the butcher the baker and the candlestick maker


get to know me (6/10} favorite films ☰ matilda (1996)

Everyone is born, but not everyone is born the same. Some will grow to be butchers, or bakers, or candlestick makers. Some will only be really good at making Jell-O salad. One way or another, though, every human being is unique, for better or for worse.

In the Waiting Dark (The Red Moon Rises)

Written by: @katnissdoesnotfollowback

Prompt: #5 Everlark fairytale au of Little Red Riding Hood, preferably similar in tone to the film “The Company of Wolves.”  [submitted by Anonymous]

Rating: T for this chapter

Warnings: Mentions of blood, fantasy and horror thematic elements

A/N: This is the first chapter of what will be a multi-chapter story. Overall rating will be M for the following reasons - Blood, fantasy and horror thematic elements, violence, mentions of non-consensual, mentions of child abuse, disturbing imagery, and sexual content. There may be more as I am still working out a few details. Inspiration for this story was pulled from several different versions of the Red Riding Hood tale, to include the film mentioned in the prompt. I’ve been wanting to write this AU for a long time, so I truly hope you all enjoy what I’ve come up with, especially you, Anonymous! Feel free to stop by and tell me your thoughts, I have Anon turned on in case you wish to remain so. <3 KDNFB

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Everlark Fic Exchange Sneak Peek

Hey all! Below is a sneak peek of my submission for the upcoming @everlarkficexchange. I know we were supposed to post these over the weekend, but I had literally zero words written until this morning. As such, this is rough and not beta’d…I’m not kidding, this is first draft in it’s rawest form. So please forgive errors and suckage. Story is untitled right now, and will probably turn into a multi-chapter WIP because who am I trying to kid, oneshots are not my thing. And honestly, I’ve been wanting to write this story for about a year now and this gives me an excuse to do it.

“Did you tell your father ‘goodnight’?” She kisses first one forehead and then the second, once more laying her hand flat on the fevered surface before patting her child’s cheek with a cool cloth. So far, it’s only the oldest showing the signs, but she knows it’s only a matter of time.

“Yes, Mama. Can we have a bedtime story?”

“Just one,” she promises with a smile and settles at the foot of one of the narrow beds. “Let’s see…”

“Once upon a time,” the youngest says and giggles when both mother and the oldest scowl slightly.

“Mama’s telling the story,” the oldest chastises.

The youngest sticks out a pink tongue and the oldest huffs, so she continues the story before a fight can break out in earnest.

“Long ago–”

“See, you got it wrong anyways.”

“–not far from here, there was a village, caught in the early days of spring. It was a much like any other village, with small fields to grow crops, a blacksmith to do metal work, a grocers, a butcher, a baker–”

“Was there a candlestick maker, too?”

“Hush! I wanna hear the story!”

“And a candlestick maker, too,” she says with a soft smile, ignoring the muffled laughter from the doorway behind her. Already enthralled with the story, the children don’t even notice. “There was also a healer, a woman who knew all the tricks to soothe pain and terrible illness. And the healer’s daughter was engaged to marry the baker’s son, but see, in this village, it was a tradition for marriages to chosen by the parents and the village elders. This was an old custom, started many years ago, and like many old customs, the reasons behind them faded with each generation until no one really understood why those customs were still around. The marriage contract was written and all but signed, but the healer’s daughter–”

“What was her name?”


“We’ll call her Flower for now,” the mother says, not losing her stride with the tale. “Flower didn’t want to marry the baker’s son, because she was in love with someone else.”

“Who, Mama?” both children gasp.

“She was in love with a hunter.”


“Everyone is born, but not everyone is born the same. Some will grow to be butchers, or bakers, or candlestick makers. Some will only be really good at making Jell-O salad. One way or another, though, every human being is unique, for better or for worse.”
Matilda (1995) dir. Danny DeVito


Everyone is born, but not everyone is born the same. Some will grow to be butchers, or bakers, or candlestick makers. Some will only be really good at making Jell-O salad. One way or another, though, every human being is unique, for better or for worse. - Matilda (1996)

I’m not saying that free-market economics is bad or dangerous, I’m saying that it doesn’t even exist.

The mythical butcher-baker-candlestick-maker view of capitalism only existed in the very earliest days of capitalist development, when it was little more than a social experiment embarked upon by adventurous minor nobles and desperate peasants in fast-growing early-modern cities. The whole reason capitalism survived as a way of organising economic activity was because the newly-wealthy capitalist elites were best placed to wield influence over tottering European feudal states as they crumbled under their own weight - taking them over to run them as glorified protection rackets for their profit-making schemes. From its earliest inception within feudal societies, capital has sought the benefits of the state - legal regulation, economic protectionism, military repression - and used them to secure its future.

