I have NO issues in any representation of the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. I do not care if it is animated, live action, literary or spray painted on the side of a building. Expression is the highest form of flattery.
What I have a problem with is a representation that does not lead back to Tolkien. I purposely created “The Kingdom of the Woodland Realm Trilogy” and its subsequent standalone books for the sole purpose to lead back to Tolkien’s original works. When someone says to me, “reading your story has made me want to read (or reread Tolkien),” my mission has been fulfilled.
I do not do what I do for money. I do not do it for notoriety which I have gained worldwide. I do it because of the love of reading and out of respect for my literary hero J.R.R. Tolkien. In the early days, when people confused my story with Tolkien, that upset me greatly. First of all, I do not think I sound like Tolkien as my story is told in the first person. Granted, I studied his language patterns and felt the need to take out anything “modern” in order to ensure my stories maintained a certain believability.
I have created characters when necessary but never once have I ever taken the works of Tolkien out of context. I “write around” the original material. I work with the original material. I am always referring back to the material to make sure I am capturing the essence of Middle-Earth as Tolkien created it. I made that promise to my father and Tolkien the very second I decided to write my story. I took the path less traveled at a time when Middle-Earth fan fictions on Tumblr were often filled with vulgarity and graphic sex.
I was on the last rung on a ladder of stories when I began “The Saga of Thranduil”. At any time, I could have turned the tide for more attention, but I refused. I could not bring myself to lessen the work of the man inspired me to write fantasy when I was a child. I knew anything less than my best would have disappointed my dying father. I continued on the path I chose.
When teachers started telling me they liked TKWRT and asked if they could read it to their students during a unit on Tolkien, I was shocked. When soldiers deployed in war zones asked for a copy of TKWRT, I was humbled. When high school students wrote me during Winter Recess about wanting to read TKWRT because they could not get to a library, I realized I had done something wonderful. When other published writers asked if my work was a continuation of Tolkien, I finally allowed myself to accept the reason so many people told me they had written to the Tolkien Estate asking about a “lost” book about Thranduil.
I know what I have done and will continue to do. I do not have any issues with how Tolkien is represented. I know how I represent Tolkien. He is never far from my mind whenever I write sentence. In fact, I am always surrounded by his books when I am working. I am telling histories through the eyes of his characters in his world. I make sure he is always front and center in that moment. From the naming of characters (often mentioned but never named) to new place names, I never am looking to the outside. My guide is Tolkien. Until the very last word, he will be the inspiration. He has to be, otherwise I am disrespecting his legacy, genius and his work. This entire series is dedicated to J.R.R. Tolkien. I would not wish to give him anything he would not be proud to read himself.–Jaynaé Marie Miller, from Excerpts, A Memoir.
As Alexandre became my servant, I became servant to my parents. It began simply enough—I was given a napkin to hand to my father at dinner. Soon enough, I was serving both my mother and my father regularly.
One particular morning, I ushered into my mother’s chambers and handed her chemise. I stood there for a moment wondering what to do.
“Kiss it,” I was told. “And hand it to Her Majesty.”
I looked at my mother. She glared at me impatiently waiting for me to fulfill my duty to her. I promptly did what I was commanded and her face softened, much to my relief. Not long thereafter, I was delivering her napkin at dinner as well.
I knew I was above all those that served the King and Queen—my parents. I was the heir to the throne of the Kingdom of France; how dare they? I knew I should not be subjected to such menial responsibilities. I felt there were no lessons to be learned in serving the self-serving so began to object to my parents’ life lessons.
It was winter when I first stood up against my lot in life. I had begun to grow weary of subservience. I realized that my father held little regard to my knowledge of my status in life. I knew he thought I was too young to know I was the son of the king and I felt it my duty to remind him.
It was one evening in December when I was once again called to my duties as servant to the table of my father. I adamantly refused. I was promptly shown to my father’s table.
“What is this,” he asked me. “Why are you not about your duties to your father?”
“No,” I said, my arms folded across my chest. “I do not want to.”
“But I am the master,” he answered. “And you, you are my valet.”
“I am not your valet,” I said. “I am your son.”
“Would a son refuse to serve his father,” he asked. “And are you not the son of the king, Louis?”
I looked around to see everyone watching. My mother’s expression was one of disapproval—and in my youth, I could not tell with whom she was more disappointed. Finally, I gave up my futile mission. In surrender, I unfolded my arms and sighed.
“Now,” my father began. “Who are you?”
“I am Papa’s little valet,” I said softly.
