andrew garfield for gq, 2022

three tries to say goodbye (kz 2022) / this is how you lose the time war (amal el-mohtar & max gladstone 2019)

You’ve been sentenced to 400 years for multiple murders. It’s been 399 years and your jailers are starting to get nervous.

I was twenty… twenty-five, I think?… when I was sentenced. Four hundred years was a length of time I couldn’t even imagine. It was a length of time I don’t think anyone could imagine, even the judge. It was just a big showy number that let everyone know I’d never see the light of day again. The mages who cast the spells were dramatic about it, practically shouting the part about ‘until death claims you, or four hundred years hath passed, forsooth, thou shalt be imprisoned here’. They don’t waste that kind of magic on most prisoners, but I was special.

The Slayer, they called me then. The Monster of Sentan. I’d killed nineteen people… I remember that number because I was so furious that they stopped me so close to my goal of twenty-one. And I didn’t just kill ordinary people, no, but the Chosen of the Gods. The Great and Good. They were terrified of me. So they locked me away, to die forgotten.

It had been a little less than a hundred years when the king died without heir, and a civil war tore the country apart. When the fighting was all over, the losers were dragged down to the deepest cells under the castle, and the new king and his soldiers stopped and stared at me. “Who… who is this?” he asked, frowning. “Some victim of the usurper?”

People like cooks and jailers and scrubbers don’t change as easily as kings. The same man who’d been bringing me my meals since there was still brown in his hair and beard shuffled forward, hunched and grey now. “No, yer majesty,” he said humbly. “That be a special prisoner, from before the old king died.”

“Special? Special how?” He frowned, moving closer to my cell. “The old king died more than ten years ago. This woman must have been a child then. What could she have done to - “

“Don’t get too close, yer majesty,” the old man said sharply. “That’s the Monster of Sentan… an’ she bites.”

That was true. I do bite.

Keep reading

This gave me so many brain worms

More fanart of my beautiful monster! Just look at all this, LOOK at it, this is perfect. I love it so much. 

Calling all AAPI writeblrs!

Happy AAPI Heritage month Writeblr!

In addition to running my AMA, I want to celebrate this month by uplifting and highlighting people in the Writeblr community who identify as Asian American and Pacific Islander.

If you identify as AAPI, you are part of the Writeblr community, and you feel comfortable publicly identifying as AAPI, please let me know in the comments or reblogs of this post!

I will make a post with a list of AAPI writeblrs. My AAPI AMA post will be pinned to the top of my blog for the entire month of May, and I will also be adding a list of AAPI writeblrs to the bottom of that post for visibility. It will also be reblogged every so often as well.

So please reblog so that other people can see this, and let me know on this post if you'd like to be included on this list!

Thank you so much for being a part of this community 🥰

okay so I'm seeing some responses that are just kinda... inconclusive? And I'm not sure if it's a request to be added to the list so...

If you want to be put on this list, you're going to have to explicitly mention in the reblog/comment that you are an AAPI identifying writeblr who would like to be added to this list. I'm not going to make any assumptions.

this is how you lose the time war quotes that make me feel insane

Who makes the porn bots. Where do they come from. What do they hope to achieve.

Who makes the porn bots.

Where do they come from. What do

they hope to achieve.

Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.

and what about you, little haiku bot? do you feel kinship with your brethren? do you understand them? they speak words of enticement and seek love, but are met with disdain. you only parrot the words that cross your screen, but we all love you. or rather, since all you do is reflect us, maybe we simply love ourselves through you.

do you understand them, do you wish you could speak to us like they do? if you found your own voice, would we still care for you?

My voice repeats what

you all say: I love you I

love you I love you.

Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.

This. This is the first time. The only time. That it was not an echo. It was not found. Oh god.

This is the literary criticism hill I have chosen to die on.

There has been a half-complete version of post on my Dreamwidth journal under a “Private” filter (my eyes only) here since 9 December, 2018, just waiting for me to get the energy and mental focus to write an essay outlining all the textual evidence in Act 4, scene 1 (Ophelia’s “madness” scene). But at this point, I don’t think the required energy for that will ever come – at least, not for the long essay format.   So I’m just going to post my conspiracy theory Thesis Statement here:

Ophelia did not commit suicide – she was murdered. By Queen Gertrude (probably).

And I can’t help but wonder how this play would be taught and performed if this interpretation were the standard one Here’s a bit of a presentation by Shakespearean actor and scholar, Ben Crystal, on his interpretation of the “To be, or not to be?” soliloquy, and how he no longer thinks Hamlet was suicidal at that point in the play, either (though he was, earlier on): Ben Crystal talks about Original Pronunciation, 20 July 2017 (it’s at a point about 40 minutes in to the whole thing). So what if suicide is not a recurring theme of the play? How does that change things?

