the lost art of hand lettering

‘The Beauty of a Lost Art’ Chapter 25: Serendipity

William, my love,

               You are quite the charmer, I must say. Your words have warmed my heart completely. To read your letter, written in your hand, that you feel as if you truly see me…well, I must say I cried. You had said you never wanted my tears to be caused by you again, but if I cry out of happiness, I should hope you do that often. If you want to talk about getting lost in someone’s eyes, I must tell you that I drown in yours often. The ever changing shades of blue and green are very telling of how you feel; I have learned your emotions through that alone. When your curiosity is piqued, they turn to a light green. This mostly happens during cases or experiments. They are a lovely baby blue when you are happy; especially when we’re together. They are a stormy blue not only when you are angry, but also when you show your fierce desire for me, in the throes of passion. When you are sad, it’s a mixture of blue and green; viridian, in fact.

               I am delighted you enjoyed our night of dancing and baking together. I so love it when we’re together like that. I do not need extravagance or complexity; just the simplicity of us and our love for each other. Whenever we dance, it’s not just a dance. It is your fingers laced with mine and your arms wrapped around me. It is the way you look at me with such deep, unconditional love as our feet move to the music. It is the sound of your beautiful heartbeat whilst my head rests against your chest. It is the tender way you brush your lips on my skin, your nose nuzzling against me. It is the sweet, sincere words you whisper into my ear. My darling Sherlock, how you make me feel cannot be described in words.

By this time, we have been living together for a full week and what a week it has been. Three cases solved in record time, I might add. I have been working overtime at the hospital for the last couple of days, as I am writing this in the lab right now. I have some parts I’ll be bringing home for you to experiment on. Home. I quite like saying that. It brings me comfort in knowing you’ll always be there. You may find this to be a fanciful notion, but your soul sings to mine with a lovely serenade. I believe that even if we had chosen different career paths, we would have somehow found each other. In any alternate universe, I believe we would choose each other every time. In part humour and part seriousness, oh, honey I believe we are meant to bee. I love you, my Sherlock, more than you could ever know.

Forever yours,

               Your honeybee xxx | ao3


Author: @kpopfanfictrash , as part of Bangtan University - a series of ongoing one shots with @eradikeats-writes 

Creative Content Contributors: @daegusoftboys , for her wonderful and amazing moodboard

Pairing: Reader / Taehyung 

Rating: NC-17 (explicit sex, dirty talk, slight degradation)

Word Count: 11,630

Summary:  We’re all running from something. Whether it’s a painful past, uncertain future or murky present. One of my favorite things about theatre, is that for an hour, maybe two – you can escape. You don’t have to be yourself, if you don’t want to. Better yet, you can find yourself in someone else.

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Request: Hi! I was thinking you could maybe write something like that? Dan and y/n are married for 10 years now and they have lovely kid. And they moved out but Phil lives next door because friendship. And then Dan and y/n organise some meeting with friends at their house to bring back all these cool memories they have. And their son sits with them and listen to these stories not being even able to believe his parents were that crazy sometimes. And its just all fluff? Please and thank you

Word count: 1264

Warnings: Nope

I cried during this…. Didn’t help that Phil noticed me!! Ah, emotions.

Originally posted by patchworkshirt

A single knock at the door sent the whole house into chaos.

Michael jumped up from his seat on the sofa, bolting down the corridor. Bernard, the Great Dane, sprinted after him. Dan yelled for Michael not to open the door over Bernard’s barking and the cat skidded past me as it tried to escape, the floors too smooth for a grip. You grinned to myself, making your way to the door, Dan telling Bernard to stay sitting down as he picked up Michael, resting him on his hip. Dan had always been very motherly with Michael, probably due to you being ill after bringing Michael into the world.

You opened the door to be greeted with Phil, his wife Emma and their 10-year-old son, Alex, only two years older than Michael. You beamed, pulling the door open wider as the air was filled with series of ‘Hello’s.

“Come in, come in.” You waved them in, pulling Phil in for a hug after he pecked you on the cheek, the family merging with each other. Phil let you go and you met eyes with Emma, flinging your arms round her. You had been best friends for years, and it felt like you hadn’t meet in forever.

