Things I enjoyed in the month of June:
Laura Thalassa's, Pestilence:
Now, I'm no stranger to an MC (main couple, for those who don't spend their entire lives trolling GR) consisting of at least one problematic half.
Buffy and Angel, for example.
The great love of the tiny monster-basher's life is a former sociopath with intense stalking tendencies, a real hard-on for slow mental torture, a flair for theatrically staged death scenes, and a little bit of goldfish murder.
...
Angelus is the actual worst.
And I ship him and Buffy hard.
(Technically I ship Angel and Buffy hard, not Angelus, but let's gloss over that so I make my damn point - skewing facts since 198-shut-up-i'm-not-old-you're-old)
Don't speak to me of Spuffy. That unholy mating is blasphemous puke-fodder and I will not hear it uttered in my hallowed brain house.
Only the word of Bangel is preached her.
...
Spuffy is a better couple name, though...
But no! Bangel all the way.
Even if it is problematic as all hell.
(Let's not even start with the age-gap dilemma)
Unsurprisingly, however, my morals take the way of the glassy-eyed bimbo when it comes to my fictional MCs.
Scruples be damned when there's squishy romance to be had.
So, as I said, I'm no stranger to questionable fictional relationships.
But I've got to say, Thalassa made it damn hard for me in her first tale of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and their mortal lady-loves.
Because how do you ship a human trying to survive a plague unapologetically spread by the man/being/entity she's falling in love with?
(First off, an apology for featuring the edition with the plagiarised artwork.
I've yet to buy the newest edition Laura Thalassa had made after discovering she'd been fucked over by an art-stealing cretin. I'll get to it eventually.
Ps. Don't steal other people's art. Fuckers.)
No time for fear, not until the deed is done.
I might be doomed to die, but I'm taking that infernal fucker down with me.
Buffy and Angel, for example.
The great love of the tiny monster-basher's life is a former sociopath with intense stalking tendencies, a real hard-on for slow mental torture, a flair for theatrically staged death scenes, and a little bit of goldfish murder.
...
Angelus is the actual worst.
And I ship him and Buffy hard.
(Technically I ship Angel and Buffy hard, not Angelus, but let's gloss over that so I make my damn point - skewing facts since 198-shut-up-i'm-not-old-you're-old)
Don't speak to me of Spuffy. That unholy mating is blasphemous puke-fodder and I will not hear it uttered in my hallowed brain house.
Only the word of Bangel is preached her.
...
Spuffy is a better couple name, though...
But no! Bangel all the way.
Even if it is problematic as all hell.
(Let's not even start with the age-gap dilemma)
Unsurprisingly, however, my morals take the way of the glassy-eyed bimbo when it comes to my fictional MCs.
Scruples be damned when there's squishy romance to be had.
So, as I said, I'm no stranger to questionable fictional relationships.
But I've got to say, Thalassa made it damn hard for me in her first tale of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and their mortal lady-loves.
Because how do you ship a human trying to survive a plague unapologetically spread by the man/being/entity she's falling in love with?
I like the way Pestilence talks, the way he thinks, I like his compliments, I like his consideration. I like his gallantry, his gentleness. I like him despite the fact that he's bringing about the end of the world–and that is immensely troubling.
How do you reason that away?
How do you excuse the actions of a monster who doesn't know any better and live with yourself?
How do you love someone who despises your kind enough to annihilate them in their entirety?
...
Simple answer: because it's fiction.
A fantasy.
Not. Fucking. Real.
I know many, many people struggle with the line between fiction and fact.
How can you strongly oppose immoral actions in real life and then indulge in them in a fictitious setting?
...
I reiterate: because it's not fucking real.
The difference between your morality in fiction and your own life is vast.
Infinitely vast.
Because the rules you set for yourself to maintain a level of decency to the world and its inhabitants actually has very little to do with what you enjoy in the arts.
Your imagination is not you.
It's part of you but not the whole.