Even the most dimly-conscious free-market ideologue knows this. What ‘free-market’ ideology really conceals is a civil war between staggeringly wealthy elites, over which faction of capitalists should reap the rewards: those who benefit from the huge resources of states being poured into subsidising the profits of manufacturing, industry and trade, or those who can make a killing from bank bailouts, government-secured property deals and state-backed oil ventures.

Modern states, therefore, are to capitalism both nursemaid and childhood playmate: they are utterly inseparable, bound together in a Faustian bargain written in the blood of workers.

The Patrician’s New Hat

The sound of the crowd was hushed from up here, but Moist could still make out the cheering as he peered down at the palace gates from the window of Lord Vetinari’s office.

No. He corrected himself. His office…

“Sorry,” he said, turning back to face Drumknott who was waiting expectantly. “I wasn’t listening, what did you say?”

The man looked tired, Moist thought. But then they all did. There hadn’t been an inauguration in decades—at least if you didn’t count that brief fiery episode with the dragon—and as far as Moist could gleam the dragon had been more readily accepted.

It wasn’t that the guilds hadn’t been polite about it. Simply that they had been so pointedly polite, Moist had began patting himself down for exit wounds after every handshake. He knew he had the unequivocal support of the merchant guilds, and to an extent he supposed that was part of the problem. Lords and Ladies even those who had risen up as butchers bakers and candlestick makers, did not take kindly to being overruled by Greengrocers, Cobblers and for some strange reason, the Royal Association of Dental Technicians and Veterinary Care (Bridging the Gape Between Crowne and Canine ʃince 1801).

“As you are aware, it is customary for the Patrician to hold no other form of office while in power, Sir. Symbolic or otherwise.”

Moist nodded. He’d already signed the paperwork rescinding his personal positions within the Royal Mint, and the Guild of Accountants was drafting something up in a hurry for him to hand over the role of Royal Levy Officer into their efficient ranks.  

“Which means I will require the very-nearly-gold chain…” Drumknott carried on, holding open a box which held a velvet cushion inside.

“Oh,” Moist said, reaching for his neck and lifting the Guild of Merchants seal away from his chest, “Right, yes. Fine.”

“And …” the clerk swallowed visibly. “The uh, the hat…Sir.”

Instinct made him snatch the golden cap off his head, clutching it tightly in front of him. “My hat…”

“Yes, sir.” Drumknott winced apologetically, “I’m afraid so.”

It didn’t look like much, but then it never had. He’d worn it out of sentimentality more than anything else, a symbol the citizens of Ankh-Morpork knew by sight. The lopsided bulk of the flaking gold wings had been a familiar and reassuring weight on his head as he’d stood waving on the steps. It was ridiculous to be so attached to it. After all, it was just a hat, what did it matter if it was no longer his?

Moist sighed, twirling the cap around his finger one last time and setting it free. It landed on the desk atop a pile of letters and Moist felt mildly better. He’d been aiming for them, but no one needed to know that.

“Anything else, Drumknott? The coat off my back, the fillings in my teeth?”

“No sir, that’s all for now.”

Moist watched him scuttle towards the door, the clerk retrieving the golden hat as he went, pausing by the office door. “And if you’ll allow me sir, as Acting Head Clerk, to welcome you to office,” the other man looked down, eyes suspiciously bright, “his Lordship would have been…”

Don’t say it, Moist thought, don’t you dare say it. “Hold on,” he interrupted, “What do you mean Acting Head Clerk?”

Drumknott seemed to startle a little at that, “I…well sir, it’s customary for the Patrician to pick his own household staff…I will of course retain the position and duties until you find a suitable candidate.”

And suddenly, some small sliver of Moist’s life made sense again. The fearful looks in the hallway, the way the maids who had always been quick with a smile before had dropped back into the walls…the way Drumknott had barely met his eye this whole time…

This, was people. He could do people.

“Ah, yes, as a matter of fact I have someone in mind.”


It was summer and the air was warm, but the sudden chill in the office was enough to make Moist’s ears pop from the pressure change.

“Yes,” he said, reaching up to wiggle his finger in his ear, “quiet fellow, likes trains. Always has a pencil I can borrow.” He smiled as realization dawned on the other man’s face. “By the way, how is Miss Healstether? Doing well?”

“I…uh, yes, sir. Visiting next week.”

“Ah yes,” Moist smiled, making his way over to the plain desk and pulling out the chair behind it, “the new Überwald Express is quite something, if I say so myself. Do I have any appointments this morning, Drumknott?”

“No, sir.”

