Ollie. Asexual/Panromantic/Genderqueer. They/Them/Their or Xe/Xem/Xyr. Writer, crafter, baseball fan, TTRPG enthusiast. Whatever you actually followed me for, I should probably apologize. Unless you followed me because of one of my fanfics, in which case I should DEFINITELY apologize.
Spin the wheel again. That’s who’s trying to protect you.
(If you have zero idea about a name you got, spin until you see someone you recognize.)
Are you safe?
Absolutely not. I'm dead. 100% dead.
I might stay alive, but it'll be a really close thing.
I'll take some hits, for certain, but I should be okay in the end.
A few attacks might get through, but nothing concerning.
The attacker might be able to get in one lucky hit. If that.
I am the opposite of worried. I'm 100% safe.
…Look. I've tried picturing this. But I honestly don't know how to answer.
Remaining time: 2 days 31 minutes
(I've run this poll twice before, expanding it significantly for the second run. With about a year passed since that second run, I thought it was time to add another couple hundred names to the list and have another go.)
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Fun Story: My director kept telling me and my tenor sax buddy to play softer. No matter what we did, it wasn’t soft enough for him. So getting frustrated, I told my buddy “Dont play this time. Just fake it”
Our Band Director then informed us we sounded perfect.
Okay yeah so I play the bass clarinet and the amount of air you have to move and the stiffness of the reed means it only has two settings and that is loud and louder, with an optional LOUDEST that includes a 50% probability of HORRIBLE CROAKING NOISE which is the bass equivalent of the ubiquitous clarinet shriek.
One day, when I was in concert band in high school, we got a new piece handed out for the first time, and there was a strange little commotion back in the tuba section — whispering, and pointing at something in the music, and swatting at each other’s hands all shhh don’t call attention to it. And although they did attract the attention of basically everyone else in the band, they managed to avoid being noticed by the band director, who gave us a few minutes to look over our parts and then said, “All right, let’s run through it up to section A.”
And here we are, cheerfully playing along, sounding reasonably competent — but everyone, when they have the attention to spare, is keeping an eye on the tuba players. They don’t come in for the first eight measures or so, and then when they do come in, what we see is:
[stifled giggling]
[reeeeeeally deep breath]
[COLOSSAL FOGHORN NOISE]
The entire band stops dead, in the cacophonous kind of way that a band stops when it hasn’t actually been cued to stop. The band director doesn’t even say anything, just looks straight back at the tubas and makes a helpless sort of why gesture.
In unison, the tuba players defend themselves: “THERE WERE FOUR F’S.”
FFFF is not really a rational dynamic marking for any instrument, but for the love of all that is holy why would you put it in a tuba part.
according to my german-born/speaking boyfriend: Above the eight fortes in that Fucik piece it says “Nichts fuer Lauwarmduscher” which is “this is not for people who take lukewarm showers”
patience my brother (and patience my friend): a TMA fanfic
Read from the beginning on Tumblr || Also on AO3 and my website
Chapter 10: Bulletproof Cardboard
“Here!” Triumphantly, Melanie held up a long spar of wood, wide and flat at one end but narrower at the other. “It’s the perfect shape.”
Jon studied it with a critical eye, then nodded decisively. “It’s a good match, but it’s longer. You’ll have to be in the back.”
“You mean you get to steer?” Melanie frowned. “No fair. You be in the back.”
“Steering is in the back. The front just rows to help it move.” Jon wrinkled his nose to nudge his glasses back into place. “Do you want to steer or navigate?”
He could see Melanie’s indecision. On the one hand, she wanted to be the one to make them go where they needed to go, to be responsible for direction and distance alike. On the other hand…how often did she get to boss her brother around and not get fussed at? Not by Jon, mind you, who bossed her around just as much, but by the grown-ups who said she needed to be more ladylike. Mummy always said that meant quiet and complicit and told her to be as loud as she damn well liked, but…
“You can’t see well enough without your glasses,” she said at last. “I’ll navigate.”
“Can you see okay?” Jon countered. “You don’t have glasses, that doesn’t mean you don’t need them.”
“It’s close up stuff I have trouble with. I can see where we’re going.” Melanie pushed the plank towards Jon. “Come on. We’re wasting time.”
They ran down the path to the sandy beach and the relatively untouched cove. They had always preferred this spot to the more crowded and judgmental parts of the beach anyway, and that also made it the perfect hiding place. Not for them, although they definitely wanted to hide from Grandmother Sims—not that Jon called her that if he could get away with it, since Melanie wasn’t supposed to either—as often as possible. But ever since they had watched the television program and recognized some of the buildings in the town, they’d been thinking about this. And then Jon had found the books the show was based on and worked things out, and…well. The cove would be perfect, as long as nobody caught them.