My father smiled triumphantly as I handed him his napkin. Defeated, I turned slowly walked away. It would not be the last time I would give in to the power of my father but in my defeat, I would grow stronger.–The Secret of the House of Bourbon–XIII by Jaynaé Marie Miller. 05-10-2021
Life in the quart of Henri IV is not always what it appears.
Anybody else got that Evergiven sized writers block
“Where’s the next chapter?!” Well buddy you’re never gonna guess
What’s the comic sans trick?
I’ve also enjoyed the various forms of Ariel thinking that with tiny font of the narrow style a little mermaid is scratching the words into stone along with me and that only by switching to another Ariel style can I add or edit words but never remove them. So when the proofreading occurs I get to act like Sebastián with my lil claws and clip all the fogey out, leaving just my thoughts that Ariel helped write lol
The once busy street is now dull, the roads are dark where I am and only the streetlights speckled along the path provide me with any light. A chill races up my spine as a small but freezing cold gust of wind ripples through my grey sweatshirt. I should have brung a coat with me on my run.
I jog further, keeping a steady pace. It doesn’t take long for the sound of traffic to hit my ears- New York is a pretty busy place after all. My headphones are blasting ‘Young God’ by Halsey, the rhythm and beat of the music forces me to run faster with more force. Harder than I ever have before.
I can’t seem to stop thinking about my Mom. She looked so different since the last time I saw her.
The room was dark and the house was quiet. She laid asleep on the couch the night I left- she couldn’t stand to sleep alone in her and my fathers bed. After his death she grew to despise me, she never said it but I could feel it… the way she started behaving towards me. I was suffocating her and she was crushing me. The best decision for the both of us was if I left… and it looks like it worked out in both of our favours.
My breathing is loud and heaving as I come to a staggered stop, toppling over I let my fingers grip my thighs as I try to catch my breath. The unforgiving winter air punctures my lungs and makes a task as simple as breathing agonising, it feels as if my chest is in flames. Soon enough my shallow breaths become slow and controlled. I straighten back up and glance around, recognising where I am I begin to gently jog back to the gym where I am hoping it is empty. It’s a Wednesday night so I know Coach will be at home sorting things out for tomorrow, we are working towards championships so I need to be invested in my training and I think he is writing up a schedule for my sessions with him. Usually I am just freelance and train whenever I can but shit is getting serious now and we need a game plan.
It seems that the world is on my side tonight, when I arrive at the gym it is deserted. Only the red neon sign in the window shows any evidence of life. I peek around, scanning the area surrounding me before I head around to the back of the building. Glen doesn’t know this but I have been sleeping at the gym for some time now. When he arrives most mornings I act like I have only been here for mere minutes when in reality I have just rolled out of bed. I hike up the metal fire escape and loop myself through a window on the second floor. The lock on the window is broken so it is never fully shut, meaning I have constant and easy access to the gym building whenever I want. I fear this may change soon, Glen has been earning a lot more money recently and chances are he will most likely install security cameras.
I yank my headphones from my ears by the wire and flop down onto the floor. It isn’t the warmest place in the world but it is better than the streets. I push myself back until I am flush against one of the walls. I keep the lights off, the moonlight shining through the uncovered window provides enough natural illumination for me to see where I am going. I am only ever here to sleep and think… If I had a choice I wouldn’t be sleeping on the floor, I would be in an apartment of my own. It would be safe and warm and I would never have to worry about getting caught when I have to go to sleep at night. I would have a king sized bed with cosy linen sheets and the shower would be as warm as I wanted it to be for however long I wanted. Such basic things that people take for granted… that Elizabeth takes for granted.
Fucking Elizabeth. I’m thinking of her again. Her lame clothes and her twisted mouth- she is like a jelly-fish. Her looks are so hypnotising but they are also really fucking deceiving and her sting is deadly. She is the most dangerous type of female, the type that can get whatever she wants whenever she wants and from whoever she wants. I can see her for what she truly is. I can see the insecurity that she is consumed by. To everyone else she seems like the perfect student. Straight A’s, always ahead of the class and probably the only one of us that isn’t swimming in student debt. To me, however, she is a liar. A fake. Someone who doesn’t mind pretending to be someone she isn’t. At least I am brave enough to be who I am, asshole or not I am still me.
I shake the blonde girl from my thoughts before I end up hurling and pick up a photograph that lays by my side. The edges of the polaroid are charred from when I tried to burn the plastic. I don’t want any reminders of my past. It’s not who I am anymore… but this photo feels so foreign to me- like I am not one of the boys behind the camera lens. I flick the image away from me and watch as it spins off from between my fingers and flies to another corner of the room.
