there’s dozens of stories about some kid from our world falling into a different, magical one, being the chosen one or the close companion of the chosen one and saving the world, and then going home where they’re delighted to see their family again and have a new appreciation of their own life. but what about someone who didn’t miss it? what if you save the world and you’re given your medal and stripped of the magic you learned and put back in a world you never missed? and you’re furious.
maybe you gave up a few years of your life. you have callouses and muscles and a few scars and maybe a missing eye or something. you definitely have some blood on your hands. you might have PTSD you can’t talk to anyone about. and suddenly you’re fifteen again, in a body that’s too soft and too short and too complete. you’re always cold because there’s no magic burning in your veins anymore, and even as you grow up the feeling of not fitting doesn’t go away because when you look in the mirror at eighteen you look all wrong: this is not what you’re supposed to look like at eighteen. the sky clouds and you rub at the phantom ache of injuries this body never received. you wake up screaming sometimes remembering the sorcerer who burnt your hand to ashes, or the final battle you almost didn’t make it through, or the moment you felt the magic in you go out.
but here’s the thing: they took you and made you into a weapon that was determined enough and powerful enough to save a whole world. they can put you back where they found you but they can’t undo everything. and there’s this, too: the place between worlds clings to you. you can’t tease fire out of the air but you can feel the pull of the doorways all the time, although none of them so far go to your world.
but you try to make it work for a decade, anyway. you’re dutiful. but one night you leave work late and for the thousandth time you catch yourself searching the sky for firebirds. and you break. of the three portals within five hundred miles, one is a howling, frozen wasteland and one is a deep violet void, but one opens into a misty forest that you step into and don’t look back. it’s not your world, but if you keep going long enough, you’ll get there.
(and maybe much, much later, hundreds of worlds later, you climb through a window, or a door of woven branches int he middle a field, or push aside a curtain, and as you set foot on new land you feel the fire in your veins and sparks at your fingertips and finally, finally, you’re home)
writing
Some things I enjoyed reading that you might enjoy reading:
Standard
- Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Wants Young Girls and Women to Forget About Being Liked by Kayla Greaves: It’s a preamble to the video of the Queen herself calling bullshit on the particular way women are socialized to be nice above all else.
- Manhattanhenge by Neil deGrasse Tyson: I’ve developed a bit of a crush on New York and it goes along well with my crush on Neil.
How polyamorous queer women really cope with jealousy
by Niko Bell: I’ve posted a few quotes since coming across this review but I am not being hyperbolic when I say this article has given me life. (Cue Micheal Jackson’s “You are not aloooooooone….”)
- Growing Old With The Inuit by Justin Nobel: It’s simply a beautiful piece of writing. History and intimacy and reflection.
- Wanting and Knowing by Guy New York: Poly processing and real real real talk.
- Private Public Secret by The Coquette: Reflections on anonymity and truth (also the most articulate answer I’ve come across for the incessant “why don’t you show your face” question.)
- The Brute and The Brat by Sinclair Sexsmith: You know I had to put something dirty on this list, and here it is. Hot as fuck queer bratty girl smut. You’re welcome.
A Horrible Threesome
Link“I want you to be mean,” she said. “Both of you.”
I smiled at him as we leaned back, rethinking our approach in a simple exchange of glances. We spent six minutes and thirty-two seconds negotiating just what “mean” meant to her, and then we were done. We got up off the bed, the instructions clear…
Damn. Thank you for this.
Knight said I had to edge five times.
He went to shower and I asked if I could cum after edging while he
was gone. He said I could if on the fifth I came but ruined the
orgasm for him. After that I’d be allowed to orgasm normally.I’ve never ruined an orgasm before. I
didn’t even know how. “Go just over the edge and then turn the wand
off”It sounded simple enough, and then I’d
get to cum. How bad could it be?Well for starters, the edges didn’t
want to move along. It was really hard to focus on the pleasure, my
brain’s been spinning of late. I tried to focus on something hot that
happened with Knight, something too scary to write, right on that
line of good and bad and maybe sometimes crossing over. But I was too
desperate build, so it stayed soundly good until I got through four
edges.I was getting all sensitive and hit the
fifth edge, I went just over, just enough to feel the orgasm start to
bubble past being able to hold back. I clicked the hitachi button off
and my whole body curled in protest. I nearly fell out of my chair.
It took all my willpower not to say some not-nice things very loudly.I sprawled in my chair, head dangling
back, and just processed for a few minutes.“Shit,” I whispered harshly to
myself. “Fuckin.. FUCK that was AWFUL” A little part of me (the
part that’s been enjoying the new aches in my knees from not being
allowed to walk without permission) definitely found an appeal to it.
Not something I’d want but
something I could definitely process as a punishment.I got
back to masturbating. And found that because I’d ruined it, it took a
significant amount of time to build up to an orgasm again. I tried
not to grumble, working to be just marginally more obedient. “Try
to be grateful you get to cum,” I thought over and over. “Just
focus on dirty things and the hitachi. It’ll be fine.”When I
finally did orgasm it was hard and shaking, the kind of orgasm where
everything blurs out and goes white for a moment. I didn’t want
another orgasm, which for me is absolutely unheard of. I felt totally
content.Right
after I finished putting my hitachi away, clit still throbbing from
the attentions, Knight came back from his shower. I told him I’d
written down my immediate thoughts post- ruining.“Do
a full write up,” he saidAnd
here we are.
ntbx:
Lowkey started crying
“If you’re still writing about him a year later… You loved him.”