Nobody had.
Melanie stabbed the long spar of wood into the sand—gently, so as not to break it—next to the one they’d found earlier and grabbed one edge of the half rotten tarpaulin. Jon had had the forethought to bury the corners so the tarp didn’t fly away, but it wouldn’t be hard to pull up. “We’re going now, right?”
“We kind of have to.” Jon squinted up at the sky. It was a clear, clear blue, but he knew that didn’t mean much. “You know how fast the weather can change, and she got short with me when I tried to look at the report in the paper. I guess she wasn’t finished.”
“Shame she doesn’t watch the news,” Melanie said bitterly. “Just her stories.”
Jon grabbed another edge of the tarp. “Well, if the treasure is still there, we can buy our own radio and listen to whatever we want, and if it’s not we can live there until it’s time to go home and it won’t matter anyway.”
“Won’t she get mad?”
“Sure she’ll get mad. But she has to find us first.” Jon dragged the tarp back. “Come on. You get in and I’ll—”
“No way,” Melanie interrupted. “We’re launching this together, remember? Toss the oars in and let’s go.”
Jon gave her a mock salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
Melanie narrowed her eyes at him. He knew she didn’t mean anything by it. “Shut it, mate.”
Jon simply smiled, as innocently as he could. “First mate?”
“I hate you,” Melanie claimed. Jon, who knew better, just laughed.
They had argued, privately, over what to call the boat. It wasn’t a proper rowboat, or even a real boat at all; neither of them knew how to properly make one. Jon had found directions, kind of, in a book from the library, but they weren’t allowed to use a saw even if they’d been able to find a barrel, and the book had been maddeningly vague on how the character had “fitted” a half lid to make a keel anyway. (And also they were mice. Maybe it was different for people.) But then they had found an old, abandoned trunk in their explorations and been able to smuggle it to their cove before they “wandered” too far and had to be brought back by the police—not that they’d ever really gone that far, just that they sometimes got into places they weren’t technically supposed to be. It had taken them a few days to get the vessel shipshape, but the last step had been finding wood to use as oars. The night before, they’d managed to catch a few minutes of a movie being shown before being sent to bed, and the narrator had given their boat a name that was perfect.
“Right,” Jon announced, tossing the two pieces of wood into the boat. “Quick, before someone sees us. All aboard the SS Toy Box.”
Melanie grabbed the side of the box in front; Jon grabbed the opposite corner in the back, and together they ran into the gentle surf. Once they were in it up to their knees, Melanie jumped over the side like they always did in the pictures, and it worked. Jon jumped in on the other side. The boat dipped a little bit below the water’s surface with their combined weight, but it stayed floating.
“Yes!” Melanie pumped her fists triumphantly in the air, then picked up the shorter oar. “She floats! Next stop, Kirrin Island!”
They made awkward, stuttering progress at first, until Jon started singing one of the songs they’d learned in school over the last year, one of the ones their new music teacher called a call and response song that were meant to teach them how to sing in parts. Melanie sang the echoes back to him and, just as he’d hoped, she started pulling in time with the singing. Jon reckoned it would do better than calling “stroke” like the rowing team at the university did. It also meant they got some good speed going. That was especially good, because the further out they got, the less likely they were to be caught.
They couldn’t see their destination from here. Obviously they couldn’t. Their science teacher had told them that, all other things being equal, a human being could only see about three miles away, to the edge of the horizon, and—by Jon’s calculations, which might be a bit off—they were closer to ten miles away. It was going to take them most of the day to get there, but it would be worth it.
Kirrin Island. Technically it belonged to the Kirrin family—specifically to George Kirrin by now, or so Jon supposed, since he’d deciphered (with some help) the date at the front of the book. That is, if the people in the books were real. Of course both Jon and Melanie had long ago outgrown the idea that just because a thing was written down meant it was true, and there were lots of stories told to try and explain real things that nobody actually knew anything about. There could very easily be no such person as George Kirrin, or any such place as Kirrin Cottage.
The island, now, that had to truly exist. One couldn’t just invent land masses that weren’t really there. Maybe it wasn’t called Kirrin Island at all, but it had to be there.
Right?
“Ten points to starboard,” Melanie called over her shoulder.
“You don’t know what points are,” Jon argued, even as he dragged his paddle backwards to make the boat turn right.
“Do, too,” Melanie shot back. “It’s the little lines on the compass. Ten points is turning ten of those.”
“Did you bring a compass?”
“Shut up.”
Jon reckoned they had turned enough and resumed paddling forward. “Anyway, those are degrees.”