The imagination is a place to contemplate and explore situations unavailable in the real world, or unavailable specifically to you.
As much as I'd like a front row seat to a fucked up Fae adventure, it's unlikely to ever happen.
If a detective showed up at my door and specifically needed my help (because I'm so qualified?) to solve a whimsically grisly murder, I'd shut the door in their face and rock myself to sleep while clutching my Kuchi Kopi plushie, hoping to the crime gods I wasn't about to get murdery murdered ← technical term.
My life's ambition as a child was to someday pet a unicorn because they were real and everybody who told me otherwise could kindly fuck the fuck off.
...
Okay, that one's still 15% true but the point is, those three things and countless others aren't real.
Whether they're possible or not, they remain outside my scope of reality.
But I enjoy them.
I like cold-blooded mysteries with buckets of blood and tortured investigators.
I like when the Fae mentally and physically torture us mere mortals.
I like when unicorns go rogue and gore people for the fun of it.
( Cabin in the Woods? I'm coming for you this Halloween. Be ready)
I lap that shit up.
But does that make me morally bankrupt?
Nope.
Does it mean I'm going to act these things out in real life?
I'm a blood fainter so I'm going to go ahead and say no.
Does it mean my imagination takes enjoyment in the uncouth?
For sure, it does.
Are these the same things?
No. No they are not.
And thank fuck for that because what would we be without our fantasies or the ability to imagine?
Empty and hopeless, I reckon.
There'd be no gold-hoarding dragons, no Studio Ghibli, no Surrealism.
There'd be nothing but endless iterations of our own existence, and for me, that'd be devastating.
Fantasy, in its various forms, is a necessary part of my coping system.
I need escape.
I need the abnormal.
I need the unconventionality gifted to us by those with grander imaginations than our collective own.
Which is why Laura Thalassa's tale of a human and a horseman of the apocalypse falling for the each other is something I didn't think I'd have a problem with.
And I didn't.
But I did struggle with it.
Morally.
Especially with how things began between the MC.
There was a little auto-da-fé, a smidge of torture via dragged-by-horse, a cacophony of verbal vitriol, and a teeny tiny bit of last-ditch imprisonment.
...
Not the greatest start to a love story.
And that's not including the fact that the heroine spends 99% of the book warring with her conscience because she not only bangs the physical embodiment of plague - multiple times and with great enjoyment, may I add - but she protects him.
She loves him.
She'd kill her people for him.
For sure, it does.
Are these the same things?
No. No they are not.
And thank fuck for that because what would we be without our fantasies or the ability to imagine?
Empty and hopeless, I reckon.
There'd be no gold-hoarding dragons, no Studio Ghibli, no Surrealism.
There'd be nothing but endless iterations of our own existence, and for me, that'd be devastating.
Fantasy, in its various forms, is a necessary part of my coping system.
I need escape.
I need the abnormal.
I need the unconventionality gifted to us by those with grander imaginations than our collective own.
Which is why Laura Thalassa's tale of a human and a horseman of the apocalypse falling for the each other is something I didn't think I'd have a problem with.
And I didn't.
But I did struggle with it.
Morally.
Especially with how things began between the MC.
There was a little auto-da-fé, a smidge of torture via dragged-by-horse, a cacophony of verbal vitriol, and a teeny tiny bit of last-ditch imprisonment.
...
Not the greatest start to a love story.
And that's not including the fact that the heroine spends 99% of the book warring with her conscience because she not only bangs the physical embodiment of plague - multiple times and with great enjoyment, may I add - but she protects him.
She loves him.
She'd kill her people for him.
He lets out an agonized cry, the sound garbled by his ruin of a mouth, as I heave him out of his tomb. A silent tear trickles out of the corner of my eye at the noise.
If only my earlier self could see me now. How far I've fallen, crying over a thing that can't die. Over the very thing I was supposed to kill. And look at me now–I'm pointing guns at anyone who tries to take him from me.
...
Reader, meet moral quandary.
