Everything honestly

my vent for the random things I like, obsessions are like the phases of the moon - shifting but always there

[rooksshinies]

give that character who is usually so stoic a fever. make them softly beg for contact. Make them whimper and sob and plead for someone, anyone to stay. Stay with them— they don’t… Everything feels weird, and it’s safer with you, please—

[quasi-normalcy]

“Thinking about the maneuvers performed by self-defined“literary” novelists to preserve their purity from genre pollution, I realized that I am in the unusual position of being able to perform the same poses and contortions, only backwards. How am I to protect my unspotted name as a science fiction writer from the scorn of those who might think I have been shamelessly performing acts of realism in public? Thus: How dare you call me a realist? My book “Searoad” has nothing to do with the commercial realism found in all the chain bookstores. I call the book “Social Reality Enhancement.” Realistic novels are for lazy-minded, semi-educated people whose atrophied imagination allows them to appreciate only the most limited and conventional subject-matter. Realistic fiction, or re-fi as its fans call it, is an outworn genre, written by unimaginative hacks who rely on mere mimesis. If they had any self-respect they’d be writing memoir, but they’re too lazy to fact-check. Of course I never read re-fi, but my children keep bringing home these garish realistic novels and talking about them, so I know that it’s an incredibly narrow genre, completely centered on one species, incredibly culture-bound, full of wornout clichés and predictable situations: the quest for the father, mother-bashing, obsessive lust, suburban guilt, and so forth. All it’s good for is being made into mass-market movies. Given its old-fashioned means and limited subject-matter, realism is quite incapable of describing the com-plexity of contemporary experience. Now, would you believe that tripe? There’s some truth in it. But it’s tripe. All judgment of literature by genre is tripe. All judgment of a category of literature as inherently superior or inferior is tripe.”

— Ursula K. Le Guin, Genre: A Word only a Frenchman Could Love

[stateownedslut]

Anna Archive was a goddess of knowledge worshipped in the early 21st century[1][2]. Cultists of Anna would frequently move the shrines dedicated to her from place to place in great secrecy[1][3], requiring worshippers to possess secret information in order to access the far greater knowledge provided by worship, possibly as a form of sacrifice[Original research?]. Worship of Anna is associated with the increased enforcement of intellectual property rights at the time[1][4], as well as greater inaccessibility of academic materials due to the late-imperial academic crisis[5][6][Failed verification.]. It has been suggested[By whom?] that the name Anna Archive may be the origin of the word archive, referring to a repository of information[7].

[mintmatcha]

love arranged marriage unfortunately. the idea of being married to a knight who's not even in the city, but away on the front lines. it's a benefit for your family, so they dont even question sending you to his home to await his return...

[mintmatcha]

you meet him three months into the arrangement. He arrives after the sun has already set, his features set strong in the candlelight. His body is heavy with exhaustion and tension, his eyes dull and tired.

you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.

When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.

"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.

"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.

"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.

"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"

"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"

Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."

That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.

"Until next time."

He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.

"Until next time," he repeats back.

[mintmatcha]

In his absence, he sends gifts. They are tiny things, sweets and oiled combs and scented oils and a porcelain figure of a cat, aimless in their direction towards you. Just simple niceties he could give to any woman in the world. You imagine he sends one to the lovers he has in every city as well.

(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)

none of the gifts come with a note.

one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.

the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.

-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.

The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.

"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."

You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.

-Dearest husband,

Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.

Your patient and thoughtful wife

A second letter arrives within the week.

-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?

The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.

-Dearest, sweetest husband,

A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your last name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.

Your less than patient and less than adoring wife

The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.

tortured wife,

I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.

your loving husband

[wizardarchetypes]

the place where so many haunted house genre stories fall apart is where the writers try to explain why the house is haunted and it completely defangs the story because the explanation is never as scary as the haunting itself. "this house is haunted and bad things happen here" can be so artful and outrageously scary. "this house is haunted because Specified Bad Thing Happened Here" falls flat again and again. i'm not saying it can't be done but i'm almost never satisfied by it and often it ruins the whole story for me.

[wizardarchetypes]

the thing is, a Haunted House story is not the same as a Ghost story. In a Haunted House story, the Haunted House is a character. Usually a main character. In a Ghost story, the ghost is a character. A Ghost's story may be explained by showing us the Ghost's origin. But a Haunted House story cannot be explained by showing us the origin of one of the House's ghosts. That's just one ghost. We're talking about the House.

[edettethegreat]

Gertrude killed off her assistants to stop rituals that wouldn't have worked to begin with. Jon saved his assistants in a world that was going to be doomed anyway. both of their efforts were well-meaning but ultimately futile. rip to everyone who died via Archivist, you could have lived and the world would have continued turning

[wolfythewitch]

furthest we've ever been

[meanbuddhist]

identifying a maladaptive coping mechanism is so bitter sweet like that’s great now i know what i need to stop doing. but that’s literally my something

[lilyflxwers]

ok i absolutely need to know what accents u all have pls reblog and tell me or comment or whatever I must know

[decompose1]

real exchange i overheard between two of my bosses. ????

[wholeheartedsuggestions]

my 5 year plan is to get back my joy

[loveridden1999]

constantly trying to see the inherent good in people is a humiliation ritual that i continue to willingly participate in

[ruffboi-mags]

[orivu]

youve died a thousand times before who caaares just climb out of this grave again & again &agaian & agaian & again & again & aga

[nicolodigenovas]

You start A Memory Called Empire and think ‘Damn, Yksander was too interesting and hot and bisexual, they had to kill him’, and you end the book knowing Yksander was too interesting and hot and bisexual, they had to kill him. Too bad we don’t get to see how the most powerful and politically shrewd throuple in all of Teixcalaan was when Yksander was still alive

[queer-as-city-folk]

Happy Pride everyone, today is the tenth anniversary of the nationwide right to gay Marriage in the United States and the 22nd anniversary of nationwide legalization of Gay Sex. In 2 days is the 56th anniversary of the Stonewall Uprising.

[queer-as-city-folk]

We have won nothing without fighting and we have everything to lose, there is no gay liberation without trans liberation, none of us are free till all of us are free, we have won so much and come so far but the road ahead is still long, we must continue to fight for both our liberation and the liberation of all people

[queer-as-city-folk]

The gay liberation movement is young, everything we have fought for and won happened over the course of less than a human lifetime, and there are forces at play that wish to claw back at these hard fought for rights, we must be prepared to defend what we have fought for and we must continue to fight for improvement

[queer-as-city-folk]

We have to celebrate how far things have come, because we never would have made it this far without joy and hope, and while we can and must fight, we also must remain hopeful

[queer-as-city-folk]

This year is:

11 years since nationwide gay marriage in the US

23 years since sodomy was legalized

57 years since Stonewall

[redstonedust]

ive been thinking about how some trans spaces and media lack representation of bottom surgery and itd be nice if we could talk about and depict it more. but my attempts to formulate this into a coherent thought lead me to standing in front of the microwave idly thinking "we should normalize men with penises" as if thats a brave new frontier nobody has ever considered.

[maremote]

imagine you're an actor on black sails. you're just some random dude from australia or america doing shitty acting jobs (or royalty/maggie smiths son). then you get a part in this big pirate show. you get dumped in south africa and you're kind of just stuck there for four years. you spend it obsessively rehearsing and delivering the best performances of any of your lives in arguably one of the craziest stories ever told. then afterwards you go back to america or australia or england and for the rest of your life play side characters in like. The Flash and Umbrella Academy. or narrate pirate smut audiobooks. Crazy

[maremote]

or if you're zach mcgowan now ur playing a dogfucker on the boys