Damn .
..😔
Big support! She good yo!
“Paper is the only way you two can have a conversation, even if he isn’t listening”
That line was dope.
This hit me really hard.
“Because you were the one always reaching out of bounds… How can you still be so moved by a ghost”
chilllllssss WHO IS SHE
I cried.
This fucking girl.
(Source: http://influenc1al.tumblr.com/)
Rachel,
the world is full of men
who would pick you apart and call it kindness.
Men who would criticize you down to your ankles
and then turn around to say that you worry too much
about your appearance.Men who would consider themselves more important
than your career goals
but also belittle you for not having career goals.
Men who would complain about your past
and then put themselves in the way of your future.The world is full of men
who would confuse obsession with romance.
Men who would make a meal out of the core of you
and call it love.Men who would lay your flaws out like a banquet
and then shove them in your face.Men who would say they love you in spite of you.
Rachel, the world is full of Ross Gellers.
“Rachel, Get On The Plane” Trista Mateer (12 of 30)
I did some of these (a few of which were retweeted) and got a bunch of ‘gater pouting – they were clearly camping the tag just so they could piss and moan at people who don’t appear in their G A M E R G A T E tag searches. One of them took the opportunity to start spouting his conspiracy theories about how Aaron Diaz is a stalker.
Thanks for the validation, you shit-magicians.
Relationships that I want to see more of in fiction
StandardNon-romantic sexual partnerships that are portrayed as healthy, meaningful and committed.
Romantic non-sexual partnerships in which the lack of sex isn’t a cause of angst or tension.
Platonic, non-sexual partnerships that are put on the same level as committed romantic partnerships.
Short-term relationships that are treated as happy and meaningful, and for which the end is considered a natural progression instead of a tragedy.
Polyamorous families and group marriages.
Love triangles that are resolved by polyamory instead of by competition and jealousy.
Healthy BDSM relationships in which communication, mutual respect and clear boundaries are shown to be just as important as the kinky stuff.
Non-BDSM relationships making use of safewords and other kinds of consent practices to manage intimacy.
Relationships in which the people explicitly talk about what kinds of touch they’re comfortable with and what they dislike.
Relationships that don’t involve any kind of physical contact, but are based on other kinds of intimacy and affection instead.
“Shallow” relationships that don’t involve commitment or intense closeness being treated as different, but equally valid and not inferior, compared to “deeper” relationships.
Stories in which a character’s relationship with themself is treated as more important than their connection to another person.
Relationships break-ups that are treated as good decisions instead of as miserable and melodramatic.
Relationships in which controlling, manipulative or abusive behavior is recognized for what it is instead of being romanticized, and the other characters shut that shit down.
Characters who get out of abusive relationships and rebuild their lives.
Married people who still act sweet, appreciative and funny to each other after being together for years, instead of taking each other for granted or fighting all the time.
Romance stories that explore what happens after people get married instead of ending as soon as the characters have sex/get together/get married.
Stories in which the hero rescues the damsel in distress, but they don’t become a couple, because the damsel already has a girlfriend, and the hero knows that saving a woman does not mean he’s entitled to have her.
Long-running close friendships between men and women, with no hint of sexual/romantic interest, ever.
Female+female platonic relationships that are treated as special and important in the same way “bromances” are.
Relationships between people of the same gender that all the characters treat as normal, and the plot doesn’t revolve around coming out or dealing with homophobia, and doesn’t end with one or both partners dying.
Relationships with trans and/or non-binary characters whose gender is acknowledged but isn’t treated as weird or as a source of drama.
Relationships with disabled characters who aren’t treated as “tragic,” “pitiable,” or “inspirational” because of their disabilities.
“Often, in black literature, it seems as though the author is performing two roles: that of the explorer and the explainer. Morrison does not do this. Morrison writes stories that are more aesthetic than overtly political, better expressed in accurate Tolstoyan detail than in generalizing sentiments blunted with anger. Most important, she is an author who writes to tease and complicate her world, not to convince others it is valid.
“What I’m interested in is writing without the gaze, without the white gaze,” she told me. “In so many earlier books by African-American writers, particularly the men, I felt that they were not writing to me. But what interested me was the African-American experience throughout whichever time I spoke of. It was always about African-American culture and people — good, bad, indifferent, whatever — but that was, for me, the universe.””
The Radical Vision of Toni Morrison by RACHEL KAADZI GHANSAH
He kept a Band-Aid and a tiny sterile wipe on him; she’d found them the first time she’d ever sat on top of him and pulled his wallet from his pocket to go through it (smirk on her face, pulse wild in her throat). “What’s this for?” she’d said, wrinkling her nose.
“Accidents,” he’d replied.
“I think most guys carry a condom for that reason.”
“When I do,” he’d said, “there’s nothing accidental about it.”
Now here she was with her legs across his lap, hands behind her on the bench, remembering that afternoon and watching ruefully as he cleaned and bandaged her scrape.
“Ouch!” she said.
“Don’t flinch,” he murmured. “If you’re very brave you’ll get a reward.”
UGGGGGH.