“I’ve missed you!” You laughed as you pulled away, ruffling Alex’s hair as he rushed towards Michael, making him giggle and shout a ‘Hello’ before shooting upstairs to Michaels room, most likely to play on the ancient Playstation 64 Dan insisted he had.

“I haven’t seen you in forever. Babies get in the way!” Emma exclaimed, laughing and glancing at Phil. You followed her actions, watching the exchange between Dan and Phil. They were smiling at each other, not saying anything, but Dan was holding a bag which he wasn’t before.

“You organised this to talk to all of us, right? Don’t go making a YouTube video now!” You joked, making Emma laugh and eventually Dan and Phil. “PJ, Chris and Louise should be arriving soon.” You told them, leading them into the lounge.

“You really managed to get them to come?” Dan raised his eyebrows, settling down next to you.

“It was quite easy actually, it’s just you’re too awkward to ring instead of message them on Tumblr.” You rolled your eyes, everyone laughing.

“You haven’t changed in ten years, have you?” Phil shook his head.

“Stop judging me!” Dan retorted. “Anyways, would you all like a drink?”

Eventually, Louise, PJ and Chris came along with their significant others and children, the alcohol flowing, but not too overly due to the kids. They jumped around and we had a round of karaoke, when I convinced Dan and Phil to have a duet of toxic for old times’ sake, making sure to film it secretly. After we had food (takeaway pizza, of course), Dan told everyone to settle down and gather in the living room. I threw him a confused look, but he just tapped his nose, kissed me on the head and sent me away, Phil staying at his side.

“What is all this about?” I laughed to Emma and Louise as we sat down, the kids being sat down by Chris until they convinced him to sit with them.

“I think you’ll like it.” Emma told me, grinning.

Finally, Dan and Phil came into the room, settling down a large box that I recognised, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why. Phil also held the bag he gave to Dan earlier.

“Alright everyone. Since this is the first time we have met in forever, we decided to dig up a load of old stuff.” Dan announced, opening the box and pulling out a dress.

“Oh, my god!” You let out, putting your hand over your mouth as you realised it was your wedding dress. Long, silky and plain, but suited you to a T. The adults ‘awed’, the kids asking Chris what it was. Dan smiled gently at you, folding it carefully and placing it on the ground, away from Bernard. He then picked up two colourful books – The Amazing Book is Not on Fire and Dan and Phil Go Outside. You laughed, the kids reaching out to grab them, Dan allowing them to look through them.

“I haven’t seen those in years,” Chris chuckled, everyone nodding in agreement.

Phil then reached in to reveal several awards, making you smile softly. How quickly time had flown.

A few more items were shown – Dan and Phil calendars, fan art and letters from conventions, the two iconic T-Shirts from the tour.

“And lastly…” Dan grabbed the bag, and pulled out a large book.

“Is that… Holy fuck!” You squealed, before slapping your hand over your mouth, Emma whacking you on the arm playfully. Darcy, the oldest of the kids, sneered under her breath. Dan burst out laughing.

Your old scrap book. You had thousands of photos stored in the pages, recounts of stories and diary entries. You could remember when you cried for days after you thought you had lost it.

You jumped up, flying towards Dan and wrapping your arms around him, lifting your feet up as he swung you, nearly dropping the book.

“Thank you!” You shouted. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” When Dan finally let go, you then jumped at Phil, who made a squeak before breaking into laughter.

“Why is Mum/Dad attacking Dad and Uncle Phil?” Michael whispered to Chris, making him laugh.

“They’re just happy.” Chris reassured him, and he giggled. You were gently taking the book from Dan, settling down on the floor and opening it up.

“Look, it’s our first photo!” You pointed out to Dan. It was taken at the Manchester flat, your face pressed to Dan’s. You were sitting in his room, playing truth or dare previous to photo.

“Truth or dare, right?” Dan asked, both of your eyes widening before you shouted.

“Butter bum cheeks!” You both burst out laughing, clutching each other for support. You had been dared to shout ‘butter bum cheeks’ out the window, and of course, you did. It just so happened Phil was coming back from town at around this time, and just saw you poking your head out and shouting the words – that was Phil’s first impression of you.