Loneliness begins to close in on me and I decide that it is better if I just go to sleep. Coach mentioned some errands that have to be taken care of tomorrow so I want to be fresh for whatever he has to throw at me. Just as I begin to unlace one of my shoes I hear a clatter come from downstairs and I tense. Is someone breaking into the gym? I waste no time and rise to my feet, shakily navigating through the darkness to investigate. I walk out into the hallway, keeping my footsteps light as I cascade down a flight of stairs and enter through some double doors into the main training area of the gym. It has become quiet but I am more than certain that I heard some sort of movement down here. My eyes scout the area, now fully adjusted to the darkness I will be able to see anything or anyone that may be sneaking around. The neon sign at the front of the gym buzzes quietly with electricity and that is when I notice a heavily breathing shadow dash across the gym floor and without thinking I sprint after whoever it may be, ready for whoever it is that I am up against.
In a matter of seconds I am flying from the ground and dragging down the shadowy figure with me. They struggle in my arms but I only grip them tighter against my chest, “Let go of me!” A female voice yells and I feel my hairs stand on end. Elizabeth? My mouth suddenly turns dry.
What the fuck?
She slams her elbow into my stomach, trying to get away, and I fall back against the floor. I grunt, my back is now flat against the ground and Elizabeth is still struggling in my arms, “Help!” She screams, like someone will be able to actually hear her, and I clamp my hand firmly over her mouth.
“Would you shut the hell up!” I growl near the shell of her ear and her body tenses more at the realisation of who I am. She pulls my hand from her soft lips and grits under her breath, “Let me go, Hunter.”
She squirms in my arms and her ass presses into my groin. Heat blankets me and I hold her tighter to try and stop her movements, “Stop moving!” I plead and she groans out loudly, “If you stop wriggling I will let you go…” I promise and she is quick to fall limp in my embrace. Keeping my promise I unhook my arms from around her and she bounces up to her feet. I follow after her.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask her and she half laughs. She stands close to me, her breathing is empty and desperate.
“This is my dad’s gym. What are you doing here?” She attempts to interrogate me but I only smile. She is obviously hiding something.
“It’s 12 o'clock at night, Elizabeth. I bet your dad doesn’t even know where you are.” I dodge her question and survey her body language. Her shoulders jitter with discomfort and her arms fly up to cross against her chest defensively, “What was it? A one night stand… A party? Or maybe you just couldn’t resist staying away from me.” Locking eyes with her I see a nervous twitch come from one of her eyebrows.
“None of that. It’s nothing to do with you!” She argues back and I notice her lips purse together, “Just because you and my dad slap and tickle one another like fucking gorillas doesn’t mean I am any of your goddamn business. Got that, Morales?” I smirk at her tone. Well, well, well… little Miss Priss has some balls.
“You just got a lot more interesting, blondie.” I remark slyly and she just rolls her eyes in disgust. In the dull light I can see she is dressed in a thick knitted sweater with some tight jeans. Her hair is thrown up into a loose ponytail- almost like the hair tie had become slack from running- and on her feet she is wearing some suede ankle boots. My eyes narrow- definitely would not be my choice of errand clothing that’s for sure.
“Please don’t tell my dad that I was here.” She begs in a whisper and I blink at her whilst I contemplate my next words carefully. Moments ago she was yelling at me and now she is calm?
Females.
“Wow-” I begin, my tone light and teasing, “-Elizabeth Douglas needs something from me?” I gasp mockingly and she balls her hands into fists, “I never thought I would see the day.” She steps towards me and I see fear flash in her eyes.
“I’m serious, Hunter. If you keep your mouth shut…” the words linger on her tongue for a moment, “Then I will too.” I scrunch my face up sourly. Why would she need to keep her mouth shut about me? For all she knows I could just be here training… in the dark.
As if she can read my mind she goes on to say, “The door is always locked. I know that because I just had to unlock it with my key… meaning you are obviously here unlawfully.” Her lips are now curved up into a shit-eating smile and I stomp down a growl rising up my windpipe.
God fucking dammit!
“Fine.” I agree, swearing myself to secrecy, “But if you rat me out I swear to god-” Elizabeth interrupts me by patting her hand firmly down onto my chest.
“Relax, Mike Tyson. I’m not going to say anything. Just don’t piss me off, comprende?” I can physically hear the smirk in her tone and I grit my teeth together in pure annoyance. Nodding silently she takes that as her queue to leave, exiting back through the front entrance and onto the dead streets.