Melanie scowled over her shoulder and missed a stroke, then hastily returned her gaze forward. “They’re the same thing.”
“Are not.”
“Are too.”
“Are not.”
“Are too.”
The argument quickly dissolved into silliness and giggling as it dawned on both of them that their chanting was fulfilling the same role as the singing had earlier in keeping them on stroke. Jon was glad of that, as it kept him from having to admit that Melanie might just possibly be right. He would have to look it up when he got home.
The waves were smooth as glass and the sky was utterly cloudless, and except for a very, very faint difference in the color you almost couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began if you were looking straight ahead. At least Jon couldn’t. He trusted that Melanie either could or would know where they were navigating to. They had a map, not a very good one since they’d drawn it themselves based on the map in the library and a whole lot of guesswork—for some reason it stopped before it got to Kirrin Island. Still, it ought to be enough, and Melanie ought to be able to follow it.
Then again, maybe they should have brought a compass, too.
The sun beat down on their shoulders. It had rained very early that morning, but the storm had long passed, so they ought to be fine, at least for the moment. Jon didn’t smell rain, although it was hard to smell anything other than the salt of the English Channel. Anyway, he wasn’t worried about them getting lost. They would have to lose sight of the shore in order to reach the island, he thought, and even if they missed it, well, the Channel was at its second narrowest point here. They would just hit France. He didn’t really speak French, but they could learn, and anyway that would make it harder for her to find them.
Jon let his mind wander a bit, even as he kept up the are-not, are-too chant. He wished the judge hadn’t been so nice to Grandmother Sims when they’d gone to court and said she was allowed to see him. Thank goodness Melanie got to come with him. There had been a bit of fuss about that, but he’d insisted when they were setting everything up that he wouldn’t go without his sister and the judge had agreed with him, which was good. Grandmother Sims disagreed, clearly, but she hadn’t been able to argue. She’d tried, saying she only had one bedroom on the ground floor and she hadn’t used the upstairs since her husband died, but she did technically have those rooms, and since Jon and Melanie shared a room at home the judge had said it would be all right if they shared one anyway. Even Grandmother Sims’ barrister had agreed.
There were rules. Too many rules. Of course some rules were good if they kept you safe, but it was silly that they weren’t allowed to shut the bedroom door. And her insistence that children should be seen but not heard sounded a whole lot like be more ladylike and neither of them were good at that. She never wanted to hear what they’d been up to all day long, very rarely asked about anything at all other than quizzing them on what they were learning in school. Dinnertime discussions largely centered around correcting their manners—which weren’t that bad—or comparing Jon to Papa, often unfavorably. All his undesirable traits—at least undesirable to her, since Jon didn’t see what was so bad about, for example, not wanting his food to mix together—came from Mama, which was silly, because some of them were just how he liked doing things and some of them were things he’d been taught by Mummy or Daddy.
He didn’t like other things about being at Grandmother Sims’, either. Like the fact that she didn’t want them speaking anything but “the Queen’s English”, which didn’t just mean using proper grammar and diction—or what she thought was proper, anyway—but also meant they weren’t allowed to practice their Cantonese where she could hear them.
Well, no more of that. Once they got to the island, they could talk how they liked all the time, and she couldn’t stop them. And then it would be time to go home and they would be safe.
He glanced back over his shoulder. The cove was out of sight, which he’d kind of expected since they had turned. What he hadn’t expected was that the shoreline would have vanished, too. He didn’t think they had been rowing that long, but they must have, mustn’t they? To have lost sight of the shore on the horizon, they had to have gone at least three miles.
He was just about opening his mouth to ask Melanie how far she reckoned they had gone and if she reckoned they were getting close when the first wave hit.
It came out of nowhere. One minute the water was still as midnight, and the next a wave taller than Jon crashed against the side of the boat, shoving them to one side. Jon only just managed to keep from overbalancing. He straightened quickly. “What was that?”
“Dunno,” Melanie called over her shoulder. “Maybe another boat?”
“We should have seen it coming,” Jon argued. “The wave, I mean.”
Melanie scowled over her shoulder. “I’m watching where we’re going. You look for waves.”
“No, I mean—” Jon began. Before he could finish his sentence, a second wave slammed into them from the other side.
That—wasn’t right. It wasn’t how waves were supposed to work. They came from one direction, and they didn’t start out of nowhere like that. Unless there was some kind of underwater volcano or an explosion of some kind, but even then—
He shook his head and pushed the oar on the side of the boat opposite the wave, to try and keep them upright. “Keep paddling! If we go alongside them, we can make it,” he shouted to Melanie.
“Keep us on course then,” Melanie yelled back, digging her paddle deep into the water.