I'll admit, I mentally cocked my head in confusion so much throughout this book that I think I'll permanently have an ethical crick in my neck.
My brain just could not handle the idea of a smart, capable, strong woman being won over by an otherworldly judgemental dick-stain who's favourite past time is making her suffer.
Who does that?
Who chooses that over her own world?
...
An imaginary heroine, that's who.
But in the end, she doesn't really.
Even when her humanity starts to change Pestilence, to alter his view of humankind.
Reader, meet moral quandary.
I'll admit, I mentally cocked my head in confusion so much throughout this book that I think I'll permanently have an ethical crick in my neck.
My brain just could not handle the idea of a smart, capable, strong woman being won over by an otherworldly judgemental dick-stain who's favourite past time is making her suffer.
Who does that?
Who chooses that over her own world?
...
An imaginary heroine, that's who.
But in the end, she doesn't really.
Even when her humanity starts to change Pestilence, to alter his view of humankind.
Pestilence is straddling two warring natures–his divine one, which demands we all die, and his mortal one, which doesn't want to kill us, perhaps it even wants to save us ... And each day that he's with me, his mortal nature strengthens. I am strengthening it. The thought fills me with no little wonder.
She does eventually find the courage to put her morals before her heart.
"Do you still not get it? You're killing off everyone. Did you seriously think I would stay with you after something like this?"
"You stayed with me before," the horseman says heatedly, but I don't miss the spark of fear at the back of his eyes.
I let out a hollow laugh. "That was when I thought you hated what you were doing to my world."
Back when I thought you could change.
Isn't that the most horrible detail of all? I finally got what I wanted–Pestilence did change, just not for the better.
[...]
"You called me love."
I look away. "I did."
"And you love me."
My heart beats faster. I may not have said the three words, but the horseman speaks the truth.
My eyes move to him. "I do," I agree. "And it is not enough."
She has to and perhaps that's why the book was a struggle.
Because I had to struggle with her.
To know that what she's doing is a betrayal.
To feel that with her.
And in the end, break with her.
Pestilence isn't a pretty book.
It's bleak and unforgiving.
There's absolutely no mercy when it comes to human suffering and that doesn't change until it absolutely has to.
There isn't even really a HEA, it's more of a HFN.
And I didn't love it anywhere near as much as I did Thalassa's, The Bargainer series, even though it had all the qualities of her writing I usually devour whole: the foul-mouthed and witty heroine with a mean sucker-punch, the flaxen-haired hero with a healthy dose of snark, a richly detailed landscape, and an abundance of unexpected humour.
Laura Thalassa's humour is probably my favourite part of her writing, and it wasn't missing in this story.
But what was missing was time.
Time for the story to grow.
Time for the MC to really develop their relationship.
Time for Pestilence to shed his otherworldliness.
Because that was my real issue.
Everything else? Stellar, top notch, bring me more so I can gorge myself into an apocalyptic coma, please and thank you.
But there just wasn't enough of an evolution in Pestilence's humanity.
There's certainly growth, otherwise there really wouldn't be any chemistry between the MC, but I wanted more.
I wanted to see Pestilence done with his mission, to shuck his crown, and embrace a life on earth with his girl.
I wanted him to get used to the taste of beer.
Watch Netflix and chill.
Pick up our lingo, as bizarre as it is most of the time.
I wanted some damn mundanity to become a part of who he is.
And I only got a glimpse right at the end, and I find that somewhat disappointing; especially as this is a tetralogy with one book focused on each horseman.
Brother War's up next, and I imagine Pestilence will make some sort of appearance but as far as his story and his development is concerned, this was it.
And I wanted more.
So much more.
Just another 100 pages or so.
But alas.
However.
Grumbling aside, Pestilence is the kind of writing I love and expect from Thalassa.
Maybe a little bleaker than her usual outpourings.
A little slower and a little less fantastical.
But still just as compelling and caustically entertaining.
And I couldn't put it down.