Both of my gloved hands shoot up to cover my face as one of Coach Douglas’s old friends -Manny- throws another punch towards my head. I side step, managing to just barely block the blow. The gym has been overbearingly busy lately, after word spread about Titanium’s defeat men just began to flood in, asking Glen for his expertees. He is making money now, and a lot of it, however I just can’t seem to shake the annoyance that comes with a crowded room. I can’t concentrate like I used to and it’s all the commotion that is to blame.
The men are hungry for victory. They are young and stupid… we even had a boy sign up at the fresh age of only thirteen. The gym reeks of testosterone and it is competitive. We all want to prove ourselves, but I think it is clear who the real champion is here.
“C'mon, H! Watch his technique. Where is his power coming from?” Glen’s voice booms from the other side of the gym and I silently nod my head in response. I have been dancing around this ring with Manny for what feels like hours. Manny is an absolute mammoth of a man. He isn’t much older than I am, maybe in his late 20’s. He was one of Coach’s best fighters until he hung up his gloves and took a more practical approach towards making a living… I think he mentioned that he works in finance but I really wasn’t paying attention. Whatever he said, it was fucking boring.
We move in a tedious but tense circle and Manny throws a right hook however I duck my head and dodge the assault with ease. Our eyes are focused only on one another whilst other people clatter around outside of the ring. There has been a lot of rain recently which has resulted in a leak, causing a gaping hole to rip through the interior of the gym roof. Glen has bagged a bit more cash so today it is finally getting fixed.
I lunge my body forward, swinging my arm around and knocking Manny in the side of the head. He stumbles to the side, obviously caught off guard by the sudden action.
“Oooh… you’re lucky I like you, kid.” Manny warns as he shakes a finger at me and I shrug my shoulders smugly.
“Yes, finally!” I hear Coach roar over the noise and I grin. Thankfully we are both wearing head guards or Manny may be on the floor knocked out right now.
“He got fucking lucky!” Manny shouts back at Glen in an attempt to protest and I shake my head whilst chuckling lightly. It’s around 7 a.m. and I have classes soon. I shimmy my head guard from my scalp with a groan and allow my wild hair to bounce back into place.
“Leaving already, princess?” Manny pipes up and I shoot him a quick glare.
“I have class in thirty minutes, dip-shit. Don’t make me waste my time and put you on your ass.” I teasingly warn and both Manny and I chuckle.
“When can I expect you back?” Glen asks as I jump down from the stage of the ring. I contemplate my answer for a moment as I go over all of my college subjects in my head.
English literature… then it’s musical history… after that it’s physical education and to end the day it’s photography study.
“I’ll be back here this afternoon. Don’t have much to do today.” I bring my hands up to my mouth as I bite the velcro straps from around my wrists and shake the sweaty gloves onto the floor in front of me.
“Better get a move on then, you don’t have long before classes start.” Glen looks down at a small watch that compliments his thick wrist. The straps are thin and a worn out colour of mahogany brown. The small face of the clock has a crack across the glass. I raise a brow in slight suspicion, how would he know when lectures begin?
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” I throw my heavy duffle bag over my shoulder and head towards the double glass doors of the gym which is both the entrance and the exit, “Don’t let anyone touch my shit when I’m gone!” I call over my shoulder loud enough for the other trainees to hear me as I step out onto the busy streets of downtown New York. I can never get enough of the aura that this city continuously brings. It’s so full of life… so full of people trying their best to achieve their goals- to reach their dreams. If I am certain about one thing it is that no one comes to New York for no reason. Everyone here is chasing up their own purpose… I myself included.
My walk from the gym to the campus is tiresome but I have to shower quickly before classes begin. I managed to snag a locker at the beginning of the semester so thankfully I don’t have to drag around my duffel bag for the entire day. I can’t wait until next fall, when I’m done here for good. Then I can really focus on what is important.
Some of the earlier students are seated in the social hub of the campus but I take a left turn down a stranded hallway to avoid any unwanted attention. It’s embarrassing enough that I have to shower here, let alone the fact that I’m carrying my entire life around in a single bag.
I take another left turn and jog up the fire exit staircase, entering through some double doors and into the Physical Education department. Usually the locker rooms are kept locked and the only way to get inside is to have a key but I’ve noticed that the one furthest to the end of the corridor has a faulty lock so naturally I always use that one.
Each locker room has singular shower cubicles for students to access after every gym lesson and I thank my lucky stars as I walk into the changing room and discover that it is empty. I’m not sure how long I am going to be able to get away with this but it doesn’t hurt to push my luck a little bit. I make sure the door is barricaded by something before I start to get on with my morning routine. I brushed my teeth earlier this morning after I ate breakfast so that is one less thing I need to incorporate.