Jon ducked his head and did the same, concentrating as hard as he could. The waves had come from almost exactly opposite one another, so it shouldn’t be hard to keep them in a straight line. As long as they didn’t panic, as long as they just kept their speed—
The sudden shadow falling over them was all the warning they got. Jon looked up sharply and felt his blood run cold at the sight of a gigantic pair of waves, easily twelve feet high, suddenly rising up on either side of the boat, curling over like greedy, grasping claws.
In that split second, he knew they wouldn’t be able to row fast enough to escape.
Jon and Melanie both screamed as the waves crashed down. Jon didn’t know what possessed him, but he swung upward with his paddle, as if he could bat the wave away before it touched them. It seemed to almost snatch the paddle from his hands and toss it away before it, and its companion, slammed into the boat and ripped it apart, sending them both crashing into the water.
The shock of the cold water stunned him and stole the air from his lungs. It also pushed him down far faster than he had expected. Jon flailed, trying to right himself, but he found himself tumbling as he went, thoroughly disorientated. He couldn’t tell which way he was facing. His glasses—somehow—were still on his face, but when he opened his eyes, all he could see was blue. Some distant part of his mind told him that wasn’t right, that sunlight shouldn’t penetrate this far and he shouldn’t be able to see blue, but that was quickly swallowed up by panic and the fact that he couldn’t breathe.
Melanie. Where was Melanie?
Jon’s panic kicked into higher gear. On the one hand, he didn’t want Melanie to die—but on the other hand, they were always together. Always. She’d insisted she wouldn’t go without him and vice versa. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t.
He stared around himself frantically, but there was nothing but blue, blue, blue everywhere he looked, a uniform, solid blue that meant he couldn’t even tell where the sunlight might be coming from, he didn’t know where he was, which way was up? Where had up gone?
“Melanie!” he screamed, or tried to. All that came out were bubbles. He frantically watched, trying to see which way they went—but they didn’t go, they just hung in front of his face for a second and then became part of the endless blue. That didn’t make sense. It wasn’t right. There had to be an up, air had to go somewhere, bubbles had to float, where was Melanie, he couldn’t lose her, couldn’t let her die without him, couldn’t die without her—
He shot out his hand, encountered something, and grabbed onto it hard. It was solid and soft and at first it was cold, too cold, but then it warmed up and clutched him back and he knew, he knew it was his sister’s hand, would know it anywhere. Just to be sure, he squeezed three times in a row, one two three, and the hand he was clinging to repeated the gesture back. He gasped in relief and swallowed salt but the bubbles went up, and he kicked his legs and followed them—
—and broke the surface with a great shuddering gasp, and oh, thank God, Melanie’s head broke the surface next to him, gasping and sobbing and frantically fighting to keep her head above water, too.
“Melanie?” Jon cried, just to make sure. The waves were choppier than they had been and he got a mouthful of seawater, but he tipped his head back.
“Jon,” Melanie wailed. She slipped under the surface briefly, and he almost panicked before she resurfaced, still clutching his hand.
“There they are!” a faint voice cried, and Jon turned just in time to see an orange ring flying towards them. It landed in the water next to them with a dull thwap, and Jon saw that there were black straps all around the outside edge of it. He grabbed hold of one with his free hand; Melanie did the same, but neither was willing to relinquish the other’s hand to get a better grip.
Luckily, they didn’t need one, and a few moments later, they were hauled dripping and coughing in the crisp white boat belonging to the Bournemouth Police Department. The second his knees touched the plasticine seat, Jon lunged forward and threw his arms around Melanie, hugging her tight.
Melanie did the same.
“You two got yourselves in quite a pickle this time,” PC Poppers, one of the officers Grandmother Sims often sent after them, said in a kindly voice. “Lucky for you someone spotted you. Be more careful playing in boxes around the ocean, aye? Easy for an unexpected tide to sweep you out to sea.”
Jon didn’t need to look at Melanie’s face to know that they were going to keep mum about that one. If anyone found out they’d done it on purpose it would be sure to get back to Grandmother Sims and they’d be in even worse trouble than they were sure to be this time. Not that it ever seemed to matter that they didn’t usually stray far on purpose, but maybe if PC Poppers told her it was an accident they’d be in less trouble.
“Sorry, sir,” he mumbled.
PC Poppers patted his head, then Melanie’s. “There, there. No real harm done. We’ll get you two home and dry in no time.”
Jon shivered, and didn’t argue, not out loud. No real point in saying that Grandmother Sims’ house wasn’t home. Nor did he want to admit that part of him wondered if he would ever feel dry again. His cheeks and eyes stung with salt water, and he honestly couldn’t say what was ocean and what was tears.