More importantly, I didn't want to put it down.
Not much more you can ask for, really.
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Uh, Vija Celmins?
I think someone's gunning for your title.
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Hillam?
You doing okay?
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A Little Bit Alexis:
...
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Current desktop.
Sometimes I just hide all my open windows so I can stare at it.
It's so fucking pretty.
And you can bet your Sailor Moon ass that when the international shipping restrictions are lifted, I'm going to be all over that shit.
...
That is, if my bank balance isn't too upset with me...
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No one ever said animating was safe. Follow us on #tiktok to see more! #fightlaikaanimator #fightchallenge #animation #stopmotion #laikastudios #laikansathome pic.twitter.com/TjG2QtRfZk
— LAIKA (@LAIKAStudios) May 23, 2020
I've seen stuntwomen.
I've seen actresses.
But this by far takes the claymation cake.
...
The ice cube...
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Ps. She's offering custom miniatures of your own home and donating the fee to The Stephen Lawrence Charitable Trust:
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Mrs Rose:
(The encouraging notes I leave myself: "PHOTOGRAPH YOUR DAMN DINOSAUR, YOU LAZY FUCKWAD" ... Personal cheerleading at its finest)
When your sister casually wanders into your room and hands you a fancy triceratops, you have to question whether you have a whimsically epic sibling.
...
Just look at this classy, buttoned up, lady dinosaur!
I dubbed her Mrs Rose.
Because of all those Moira vibes rolling off her.
And who's more luxe than Moira 'Bébé' Rose?
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Money Heist part 2:
UGH.
This fucking show.
It's an act of true willpower not to devour all the seasons, one after the other, like an episode-slurping monster.
It's that damn good.And they have a puppy.
This is he:
His heist-name is Denver.
And I'm in love with his dopey little face and maniacal laugh.
...
If the showrunners ever dare to hurt the puppy... there will be hell to pay.
Ps. Look at how soft Sara Faber made my feral cinnabon, Tokyo:
And just look at her stuff in general:
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Tia Roxae aka. dreamyguts:
What is it about grungy, b-movie murder art that just does it for me?
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James Felton: This is an act of war:
Ok since everyone wanted me to make British Tea- here you go 🇺🇸🇬🇧 pic.twitter.com/c9ziZUUcXG
— jchelle36 (@jchelle36) June 8, 2020
My entire body wretched.
And I wasn't the only one:
...
We take tea very seriously in this country.
I think we need to send her a copy of "Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy", to enable her to understand the significance - and importance - of making a proper cup of tea.— Mistywoman Bee Middlemast-Neal #FBPE #BLM #Antifa (@Mistywoman1) June 8, 2020
Americans making “British Tea”... pic.twitter.com/tT8URMiIN9— Helen🧜🏻♀️ (@mimmymum) June 8, 2020
This is too much. This has tipped me over. Not today. I've just spent the last minute shouting the lyrics to 'I'm a little teapot' whilst doing the actions, as tears stream down my face, eventually finding their resting place on my tea stained dressing gown.— Nicky Cunningham (@pacifistfighter) June 8, 2020
— Dr Benjamin Janaway (@drjanaway) June 8, 2020
— Amanda Manley🕷 (@ManleyAjmanley) June 8, 2020
— Eugene (@eugeneh84) June 8, 2020
Avengers, assemble. pic.twitter.com/soewAwaS1g— Jim Clarkson (@Startledbymidge) June 8, 2020
...
We take tea very seriously in this country.
And our most famous brands take zero shit from bigoted trolls:
the teas are done with your racist bullshit pic.twitter.com/YwggkVFVax
— Alisha Rai (@AlishaRai) June 8, 2020
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Relatable book tweeting:
U EVER LOVED A BOOK SO MUCH THAT EVERY TIME YOU READ THEM IT MAKES YOUR HEART SING AND YOU CLUTCH THEM SO TIGHT IN YOUR CHEST AND YOU THANK ALL THE EXISTING GODS JUST FOR THEIR EXISTENCE
— 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙖 ✿ GAB DAY!! 🌈 (@stjamesevelyn) May 23, 2020
yeah sex is great but have you ever witnessed a fictional character snapping and going absolutely feral because the person that they love is in danger?