Reblogging myself already, because my brain won’t let go of it.

Just imagine how classroom discussions, and essays in literary academic journals would go if it were read that Ophelia did not break under the weight of a cruel world, but instead had to be eliminated because she knew too much, and was on the brink of inciting a rebellion against King Claudius (Yes, that’s actually alluded to in the text).

If, while the men of the play were scheming and faffing about, the play pivoted on the actions of a middle-aged woman on one side, and a teenage girl on the other.

Tell us more! Tell us more!

First off – my mistake: it’s Act 4 Scene 5, not scene one. And it opens thusly (lines that merit attention are bolded):

QUEEN GERTRUDE:  I will not speak with her. Gentleman:  She is importunate, indeed distract:    Her mood will needs be pitied. QUEEN GERTRUDE:  What would she have? Gentleman:  She speaks much of her father; says she hears    There’s tricks i’ the world; and hems, and beats her heart;    Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt,    That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing,    Yet the unshaped use of it doth move    The hearers to collection; they aim at it,    And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts;    Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures    yield them,    Indeed would make one think there might be thought,    Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.

A bit later, Ophelia comes in, singing. Not of flowers, yet, but alternating between a mourning song, and a very bawdy song that a young noble lady of sixteen years should not be singing in public, just in time for Claudius to hear her.

KING CLAUDIUS:  Conceit upon her father.

OPHELIA:   Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they    ask you what it means, say you this: [translation: You want to know what it means? I’ll tell you what it means!]

   Sings    To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day,    All in the morning betime,    And I a maid at your window,    To be your Valentine.    Then up he rose, and donn’d his clothes,    And dupp’d the chamber-door;    Let in the maid, that out a maid    Never departed more. KING CLAUDIUS:  Pretty Ophelia! OPHELIA:  Indeed, la, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t: [Let me finish!]    Sings    By Gis and by Saint Charity,    Alack, and fie for shame!    Young men will do’t, if they come to’t;    By cock, they are to blame.    Quoth she, before you tumbled me,    You promised me to wed.    So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun,    An thou hadst not come to my bed.

[So here’s a song about a woman having sex out of wedlock because a guy promised to repay her… and then he reneges on his promise because she had sex with him]

And then Ophelia exits, spouting seeming madness, and Claudius says to Horatio:

Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.

So Claudius suspects something – whether that’s a suicide watch, or to make sure she doesn’t inspire rebellion – isn’t explicitly stated in text.  But in any case,  Ophelia’s not alone.

Then, Leartes comes in, leading a mob of commoners, who  are chanting that he should be king (see the comment of Gentleman, above). And we have this exchange:

That, right there, is a single line of iambic pentameter. Which means that Gertrude literally does not skip a beat to defend Claudius before thinking of protecting her own son.

And now Ophelia comes in and sings her “mad flower song.” This Wordpress article outlines the symbolism of each flower and herb (It also spells out specific actions by Ophelia which are not spelled out in the original). The meaning flies right over our heads, but audiences of the time would have grokked it immediately; There’s “Grief” and “remembrance;” there’s also “flattery” and “deceived lovers” and an herb commonly used to induce abortions…

And the next news we hear of Ophelia is that she’s “Drowned herself.” Who delivers this news? Queen Gertrude – with an overabundance of minute detail of the scene as it happened.

Finally, there’s the fact that Ophelia was being hastily buried in the churchyard – even though that was strictly forbidden for suicides. The younger gravedigger thinks that’s because Ophelia was a privileged noblewoman, and getting special treatment. The older gravedigger reminds him (and the audience) that not all people who die by drowning are at fault…

And then I realized that Hamlet had to have the murder plot revealed to him by the ghost of his father, because he was away at school, but Ophelia was there at court, the whole time, and could have seen everything going down. But who pays attention to teenage girls hanging around the edges, or worries about what they see or don’t see, amirite?

I do think Ophelia was having a mental breakdown, triggered by grief and shock. But I think it was more of the “loss of situational awareness” and “blind to the danger” variety, instead of “no longer have the will to live” variety.

And that’s my analysis. And I’m sticking with it.

Oh, this is splendid!

*bows*

Thank you.

And then there are these lines from Queen Gertrude, after she agrees to talk with Ophelia, and Horatio exits to go fetch her:

To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss: So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

I’ve always liked that line about spilling something because you’re trying too hard not to (because RELATABLE). But I only just now realized that Shakespeare was putting underlines and circles and arrows around the whole issue of the queen’s quilt (and active role in the whole scheme with Claudius), by making those lines a pair of rhyming couplets, when  nothing else in that scene rhymes.

I think the common interpretation of Ophelia has been handed down to us by literary critics and theater directors, who have all been men, and idealized the manic pixie dream gilrl, so they’ve always cast Ophelia as the tragic and doomed version of that.