Something about the way she kept clinging to him, and to the towel draped around them both, told him Melanie might be feeling the same way.
thinking about how fucking bitter jon was towards leitner in mag 80. like it’s not just the fact that leitner’s the one who ruined his life, it’s also how both of them were in positions of power and were spared while their assistants suffered. jon regrets it—regrets it all, even though he was the cause of some of that suffering. jon, who didn’t trust his assistants and didn’t want them to be around him, still didn’t want to lose them. he wanted them to be safe. but leitner doesn’t give a shit. leitner talks about his assistants like tools to be discarded instead of people who had lives to live that were tragically cut short. he doesn’t care at all. and i think jon hated that. jon regrets everything and is so deeply sorry to his assistants, and yet here leitner is, with decades to think about these events and still not regretting a damn thing. like no wonder jon hated his ass
and then think about in mag 111, where jon meets gerry and gerry is talking about the time he thought he found leitner but realized it was just some pathetic old man and jon just. doesn't correct him. doesn't tell him he was right about it being leitner and about him being a pathetic old man. because jon and gerry both hated leitner from childhood, for very different reasons. and they both met him and discovered that the big bad bogeyman they'd worked up in their heads for years was just a pompous pathetic windbag who made bad choices and didn't care about the consequences to anyone but himself. and jon. jon who has been told repeatedly that the people he claims to care about are disposable and refuses to believe that or treat them that way. jon who has already lost so much and is already so afraid. jon lets gerry believe that jurgen leitner is more impressive than he was. because he's afraid of hearing that he's wrong to still hate him for what he did even if he didn't seem to enjoy it.
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the fact that people prefer to read and write in english rather than their native language should actually be seen as a crisis im not joking this is not a good thing
Fakt, że ludzie wolą czytać i pisać po angielsku, zamiast w swoim języku ojczystym powinien być postrzegany jako kryzys, nie żartuję, to nie jest dobra sprawa
die feit dat mense dit verkies om in engels te lees en skryf, eerder as hul moedertaal, behoort eintlik as 'n krisis beskou te word, ek maak nie 'n grap nie hierdie is nie 'n goeie ding nie
dylai'r ffaith bod well gan bobl ddarllen ac ysgrifennu yn saesneg yn hytrach na'u mamiaith gael ei weld fel argyfwng dwi ddim yn jocian dydy hyn ddim yn beth da
patience my brother (and patience my friend): a TMA fanfic
Read from the beginning on Tumblr || Also on AO3 and my website
Chapter 9: The Professional Twilight
Mrs Hough surprised them after they came in from the schoolyard with a chocolate cake, and the whole class sang the Happy Birthday song. Jon understood why they put his name first—happy birthday, Jon and Melanie fit the rhythm better than happy birthday, Melanie and Jon—but it still didn’t quite feel fair. Melanie told him to stop being silly and enjoy the cake.
He thought it was good that she knew him so well he didn’t even have to say anything before she guessed what he was thinking.
Most of their classmates still got picked up or walked home by their parents, but Jon and Melanie had proved over and over that they knew the way and knew how to be careful, so this term they were allowed to walk home on their own. They waved a cheery goodbye to Mrs Hough—and Miss Goldman, who was waiting on the pickup line with her class—and held hands as they walked to the end of the block.
Once they had turned the corner and were definitely out of sight, Melanie turned to Jon with a challenging glint in her eye. “Better hope your bag is zipped today.”
“Better hope your skirt stays fastened,” Jon countered. He matched her smirk. “Last one there’s a wretched weasel.”
“That doesn’t start with a W,” Melanie protested.
“Does too. W-R-E-T-C-H-E-D. Daddy spelled it for me.” Jon tilted his chin defiantly at Melanie. “It’s like ‘write’ and ‘wrong’, it’s got a silent W.”
She huffed. “Fine. Wretched weasels it is. Ready, steady, go!”
She took off running before she actually finished saying the last word, but Jon was expecting that and took off at the same time. They hurtled pell-mell down the street, bags bumping against their backs, skipping over cracks and dodging around those few other people who were out walking. Melanie’s hair ribbons had come loose and Jon was pretty sure his shoe was untied, but neither of them slowed for a minute. They ought to have, of course, Miss Goldman and Mrs Hough and their parents had impressed on them the importance of looking both ways before crossing the road, and that had been one of the conditions of their being permitted to walk themselves home. They also had been explicitly told not to run like this after Jon’s homework folder had gone flying and Melanie had torn her knees tripping in an attempt to catch her skirt from falling down, but they’d secretly agreed that what the grown ups didn’t know wouldn’t hurt anyone. And so, giggling and breathless and still managing to tease one another, they pounded along the pavement until they got to the shortcut.
