Maybe some time you could talk about Susan and what it would be like if she didn't desert Narnia
How about we talk about what might have happened if Narnia hadn’t deserted Susan?
What if, instead of sending a stag to lead them astray, the Pevensies had been given time to end their first rule– to have finished their reports, their negotiations and treaties, that letter in the bureau Lucy was half-done penning to Mrs. Beaver to thank her for the fruitcake and to ask about her grandchildren.
They had lived there more than a decade then, grown from children to kings and queens, to brave young adults with responsibility heavy on their shoulders. They had lived through storms and wars, peace and joy, lost friends to battle and old age and distance. They had made a home. What if they had been given time to say good-bye?
What if we didn’t tell Susan she had to go grow up in her own world and then shame and punish her for doing just that? She was told to walk away and she went. She did not try to stay a child all her life, wishing for something she had been told she couldn’t have again.
There is nothing wrong with Lucy loving Narnia all her life, refusing an adulthood she didn’t want for a braver, brighter one she built herself. But there is also nothing wrong with Susan trying to find something new to fall in love with, something that might love her back.
You can build things in lipsticks and nylons, if you don’t mind getting a few runs in them. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be pretty, especially when pretty is the only power left to you.
Let’s talk about being the last one left. No, really, think about it. You get a call in the middle of the night, in the little flat you can just barely afford, and you are told there has been an accident.
Think about it, that moment– you scramble over everyone you know, everyone you love, and try to figure out where they all are that night. There are things rushing in your gut, your fingertips, your lungs, your ears– there are words in your ears as the tinny, sympathetic voice starts to tell you: it is everyone.
They were on a train. Something went wrong. They probably died instantly. A rushing sound. A bright light. (You try to imagine it, for years. You try not to think about it. You imagine it, for years–a rushing sound, a bright light.)
Your little sister, who you always felt the most responsible for, who you never understood, really– Your big brother, who disapproved of your choices but loved you with a steadiness you could never regret leaning into– Your little brother, a smug and arrogant ass except for the days when he drowned in self doubt– Ed was going to go far and you knew it, were waiting for it, were shoring up your defenses and your eye rolls for the days when he’d think he ruled the world–
Your mother is gone. Your father, with his stuffy cigar smell and big hands and the way he got distracted telling stories– he is gone. Your cousin Eustace, who suddenly lost that stick in his ass one summer. That friend of his, Jill, who you’d never actually quite met. Gone. A rushing sound. A bright light.
Go on. Walk through this with me. You can’t sleep all night long, because you still can’t understand it, still can’t quite breathe in a world where you are the last Pevensie. You finally fade sometime between midnight and dawn and when you wake up you don’t remember for half a second. You think ugh and you think sunshine why and then you remember that you are an orphan, an only child. You remember there probably isn’t anyone else to handle the funeral arrangements.
Get up. Make tea. Forget to eat breakfast and feel nauseous and empty all day. Call the people who need to be called. Your work, to ask for the time off. The mortuary, to ask about closed caskets. Distant relations. Friends. Edmund’s girlfriend and Peter’s boss. You listen to Lucy’s friends weep hysterics into the phone while you stare out the kitchen window and drink your fourth cup of tea. You call Professor Diggory, out at the old house with the wardrobe that started it all, and it rings and rings. You don’t find out for three days that he died in the train crash too. When you do, you stare at the newspaper article. You think of course.
You are twenty one years old. You have ruled a kingdom, fought and won and prevented wars, survived exile and school and your first day as a working woman. Nothing has ever felt worse than this. You have a necklace in your dresser you meant to give your mother, because she loves rubies and this glass is painted a nice ruby red and it is all you can afford on your tiny wages.
Excuse me, a correction: she loved rubies. She is dead. You never wear the necklace. You cry yourself to sleep for weeks. The first night you don’t cry, the first morning you wake up rested, you feel guilty. You wonder if that will live in the pit of your stomach all your life and you don’t know. The years reach out in front of you, miles and eons of loss. You are on the very shore of this grief and you do not know how you will survive feeling like this for the rest of your life. But you will survive it.