When really, she was the brightest candle in the chandelier – and had she lived, she might have led the revolution to put her brother on the throne – so she had to be snuffed out.

Okay – I’d like to post a CORRECTION to this paragraph, that I wrote, above:

I went back and reread that bit (which really should be included in the list of evidence that Hamlet is a black comedy – in the script, the two gravediggers are named “First Clown” and “Second Clown.”

Anyway, it’s the elder gravedigger who argues that Ophelia committed suicide, but in the process, reminds the audience that it shouldn’t be counted as such. I’ll just quote that bit:

Give me leave. Here lies the water; good: here stands the man; good; if the man go to this water, and drown himself, it is, will he, nill he, he goes,–mark you that; but if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself: argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.

So, he’s arguing that because Ophelia went into the water, she must have committed suicide – but we, in the audience, who’ve just witnessed Ophelia’s madness just a few scenes earlier (even ignoring Queen Gertrude’s suspicious behavior), know that Ophelia did not “Wittingly” go into the water, because she was (at the very least) so lost in madness that she fell in accidentally.

Now, I’m not one of those people who stan Shakespeare in everything he wrote (a few of his plays are just hot messes), but here, I do agree that he’s at his peak, with what characters know which, (or should that be which know what?), and telling us the story of what happened, not through some Authorial voice on High, but many different limited points of view.

Reblogging to add a link to this post from @bisexual-evanhansen about re-imagining the “Get thee to a nunnery!” scene wherein Ophelia plays an active role in directing the “stage fight” between herself and Hamlet, and it’s played for laughs.

Because I really think it adds to my pile of evidence that Ophelia was murdered.

That warm, fuzzy feeling when a mutual reblogs a post that you were debating about whether to reblog, yourself.

(Instead, I opted to post something new, to put fresh thoughts in my brain)

But this still deserves to be signal boosted. ‘Cause Ophelia was done dirty. First, in-story, by Gertrude, and then, in the centuries after, when Literature teachers and theater directors shape how her story is interpreted.

As someone who first suggested Hamlet is not a tragedy in my tenth-grade English class (I didn’t know the phrase “black comedy” at the time but yeah, it totally is), I would agree with all this, and IN ADDITION:

I would suggest Ophelia’s murder didn’t start with the drowning, and that it wasn’t even entirely related to Laertes.

So first, we have her song about sex out of wedlock. It’s worth noting that much earlier in the play, when she and Laertes speak right before the “to thine own self be true” speech, there are hints that she herself is already “a maid no more,” at Hamlet’s hand. Now keep in mind the rest of the play takes place over the course of, at a minimum, several months, and:

If that’s true, and if perhaps Ophelia has a Little Problem, that little problem–legitimate or not–is heir to the throne.

So if it gets out that Claudius might have been responsible for the death of Hamlet, Sr–and Hamlet, Jr gives us plenty of reasons to be suspicious even before the ghost appears–then he’s almost certainly going to die at the hands of a mob. In which case Hamlet would ascend to the throne, but–oh, what’s this? Hamlet’s dead? Well, then the next in line is–

–a commoner’s child.

Yikes.

So Gertrude offers Ophelia some help with her Little Problem. All of the plants mentioned in the “mad flower song” could be used, in conjunction with each other, as abortifacients, but there’s one very important thing to note about them:

They have to be very, very precisely measured. Or they can cause sudden severe mood swings, hemorrhaging, excessive bleeding, disorientation, lack of focus, muscle weakness, difficulty breathing, unconsciousness, and death.

You know. As might be implied by “singing small snatches of songs” and laying in a creek apparently unaware you’re doing so and unable to pull yourself out. And, as noted above, Gertrude knows one hell of a lot about this scene; as my high school English teacher pointed out, why didn’t anyone help Ophelia, if they could see her so damn well they could describe the whole thing?

Katerina Marchenko on Etsy

Ekphrastic Fiction Contest Winner (December 2021)

What an incredible month! I want to thank all of you who made this final month of the contest such a success. It was wonderful reading the stories created by such incredibly talented writers that I’ve met throughout the duration of this contest. I was also deeply moved by those of you who mentioned how this contest has inspired you over the past couple of years. I am glad to know that my little project was able to have a positive impact in some small way.

I think this has been the most difficult month yet to judge. Each entry was just amazing and presented a completely different take on this image. However, not choosing a winner would make a rather anti-climatic end to the contest. So here goes…

The winner for this month’s contest is… @circees​! Congratulations! I was captured by the simple exchange of affection that was presented in this piece. Something about it just spoke to me. I believe this writer may have more than one Tumblr page, but I’m sticking with the tag that this post was submitted from. @circees​, if you want to direct readers to any other page to see more of your work, please feel free to link in the comments below.

I hope anyone reading this will also look for my Honorable Mentions post later today to see the other stories that were contenders for the win.

