When you get this, you must publicly post something nice about at least 5 different people you follow, then copy and paste this in each of their ask boxes <3
I got this from fitzlovesjemma, and I am going to post about the 5 people I interact with most on this site.
First, fitzlovesjemma herself really knows and owns her identity and what makes her happy, and I admire that so much. Amanda has a really quick, sharp sense of humor and is also extremely insightful, which makes talking to her so much fun. Plus, she’s pretty much an expert on storytelling in modern media. I have to return her compliment and tell her that she, too, is an awesome adult.
yethanginginthestars is such a talented writer, and she’s put so much courage and hard work into pursuing her writing. Part of what makes Carrie’s writing and also just talking to her so great is that she’s so empathetic and so literate and so smart. Her taste in literature is impeccable, and I trust pretty much any recommendation she makes. I’m so glad she friended me on lj lo those many years ago and then found me on here.
peonymoss is so sweet and kind, and when she says she is willing to talk with you about something forever, she not only means it, she will enjoy doing it. She is also very understanding and patient, and she’s one of those people who proves that having a full and busy Real Life is not at all incompatible with thinking about the minutiae of fictional characters’ lives at the same time. Talking to her makes me think more deeply, and I love that.
passingfaire is so effortlessly funny and creative. Or if it isn’t effortless, she makes it seem like it is. Her interests are diverse; she’s done so many cool things in her life and is so open to new experiences and adventures, and I’m totally in awe of that. I still feel flattered every time Molly likes or responds to something I post. Also I feel personally invested in her cat, Jamie McKitten, because I helped name him. (Molly has excellent taste in cat names.)
mediaeval-muse is a pleasure to know online and in real life. Online Kelly is thoughtful and constructively critical. In real life she is a wonderful nerd, unabashedly enthusiastic about the things she loves and so supportive of the people she cares about. She is generous in small gifts and baked goods and time, and is always up for watching nerdy TV on weekend nights. On top of all that, she is more dedicated to her scholarship than pretty much anyone I know. I’m so glad she came into this program and this school and I got to meet her.
typhanni said: Woo hoo! That’s awesome! *high five* Have a margarita and a nap — you earned it!
Thank you! A nap and a margarita sound EXCELLENT right about now.
And thank you to everyone (tagged below) who has shown support by liking and commenting on my hiatus announcement and my triumphant return post. It means a lot!
Where You Can See the Stars [ii] :: Carrie Gessner
(Note: This is the second installment of The Teacup Trail's second-ever serial, “Where You Can See the Stars” by Carrie Gessner. You can read all the chapters here.)
Grace woke with a gasp, shivering. A white splotch of mist glimmered above her. Her hand shot out to grab her glasses, but when she stuck them on, the mysterious light was gone and there was nothing on the ceiling that would have reflected moonlight. Her shoulders slumped as she let out a sigh. A trick of the light, a trick of sleeping in a room that creeped her out. Nothing more.
Her mouth was dry. She plucked the sticky fabric of her shirt away from her sweaty skin. 2:14 a.m., according to her watch. Rosie would be asleep by now. The house wasn’t that big. Grace could certainly find her way to the kitchen for a glass of water.
The bedroom door creaked. Rosie had left a nightlight on her for in the hallway, a little black cat with glowing yellow eyes. She must have picked it out to go with the poster on her door. Cute.
Grace managed the steep stairs with minimal tripping and the mildest of curses. The Persian runner was frayed and soft beneath her bare feet. At the bottom, in the darkness of the living room, she stopped. Voices drifted out from the kitchen.
“She’s not staying.” It was Rosie’s, the low pitch sweetening her drawl.
Grace tightened her jaw. Eavesdropping was not something a grown, independent woman felt the need to do.
“What? Why not?” A man’s voice this time, which must belong to the enigmatic Phee.
“She and Pete didn’t have a relationship. There’s no real reason for her to stay. This place doesn’t have any nostalgia for her, not like it does for us.”