Get up. Make tea. Make yourself eat breakfast. Make plans with a school friend to do lunch. Go to work and try to bury yourself in the busyness of it. Remember that you’d promised to lend Peter a hand with some task or other, but you don’t even remember what it was– Collapse. Hide in the bathroom until you’re breathing again. Redo your makeup and leave work the moment your shift is over. Drop your nylons and your sweater and your heels in the apartment hallway. Fall into bed and pull the covers over your head.
Get up. Make tea. Eat. Don’t think about them for weeks. Don’t feel guilty when you remember. Feel proud. Spend an indulgent weekend in your pajamas, reading Lucy’s favorite novel and making Ed’s favorite cookies and remembering the way your mother smelled and how it always made you feel safe. Love them and miss them and mourn them. Keep breathing. Cry, but wash your face after in cool water. Wake in the morning to birdsong and spend three hours making breakfast just the way you like it.
Imagine the next birthday, the next Christmas, the next time you hit one of those days that herald the passage of time, that tell you how much you’ve grown and how much they haven’t.
Lucy, Peter, and Edmund will be at the same height for the rest of your life. Lucy will always be seventeen for the second time. You see, you think you know, when you lose them, what the dagger in you feels like. But it grows with you, that ache. You grow with it, too, learn how to live with that at your side but it grows, that ache, finds new ways to twist–
At the first friend’s wedding you go to, you cry because it’s lovely, those two smiling and promising and holding hands– but you also cry because you wonder what Lucy would have looked like in white, joyous and smiling and promising the rest of her life to a boy who deserved her.
Go on. You tell me if Susan deserted a world or if a whole life deserted her. You tell me who was left behind.
So yes, let’s talk about it– what if Narnia hadn’t deserted Susan? What if lipstick and nylons were things worn and not markers of worth?
What if we had a story that told little girls they could grow up to be anything they wanted– all of Lucy’s glory and light, Susan’s pretty face and parties, the way Jill could move so quiet and quick through the trees?
Because you know, some of those little girls? They were the little mothers, too old for their age, who worried and wondered, who couldn’t believe like Lucy or charge like Jill. Susan was reasonable, was hesitant and beautiful and gentle, was pretty and silly and growing up, and for it she was lost. She was left. And when Susan was left, so were they.
The little girls who worried louder than they loved, who were nervous about climbing trees and who would never run after the mirage of a lion, who looked at the pretty women in the grocery store and wondered if they would grow up pretty too– some of them looked at their little clever doubting hands, after they read Peter and Eustace and Jill scoffing at Susan’s vanities, and they wondered what they were worth.
Imagine a Narnia that believed in all of them. Imagine a Narnia that believed in adult women, lipsticked or not. Imagine Susan teaching Jill how to string a bow, arms straining. Imagine her brushing blush on Lucy’s cheeks, the first time Lu went out walking with a boy she was considering falling in love with. Imagine that when the last door to Narnia was shut, there was not a sister left behind.
aries: isle of flightless birds // We find our worth in giving birth and stuff || We’re lining our homes against winding roads || And we think the going is tough We pick songs to sing, remind us of things that nobody cares about || And honestly we’re probably more suicidal than ever now
taurus: taxi cab // I wanna fall inside your ghost || And fill up every hole inside my mind || And I want everyone to know || That I am half a soul divided || Sometimes we will die and sometimes we will fly away || Either way you’re by my side until my dying days || And if I’m not there and I’m far away || I said, “Don’t be afraid.” || I said, “Don’t be afraid. We’re going home.”