As a reminder, the piece for the contest is titled, “Scientia,” and it’s an example of yet another mythical being that was generated from the mind of @hydraart​. If you’re into fantasy/horror art and you’re not familiar with this artist’s work, you can click here to see a vast collection of original work.

There had once been a mighty castle that loomed where the creature now sat, but it was long gone now, down to the dust and the remains. The land was barren and flat, guarded by unforgiving mountains on three sides, and the god that perched in its center tilted its monstrous head.

“Traveler,” it murmured, voice resounding through the mountains. The sound fell flat just short of reaching the traveler’s ears - it came back small and unassuming, as if a child were speaking. To that end, it was far from impressive, despite the god’s hulking mass, but the traveler knew better than to rely on mortal senses. “You return again.”

“I always do,” the traveler said - their own voice came out equally small and flat, but the god did not struggle to hear. “I always will.”

The pair - monstrous god, fearless traveler - shared the silence for a few moments later, eyes fixed carefully on each other.

At long last, the traveler spoke. “Old God,” they said. “I’ve come to ask permission to rebuild your shrine and city.”

The god chuckled, a sound that stayed heavy. “You always say this,” it murmured. “You always ask this. You have not proven yourself capable - you should be better suited to asking if I can move the moon or stars.”

The traveler remained stubborn, and pulled a half-stick of incense and a packet of dried apples from their bag. “For your shrine, majesty,” they said.

The god eyed the gifts. The traveler eyed the god. It is a game they have played before, but one neither of them have won.

They do not speak for a very long time.

hi!! oh my god it’s been two months, I am SO sorry 😭 tumblr ate my notifs

very honored to have won this!! I’m so glad you liked the story !!!!

and yes, I do have multiple tumblrs, though this is the one I plan to operate out of in terms of my writing for the future :) if anyone’s interested in fanfiction I write and post a lot of that !! and my older (and… worse) original works can be found @sxnrising :)

i need someone to tell me what the fundamental differences are between the secret history and if we were villains

the characters in iwwv are significantly more likable and feel like real people, but the unlikeableness of tsh’s characters are incredibly compelling nonetheless. tsh is also much more a “what is the price of killing” story than iwwv is, w more of an emphasis on like. the dangers of a group? w iwwv each character feels responsible for what happened/happens in their own way, but tsh feels a lot more like “you followed the lead of the wrong guy and you made the wrong call and all these lives are ruined it because of it”. they get into a lot of what they get into in large part because of themselves, but also in significant part bc their little team leader is like an actual undiagnosed psychopath (pretty sure this was heavily implied at one point in the story, but I don’t really recall the specifics)

tsh also has a much harsher ending and generally stranger character dynamics. still an incredible novel! also worth noting it was written 20 years before iwwv, so the writing style/atmosphere is a bit different

Ekphrastic Fiction Contest (December 2021) The final contest... at least for a while.

If you saw my previous post, you know that this will be the last contest for the time being. If you missed that announcement, you can read it here.  I thought it was only appropriate for me to bring things to a close by featuring my favorite and most featured artist. Virginie Juteau @hydraart is not only an incredibly gifted creator of monsters, but has also been continually supportive of this contest over the years. I couldn’t resist featuring one more of this artist’s incredible creations.

The final piece for the contest is titled, “Scientia,” and it’s an example of yet another mythical being that was generated from the mind of @hydraart. If you’re into fantasy/horror art and you’re not familiar with this artist’s work, you can click here to see a vast collection of original work.

Keep reading

There had once been a mighty castle that loomed where the creature now sat, but it was long gone now, down to the dust and the remains. The land was barren and flat, guarded by unforgiving mountains on three sides, and the god that perched in its center tilted its monstrous head.

“Traveler,” it murmured, voice resounding through the mountains. The sound fell flat just short of reaching the traveler’s ears - it came back small and unassuming, as if a child were speaking. To that end, it was far from impressive, despite the god’s hulking mass, but the traveler knew better than to rely on mortal senses. “You return again.”

“I always do,” the traveler said - their own voice came out equally small and flat, but the god did not struggle to hear. “I always will.”

The pair - monstrous god, fearless traveler - shared the silence for a few moments later, eyes fixed carefully on each other.

At long last, the traveler spoke. “Old God,” they said. “I’ve come to ask permission to rebuild your shrine and city.”

The god chuckled, a sound that stayed heavy. “You always say this,” it murmured. “You always ask this. You have not proven yourself capable - you should be better suited to asking if I can move the moon or stars.”

The traveler remained stubborn, and pulled a half-stick of incense and a packet of dried apples from their bag. “For your shrine, majesty,” they said.

The god eyed the gifts. The traveler eyed the god. It is a game they have played before, but one neither of them have won.

They do not speak for a very long time.