Grace silently thanked Rosie for being the obvious voice of reason in this relationship.
“But she’s a Pembleton,” Phee said. “Did you show her the book, the trunk?”
“Yeah, but she stayed in her room and went to sleep. If she were interested in carrying on the family legacy, I’m sure she would have come down to talk about it, especially after the trunk. I mean, who could really see that and not care why their grandfather had an assortment of unusual weapons?”
Maybe because her grandfather had never cared enough to even meet her. They couldn’t guilt her into having an obligation to this strange, creaky old house.
“Maybe she thought he was a collector of weird,” said Phee.
There was some clattering now, followed by the sink running and the click-click-click of a gas burner igniting. She should move. Instead, she was, as usual, paralyzed by indecision.
“What are we going to do about the pond?” Phee asked.
“We’ll have to rely on the book. I think we should wait until she’s gone, though.”
“Why? We’ve apparently already scared her off. If you want to scare her off faster, we can just tell her about the monster in the pond.”
Rosie chuckled but offered no protest.
A monster in the pond? This was getting ridiculous. Grace cleared her throat. “Hello? Rosie?”
The caretaker popped her head out of the doorway. ”Oh, hey. Come and join us. Phee’s here.”
Lights under the cabinets illuminated faces without dispelling the general gloom of night. The man, who must be Phee, had messy dark hair and a neat beard. A tad shorter than Rosie, he wore worn jeans and a red flannel button-up thrown over a Star Wars tee.
Grace stuck out her hand. “Hi. I’m Grace.”
He shook it. ”Phee. Sorry I wasn’t here earlier to welcome you. I own the bar across the street and just got out for the night.”
Rosie gestured to the teapot on the stove. “We’re just making tea. Want some?”
Which would she rather have—sleep her body craved or the missing puzzle pieces her mind did? “Sure,” Grace said, sliding onto a stool at the island.
Phee leaned against the counter and asked, “Finding it hard to sleep? The atmosphere here takes some getting used to.”
Grace gathered her hair into a messy bun. “I’ve noticed. I woke up shivering, and I thought there was some sort of mist hovering above me,” she said, tone questioning. ”The price of being blind without glasses.”
“That was probably Honoria,” Phee said.
“Honoria?”
The kettle whistled, and Rosie plucked it off the burner. “She was one of the first guests here over a hundred thirty years ago.” She retrieved a third mug from the cabinet and poured. “She jumped off the balcony to save herself from an arranged marriage.”
A chill ran through Grace. Ghosts. Yep. So plausible. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?
Rosie offered a warm smile and a mug of tea. “Don’t worry. She’s mischievous, but relatively harmless. She’s not going to set fire to anyone’s bed or try to drown you in the shower.”
“You’ve got ghosts,” Grace said. She wrapped her hands around the mug and welcomed the heat that spread through her.
Phee held up his forefinger. ”Ghost. Singular. Nothing to worry about.”
It was official. They both had lost their brains. Grace sipped her tea—peppermint and cloves. The warmth was spreading now, from her throat to her fingers and into her heart. She’d have to get the name of it before she left. ”What’s with this place and tea?”
“It’s a family recipe,” Rosie said as she slid onto the stool opposite Grace. ”It induces calm, an essential trait for the family business.”
Grace blew the steam from her mug. “You keep talking about that, and it doesn’t sound like you’re talking about the bed and breakfast.”
Phee laughed. ”Yeah, not exactly. Things tend to get pretty odd around here. Your grandfather was the sheriff, of sorts, kept things … balanced.”
“The sheriff?”
“What Phee means is he kept the town safe,” Rosie said. ”From monsters.”
Grace groaned. ”Monsters. Of course.”
~~~~
Carrie Gessner is a huge fan of books, tea, and Edith Wharton. She is currently pursuing an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction at Seton Hill University, where she is at work on her first novel, a high fantasy novel that draws on her experience in the Peace Corps. She blogs at carriegessner.blogspot.com and on tumblr at yethanginginthestars.tumblr.com. She’s also on Twitter (@CarrieGessner).
