Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.
jughead watching archie play football from the bleachers with a pen and a pad bc hes the only other Journalist™ on the Blue and Gold and, with betty playing cheerleader, its up to Him to ~tackle the hard task of covering The Big Game. he’s supposed to be paying attention to everybody but the article winds up being three pages about archie andrews and his stupid shoulders
Summary: Based on @artsycrapfromsai‘sBeauty and the Beast AU. In which Ford becomes human again after years spent cursed as an enchanted journal, and Stanley and the kids realize happy endings are often a lot more complicated and messy than one might initially perceive.
The fading laughter was what let him know the onslaught had finally ended. Ford sensed the distant pelt of vibrations against the stone, moving towards the balcony, towards-
An insidious tendril of dread began to suffocate him as he realized his cursed form was wholly unable to come to his brother’s aid. And worst of all, the young man— Gideon, his name was?— abused him enough that his binding was starting to unravel at a dangerous rate.
Wild gales assaulted delicate parchment, threatening to cleave these pages from his trampled spine and leave him barren. He feared this wind was bitter enough to seep through even his brother’s thick fur, but as he didn’t possess the nerve endings required to differentiate temperature, there really was no way to tell.
Stanley mentioned playing in snow on the castle grounds with the children the other day, though, hadn’t he?
He lay sprawled on his back, trapped within his roving thoughts and functionally helpless without his brother or one of the young siblings to pick him up. The long years had chipped away at him, cruelly stripping bundles of parchment from his binding with each passing month— each page representing a portion of his memory. He’d already lost so much of his childhood and early life to this unstoppable decay. In fact, in his present state he found he barely recalled how he’d been cursed into this form to begin with.
What was it like, Ford wondered, to be human? To have strong limbs extending in every direction? The ability to contort and move his form by deliberate choice? What did it feel like to hold an ink quill and write manually for once? To consciously express emotion in more than simple text on page? Faintly, he thought he recalled a time when all of these actions and properties were overlooked mundanities— but he’d been imprisoned within this leather bound journal for so long that sometimes the thought of anything else but this existence faded into obscurity within seconds. And this frightened him.
I can’t even remember… what I once looked like, he realized in a pang of panic.
How much humanity did he have left to spend?
The few pages still bound fluttered endlessly in the wind, and he desperately struggled to keep ahold of them. He imagined his own thoughts appearing on pages in written word, frantic pleads for help, in the futile hope that continuing to mark his own parchment would somehow retain his connection with it. He felt another page tear away. Heard it as it cut through the air like a thin blade.
When Ozpin speaks in his mind, it is often to tell him of his great destiny, of what he must do, of what lies in wait, and the terrible things that are coming. Other times, it is of his memories, vibrant and terrible things that blur through Oscar’s mind like pages caught in a high wind.
Ever since Oscar had boarded the train and left his farm, auntie, and Hazel behind, his head had been filled with silence. It was a welcome change— Ozpin’s constant nattering in his head was, admittedly, getting old— but it was unnerving. He’d become almost used to his incessant prattling, and without it, it felt like something was… off.
I believed you did not wish to speak with me, Oscar. I can sense your disillusionment… your indecision at leaving your home and coming out here. It was a brave action on your part… though I know this is not what you wished to do with your life.
Right, Oscar thought back with gritted teeth. So now you show up, huh? I guess you’re not here to make pleasant conversation…
No, Ozpin said, almost regretfully. I wish it were so, but our paths twine in different ways.
Whatever you say, Oscar said.
Oscar, I’m not here to idly chat. Ozpin sounded faintly sharp; Oscar could imagine him in his head, eyes piercing, back straight. A matter has come to light, one of most urgent importance. Do you remember the Huntsman I spoke of to you?
Travel easel is all done! A compact water color set up that’s easy (and stable) to hold in one hand!
Top photo is an ‘at work’ set up.
Two pans for water- one clean, one dirty- that are on a metal clip so easy to pull off and toss the water.
Small 270 gms mixes media water color sketch book held in with a top strap of elastic and one on the bottom cover for stability, wind guard, and easy page changing.
Set of half pan water colors with mixing tray lid. Held in with a strap and balanced on the base.
Brushed held on the back- easy to retrieve.
Bottom two photos are 'packed’. The brushes tuck fully behind the board for protection. Two straps are shifted slightly to hold the sketchbook and pallet in more securely (interior strap in each still). Also room to tuck some paper towels or scrap cloth for dabbing and pallet wipe down.
We’ll see how well it works in the field, but for scraps and a few hours of work I’m happy with it!
We don’t have views like you where I’m from:
a twisted, stormy, madness riddled with
bits of magic. Your eyes are curious,
not because they hold curiosity but
because they propel me further into
some uncertain abyss. We are often
held captive by our wonderment, and
we are made to be all that better for it.
What are you even, I wonder. The odd
driftwood from days past or a lost page
blown back by bold winds? Backwards
is still a direction that draws caution,
yet too forward is something I wish not to be.
We slip into time, always either in step
or out of tune, dazzled by the multiplicity
of any given moment. Plural become
verb compounds, phrases become anecdotes
become conversation become confessions.
The obvious course is inevitable, marble tongued
and soft-eyed riddles laid bare like slices
of conjecture, dusted rinsed and peeled back
and set to boil. Was everything always this way?
Soft pink turns red turns maroon turns brown
like the dried scales of skin on our lips again.
Again. The same wounds rear their ugly bruises,
grinning quietly waiting for the mallet,
but there are no carnival songs or lights
or fairies or cotton candy clowns fortunes
and the big bright wheel to take us up up up
to only drown and remind us of our lack of reverie.
The flight lands, an arrival that is simultaneously
a departure. The conversation ends and
anecdotes and phrases are just loose nouns
separated by boundless pages of words unuttered.
The masks crack, and we wash away any
residual pretence. One day, I am reminded
that we don’t have views like you where I’m from.
A twisted stormy madness riddled with bits
of the tragedy that became us and not us, and the
fact that neither have looked the same since.
I filled a notebook with hundreds of poems about you. I poured every ounce of feelings and every shattered pieces in it. Then I realized that I loved you too much. So I ripped the pages off. Burned it. And blew its ashes to the wind. It was my way of forgetting you. It was my way of unloving you.
But I know every word by heart. Maybe, I can never really unlove with you. // A.S
I have two pages (single space) of my paper left to write but that can wait until tomorrow because I did a lot and it took a long time. I want to go sit outside on a bench in the sun but it’s also windy so maybe not.