In the shower the water comes as a soothing cascade, as if I am within a pair of arms that flow and hug my skin gently. Taking a shower is taking some time for myself, life is always so busy and chaotic so it’s good to recenter and feel some of my calm nature return.
My bruised knuckles strain beneath the hot water as the shower head beats against my inked body. The deep tension I once felt begins to leak away from my muscles the longer I stand beneath the scolding vapour. I approximately have 5 minutes of hot water left before the stream will run cold.
I smear soap across my pale skin and douse my dark hair in both shampoo and conditioner. I’ve heard girls bitch about the importance of not using a 2-in-1 shampoo so I started making an effort with my hair routine. I trace my fingers over a massive bruise located on my abdomen. It’s hidden beneath a dark image of a snake that I got tattooed when I was only 16, for it being one of the first tattoos I ever got it is still pretty fucking cool.
I shut the shower off and pat my skin dry, pulling on a plain black t-shirt over my head. I curse aloud at the sight of a large rip near the collar. I completely forgot about it.
It happened when I got jumped one night, back when I used to fuck around with girls for fun. I turned down a girl and she spread a rumour about me, saying how I am a pig and that I apparently tried to force myself onto her. Word spread fast and even after proving these allegations wrong some sketchy guys tried to pick a fight with me. They grabbed my t-shirt and in the process they ripped it at the seam… but they got what they deserved. Besides, the rip adds to my character.
I spray some deodorant beneath my shirt and buckle up my black jeans. I forgot to bring an extra pair of shoes with me to the gym so I settle for my beat up black and white converse which I usually use for training. They are flat soled and they support my ankles so they are pretty ideal for sparring sessions however they don’t look the prettiest.
I remove the barricade from the locker room door and head to my first class of the day which is English Literature at 8:15. Usually the class starts at 8 but I am running a little bit late. I push open the heavy door to the large room and watch as row after row of students turn their heads to look at me. I allow the door to swing and loudly slam closed behind me. What can I say, I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.
“Morales, late again?” Professor Amber bring’s the entire class to a halt as she greets me. I can tell with the tone of her voice that she is intending to make me uncomfortable- little does she know I am actually a little bit of an attention whore.
“Sorry bout’ that.” I groan out sarcastically as I throw myself down onto one of the padded seats a few spaces from a girl I am unfamiliar with. Her fresh scent reaches my nostrils and I tilt my head to discreetly snatch a look at her. Her light brown eyebrows are pulled together softly with what I assume is concentration and her soft pink lips are pinched together. I trail my greens eyes up further, allowing my vision to explore her appearance fully until I meet her deep blue hues. I try not to stare but it’s proven to be extremely difficult. It isn’t until her line of vision finally meets my own that I eventually manage to pull my gaze away from her.
My ears perk up involuntarily at the displeased scoff that comes from the girl’s direction next to me. It takes absolutely everything in me to bite my tongue and not ask her what her fucking problem is. It’s clear that she may be hot but she is a stuck up bitch. She is dressed like a prude but I bet it doesn’t take much to get into her frilly little panties. She is probably one of those girls that pretend to be innocent so they can live out their twisted ‘good girl, bad boy’ fantasy. Fucking weirdo.
“Assignments are due on Friday, I hope none of you have forgotten.” Professor Amber’s red pen screeches down the massive write board and I grit my teeth at the sound. In bold she writes, 'Friday 18th November’.
Fuck. I idiotically forgot about the entire assignment, I’ve been so invested in training recently it completely slipped my mind. I have a fight coming up and I’m not sure I’ll have time to fit it all in. I know the assignment is a book study of some kind however I’ve not even had the chance to read nor annotate anything yet.
Class seems to boringly drone on until a topic oddly sparks my interest. Maybe it is my need to always dominate a situation that draws me in… or maybe I just like to argue.
“Everyone is seeming a little too comfortable and quiet…” The professor pauses before she continues to say, “How about a debate? Relating to the assignment of course.” She smiles at all of us but her eyes plead that we all just cooperate and make her life a little easier.
“Stephen King. He is one hell of a novelist.” She folds her hands together and gently places herself down onto the edge of her desk at the front of the room, “Was he sexist towards women? Chat amongst yourselves.” Her eyes scan the area before she quickly adds, “But do so respectfully!”