— hannah (@darlingtcn) May 3, 2020
I used to scold people for reading trash books but I’m at the point in my life where I only read cheap mystery novels and fairy-tales and as an adult I’ve earned that right.
— The Library Owl 🌻🧙♀️🦉 (@SketchesbyBoze) June 18, 2020
i am a huge baby and i have eyes and i am not afraid to CRY anyway, but sometimes i feel like i can only tap into certain emotions through fiction. and when that happens, it can be an unfathomably cathartic experience
— chai ♡ (@givemeabrekk) June 21, 2020
maybe she’s born with it, maybe she gets emotionally invested in the happiness of fictional couples to cope with the stress of pandemics, civic unrest and a young adulthood marked by multiple wars and recessions
— The Library Owl 🌻🧙♀️🦉 (@SketchesbyBoze) June 23, 2020
...
These are my people.
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(SNAGGLETOOTH ... I am in love)
Needle felting seems like wooly sorcery, to me.
And these little woodland creatures aren't helping dissuade that belief.
...
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Vanessa Stockard's infamous feline in motion.
I've seen that desperate scrabble so many times.
It's particularly fun when it's happening on your thigh and the little fucker just won't. let. go.
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An Open Letter to J. K. Rowling from Emmet Asher-Perrin:
I think, like almost all Harry Potter fans with a conscience, I've been struggling with my deep, abiding love for a series created by an unapologetically bigoted monster.
And whether it's okay to use the standpoint of separating the art from the artist.
When does art become more important than ethics?
Which is something I've been thinking about a lot since watching Hannah Gadsby's, Nanette - which you should absolutely watch. It's incredibly confronting but totally worth it.
I went to art school. I'm a Fine Art brat. I was taught the greats. I was encouraged to respect and admire their work.
What I wasn't taught was whether I should respect the work of morally bankrupt creators.
It didn't come up.
Because art, in all forms, is held above morality.
Take a glance at any list of the most esteemed artists throughout history and you will be overwhelmed by indecency, and yet those same artists are held up as gods above reproach because look at what they produce!
Let them sin so we can experience their wonders.
...
Even writing that feels wrong.
It is wrong.
And reasoning it away because their art "betters" our human experience is bullshit.
There are so many, so goddamn many unseen, unheard of artists producing art now and before that aren't despicable people and they should be the ones we look to for that bettered human experience.
And if we can't do that with artists of the past, then we surely have to do it with the creators producing work now.
Which brings me to J. K. Rowling and how Emmet Asher-Perrin's letter helped me to get closer to a decision when it comes to my relationship with Harry Potter.
There's two phrases I've been hearing a lot in relation to fans who've been let down by the creator:
Taking ownership and Death of the Author.
What they essentially mean is that as soon as an author makes their work available to the public, it no longer belongs to them.
They've done their part and the rest belongs to the readers, the fan artists, the fan fiction writers, the actors.
The people who take their work, make it their own, and expand on it.
(Don't confuse this with copyright, that's just theft)
...the birth of the reader must be ransomed by the death of the author.
- Roland Barthes
So, in that sense, Rowling should actually play no part in mine or any other fan's experience.
Her views, her politics, her infernal misuse of her public platform and status can be removed from Harry Potter entirely because she no longer bears any influence on it.
It belongs to the readers, and fuck her for trying to desecrate it with her vile, hateful bullshit.
(This article by Michelle Smith goes into further depth about this)
Saying that, however, it is difficult to avoid her.
She's disgustingly famous and will profit from HP until the day she dies, TERF or not.
But from now on, I won't be footing her bill.
I will only buy HP products made by fans for fans.
I won't be paying to watch any new movies.