Mummy had fussed a bit about this, too, even before they were walking themselves, but this part was all right; Mr Fister had told Daddy that the footpath was an ancient right of way and there was an understanding—he’d called it a tacit agreement, and Jon had made him spell it three times to be sure it stuck in his mind—that anyone could use it at any time as long as they weren’t committing a crime, and since Mr Fister was generally agreed to be two years older than God and had moved to Woodley on the day He invented dirt, if he said a thing was true it was understood to be correct. Here, too, stones had been laid down as a kind of footpath, stones that were constantly being replaced and retrod as spring mud and the passage of feet pushed the old ones deeper. Since the planting season had just started, this year’s stones hadn’t been placed yet, so it was still a bit muddy and half the stones were completely sunk. Melanie, as was her habit, hopped from stone to stone trying to only touch the clean parts, not because she cared about her shoes but because that was the game. Jon’s challenge was to only touch every other stone, which was harder this time of year when so many of them couldn’t be seen, since it meant he sometimes had to jump pretty far. When Daddy took the shortcut with them, he always had to do it on one foot like a pogo stick; Mummy didn’t play those sorts of games herself, but she was usually pretty tolerant of theirs. (Jon liked that word, tolerant. It was a grown up word for be kind and polite to one another even if you don’t understand why the other person does it that way and took a lot less time to say, and Mrs Hough had agreed when he told her that and taught it to the whole class and it had been their Word of the Month, which was fun even if—maybe especially because—Mrs Hough hadn’t let him suggest the word after that but asked other people to suggest good words. It meant Jon got to learn new words too and didn’t have to be the one teaching them all the time, and it meant the other kids in the class knew how to use the grown up words and didn’t tease him so much for using them himself.)
Just because they were racing didn’t meant they didn’t have to follow those rules (yes, they had been told not to race, but that was an order, not a rule, so it was fine), but they had both been doing it long enough that they could do it at speed. Melanie shrieked with mingled annoyance and excitement when Jon careened into her trying to jump over a stone she was standing on, grabbed him to steady herself, and overbalanced, sending them both toppling off the path and into the nearest furrow, plowed but not yet planted. Jon managed to twist to keep from losing his glasses or spattering them with mud. The rest of him didn’t fare so well.
He didn’t care. He rolled off of Melanie and pushed himself to his feet, jumping back to his stone, then grabbed Melanie’s hand and pulled her up before taking off down the path again.
“Hey, no fair!” Melanie called, but she was laughing as she chased after him.
From the other side of the shortcut it was only a couple of blocks and then a sharp turn almost doubling back on itself and home was right there. Jon, for once—he refused to think the fall had anything to do with it, he’d almost been ahead of her before that point anyway—was just a little in front of Melanie as they tore down the sidewalk. He glanced over his shoulder, giggling, dodged around the Babashanians’ rubbish bin, swung around the corner—
“Hello, Jon.”
Jon pulled up abruptly. Melanie nearly crashed into him this time, but managed to skid to a halt just in time. Standing between them and the gate over their front path was a man who looked almost exactly like Sir Topham Hatt brought to life save that, rather than being completely bald, there were wisps of steel grey hair curling out from beneath his black silk hat. His eyes, which were almost the same color, were cold and calculating, and the smile on his lips didn’t touch them.
And Jon, who knew everyone in town by name, house, and shoe size, had never seen him before in his life.
“Apologies for the interception,” the strange man continued, “but I had to be certain you would stop and speak with me, so I thought it best not to call attention to myself.” He ran an eye over Jon and added, “You ought to be more careful, you know. It would be a dreadful shame if anything happened to you because you weren’t…watching.”
Jon took a half step backwards, doing his best to stay between this man and Melanie. He didn’t trust him for a minute. Melanie, of course, was quite often hard to convince that she needed him to protect her and would stand shoulder to shoulder with him against any threats. This time, she not only got up next to him, she tried to push in front of him to keep between him and the man.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want?”
“Ah, you must be Melanie.” The strange man’s smile widened in a way that was clearly meant to be even friendlier and more welcoming but, to Jon, only seemed even more dangerous. “I’ve heard so much about you. You two care for each other very much, do you not? And to answer your question, why…” He produced from a pocket a small, rectangular box wrapped neatly in shiny gold paper and tied round with a green ribbon done up in an elaborate bow. “I’m Jon’s grandfather, and I’m here to give him a present for his birthday.”