Some of the more introverted students remain silent and the room fills with an eerie awkwardness before…
“Of course he was.” The blonde girl from earlier says a little too loudly and I watch as her cheeks flush with colour as multiple eyes fall onto her, “His novels don’t give women the respect nor treatment they deserve.” She continues on to say matter of factly however I just can’t help but disagree.
“Actually..” I boom, loud enough for everyone else to recognize that it is now me that is speaking, “All of his female leads are portrayed as strong, depicting them as… well, as triumphant.” Some people nod in agreement whilst others turn away from me in utter disgust but I don’t give a fuck. I have read enough Stephen King material to argue this debate out all fucking day.
“The women in his stories are often subject to domestic violence, abuse and harassment. Throughout his books there is, more often than not, some sort of violence portrayed against his female roles.” Blondie fires back at me, her words dripping with hatred and the intent to leave a mark as I watch anger begin to cloud her judgement. Her eyes are already fierce and we have only just started.
Unfortunately for her I am incredibly stubborn and there is not a hope in hell that I am letting her win this fucking argument.
“The women overcome all odds in his books, he is portraying them as strong. Champions. He is clearly just trying to express his adoration for the female race.” I cross my arms across my hard chest and turn my face so I am directly looking at the girl perched next to me. She is on the edge of her seat now, clearly full of adrenaline from our argument. I smirk at her and wonder to myself, if she can get this thrilled over novels imagine how she would react if I slammed her against a wall-
“Adoration?” She asks in disdain, “How can you possibly call that love?” her eyes scorch into mine and I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly in response to her defence.
“It’s not my perception of love. It’s King’s. People accept the love they think they deserve- maybe… just maybe… his idea of love has become distorted over the years. I mean he was heavily addicted to some heavy shit whilst he was writing… he may have been shown how to love in a very different way from you and I.” I straighten my posture, positioning myself in a stance that indicates I am confident with the words that I am speaking, “My question for you, blondie, is- why wouldn’t you call that love?” I allow my words to settle and my face morphes back into it’s natural stone cold expression but all she can seem to do is stare at me, speechless.
“Both are very interesting arguments…” Professor Amber speaks up, sensing the thick tension that is circling throughout the room, “Maybe we can continue this discussion next time?” She suggests with a warm smile, “Now go and put that energy into your assignments! I look forward to reading yours, Mr. Morales.” A loud bell sounds throughout the building, urging us all to head to our next classes.
I stand from my seat and spare the furious blonde girl- who is shoving her books rather viciously into her book bag- one last glance, I even offer her a small smirk to lighten the mood before I then decide to leave her behind. It’s hilarious how easy it is to piss her off.
꧁꧂
A/n: Oooh a conflict already?! How are we feeling about this story so far?
December reminds me that I have loved But that I’m not loved At least, not loved enough for someone To want me to be a part of their holiday celebration
“The way the rain falls outside of my window, deafening and tranquil—each individual splatter leaves me breathless. Listening to the rain for hours can bring a sense of peace and belongingness I never knew existed. And even during those moments, where the sky creates chaos, when the clouds heavily cry, is where I find my sanity. In the small moments of rain is when my mind remains silent and my emotions become ragingly loud.”
For someone who has typed upwards of 200,000 words for their novel, taken advanced English all their life, has a family of multigenerational English teachers, and has a formidable library in their room, I sure can’t spell worth a damn.
I spent a length of time I will not disclose cursing spell-check, more confident than I had any right to be that “paid” was actually spelled “payed.”
‘I am not covetous, but as ambitious as ever any of my sex was, is, or can be; which makes, that though I cannot be Henry the Fifth, or Charles the Second, yet I endeavour to be Margaret the First’.
~ Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle-upon-Tyne
This week’s Turnbull Rare Books post marks International Women’s Day (8 March) by highlighting a selection of books written by women in the 17th and and early 18th century. Click the name links to read biographies of each author primarily through the Poetry Foundation website.
The authors and their works from the top are (in date order of publication) …
Poems on several occasions. Together with the Song of the three children paraphras’d. London: printed by D. L. for Bernard Lintott, 1709, Alexander Turnbull Library, REng CHUD Poems 1709.
A bold stroke for a wife. A comedy. London: printed for T. Lowndes, T. Caslon., W. Nicoll, and S. Bladon, 1783, Alexander Turnbull Library, REng CENT Bold 1783.
17 January marks the 200th birthday of Anne Brontë (1820-1849), youngest of the three Brontë sisters and author of Agnes Grey (1847)andThe Tenant of Wildfell Hall (1848).
