaging her cuts and bruises. Once he gave them a strange look and then his eyes locked with Bev's. She held her breath because she thought this is it. But no, Eddie just patched her up without another word. It was funny because she thought if anyone would understand, it would be Eddie. His evil mom made his life hell. Though, sometimes Eddie would defend her. Say she wasn't that bad. She does these things because she loves him. I do these things because I love you Bevvy.
Richie would make tasteless jokes because of course, he was Richie. "Why does your dad care so much about what the fuck you do? Is he in love with you or something? Eddie's mom is in love with me, you know? Did'ya know that?" Then he'd snort-laugh and make kissy noises at Eddie, who sat next to him in the hammock of their secret clubhouse. All of them moved in slow motion while Bev's blood ran cold and her stomach turned. She knew that wasn't what Richie meant, yet she still felt in that moment like they could see through her skin down to her deepest darkest secrets.
She knew that if she was bent any further she'd break. Eventually there would be a joke she couldn't laugh off or a bruise she couldn't lie her way out of and the older she got, the angrier she got. Angry at herself for protecting her father, angry at her father for looking at her like no father should ever look at their daughter, for robbing her of a childhood. What the clown left for her, her father gleefully stole away. Mad at her friends for not figuring it out even when she thought it was obvious. Sometimes she'd wonder if they did know, but just thought it wasn't that big of a deal. That she was being dramatic. Mad at herself again for ever thinking something like that about her best friends, the closest thing she had to a real family.
One day, enough truly was enough. Beverly was 15-years-old and she decided she couldn't live another day as "daddy's little girl". She was going to fight and claw and bite even if it killed her, and she knew it might. She knew that her father didn't have any problem hurting her when he didn't get his way. If she had anything to say about it, her father would never have his way again.
When she was admitted to the hospital, her horrible secret was out. Her father was taken away, her aunt was called to take her in, and her boys? Well, her boys looked at her with an emotion they'd never looked at her with before, and it was one she hated on each of their faces. Pity. Like they didn't know how to act around her anymore, like she was some broken toy, and it was the worst feeling she'd ever experienced, seeing them look at her like that. And Beverly Marsh had a lifetime of shitty experiences to pull from.
Nothing was ever the same again. Beverly had a few weeks left in Derry, her aunt was staying with her long enough for them to get everything together for the move, and she knew she'd miss every last one of those boys fiercely. The grief of losing them felt like it would be enough to stop her heart, but she didn't get the goodbye she would have wanted. She wanted normalcy, but those last weeks were anything but.
Richie, her fellow goof-off smoke buddy couldn't even look her in the eye. All of them seemed afraid to touch her. Like she was made of glass. Like they were afraid now that it would somehow remind her of all the ways she never wanted to be touched, but it wasn't like that. Bev was comforted by the touch of her friends. This was a time when she needed that comfort the most.
Ben talked to her the most normally out of anyone. Though, he couldn't shake the sadness in his voice. "I'm - We're all gonna miss you like crazy." He said to her one night in the clubhouse.
A smile crept onto her face, "Oh come on, you know I'm gonna write. And call of course for the illiterate." She gets in close to whisper. "Richie."
"Really, Bev. If Richie's illiterate, what are we? He has better grades than any of us." Ben was obviously a little annoyed by this fact.
"Pretty impressive, seeing as how he's illiterate." She retorted with a wicked grin.
They both laugh together, their heads close, and it's the most normal she's felt since the day it all fell apart. The good warm feeling was stolen away when Ben seemed to notice how close they were and awkwardly moved away.
"Sorry." He said.
She released a long sigh. "It's fine. Really. I'm still the same Beverly that I always was."
Ben smiled a sad smile that told Bev all she needed to know. "Promise you'll write me?"
"Of course! I know how much you like all that old fashioned cheesy shit. You'll probably write me with a quill pen and send it via carrier pigeon."
His smile at that was genuine, if a bit shy. "Maybe I will."
"I hope you do!" She changed it, throwing herself forward and pulling him into a hug. "I'm gonna miss you too."
On the day that she moved, all of her boys came to see her off. There wasn't a dry eye between them, even Stan, who she'd never seen cry before. It might not have looked like he was crying to the untrained eye, but she could tell. They all hugged in a giant group hug that mimicked their positions in the blood soaked promise. This was a promise of sorts too. A promise that, even though they'll be apart, they're still the Losers Club.
"The Losers Club will rise again!" She shouted into the air. Sealing the promise to the universe. The boys erupted into a sea of cheers. "No one can keep me away from you boys for long. You're my family." Ben went awkward and red at that comment, and she planted a kiss on his cheek. The rest of them were a chorus of ooooos and she shook her head fondly.
She waved at them all with big exaggerated movements, her head hanging out the window.
"You better fucking call, Marsh, or I'll single handedly find you and kick your ass!" Richie shouted, then Eddie punched him in the arm. The two boys were standing a little closer than anyone else, as usual.
Bev beamed. "You couldn't keep me away if you tried, Tozier!" She kept her head out the window, hair blowing in the wind, until her boys were specs on the horizon.
Bev: The Forgetting
It started with small things. One day, her aunt would ask her to tell her stories about where she grew up, her friends, her school, and she would answer eagerly. Any chance to relive her best memories with her best boys, but very quickly things changed. Too quickly even, like a fog rolled in overnight. It wasn't long at all. The first week back, drafting a handful of letters, she started to forget their names. Just faces playing over and over again in her mind. She'd read the letters she started writing, and had no idea what she was talking about. It was like she was writing a story. She had no connection to the memories the letters described, and the letters had no addresses. Not even names, just titles, like Trashmouth and New Kid. It was weird. She'd never been much of a writer. At least, she thought she'd never been much of a writer.