gemini: pantaloon // You are tired || You are hurt || A moth ate through || Your favorite shirt || And all your friends fertilize || The ground you walk || Lose your mind || He’s seen too many stare downs || Between the sun and the moon || In the morning air || How he used to hustle all the people || Walking through the fairgrounds || He’s been around too long
cancer: oh mrs believer // Oh, Miss Believer, my pretty sleeper || Your twisted mind is like snow on the road || Your shaking shoulders prove that it’s colder || Inside your head than the winter of dead || I will tell you I love you || But the muffs on your ears will cater your fears || My nose and feet are running as we start || To travel through snow || Together we go
leo: trapdoor // He wakes up early today || Throws on a mask that will alter his face || Nobody knows his real name || But now he just uses one he saw on a grave || He pretends that he’s okay || But you should see || Him in bed late at night, he’s petrified
virgo: addict with a pen // But no matter how || How tightly I will strain || The sand will slow me down || And the water will drain || I’m just being dramatic || In fact, || I’m only at it again || As an addict with a pen || Who’s addicted to the wind || As it blows me back and forth || Mindless, spineless, and pretend || Of course I’ll be here again || See you tomorrow || But it’s the end of today || End of my ways || As a walking denial
libra: before you start your day // Look in the mirror and ask your soul if you’re alright || Put out the glitter that your soul hides behind || You’re in my mind || I’m singing || You’re in my mind|| I’m singing la-da la-da la-da la-da la-da la-da da
scorpio: implicit demand for proof // I mean no disrespect || I am simply very perplexed || By your ways || Why won’t you let us || Use your name? || Rain down || And destroy me || Rain down || And destroy me || Rain down
sagittarius: march to the sea // No one looks up anymore || 'Cause you might get a raindrop in your eye || And Heaven forbid they see you cry || As we fall in line || And about this time of every year || The line will go to the ocean pier || And walk right off into the sea || And then we fall asleep
capricorn: johnny boy // He is falling in love || He knows it’s enough || And the world looks down and frowns || Get up Johnny boy, get up Johnny boy, || Get up ‘cause the world has left you lying on the ground. || You’re my pride and joy, you’re my pride and joy. || Get up Johnny boy because we all need you now.
aquarius: friend, please // I feel for you but when did you believe you were alone || You say that spiders crawled inside and made themselves a home || Where light once was || Petrified of who you are and who you have become || You will hide from everyone, denying you need someone || To exterminate your bones
pisces: fall away // I don’t wanna fall, fall away || I disguise || And I will lie || And I will take my precious time || As the days melt away || As I stand in line || And I die as I wait as I wait on my crime || And I’ll try to delay what you make of my life || But I don’t want your way, || I want mine || I’m dying and I’m trying || But believe me I’m fine || But I’m lying, || I’m so very far from fine
I looked at Zann, and saw that he was past conscious observation. His blue eyes were bulging, glassy, and sightless, and the frantic playing had become a blind, mechanical, unrecognisable orgy that no pen could ever suggest.
A sudden gust, stronger than the others, caught up the manuscript and bore it toward the window. I followed the flying sheets in desperation, but they were gone before I reached the demolished panes. Then I remembered my old wish to gaze from this window, the only window in the Rue d'Auseil from which one might see the slope beyond the wall, and the city outspread beneath. It was very dark, but the city’s lights always burned, and I expected to see them there amidst the rain and wind. Yet when I looked from that highest of all gable windows, looked while the candles sputtered and the insane viol howled with the night-wind, I saw no city spread below, and no friendly lights gleaming from remembered streets, but only the blackness of space illimitable; unimagined space alive with motion and music, and having no semblance to anything on earth.
You sat uncomfortably in the seat opposite Mr porters and had begun to unconsciously crack your knuckles- nervous habit. You wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t for Hannah but she practically dragged you here. You stopped doing it once Mr Porter had sat back down, straightening out his tie then leaning over to hand you both a sheet of paper.
Hannah scoffs “What is this?”
You turn your paper the right way up and scan the sheet. Date, time, event, people involved, the list went on.
“Whiteness statements Hannah” Mr Porter huffed as he rubbed his forehead “I will need to know exactly what happened”
He explained- almost too casually. It was almost as if he didn’t want us bothering him at this moment..
“But we already told you what happened” Hannah explained. I watched as Mr Porter grabbed a pen out of a black pot in the desk and open the lid with his teeth.