Fear took hold of Jon’s stomach and twisted it like a clown fashioning a balloon animal. In the first place, the last time he’d encountered someone informing him they were his grandparent, it had been someone who wanted very much to take him away from his family. In the second place, anyone talking about it being his birthday wasn’t somebody who knew or cared about him, because everyone who loved him loved Melanie too and it was their birthday, thank you. That was kind of how being twins worked. Third and most importantly, they didn’t have any grandfathers anymore. Grandfather Sims had died not long after they were born, Grandpa King had died just before their first birthday, and even if both of Mummy’s parents hadn’t died before she even met Daddy, this man was definitely not Chinese. In fact, he looked like the kind of person who only didn’t use words like the one Scott had hurled at them on their first day of school because that wasn’t refined.
Blindly, he groped beside him for Melanie’s hand. She grabbed it tight, the security a comfort. He could feel that she was just as scared as him of this strange man who knew their names. Melanie usually got angry when she was scared, and since Jon didn’t want her to fight him, he spoke up in as steady a voice as he could. “I—I don’t have a grandfather.”
“Of course you do,” the man said soothingly. It gave Jon an unpleasant, sticky feeling that he didn’t like. “I’m only sorry it took me so long to find you. I was…unaware that your mother existed, I’m afraid, and of course by the time I learned that she was already gone. I thought her husband and only child were gone as well, but then I learned about you. I wanted to know everything about you before I approached. To be sure that you would…truly appreciate this.”
He held out the present again. “It’s yours, Jonathan. Take it.”
Jon didn’t want to. He didn’t. But he found himself responding to the authority in the order, reaching out with trembling hands—even pulling his hand free of Melanie’s—to accept the box. It felt cool and strangely heavy for its size.
The man smiled. “Well? Don’t you want to see what’s inside of it?”
“Hey!”
Mummy’s voice shattered the fog that had tried to close around Jon’s mind. He jerked sideways, stumbling into Melanie, and looked up guiltily as Mummy strode towards the gate, a frown on her face. It wasn’t directed at him, though. “Excuse me, who the hell are you?”
“I’m Jon’s grandfather,” the man repeated.
Somehow, Mummy got out the gate and between Jon and the strange man. “Like hell you are.”
“I assure you, I am. I am his mother’s father—”
“I’m his mother,” Mummy interrupted firmly. “And my father is dead. So is my husband’s. We don’t know you and we do not appreciate you hanging around bothering us, so get away from my children and stay off our property.” Without turning away from the man, but still clearly talking to Jon and Melanie, she added, “Get on inside now and out of those dirty clothes. Lucky for you it’s laundry day.”
Melanie grabbed Jon’s wrist and practically dragged him through the gate. Jon wasn’t willing to take his eyes off the man, either, for fear of what he might do. The man’s eyes and that cold, pale smile followed him all the way up the path and through the door until Melanie let it shut behind them, effectively cutting them off.
Jon wilted. “Thanks, Melanie.”
“Of course.” Melanie scowled at the present. “Why’d you take that?”
“I—I don’t know. I just felt like I had to.” Jon stared at the present, too, then shook his head. “I’m not going to open it, though.”
Decisively, he opened up one of the cupboards in the sideboard that they never used, then shoved the present inside it and shut it firmly. “There. Now it won’t bother us.”
Melanie eyed the sideboard a little uneasily. “What do you think was in it?”
Jon shrugged. “I don’t know. And I don’t care. Come on, let’s go get cleaned up before Mummy comes back in.”
He dragged Melanie towards the bedroom and changed the subject, chattering about the party they were going to have tomorrow. She took the hook, or at least let him think she was taking it, and at least pretended to forget about the present. Jon was glad. It meant he didn’t have to admit to her—yet—that while the first part had been true, the second part definitely wasn’t.
He did care. For right now, though, he was more afraid than curious.
old lady came up to my register and she smelled so strongly of weed. Granny were you hotboxing your car before you went to the grocy store. if so i hope you have a lovely day
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for the ask game, what is a detail in leaves too high to touch that you're really proud of?
Ooh...that's a tough one! I think it's the way Tim just...quietly is a good guy in the background without making it obvious. There are the big things he does because he's trying to make up for Tim Prime (in a way), but there are also the little things that he never calls attention to and people maybe don't notice - like that he always announces when he's entering or leaving a room so Martin Prime knows he's there, or like that he always calls Charlie "buddy" or something like that to subtly affirm his gender. It was just a lot of fun to weave in and see how many people picked up on it.
What are some details you think are characteristic of you/your fics
I joke about being Bram Stoker in the way that if nothing else is accurate in my fics, the train schedules are, but the truth is that I think it is characteristic of my fics that they feel real, or at least that I want them to feel real, because I've taken the time to work out little details like what the weather would have (roughly) been or how long it would actually have taken to get somewhere or consistency in house layouts. And I do like anchoring fics in time with references to real life events.