(Note: This is the first installment of The Teacup Trail's second-ever serial, "Where You Can See the Stars" by Carrie Gessner. You can read all chapters here.)
Gravel crunched beneath Grace’s worn sneakers as she stepped out of the car. Kentucky in the autumn was gorgeous—the trees all amber and crimson, the sky warm with fading sunlight, the air heavy with the mingled scents of fallen leaves and fresh rain. The gravel turned to a paved path as she walked from the side parking space to the front of the Pembleton Bed and Breakfast. Built in 1878 by her great-grandparents, it was a two-story house with white siding and hunter green shutters. A wooden porch wrapped from the front around the side and housed two rocking chairs and a two-person swing. The addition in the back was recent and spacious. The bed and breakfast was, according to the lawyer’s letter, the pride of Witch Wood, Kentucky, and the pride of the Pembleton family, and now it belonged to her.
Grace sighed and approached the front door. The steps were slightly uneven, but the porch planks were good and sturdy. At least her inheritance wasn’t a dilapidated, condemned wreck. A sign hung to the side of the door that said:
Pembleton Bed and Breakfast
Family Owned Since 1878
Home of Pembleton Family Supernatural Agency
It seemed her grandfather had had a sense of humor. As she fished in her jeans pocket for the key, the door swung open and out bounded a giant blonde in a navy and white baseball tee. A brown and black mutt raced around her to jump on Grace and lick her face.
She turned her face away. “Oh, hey, there. Not the glasses!”
“Imhotep, down! Sorry, he’s excitable. Imhotep!”
The dog returned to all fours.
“So sorry! You must be Grace,” the blonde woman said, her southern accent foreign and yet hospitable. She pulled Grace into a strong hug. “Welcome!”
“Uh … thanks.”
“Oh, I’m Rosie, and this naughty guy is Imhotep. Pleasure,” the woman said. She wore no makeup, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
“Nice to meet you.”
Rosie held the door for her. “Come inside. Let me give you a tour.”
“I didn’t realize anyone would be here to meet me.”
“They didn’t tell you much, did they? I take care of things around here. Anything you need done—updates, small fixes, big fixes, whatever whatevs, that’s me. And I live in one of the back rooms, too.”
“Oh.” The house came with its own caretaker. It didn’t need many surface repairs, but Rosie’s presence would come in handy if Grace decided to stay. ”Great. Thanks.”
The foyer was high-ceilinged, the walls freshly painted white. A Victorian-era couch sat in the left corner, and another longer one sat below mounted bookshelves nestled beneath the staircase.
“Have you been here long?” Grace asked.
“Yeah, a while now,” Rosie said. “I worked here in the summers during college, and Pete brought me on as full-time caretaker once I graduated. Do you have bags in the car you want brought in? Or do you want a tour first? Or lunch? Phee’s working right now, but I can whip up a mean grilled cheese and bacon sandwich.”
Grace wiped her shoes on a doormat depicting a sepia-toned map of the world. She probably should have sold this place without a second thought, but she was three years out of college and had nothing to show for her lit degree except for some stellar crit papers and some less-than-stellar short stories she couldn’t sell.
The ceiling boards creaked.
Grace looked up. “Is someone upstairs?”
“Oh, no. There are no guests right now.” Rosie crossed her arms and scrutinized her. “Do you want me to show you to your room? You must be tired after your trip. You can look over the place later.”
Grace peeked into the room to her right, painted a deep red. A king bed with a gold and crimson coverlet took up most of the room, but a door along the opposite wall revealed a spacious bathroom. Rosie had lived in this place, taken care of this place for years now. She had known her grandfather for much longer than Grace had even known of him.
Grace retreated into the entranceway. “Were you with him when he died?”
Rosie brushed her bangs to the side. “He died in his sleep, actually. Phee was the one who found him.” She took Grace by the hand. ”Look, let me take you to your room. There’s something he wanted me to pass on to you.”