“But I need it in writing” he mumbled as he scribbled with the pen on a yellow post-stick note, then reached for another one, one that actually worked “I also need anyone else who was in the room to write a statement too, so, do you care to tell me their names?“
You hesitated to name anyone. You didn’t want them to be involved and you certainly didn’t want anyone to think you we’re a snitch.
Just before you could say anything, Hannah had already piped up “Justin Foley, Alex Standall, Bryce Walker” she listed, counting on her fingers as she did so, “and all the other poor excuses of men in that locker room”
“But Alex didn’t do anything” you declared, speaking for the first time in about 5 minutes, gaining an eyebrow raise from Mr Porter before writing down the names.
“Exactly” Hannah said, folding her arms over her chest “He just sat back with his bowl of popcorn and watched the show”
“Hmm, what Flavour?” Mr Porter asked, still writing on the post stick note. Me and Hannah both looked to each other then back to Mr Porter.
“Salty?, Sweet?, Toffee?” He quizzed
“I’m glad you find this so funny” Hannah remarked. You were already out of your seat with the paper scrunched up in your fist.
“We’re wasting our time Hannah, let’s go”
Hannah pushed her chair out and got up.
“Ok- Ok ladies, I apologise” he said, holding up both hands. You and Hannah reluctantly sat back down.
“Look, I know this seems like the end of the world right now, but this kind of stuff happens all the time. As much as it shouldn’t, boys and girls get into fights too”
“Yeah, because men are trash” Hannah whispered under her breath
”.mBut what if it wasn’t just a fight?” You asked “..What if it was- what if it was more than that?”
Mr Porter leaned forward “Montgomery and yourself, you guys are in a relationship right?” He asked
“Yeah” you agreed
“And this is the first time he’s even been violent towards you, correct?”
“..yeah” you lied “yes”
“And what is it, you said to provoke him to do that?”
Your eyebrows knotted in confusion “And why do you assume that I had done something to provoke him?(!)” you mildly shouted, your voice beginning to shake.
Mr Porter’s eyes shifted from Hannah to you "Well something must have happened for him to be angry”
“Or he could just be abusing her?” Hannah quickly responded
“I’m just saying-
“Well don’t ‘just say’” Hannah snapped back
“Hannah, I’m gonna have to ask you to wait outside” Mr Porter told her, he then walked over to the door as held it open.
Hannah mumbled something about Mr Porter to you before flinging her backpack on her shoulder and storming out the room.
“So, Y/N” Mr Porter begins “Did anything happen for Montgomery to get angry?” He repeated before slumping back down in his seat. “There had to be something?”
You waited for the sound of the door to be shut before answering “..I may have hit him, only because he called Hannah a slut”
“um-hmm” Mr Porter hummed then scribbled something down “So you hit him first?” He asked
"And do you think hitting him was the right way to react?”
“What? And hitting me was the right was to react” you say, putting emphasis on the ‘me’.
“Listen Y/N, it seems to me like neither of you thought before you reacted, doesn’t mean that anyone is an abuser. That’s a very serious allegation to make”
Yeah, if only you could see the scars on my back and the bruises under my skin, you thought. You began to crack your knuckles again- consciously
"You two are a couple and that’s what couples do sometimes” he explained “Monty was just probably embarrassed that you hit him in front of all his friends”
“Yeah, I guess I hurt his precious ego” you sniffed
“Mm” you agreed as you stood to your feet and pulled the strap of your bag over your shoulder “..and perhaps I could get over it in a week or so”
“I dunno- perhaps” Mr Porter shrugged
You just shook your head in disbelief and opened the door.
“Well, you don’t have to leave right now!” Mr Porters voice echoed as you walked further away from him. Hannah got up as soon as she caught sight of you but you didn’t say anything, you just kept walking.
You heard her footsteps gain speed as she jogged to catch up with you.
“What did he say?” She asked
"Nothing useful” you told her “I have to go meet up with Clay”
“Oh, right well, maybe we could meet up at Monets after school” she suggested “Hot chocolate can be a really good cure”
You didn’t want to go. You didn’t want to talk about this anymore. I mean, what was the point? Talking about it with Mr Porter hadn’t helped at all so why would talking to Hannah make a difference. Hannah didn’t even know the half of what was happening and only saw a fraction of what you had been going through. And she thinks a hot chocolate would fix things..