There are also a few other characteristic quirks that show up in my writing. The phrase "[X] sleeps like an eggbeater" turns up a lot. Certain locations tend to at least be a touchpoint. And the Terry Pratchett books, especially Discworld, almost always merit a mention. (I think that's also characteristic of my fic - that I slip in little references, here and there, to the things that influence me, be they direct quotes or mention of having read/watched them.)
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project — published, submitted, in progress, for your cat — whatever.
“Hello, Jon.”
Jon pulled up abruptly. Melanie nearly crashed into him this time, but managed to skid to a halt just in time. Standing between them and the gate over their front path was a man who looked almost exactly like Sir Topham Hatt brought to life save that, rather than being completely bald, there were wisps of steel grey hair curling out from beneath his black silk hat. His eyes, which were almost the same color, were cold and calculating, and the smile on his lips didn’t touch them.
And Jon, who knew everyone in town by name, house, and shoe size, had never seen him before in his life.
a collection of questions i, as a writer, would love to be asked !!!
1. What fic of yours would you recommend to someone who had never read any of your work? (In other words, what do you think is the best introduction to your fics?)
2. Go to your AO3 “Works” page, to the sidebar with all the filters, and click the drop-down arrow for “Additional Tags.” What are your top 3-5 most used tags? Do you think they accurately represent your writing habits?
3. What are some tropes or details that you think are very characteristic of your fics?
4. What detail in [insert fic] are you really proud of?
5. What do you wish someone would ask you about [insert fic]? Answer it now!
6. What’s one fact about the universe of [insert fic] that you didn’t get a chance to mention in the fic itself?
7. Any worldbuilding you’re particularly proud of?
8. What song would make a great fic (to either write or read)?
9. How do you find new fic to read?
10. How do you decide what to write?
11. Are you partial to a certain character/pairing or are you more equal-opportunity? If you are partial to any character/pairing, why do you think that is?
12. Are there any tropes you used to dislike but have grown on you?
13. Are there any tropes you used to like but don’t anymore?
14. Are there any tropes you would only read if written by a trusted friend or writer?
15. What’s your favorite AU that you’ve written?
16. What’s an AU you would love to read (or have read and loved)?
17. What highly specific AU do you want to read or write even though you might be the only person to appreciate it?
18. If you wrote a sequel to [insert fic], what would it involve?
19. If you wrote a spin-off of [insert fic], what would it involve?
20. If you wrote a prequel to [insert fic], what would it involve?
21. If you wrote a “missing scene” in [insert fic], what would it be?
22. Who is your favorite character in [insert fic] and why?
23. What’s a trope, AU, or concept you’ve never written, but would like to?
24. Are there any easter eggs in [insert fic], and if so, what are they?
25. What other websites or resources do you use most often when you write?
26. Would you rather write a fic that had no dialogue or one that was only dialogue?
27. How long did it take to write [insert fic]? Describe the process.
28. Does anyone read your fics before you post them? If so, who?
29. What songs would be (or are) on a playlist for [insert fic]? Explain your choices if you want!
30. Have you ever written something that was out of your comfort zone? If so, what was it, and how did it affect your approach to writing fic thereafter?
31. What’s your ideal fic length to write?
32. What’s your ideal fic length to read?
33. If you write chaptered fics, what’s your ideal chapter length to write? Is it different from your ideal chapter length to read?
34. What aspects of your writing are inspired by/taken from your real life?
35. What aspects of your writing are completely unlike your real life?
36. Do you visualize what you read/write?
37. Promote one of your own “deep cut” fics (an underrated one, or one that never got as much traction as you think it deserves!). What do you like about it?
38. Did any of your fics get surprisingly popular (whatever that means to you)? Which ones? Why do you think they were so successful?
39. Is any aspect of your writing process inspired by other writers or people? If so, who?
40. Do you tend to reread fics or are you a one-and-done kind of person?
41. Link a fic that made you think, “Wow, I want to write like that.”
42. Have you ever received a comment that particularly stood out to you for whatever reason?
43. If you take/write prompts: what’s your favorite prompt fic that you’ve written?
44. If you take/write prompts: do you prefer dialogue or scenario/narrative prompts?
45. What’s something you’ve improved on since you started writing fic?
46. Do you prefer writing on your phone or on a computer (or something else)? Do you think where you write affects the way you write?
47. If [insert fic] was a pair of shoes, what kind would it be? Describe the shoes.
48. What’s the last fic you read? Do you recommend it?
49. What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!
50. Answer any question of your choice, or talk about anything you want to talk about!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Feel free to reblog for other people to vote. DO NOT SEND HATE TO ANYONE FOR WHAT THEY VOTED. This is merely for fun and to see what people genuinely think.