Grace followed her through the Victoriana dining room and through a door marked “Private.” This must be the back part of the house, the addition, where the family lived. They walked through an updated kitchen into a cozy living area.
“That’s my room.” Rosie pointed to a closed door on the right side of the room featuring a movie poster of Lugosi and Karloff’s The Black Cat. ”What? I’m a big fan of old horror movies. Just wait until Wednesday night rolls around.” She led the way up the steps, covered with a Persian runner. ”Phee sleeps upstairs, but if you’re uncomfortable with that, he and I can switch rooms.”
Considering she knew neither Phee nor Rosie and had no basis to formulate an opinion, Grace shrugged. When they reached the top floor, something flickered across the end of the hallway in the gathering gloom. Exhausted, she shook her head to clear it.
The mysterious Phee’s room was the first on the left, hers the first on the right. Rosie switched on the bedside lamp. It was a regular old bedroom, with a king-sized four-poster bed, a wardrobe and closet, and a desk beneath the eastern window. In the corner sat an old-fashioned black trunk, the edges worn. The space smelled dusty, like an old library, though the only book in sight was a leather-bound tome on the desk.
“We, uh, changed the sheets for you,” Rosie said, ”but I’d be happy to give you directions to the nearest Bed, Bath, and Beyond. It’s almost twenty miles away, but hey, they have a movie theater over there, too.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Grace said, wandering into the room. She ran a hand over a bedpost. It looked like an antique, but the wood was still smooth beneath her fingers.
Rosie, arms crossed, leaned against the doorframe. “I know.”
In addition to the book, the desk was home to a handful of picture frames, all featuring black-and-white photos of what Grace guessed were family members. She picked up one that showed a man and a woman embracing in front of a tree.
“That’s Pete and Irene.”
Her grandparents, the ones she never knew, and the only answer she ever got about them was 'it’s a delicate situation'.
“Did you know her, too?”
Rosie shook her head. “She died a long time ago.”
Before Grace was born or after? Had she known of her only granddaughter, fought to put her in the will? “What was he like?”
“He was a good man. He liked to help people. He helped this town more than anyone.” Rosie sighed.
“Oh,” Grace said. She set the frame down only to pick up a very familiar photo beside it. Her at her college graduation a few years ago. Black gown, red diploma, big grin. Maybe her mother had sent it. Or he’d gotten it off Facebook. She sank onto the mattress.
“Look, I’ll go make you some tea,” Rosie said.
“No, that’s all right. It’s getting late anyway, and I’m tired.”
“Sure. Let me at least bring your bags up.”
Grace wasn’t a guest here, and if she was the boss, she wouldn’t be for long. Tired, she silently handed her car keys over. Once Rosie had gone, she set the frame back in place, yawned, and stretched. It wasn’t late by any standards, but the nine-hour drive had wiped her out.
Rosie returned a few minutes later with a quiet, “Back.” She set Grace’s duffel on the floor, placed the car keys on the end table, and held out a steaming mug shaped like a TARDIS. ”Made you some tea just in case. Bathroom’s next room on this side of the hall. Do you need anything else?”
“No,” Grace said. She accepted the mug and stuffed her free hand into her jeans pocket. “But thanks for the welcome.”
“Sure. Before I go, Pete wanted us to make sure you read that book on the desk. And he wanted us to give you this.” She withdrew a brass key from her pocket. “It’s for the trunk. Maybe you should take a glance before you turn in.”
“I will.”
“Okay, goodnight, then. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”
“Goodnight.”
Rosie closed the door on her way out. The room was nice, but the atmosphere was … eerie, like her grandparents’ souls still lingered here and wouldn’t let go of the place, like they were afraid of entrusting it to her. Which was smart. She had no ties to this house, no qualms about selling it to a tourism developer. Her plan was only to stick around for a few days to smooth the transition.