(But to honest, the Fantastic Beasts series has gone down some weird World War k-hole and it's not doing much for me anyway)
I won't read any new stories she releases; instead, if I need new Potter stories, I'll head to AO3 and finally let myself indulge in some Harry/Draco slash-smut.
But I can't continue to help J. K. Rowling profit from her intolerance.
And people like Hannah Gadsby and Emmet Asher-Perrin have helped me find my way through the confusion of how to feel and act when you're let down by the architect of something you love.
This last passage really sums it up for me:
I needed to hear this.
I needed to know I could keep Harry Potter, I could keep my source of comfort, and it doesn't make me terrible and immoral just because the author happens to be both of those things.
Thank you, Asher-Perrin, for writing this.
This Hufflepuff is incredibly grateful.
Ps. Booked by Tim:
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A smol confidence boost! #PrideMonth pic.twitter.com/f4Okiuj0Na
— Jib Kodi (@JibKodi) June 26, 2020
...
I was not prepared for this level of wholesome.
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Charlie Jane Anders', All the Birds in the Sky:
"She's my rocket ship."
There are so many quotable passages littered throughout this weird monster of a story.
Beautiful, strange, jarring sections of text jumbled together for no other reason than they simply demand to exist.
And the four words above are the ones I can't get out of my head.
Four seemingly unremarkable words.
"She's my rocket ship."
Isn't it strange how a simple sentence out of context can mean nothing at all but everything all at once?
Because those four words, confessed in whispered desperation, are everything.
They're the cumulation of two opposing lives gravitating towards each other since the absurdity of adolescence.
They're the unshakable bones of a courtship unrealised.
The declaration of a disenchanted engineer for the magical leaf-lover who splinters his whole belief system.
They're the I love you to end all I love you's.
And they won't mean anything unless you've read the book.
This, frankly, bizarre book of two people finding their place in the war between technology and nature.
Progress and preservation.
Science and magic.
Two polar weirdos in love.
...
I'm going to find it hard to review this book.
Simply because it's difficult to quantify exactly what this book is.
Is it a comment on mankind's worrying relationship with technology and its devastating effects on the environment?
Is it a redemption story?
Is it magic vs science?
Is it the inevitably crushing banality of growing up, even with advanced technology and talking animals?
"You never learned the secret," said Roberta. "How to be a crazy motherfucker and get away with it. Everybody else does it. What, you didn't think they were all sane, did you? Not a one of them. They're all crazier than you and me put together. They just know how to fake it. You could too, but you've chosen to torture all of us instead. That's the definition of evil right there: not faking it like everybody else. Because all of us crazy fuckers can't stand it when someone else lets their crazy show. It's like bugs under the skin. We have to destroy you. It's nothing personal."
Is it a question of ethics?
Fate vs action?
Or is it all of these things?
All of these things devoutly sheltering a predetermined love story that might just solve, if not everything, but at least the conundrum of Patricia and Lawrence.
Please be okay, please be okay, I will give anything I own large or small. He chanted this in his head, as he vaulted over gray and black and red shapes in his path. He had been so bitter toward her just hours ago, but now he felt in his hobbling kneecaps and his jerky pelvis that his life story was the story of Patricia and him, after all, for better of worse, and if she ended his life might go on, but his story would be over.
...
Is that what All the Birds in the Sky is truly all about?
Love?
...
Honestly?
I'm not sure.
I don't know if I'll ever be sure.
I don't even know exactly how I feel right now.
It's like being fractured.
Broken down into a series of emotional vignettes, and nothing quite fits together.
But there is a resounding feeling of warmth and satisfaction left behind.
Surprising, seeing as though at the very beginning I loathed the writing style.
It felt disjointed and child-like; almost train of thought but as if the train kept being intercepted periodically by a mouthy, tangential butterfly.
The butterfly in question was persistent throughout the story but strangely, given a few chapters, I felt myself start to follow the offbeat rhythm Anders lay down for us.