“Very good, do send a clacks down to Hobbs and Spools, the Milliner of Mercury Street. Tell him I’d like to see him at his earliest convenience. Oh and if you happen to see my wife, tell her I’ll see her and the children for lunch. If you can’t find her try following the trail of fabric, I believe she invited Lady Sybil to help measure curtains.”

“Will that be all, my Lord?”

And there it was. Give ‘em a show, Moist thought, talk a fast game and act like you belonged and even falling could look like flying.

“No, Drumknott, thank you. You may go.”

He waited until he was sure the other man was gone, counting under his breath until he heard the door to the antechamber open and close, and then sat down heavily behind the desk.

After a brief eternity of staring at nothing, he let his fingers rest on either side of the ledger in front of him, and turned his eyes upwards.

“I commend my soul to any god that can find it.”

*sigh* I’ll get round to writing this properly. One day. In another life.
(Based on previous fic: One Man, One Vote.)

Over the Garden Wall Review (Happy Halloween)

So, what with Halloween at our doorstep, I have taken it upon myself to do something in the spirit of the day of spirits. At first, I was going to do a review or perhaps a top ten episodes of Gravity Falls…but that show is, like, 40 episodes and I didn’t really feel like plunging back into and marathoning the whole shebang. Instead, I decided to take on the much more manageable task of viewing and reviewing Over the Garden Wall, at its less intimidating full running time of about a hundred minutes.

To preface this review, I’m probably going to be focusing largely on the positives of this series as opposed to the flaws, because, quite honestly, this is one of my favorite animated works of all time. It took basically only the first couple minutes of the first episode for me to realize that I was going to love this show. So rather than a fair review, this will probably feel more like me enumerating my many praises of the program. Just fair warning in case you were hoping that, I don’t know, I was going to be that one guy who would share your less-than-enamored feelings toward Wirt, Greg, Beatrice, and their many outlandish encounters.

Oh. Also.


Okay. On with the review.

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Everyone is born, but not everyone is born the same. Some will grow to be butchers, or bakers or candlestick makers. Some will only be good at making Jell-O salad, but every human being is unique, for better or for worse. Most parents think their children are the most beautiful things alive. Others are less emotional. Violet’s parents lived in a very nice neighborhood, in a very nice house, but they were not very nice people. Violets family were so busy,
they forgot they had a daughter. If they had paid her any attention,
they’d have seen she was special. At two, Matilda had already learned how to take care of herself. As time went by, she developed a sense of style. Every morning, Matilda’s brother went to school. Her father went to work. selling used cars for unfair prices. Her mother took off to play Bingo.Matilda was left alone. That was how she liked it. At four. she had read every magazine in the house. One night, she asked her father for something she desperately wanted. So Matilda already knew she was different from her family. She saw that whatever she needed. she’d have to get herself. The next morning,
Matilda set off in search of a book.

anonymous asked:

If you had to commit to spending a hundred years as a butcher, a baker or a candlestick-maker, which do you think would be over-all least boring once you got a few decades in? If you had to divide your hundred years between the activities, would you split them evenly or skew your schedule in some way?

I would think baker would be the most interesting with candlestick maker being close behind, they’re both pretty creative. if I had to split my time I would be a butcher first to get that shit over with.

Discworld fic: One Man, One Vote

For @hermitknut​, not quite what you asked for but once my brain lodged on the idea I had to either write it down or choke on it. As for how things proceed from here, I’ve already started writing the sequel fic, The Patrician’s New Hat. So stay tuned for that :D

                                                 One Man, One Vote

“Ah, Mr. Lipwig, do sit down.”

He doesn’t look well, Moist noted as he slipped into the chair opposite the Patrician’s desk. Vetinari had always been pale and gaunt this was true, but in that oh so effortless way only vampires could achieve, through centuries of moonlit balconies and liquid dieting. But there was something off about Vetinari just now. Tired was the best way to describe it. The worst were less forgiving.

“You wanted to see me, my Lord?”

“Evidently, Mr. Lipwig,” Vetinari replied, entreating to him to a small smile, devoid of its usual sharpness, “Or I dare say you’d be elsewhere. How is the family?”

Moist blinked. When the black carriage had turned up outside the gates just before dawn he’d been expecting several things. Familial niceties was not one of them.

“Oh, uhm, yes fine, thank you.”

“John doing well in school? I heard Charlotte won a prize for the best scale model of the palace.”

Moist nodded. “Yes my Lord, I believe it was the accuracy of the miniature scorpion pits that swayed the decision…thank you for that by the way, John’s nightmares have almost stopped.”

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Everyone is born, but not everyone is born the same. Some will grow to be butchers, or bakers, or candlestick makers. Some will only be really good at making Jell-O salad. One way or another, though, every human being is unique, for better or for worse.