She turned. The curtains were drawn open, and the moon, already visible, was a silvery crescent low in the sky.
She tugged on the lamp chain, flooding the desk with light. The book, which bore no title, was probably one of those old bibles people liked to pass down to their children. Inside, on the first page was a list of names and years, from William A. Pembleton—634 to Peter Pembleton—1949. Fantastic. A family heirloom. Exactly what she needed.
She turned the page.
A Bestiary of Legend: A Guide to Protecting the Balance of the World
Not a bible, then.
The first entry was titled ’abaasy’ and accompanied by a pen drawing of a dragon-like beast.
She slid the tip of her finger along the handwritten line as she muttered to herself, “‘A spirit, dwells near their own grave. Devours man and their souls, infects the living with disease.’ Gee, thanks, Grandpa. That’s not terrifying at all.”
Below the description, the book gave instructions on how to vanquish such a creature. She flipped through the remaining pages, stopping occasionally. The entire book was full of similar entries, all for otherworldly beings. Though some were marked as ‘friendly’ or ‘friendly once trust is earned,’ most posed threats to humans.
What the hell? Either her ancestors had an eccentric sense of humor or madness ran in her family.
Grace closed the book. Practicality was the force that needed to rule her life right now, not fantasy. Even so, the trunk was worth a look if only to keep from worrying about it in the morning. Despite the trunk’s obvious age, the lock was shiny and new and the key slid in easily. She hefted the lid up and groaned.
Weapons. Weapons filled the trunk, including an axe and a sword on the underside of the lid that shimmered in the lamplight. Unmarked jars, hand blades, boxes of stones and powders and amulets—none of it made sense.
“Damn it.” Nowhere in the will did it mention her grandfather was a nutcase.
~~~~
Carrie Gessner is a huge fan of books, tea, and Edith Wharton. She is currently pursuing an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction at Seton Hill University, where she is at work on her first novel, a high fantasy novel that draws on her experience in the Peace Corps. She blogs at carriegessner.blogspot.com and on tumblr at yethanginginthestars.tumblr.com. She's also on Twitter (@CarrieGessner).
I was tagged by macaroni-and-tease to participate in this question thing:)
The rules are:
1- always post the rules
2- answer the questions the person who tagged you asked, then write eleven new ones
3- tag eleven peeps, then tell em ya tagged em
4- tell the person that tagged you when you’ve answered their questions
1. Name two things that can always make you smile?
nice weather and chocolate
2. An experience that seemed horrible at the time but ended up being for the best?
an old friend and I had a serious falling out last year and while it totally sucked to lose them it really was for the best.
3. In ten words, advice for someone going through a rough time right now.
Things may be shitty but remember that you are not.
4. If money didn’t matter, what would be your dream lifestyle?
Just traveling really. I'd love to see all of Europe.
5. Coffee or Tea?
depends on how tired I am.
6. Favorite brand of jeans and why.
I really love Alloy jeans. They're so comfy
7. The ultimate pet and why.
red panda because they are my favorite animal honestly
8. Black or white?
grey really. You should see my wardrobe
9. Liberal or conservative?
liberal
10. Proudest moment in your life so far.
Actually making it through my first year of college without dropping out was pretty great.
11. Describe your current crush
Suppose I don't really have one honestly.
New Questions:
1. What is your ideal day like?
2. Favorite film adaption of a book?
3. Who is your celebrity crush?
4. What's the worst thing you've ever said to someone?
5. Do you have any hidden talents?
6. What super power would you want to receive if you fell into a vat of toxic waste?
yethanginginthestars said: I feel so dumb when I try to write science-smart (or anything other than literature-smart) characters. Like, I used to be good at science. What happened?!
I'm discovering I don't remember anything from science class past middle school. ANYTHING. I think it's interesting, but my brain can't process it past a certain point, no matter how simply it's explained, and it makes me SO MAD-- first, just on a basic level, and now because I apparently can't ever write characters who are good at it, and science people are such interesting people!