She started at her new highschool and found that she blossomed. They would ask even simple questions like "Where did you grow up?" Or "Tell me about your family." She never had good answers. If people asked about her family she mentioned her aunt.
Her aunt was worried about her. Beverly would ask her things like, "What was the name of the town I grew up in?" or "What happened to my dad?" and she would just scrunch up her face and look at her with those pitying eyes that Bev hated. She couldn't stand to be pitied.
Her aunt put her in therapy a month after she moved in with her, and her therapist told her that she suffered from severe repressed memories and night terrors because of the awful trauma she experienced. The trauma she had no memory of and no one would really talk to her about. She supposed that filled in the blanks. The empty parts of Bev. Spacey Beverly Marsh. She repressed her past because of some fucking traumatic memories she couldn't even remember, so she could just deal with them.
Eventually she stopped worrying about the lost memories. She was making plenty of great new memories with her aunt and her amazing friends, but Bev couldn't help but feel like she was missing a big chunk of her heart. A space she just couldn't seem to fill no matter what she tried putting there. She still woke up screaming every once in a while. Not nearly as frequently as when she first arrived. Her therapist told her she was healing.
She was told that someday she may even get back her lost memories, but she couldn't help but sit up in her bed when she woke up from her terrifyingly real nightmares and think, are any of these things in my dreams actually memories? Her therapist told her that the clown monster that haunted her nightmares was probably some kind of metaphor for something, but the blurry faces of smiling little boys stuck with her. She always felt like she wanted to be smiling with them too.
Beverly was known to take on life like a bull by the horns. Fiery and passionate. This passion was noticed by a man named Tom Rogan. He was drawn to it like he was a moth and her red hair was a flame that he danced around. They both had an interest in design. Beverly had a talent and drive that was otherworldly. He had to have her. So he took her. All of her.
They started a clothing line together and were married.
Beverly felt strangely at home with him. Especially when he was cruel. She didn't like it. She hated it when he got like that, but it was familiar. She always told herself that it wasn't so bad. That he loved her, he just got mad sometimes. Something about him connected her to her past and she couldn't seem to let that go.
Her best friend, Kay, didn't agree. She saw Tom like a boiling pot. No matter how much it was watched, if it was left to boil, it would overflow. She was terrified of what might happen.
Ford Prefect x Arthur Dent (The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy)*
Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier (IT)*
how dare you make me choose
Voting ended onJun 26
Disclaimer: This tournament is based on submissions! Please respect all identities, characters and fandoms! Hate or aggressive language (even if jokingly) will get you blocked instantly!
Disclaimer: This tournament is based on submissions! Please respect all identities, characters and fandoms! Hate or aggressive language (even if jokingly) will get you blocked instantly!
Your characters are allowed to be bad people. Your story is allowed to have no moral lesson.yyour ending is allowed to be sad. The villain can win. The good person can do something unforgivable. The lovers can destroy each other. You are allowed to write the thing that no one asked for and everything that everyone told you doesn’t work and you are allowed to not explain yourself.
Disclaimer: This tournament is based on submissions! Please respect all identities, characters and fandoms! Hate or aggressive language (even if jokingly) will get you blocked instantly!
the thing about media literacy is that understanding why the author chose to specify that the curtains are blue is the same skill set as understanding that the way the author characterizes all black characters as angry or all chinese characters as meek and silent is racist. it is the same skill set as being able to identify when a news source is biased or when someone is feeding you propaganda. the ability to ask "why did this person choose to present this premise in this specific way?" is a critical skill in a world full of misinformation. why are the curtains blue? maybe it's a characterization detail. maybe it's extraneous worldbuilding. why is this character written as being right all the time? maybe you're intended to disagree with them. maybe it doesn't matter. maybe you should still ask why.
⊹ What do they want vs what do they need. these should not be the same thing. what they want is the surface goal ( the job, the person, the revenge, the answer.) What they need is the thing underneath that they can't name yet. The story is what happens in the gap between those two things. if they're identical your character has nowhere to go.
⊹ What are they wrong about. Not morally wrong necessarily. just. what belief do they hold that the story is going to test. What assumption do they make about themselves or the world that turns out to be incomplete? A character without a wrong belief is already finished. They have no arc, give them something to learn even if learning it hurts them.
⊹ How do they talk when they're nervous. Do they go quiet or do they talk too much? do they deflect with jokes? do they get weirdly formal? do they ask questions instead of answering them? the way a person behaves under pressure is who they actually are. And it should be different from how they behave when they're comfortable.
⊹ What do they find funny. this one sounds small and it is not small at all. Humour is worldview. What makes someone laugh tells you what they value, what they're afraid of, how they handle pain. A character with no sense of humour is just flat. even the gravest person finds something absurd. find the thing.
⊹ What are they ashamed of? not their tragic backstory. their actual shame. The small ugly thing they would never say out loud. The time they were a coward. The feeling they pretend not to have. The desire they think disqualifies them from being a good person. Shame is where the most interesting character work lives and most writers skip straight over it :(
⊹ What do they do when no one is watching? how do they move through a space alone. What do they reach for when they're sad. What do they do with their hands??? Public behaviour IS performance. Private behaviour is truth. you don't have to show all of it but you have to know it or the character will feel hollow in a way the reader notices without being able to name.