“I’ll text you” you assured her before walking faster. You soon approached the library, fixing your make up in a compact mirror before you went in. You rushed over to the table Clay and Jeff we’re sat at and plopped down on the seat next to Jeff.
"Someone’s early” Jeff chuckled
“Sorry I’m late. I was speaking to Mr Porter” you told them as you searched through your bag for an assignment you was working on. Once found, you handed it over to Clay. You noticed that Jeff had kicked him in the leg as their eyes shuffled from you and back to each other.
"Shit. Don’t tell me I have something in my teeth” you said
“..Urm..Are you okay Y/N?” Clay asked out of the blue
“Yup” you answered, popping the ‘p’ “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Clay and Jeff looked at each other then back to you. Jeff inched himself closer to you and placed his arm over the back of your leg.
“It’s just, we heard what happened in the locker room today-
"And we want you to know that we’ve got your back” Jeff continued “Always”
“Yeah” Clay nodded “And don’t worry, no ones on Monty’s side. Everybody thinks he’s a dick for what he did to you”
“Eveybody?” You questioned
Clay and Jeff just nodded, clearly confirming the fact that ‘everybody’ now knew what had happened.
You sighed again “Great”
Your phone buzzed loudly in your bag, earning you a few hushes from other students in the library. You fished for your phone out of your back pocket and swiped the screen to unlock it. A text from Hannah and from Alex and from Zach popped up immediately.
Hannah🍑: See you at Monets?x
Alex🤘🏼🖤: Wanted to check up on you. Call me x
Zach Dempsey (Tall jock from English class) : Sorry about the boys. Their dicks. If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. Always.
There it was again. The 'Always’, like they had 'always’ been there. You rolled your eyes and threw your phone into the bottom of your bag. All of a sudden, people cared about you. All of a sudden, people wanted to check up on you and call you and listen to you and be there for you. And all of a sudden, you were a victim. And that wasn’t a label you wanted to have or own or be associated with.
It just didn’t sound like you.
Okay so that was part 2! I hope you guys like it
Oh and thanks for all the support on part 1, it means a lot so thankyou💞✨
“If what I think is happening is happening, it better not be.”
I think I’m at that crossroads with my art where I’m noticing mistakes & can’t pick a style; guess it’s a good sign because it means my eye is improving but now I have to force my art to catch up. Welp, nothing to do about that except keep doodling!!
Dad is a principal at a school, and has been for a long time.
It’s a relatively small government high school of about 300 students
so anyone wanting to enroll has a pretty good chance of actually
speaking to the principal instead of one of the admin staff.
One day some lady arrives and expresses an interest in enrolling her
son. Principal Dad is speaking with her, gets her some forms to fill
out, even offers her his special pen. The pen is a nice stainless steel
job that was given to every member of the executive staff on the
school’s 25th anniversary. It even says “[school name] Celebrating 25
years 1978-2003” on the side.
Anyway, lady and her son fill out the paperwork and go on their way,
at which point Dad realises his pen has also left. Clearly the pen
wasn’t a gift; it was obviously more expensive than a plastic hotel pen.
Fast forward to the next week when the lady arrives to drop her son
off for his first day at the school. Principal Dad waits for Mrs Pen
Thief and gives her the Emergency Contact Form to fill out. Normally
this is given to the kid to fill out but Dad was hoping to see the pen
Sure enough, this silly lady forgets where she stole the pen from and
out comes the 25th Anniversary Pen to fill out the form. The form
completed, she puts the pen back in her handbag and hands the form back.
“And now I just need to sign it here” says Principal Dad, patting
down his pockets as if looking for a pen. Instinctively Mrs Pen Thief
reaches into her handbag and offers him The Pen.
“Thanks” he said as he signs on the bottom of the form (which was just a
ruse, he didn’t need to sign anything) and puts the pen back in his own
shirt pocket right in front of her.