You moved on through photos of the tour, dates and meeting fans. There were a few diary entries, which you skipped, saving for a more private moment. You eventually came to wedding photos, and the last page contained a large photo of you, Dan and Phil, laying on the bed with your heads falling off the side and your legs leaning on the wall. Underneath it in neat, simple handwriting was one word.


“I want that photo on the wall.” You sighed, eyes tearing up. Dan wrapped his arm around your shoulders and kissed you on the head.

“Happy tears?” He asked, and you nodded, wiping them away.

A few hours later, you lay curled up against Dan’s chest, the kids in Michaels room, sleeping, your friend’s downstairs.

“Thanks so much for tonight. It was amazing.” You mumbled.

“It was about time.” Dan laughed, making the whole bed shake a little. “I wish we could go back sometimes.”

“Same. I miss being young. I mean, you’re 36 soon… And Phil will be 40.” You shuddered.

“Don’t remind me, love.” He nuzzled into you. “I love you, you know that, right?” You smiled, glancing at the rings on your finger. One from the day you took the last photo for the sketchbook, your engagement ring and your wedding ring.


maruaders era aesthetics

james; flying so fast you get whiplash. laughing so hard you shake and wheeze. glasses always falling down your nose. your shoes always coming untied. one single tear trailing down your face. indie music. lecturing your friends to be safe. worrying about having a coaster for your drink at a party. cleaning up your friend’s messes. giving stern side glances.

sirius; the smell of old leather. black jeans. blasting music when you’re upset. punching walls. flipping your hair to seem seductive. winking. having scabbed knuckles. the feeling when smoking a cigarette. seeing red when angry. having emotional breakdowns over little things. acting overly confident to cover up insecurities. painting your nails black just to make a statement. 

remus; oversized sweaters. smoking weed. making bad puns. leaving dirty clothes in a giant heap. always adding in sarcastic side comments. black eyes. feeling alone in a crowded room. chewing the skin off your lips. the feeling when sleeping on hardwood floors. thick eyebrows. underplaying your intelligence. getting good marks without trying. the feeling of just sitting with the person you love most in the world after a hard day. 

peter; polos. wearing shorts during the winter. wheezing when laughing. being obsessed with something new every week. chewing your fingernails to the flesh. feeling insecure when it isn’t necessary. wiggling your ears. the feeling when you succeed at something you find difficult. the sound of crinkling paper. gasping for air when being tickled.

lily; dried acrylic paint on your fingers. electric blue nail polish. listening to depressing music when you’re alone just to feel something. poetry. the sound of a paintbrush brushing a canvas. staring at someone when they don’t notice. one single freckle on your upper lip. taking a hike on a rainy day. the smell of pine. playing duck duck goose. jumping in puddles to splash your friends.

regulus; smirking at your enemy. having a logical answer for every question. the feeling of irritation when you scuff your shoe. dancing in a ballroom. the feeling when you admire a piece of art. crying into your hands. feeling lost. feeling trapped. speaking the truth even when your voice shakes. writing letters in cursive. 

marlene; patterned headbands. the color yellow. flipping off your friends. sarcastic smiles. putting your hair up every time you write. hiding your sensitive side to seem unstoppable. calling out people you hate in crowds. screaming on a hilltop. rock-climbing. reading to escape reality. having trust issues. watching sad movies just to have a good cry.

alice; wearing your hair in french braids. being too shy to speak up. licking your lips every time before you speak. clasping your hands whenever you listen to someone. doodling in class. skipping in a field of daisies. giving cheesy smiles for the camera. tracing shapes on someone’s skin. the feeling after a shower. 

frank; slapping your friends on the back. laughing at every little thing. having blind optimism. the feeling when you plant a garden and it grows. running through a sprinkler. the feeling when you jump into a pool. that feeling when school is finally let out for the summer. giving everyone you meet a hug. always telling people to have hope. 

dorcas; wearing your hair in perfect buns. collared shirts under sweaters. rolling up your sleeves when problem-solving. biting your tongue when you’re annoyed. the feeling when you get your ears pierced for the first time. the feeling of anticipation when you’re about to receive an award. having a perfect manicure. feeling like you have too much responsibility.