It was just a new language I had to learn.
Patricia had to crouch down to talk to a confused marmalade cat, who needed help finding his way home. (He remembered what his house looked like on the inside, but not on the outside.) Patricia checked on Jake the krokodil junkie, who seemed stable now, give or take, and then she cruised the St. Mary's emergency room, looking for people to heal on the down-low. She spent a couple of hours trying to compose a letter to the Parks Department on behalf of some gophers whose burrow was being disturbed, pointlessly, by some inept landscaping in Golden Gate Park. It took a lot of concentration to translate from gopher language into bureaucratese.
Right about now, Garret Borg would be evaporating into a whiskey-scented cloud over his heart-shaped bed.
I just needed to let myself.
And when I did, it felt... it felt like reading Angela Carter for the first time, but set in a familiar yet advanced reality akin to the dystopian landscapes of J. G. Ballard with shades of Andrew Kaufman's offbeat, Magic Realist humour.
...
Isn't that the most wonderful combination?
And it exists in one book.
In my lifetime.
With doomsday machines and talking birds by the name of Dirrpidirrpiwheepalong and Skrrrrtk.
...
Do you see why I'm struggling to review this book?
This wonderful nonsense is why I'm going to have to revert to a list of adjectives in the hopes I can get across how I felt reading this:
Happy.
Frustrated.
Amused.
Surprised.
Engrossed.
Bewildered.
And many more my simple human brain can't begin to reach for.
But most of all, I'm just glad this story exists.
I'm glad my brain had the chance to experience this weirdness and it can now sit happily, and a little weirdly, in the library in my head.
With all other bizarre stories I've fed my subconscious over the years.
...
Fuck, this is why I love reading.
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I don't know if it's the same for others but in my head I always give certain proportions to artwork.
(I view most art online, so this is kind of necessary)
Every piece of art has a certain feel to it. A scale.
Some large.
Some miniscule.
...
Benji Reid has no scale.
If I was to see these photographs displayed as postage stamps or on the side of a skyscraper, they would hold the same surreal, cinematic weight.
...
Magic.
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Playing with Elequinoa's Casual & Cozy:
I think the sullen fuck you face really sells it as being me.
That, and the empty hand that is so gearing up to flip someone off for interrupting happy reading time.
I go full Winnie if you interrupt happy reading time:
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Chris Ables', Fuck Fairy Tales, To Hell with Heroes series:
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Knock on wood:
I'm much comfortable beseeching a tree spirit than I ever will be a monotheistic deity.
...
But wait... does this mean I'm asking the Kodama for a favour when my brain starts spinning out with terrible thoughts and I have to clutch the wooden bookshelves crowding my bed for reassurance?
Because that might be the best thing I've heard in the year of dumpster fire.
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Broad City's intro music:
It makes me so happy.
As do these chaos demons:
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An apocalyptic break from Wang's usual body horror style.
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The 90's Bad Bitch Trifecta:
These appeared one after the other some random Sunday.
...
I don't know what I did to deserve such beauteous visual sustenance.
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Kim aka. chemdoodles', Pride series:
Chemdoodles makes the soppy part of my brain scrunch with happiness.
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Officially my last chapter of the tentatively named KD spinoff novella, Blood Heir.
Because it's spoilery as all hell, and so freaking good, and I'll ruin the final story when it's published if I don't stop myself now.
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Cushioned only slightly by ending on a chapter with a glimpse of my beloved were-lion.
Curran, you climbable bastard, it's so good to almost see you.
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Not reading this is going to be impossible.
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I read the next chapter:
I couldn't help it!
You see that metal rose?
That rose means Derek Gaunt.
And you do not miss out on Derek Gaunt.
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I'm going to read the whole fucking thing.
I just know it.
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Melissa F. Olson's, Nightshades:
The air around him smelled of soil and green things that had baked all day in the late summer heat. He couldn't remember if he'd felt a breeze earlier today, but there sure as hell wasn't one now. The darkness and heat were too heavy; it was choking the air out of everything.