Anne’s work first appeared in print alongside Charlotte and Emily in Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846). To avoid the prejudice against female authors at the time, they published this collection under male pseudonyms beginning with their first initials: Currer (Charlotte), Ellis (Emily) and Acton (Anne) Bell (Brontë).
Twelve of the poems are credited to Anne, including one of her most acclaimed, ‘Lines Composed in a Wood on a Windy Day’, shown here in the Turnbull Library’s copy of the first edition, second issue.
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Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell [pseud.]. London: Smith, Elder and Co., 1846 [i.e. 1848], Alexander Turnbull Library, REng BRON Poems 1848.
I wrote a piece for the BuzzFeed Community Summer Challenge and I would really appreciate the support of just clicking the link. The post is my first attempt at a movie review/sarcastic and honest criticism of Arab American stereotypes.
You screamed in frustration, struggling to pull your wet brush through the curls at the crown of your head. The water from the shower head rushed over your shoulders almost in consolation. You thought your hair could wait a few extra days - the past week at work was hellish, leaving no time for a good hair wash.
Apparently you thought wrong as you approached two hours of detangling in the shower. You wanted to cry and thoughts of shaving your head entered your mind when you heard a knock at the door.
“You alright baby? I heard you scream.” Steve’s voice reached your ears. You sighed, “I’m alright. Just frustrated.” A silence fell.
“Mind if I come in?”
Steve was the sweetest and he’d do anything for you, you knew this. But was he prepared for the mess that was your hair? You tried once more to get the detangler through your roots. The brush was stuck. Your answer was clear.
“Please come help me,” your words of defeat welcomed Steve into your tiny bathroom. He tentatively opened the door, peeking at you from behind it before fully emerging. He blinked at you in confusion.
“What’s the matter honey?” His voice was soft. You simply pointed at the brush stuck in your hair, dropping your chin so he could fully see the tangles. “I can’t do it anymore. My arms are tired.”
He chuckled. “May I?” You only nodded. He gently freed the brush and ever-so carefully began to detangle your matted ends, running his fingers through and following with the brush.
It wasn’t Steve’s first rodeo. He’d helped you on many of your wash days when the hair gods simply would not shine light upon you. He hummed, happily helping you detangle and define.
You spent the rest of your day in the bathroom, handing Steve conditioners and combs and feeling his delicate hands in your curls.
“All done?” He asked after the last leave-in was used and the last section was combed through. “Mhm all done.” You stood, stepping out of the tub to look in the mirror. Your hair was bouncy, soft, and beautiful thanks to your sweet boyfriend. You felt a weight leave your shoulders and you turned, draping your arms around Steve so you could kiss him. He laughed, squeezing your body close.
“Hey sweetheart,” a smooth voice, thick with emotion, drifted over your shoulder. His shadow covered your body and you breathed in his familiar scent.
“James Buchanan Barnes. Good to see you finally made it to the gym,” you turned, giving the former winter soldier a smile. His chuckle made your ears heat up. “I was here this morning. Where were you, beautiful?”
You scoffed. “Flattery won’t save you from this beating.”
Predictable, slow, easily deflected - Bucky was always teasing you for your fighting style. So when you challenged him to a sparring match, the man had to try his best not to laugh. You, on the other hand, were more determined than ever. This fight was yours.
“So,” he began wrapping his flesh hand, “no handicaps? You want the metal arm off to make it easier?” His joking tone was driving you up the wall. All you wanted was to show this pretty boy that you were as strong as any Avenger, and that thought alone kept your jaw from clenching.
You chuckled back, keeping your expression calm. “I can handle some metal.” You stared, watching his fingers work, until he was finally done and ready to take you on.
You stepped onto the mat, bouncing on the balls of your feet. He walked forward, shoulders squared and stance wide. You brought your fists up to your face and waited, studying.
He lunged forward throwing two quick punches. You side-stepped, throwing your back leg into his chest. His hands came down lightning fast, grabbing you by the knee. He laughed.
“Still so predictable, dollface.”
Your jaw worked in frustration as you attempted to maintain balance on one leg. Bucky could almost hear the wheels turning. He thought back to all the time you both spent on these mats, sparring until bruises formed. Recently he had been worried. You were spending less and less time in the gym with him, making him think his teasing had landed one too many blows.
Little did Bucky know but you were spending your time with another Avenger on the mats.
An idea finally came to mind and you braced yourself, taking in a strong breath before launching off your free leg and wrapping your thighs around Bucky’s neck. He hit the mat in shock, releasing your knee and giving you more leverage to choke the massive man out.
