bit of a post-canon gelphie flavoured thing courtesy of @fishgeralds based on this webweave of theirs
if you'd like a bit of writing yourself, i've got some kofi comms open right now, it's all real casual like, just shoot me a message let's work something out
//
Contrary to popular belief, and she knows so much about popular beliefs, Glinda isn’t a fool.
Frivolous, perhaps. Impractical, at times, though only ever when absolutely necessary. She’d even admit to being a little silly, but not a fool. Never a fool. So when Glinda the Good returns to the Emerald City, when she’s the only one left to pick up the pieces–after the Wizard’s wholly unexpected departure, and Madame Morrible’s entirely understandable retirement–it’s with all the usual pomp and circumstance befitting one of her station.
The people, after all, are looking to her for guidance and encouragement.
So she hunkers down, and gets to work, and the Grimmerie sits untouched on her bedside table, in prime of place, as innocuous as any leather-bound tome can be when it’s harbouring an ancient and secret magic written in a language lost to time.
It’s easier this way. Easier to just turn to the paperwork, and the speeches, and the sitting in meetings where old men drone on about things they couldn’t even begin to understand. This is what she knows. What she’s good at. Smile and wave, and maybe little by little, day by day, she can start to build the Oz that her Elphie always dreamed of.
Because, of course, her Elphie is out there. She knows this for a fact. Glinda may not always be the smartest person in the room, but she’s plenty clever in her own right, and more to the point has never been a fool. Elphaba the Wicked Witch of the West may be dead, that Ozforsaken hat withering away in that horrendible castle, but her Elphie, as sure as that brilliant green bottle graces every outfit Glinda deigns to put on–and she does become so insistent on pockets–is alive. She’s alive, and she’s out there, and she’s coming home one day, so Glinda the Good will build an Oz worth coming home for. Glinda the Good will write laws, and sign treaties, and turn her mind away from the tallest tower of the Emerald Palace, the one that faces the western sky, where they still haven’t fixed that window, and a particularly persistent person could probably throw themselves from the balcony if they so wanted to.
But that wouldn’t help anyone, or fix anything, or make life easier for the Animals, so Glinda tucks the thought away in the back of her mind where it can’t entice her any further. And anyway it’s not what her Elphie would’ve wanted. Her Elphie, who’s out there somewhere. Who’s on her way home, she’s sure of it. Who would simply love to see what Glinda’s done with the place. So the Grimmerie stays untouched, and the green bottle stays in her pockets, and she waits.
Everything’s going to fine.
Galinda’s ever so good at being patient for her Elphie.
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Perched against the rough brick outside her brother's third-storey dorm, one arm wrapped around a drain pipe, Enid laughs as she hands him a thermos.
"That's my secret," she says, "I'm always moonsick."
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Cooper groans as he pushes his window up.
"God, I hate you." He leans heavily on the sill, paler than usual, a sunken sort of look in his eyes. "Not getting moonsick is crazy."
Perched against the rough brick outside her brother's third-storey dorm, one arm wrapped around a drain pipe, Enid laughs as she hands him a thermos.
"That's my secret," she says, "I'm always moonsick."
AITA for getting mad at my roommate for inviting someone over without telling me?
(or: against her better judgement, enid turns to reddit for advice)
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Throwaway account. I don't know if anyone I know reads this sub but better safe than sorry lol
Anyway, for context: my (21F) roommate (21F?) and I have been living together since the start of freshman year. We were assigned together at first and did NOT get along but then we talked it out and haven't had one argument since.
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The clock strikes midnight, and Enid grabs her coat.
Curfew is nine, and she has no interest in grappling with the faculty, so she pulls her sneakers on, and tips off the balcony.
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The clock strikes midnight, and Enid grabs her coat.
Curfew is nine, and she has no interest in grappling with the faculty, so she pulls her sneakers on, and tips off the balcony.
Seven minutes later, she's running full-tilt through the woods, following a path that lights up for her in citrus, and frost, and ink.
Wednesday stands at the end of it, back against a tree, staring down the barrel of a six-shooter.