When he absolutely couldn't stand it any longer, he clicked on his flashlight. And screamed.
The shade was standing three feet in front of him, close enough to touch, peering at him through long, stringy blond hair that had a foot of pink at the bottom. Bright red blood dripped down her chin, and there was more blood streaked down her tank top and cutoff shorts. It matched the red of her irises and pupils. She only looked about eighteen, but she was holding something like a miniature machete, twirling it around in her right hand with the comfort of decades practice. She smiled at him, a wide scarlet grin that sent urine running down Ruiz's pants leg.
"Hello," she chirped, like a cheerful clerk at a candy store. She raised a bloody hand and wiggled her fingers at him. "I'm Giselle. What's your name?"
This is the opening scene of Nightshades, and my reaction my was pretty much:
Bloody murder committed in the middle of a cornfield by a creepsome grunge vamp in the dead of night?
Uh... fucking YES.
Unfortunately the rest of the book didn't quite live up to my expectations.
There isn't actually a lot meat on this tale of new age vamps and the special branch of the FBI who hunt them down.
The story's quite thin, and at just over 200 pages, there isn't an abundance of depth to be found.
But I can't say I didn't enjoy myself.
I'm a sucker (I'm not sorry; I'll never be sorry) for vampires; they're my go to creature-feature, and I fully put the blame on Count Duckula and his ketchup-chugging ways.
You gotta get your vamp fans loyal from an early age, y'know?
And I got hooked fast on the plasma-glugging weirdos.
But especially on contemporary vampires.
You know the ones? They're like hipsters with a real special Bloody Mary.
If you're especially lucky, they'll even drink it from a mason jar with a phalanx stir stick.
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I don't know who I'm slamming here, I love drinking things out of mason jars and if there's a food chaser then all the better for my mouth-hole.
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Mouth-hole?
Swiftly moving on...
Contemporary vampires.
If I had to choose a subdivision in the vampire genre, it'd most definitely be contemporary vamps.
I like my bloodsuckers modern, I like them verbally cocksure (I'm looking at you, William the Bloody), I like them grungeing it up in modern society with walking Happy Meals and leather pants of evil.
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I'm describing Buffy.
All vampire roads lead back to Buffy.
Late 90s strigoi are my absolute jam.
So, I should've been set with Melissa F. Olson's classic noir detective take on my beloved monsters.
Right?
Wrong.
There was just something missing.
And that something was longevity.
I have this feeling I'm going to need to read the trilogy in one sitting to get the full impact.
Which I'm honestly really looking forward to because I loved the style of this.
Much like I'm a sucker for the neck-chompers, I'm also a big fan of a mystery.
Throw the two together?
Nightshades is just a little thin.
100 to 200 more pages and it could've been awesome.
Because:
Characters? Gooooood.
World-building? Gooooood.
Vampire lore? Gooooood.
Level of gore? Gooooood.
Potential forbidden love story? Gooooood.
Just throw some more sauce in there, Olson.
Everybody loves sauce.
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This review got away from me...
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Powley? Crownyo? Crowyo? Pownyo?:
Whatever this crossover is called, Aziraphale's chubby little legs are annihilating my last working brain cell.
And the same goes for Crowley's sheepish little mer-face.
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lonicera-caprifolium, how very dare you with this majestic, Slash crossovery wondrousness?
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You know I ain't mad.
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Hannibal rewatch:
I don't think I'm ever getting over the murder hubby nuzzling:
How could I?
Just look at these beautiful dorks:
I'm finally ready for a fourth season.
It's still a perfect show with three seasons but after a few years to get over that ending, I'm desperate to see my misters get their art-house, MOMA-aesthetic murder game on.
Bring on the strawberry syrup and weird hunger pangs whenever Hannibal's flambéing something long-pig.
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My bickering Fae babies are almost here...
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I'm nowhere near as calm as that gif would suggest.
Nowhere near.
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