the book vault

Vault Dweller au

Tim is good at leaving the murderous CEO persona at work and just coming home to cry over cheesy romance novels

I do not believe home is where we’re born, or the place we grew up, not a birthright or an inheritance, not a name, or blood or country. It is not even the soft part that hurts when touched, that defines our loneliness the way a bowl defines water. It will not be located in a smell or taste or talisman or a word…
Home is our first real mistake. It is the one error that changes everything, the one lesson you could let destroy you. It is from this moment that we begin to build our home in the world. It is this place that we furnish with smell, taste, a talisman, a name.
—  Anne Michaels, The Winter Vault

Here we go old chaps. 

That Old Black Magic is a Wincestiel AU based around the life and trials of a young witch named Sam Winchester and his brother after Sam steals a spell book from a magic vault and consequently changes their lives forever. It’s a world of curses, old magic, monsters, demons, gods, and hunters alike. With no one willing to teach a half blood—let alone one with only one arm—the ways of spell casting and magic, Sam is on his own till the night he meets a High Order Witch named Castiel.

cover >> pg1


I woke up this morning to rain. Real rain, rain that does not demure, does not disappear with a coastal breeze, does not tease. Serious rain. East coast rain. Amherst rain. The sweetest relief.

I blabbed my excitement about it to anyone who would listen from the moment I glimpsed precipitation on the forecast: I can’t wait, I cooed. They mostly looked at me like I’d spent too long in the rare books vault we visited earlier in the day. I’m from LA, I explained. I miss the rain. I didn’t say: I miss the softness rain brings to a place, the drench of soil, the awakening of scent. I didn’t say: I miss the mountains. I miss the trees. I didn’t say: Part of me withers without it. Instead, I waited for rain.

It came in sheets this morning, and I walked to breakfast on the Hampshire College campus without an umbrella, in sandals, past fields of nodding ox eye daisy and lavender lupine flowers, craving a soaking.

Before I say much else, let me explain: I am in Amherst, Massachusetts for the next week as part of a creative writing fellowship with Tent.

Read more and get the recipe here.

imagine for me, if you will:

-butch deloria as a little kid wondering why his skin is dark and his hair is jet black but he doesn’t look quite like the other kids with dark skin and hair

-butch deloria asking his mom about his heritage and being told they’re native american and nothing more

-butch deloria having a million questions and zero answers

-butch deloria not being able to tell if she just doesn’t want to talk about it or if she doesn’t know anything either

-butch deloria finding the only book in the vault that says anything about natives say terrible, racist things

-butch deloria thinking about his mother and thinking they might be true

-butch deloria digging through centuries of dead relatives stuff to find anything to prove that stupid book wrong

-butch deloria finding only a few pictures and a couple other things belonging to his great-great-great-grandparents before the war

-butch deloria seeing the faces of his ancestors, men with long hair and bolo ties, women with tried braids and friendly eyes, all of them with round faces and sharp cheekbones just like his

-butch deloria finding a box of glass beads, separated by color in neat compartments, and single vamp, beautifully beaded but crumbling and falling apart in his hands due to improper storage and care

-butch deloria crawling around on the floor trying to find every single bead that fell off and putting them in the right compartments in the bead box

-butch deloria taking the little box back to his room, keeping it hidden behind his dresser only taking it out when hes sure that no one, not even his mother would catch him

-butch deloria thinking he must be the last native in the american wasteland

-butch deloria taking the box with him when he leaves the vault just in case he’s wrong

-butch deloria trying to figure out how to do beading by himself because he embroidered the gang’s jackets, it cant be too difficult

-butch deloria frustrated but carefully pulling the beads off the mess of bead work he tried and failed to do and sticking them back in the box

-butch deloria hearing rumors of places called Rez’s somewhere out west, maybe north or south where native communities thrive

-butch deloria traveling so far and so long but finally making it to people who look like him, welcome him, and are able to tell him about his ancestry and finally answer all the questions he had as a kid

-butch deloria being able to connect with his culture

Reasons to like Mad Max: Fury Road
  • Max himself is actually mad, as in mentally unwell, and he’s still the most competent man in the film
  • The story hinges around escaped lady-slaves/wives but there is absolutely no on-screen sexual violence. 
  •  Both Max and Furiosa are disabled and they kick arse
  • The true heroes are a gang of biker-ladies who are good with plants
  • The violence is stylised but never trivialised. None of this “it’s an action movie so someone can get shot in the shoulder and not even blink”. If someone gets shot, it hurts. Without spoiling anything, the heroes go through a hell of a lot in this movie. 
  • The villain has a vault with books and a piano because he knows what’s valuable in a post-apocalyptic society
  • Most of the effects are physical: they really did those stunts, they just composited them together. Those crazy vehicles are functional. A thousand people spent months tearing around the desert, throwing themselves off armoured cars for our amusement.
  • There is a guy chained to enormous speakers on a truck whose job within the gang is solely to play sick guitar riffs with a double-necked guitar that is also a flamethrower. (And that rig was a real, functioning sound-system)
  • The music is incredible. There’s a scene where a recently-blinded chap drives full-tilt into a swamp, firing machine guns accompanied by Verdi’s Dies Irae, and it’s perfect
  • Everybody has bits of metal and crap stuck to their faces and nobody gives a shit 
  • The costumes are insane and brilliant, and to be honest I’d wear a lot of them
  • The design for every detail is perfect. There’s loads of weird, crazy, gross background details that are never explained or even acknowledged as unusual

See. This. Movie. Give them your money. Make the film industry make more movies like this.