Mrs Pen Thief looks confused, opens her mouth, realises what has
happened, and quickly closes her mouth again. She mumbles a thanks and
scurries out the door.
words; 11.7k (this is a fic i wrote like 4 months ago, never got around 2 it posting lol)
genre; mostly the fluffs, first kiss n stuff like that :-) i guess there is some suggestive stuff but its quite light.
synopsis; wonwoo is the strangely quiet boy that sits in the back of class and would rather be reading than listening to the lessons. his appearance is also quite questionable, with dark rings under his eyes and disheveled hair.
he’s earned the nickname, insomnia, and you’re curious to discover if the quiet boy matches what everyone seems to call him.
There is nothing but silence, a still unsettling silence that sticks to every corner of the room as watery streaks of moonlight bathe the boards of oakwood. A clock sits on the bedside table, the black numbers being highlighted by the bright blue that lays behind them. At this time, the world is quiet, the only sound being the blood rushing through your ears or the steady heart beat thumping in your chest.
A bed is placed snuggly into the corner of the room, a thick comforter lying neatly over the old mattress that carries the stains of spilt coffee and tea. Nothing is out of place, all the clothes are folded with precision and tucked away inside the dresser, every book on the shelf has its spine turned out, each series perfectly aligned with the next. It might even look as if no one ever stayed inside the room for it was always too clean and organized, or maybe whoever slept there had too much time on their hands.
Just as the digits on the clock struck 3am sharp, the door handle slowly swiveled and a figure emerged from the hallway, a tall glass of water curled in its fingers. After sitting down on the mattress and taking a very long sip of its beverage, the figure shifted to the centre of the bed and crossed its arms over its knees, back slouching and tufts of ash coloured hair falling carelessly over its eyes.
Noise. Why was it always so noisy?
The hallways acted like a speaker, amplifying every little clink or clank down the long corridors until it faded away. Only a few more weeks left of school, only a few more weeks left of angsty students who were constantly slamming their lockers and scuffing their shoes, only a few more weeks of fed up teachers who couldn’t even bother to yell at their class because they knew it was worthless.
You could hardly wait to get away from it all and finally be able to isolate yourself back into silence, sweet, sweet silence. After navigating your way through the morning crowd of zombies that moved slower than molasses, you set your heap of books down and pushed in your earbuds. You liked being alone in class, before the lights were turned on and curtains were tugged open. You could just slouch at your desk and let your foot tap against the tiles while listening to something you actually wanted to hear and not the brainless conversations of the people around you.
Then the door was opening, and a streak of yellow light washed over the floor for a few seconds before disappearing. Another student was here, though he hardly looked like a student. His frame was tall and lean, prominent collar bones resting under his milky skin tone while messy ash tinted hair almost covered his eyes.
Yes his eyes, they were dark, very dark, like someone dropped a splash of black food colouring into his irises. Discoloured circles lay under his lash line, like the result of someone who hadn’t slept in weeks while his attire consisted of a loose long sleeved white shirt and dark grey sweatpants tucked into worn out sneakers. His name was Wonwoo, but everyone called him Insomnia because that’s exactly how he looked. Like someone who couldn’t sleep.
Wonwoo stared blankly across the empty classroom as he readjusted the books swept under his arm, his hollow gaze sweeping right over you like you weren’t even there. Suddenly the bell began to ring and before you knew it, the zombies were flooding into the class, their voices still drowsy from the morning atmosphere as they plopped down lifelessly into their seats. Everyone was sitting except for Wonwoo, he just stood there with his usual blank stare, his back slightly slouched while he remained like a statue.
“Wake up Insomnia and take a seat already.” Someone called from the back of the class, but Wonwoo didn’t take a seat until Mrs. Kang the English teacher walked in, her heels clicking against the tiles while she pushed up the glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose. She patted his should while slipping past him to get to her desk and it wasn’t until then that he finally moved, his eyes flickering slightly before finding an empty desk near the back. Wonwoo was just as fascinating as he was strange, and one day you wanted to have a real conversation with him just to see what was going on inside his head.