You squeezed your legs together with all your strength as your sparring partner tried to escape your hold. Finally, you felt the two taps of victory on your thigh and you released Bucky from his cage, coughing and sputtering in irritation.
“That’s a Widow move!” He gasped in surprise. “Yep.” You let the word pop, unable to contain your smile. You skipped over to your gym bag and gleefully unwrapped your knuckles, basking in the irritated gaze of Bucky Barnes.
“You cheater,” he whispered.
“Sore loser, huh champ?” You smiled, tossing the bag over your shoulder and sauntering out of the gym.
It’s not everyday that someone steals from Spiderman.
It’s not everyday that someone steals from Spiderman and manages to get away.
It’s not everyday that someone steals from Spiderman, gets away, and leads the hero on a chase across New York City.
But here you were.
Happy Tuesday.
“Hey! Give it back already!” Spiderman’s light voice flew past your ear along with his swinging body.
“Make me!” You taunted and turned a corner, laughing at his exclamations as he barely stopped himself from slamming into a wall.
“Why do you want my web shooter anyway?” His voice was above now. You looked up to see the red and black suit jogging on the side of a building, parallel to the ground.
Of course he could stick to the side of buildings. You picked up the pace yelling, “finders keepers!” over your shoulder.
Spiderman, who was far too focused on your sarcastic words and sprinting figure, ran out of building. He let out a small scream when he found himself falling, and a louder scream when he tried to shoot a web with his right hand only to find he was still falling. Adapting to using one web shooter was more of a struggle than he could’ve imagined. He was beyond irritated now and was more determined than ever to catch the thief.
“You didn’t find it! You swiped it off me!” He caught up to you, clumsily slinging his body through space with one arm. You were panting hard, barely able to answer back.
“So?”
You were going to drive him crazy. Insane. Completamente loco.
“So? So?! What do you mean, so?! So give it back! It’s mine!” He swung faster. He could almost reach you if he just-
“Catch me if you can!”
You turned another corner and followed a group of men into an office building. Spiderman was left, once again, floundering in mid air, unable to complete the sharp turn. He cursed beneath his breath, carefully finding the ground and running after you.
I wrote a short story for a competition. it’s the first time I’ve openly shared original stories (something other than fanfic) and when I shared it… it bombed. it was super scary and vulnerable to post it and when almost nobody saw it, it kinda broke my heart.
so, tumblr, who values young writers who just want to fucking go somewhere in life with their dreams can you help me out and read it? Or share it? it would mean literally everything to me. My friends don’t really wanna share it (or read it but whatever) but I worked so hard on it.
please?
It’s called Skyfall. It’s not very long. but I’m proud of it and I don’t wanna give up on it. Thank you
Our September preview showcases stories of familial dysfunction from the brilliant Natalia Ginzburg and Susan Taubes. The beloved Italian author considers the strained relationships between parents, children, and siblings, while Taubes’s Divorcing, out of print for over fifty years, takes up the collapse of a marriage and a sense of self.
Sophie Blind is divorced—and not merely from her husband but from herself, as her own memories and emotions seem increasingly remote. In luminous fragments, the narrative flits from New York to her childhood home of Budapest, considering her parents’ divorce alongside her own. Fans of Renata Adler and Elizabeth Hardwick, take note: this dreamlike novel from 1969 is a forgotten precursor to their lyrical work in the ’70s. Taubes, a close friend of Susan Sontag, committed suicide at forty-one soon after its publication.
From the celebrated author of Family Lexicon comes these two novellas of dysfunctional family life. In Valentino, a sister tells the story of her doted-upon brother, who upends his family’s expectations when he suddenly marries an ugly but wealthy older woman and begins a secret affair with her male cousin. In Sagittarius, a daughter and her hypercritical mother move to the suburbs, where she becomes obsessed with impossible dreams of opening an art gallery.
Sometimes heartbreak isn’t experienced just from losing a lover; sometimes it’s at 3 in the morning and you miss your best friend that you don’t talk to anymore, sometimes it’s when you see a picture of a place you used to live in but you’re very far from it now, sometimes it’s from the stories and poems you read and hear about or when you miss the taste of a home-cooked meal. The human heart is so strong yet so fragile because although it is made of muscle we see and hear and listen and feel and love a bit too much about everything.
It’s harder to take the easier path. When you’re living in a society that encourages grind culture. it’s harder for people to choose the easier path because we’re afraid of how society will view us as ‘weak’. But just because you took the easy way out doesn’t mean that you’re giving up; sometimes taking the easy way out means being kind to yourself and putting yourself first, it means patience to gain the strength to do what you want.