emmeline; pulling down your skirt when you feel too exposed. hitting your elbow on the end of a table. the feeling when you successfully accomplish a goal. the feeling of having a dry throat when giving bad news. wearing a lot of rings. tucking your hair behind your ear. holding your breath under water. making a perfect snow angel. 

anonymous asked:

Hiii! Could you please write something where you and H are friends but you like each other and he's alway super cute but also flirty? the rest is up to you, thank you xx

Rating: PG!
Warnings: none really. Just harry being a cheeky bastard
Category: fluff?
Word Count: 4,154 I think the longest a request has been so far!
Request: yes! I’m stock piling these, trying to get them done so I’ll be popping more during the week i think. I’ll try. If not I will after #BIM is over :)

Note: IDK if this is “super cute but also flirty” but there’s some of both mixed in and stuff… I hope you like the way this turned out!

17. Something Small.

You run down the halls of school in search for your best friend, Harry. The envelope in your hands is too important and you clutch it tight to your body. Crashing against bodies and yelling half-assed apologies to people as you rush to get to his locker before first period. Soon you can see him, in all his skinny jean glory.
“ Harry harry harry!” you yell coming close. So close that you almost slam into the open door of his locker, smacking it shut.
“ Whoa whoa, hey there Lighting McQueen.”
“ Oh lord Harry you won’t believe what I go-”
“ G’morning to you too” he says interrupting you and throwing his messenger bag on his shoulder and fully closing his locker. You roll your eyes, this was not a moment to greet and say hello. You were freaking out, quickly you slam the letter on his chest and he scoffs looking at it. Soon his eyes and mouth both open wide. “Have you read it?” he says as he takes it in his hand and scans his eyes over the sleek design or the letter. London University of Arts. You bite your lip and shake your head no.
“ No, I checked the mail before coming today and it was… God it was just sitting there, haunting me… And I ran”
“ Fuck, oh… God I…” His dimples were showing. This was so important.
“ Well open it!”
“ Who? Me?” he asks in shock, green eyes opened to no belief. “N-no way, this is your letter… Yeh have t’open-“
“ I’m shaking, I can’t open it!” You say hopping up and down and shaking your hands. He breathes in and out and nods before tearing the paper open. You rest against the locker behind you covering your eyes. This is the most nerve-wracking moment of your life.

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Art against bulk

When you write everything down in a journal the nice thing is that a few days later you can go back and see that what you were aspiring is, in fact, stupid BULK! Don’t tear the page, be honest with yourself, confront the wrong thoughts and ideas, and move on from here. And you can always turn it into a hand lettering experiment. Nothing is ever completely lost, not even a wrong idea.


My 3rd Ashley Wood dump this week. I’m always engaged by his use of color blocking as separation in his imagery. The images work well as B&W pen and ink drawings but his use of muted colors works to pop the page and delineate characters that might also be lost do to similar treatment and line. The simplicity is engaging and something I chase in my own work.


Finally, the long-awaited photos of the skateboard I painted! It’s themed around Hermes of course, going off his role as the guide of souls, and features the caduceus staff with a bonus skull for that Punk Aesthetic ™! The lettering, “Lost Souls in Revelry”, is a line of lyrics from the song Renegades by X Ambassadors that I thought was fitting.

This board isn’t for sale, but contact me at to commission your own custom, hand-painted, Canadian maple board! I charge 200 usd per board, plus shipping.


Hunter Hayes - Yesterday’s Song (Record Player Lyric Video) 

Many apologies for taking forever to get this done and up (decided to make one for this song late February). I know it’s not the best.. but I still hope you guys enjoy and do let me know what you think. ‘Til next time. (not gonna lie, I quite like the hand-lettering thing I did for in the thumbnail :P)

Happy World Chocolate Day! June 7th, 2016

“Are we certain this is safe? I mean, I am going to be sticking my…you know what in there.”

“Draco, stop being so squeemish.”

Draco threw his hands out, shaking them back and forth a bit, his mouth opening and closing like a grouper fish. The little contraption, made of plastic if Blaise was to be trusted…it sat there so unassumingly. As if it wasn’t made with the specific purpose of making a chocolate mold of your -

“Don’t you want this to be a memorable Valentine’s, Draco?”

Draco decided then and there making Blaise’s smirking illegal would be his first act as Minister, if his supposed “best friend” even lived past today.

*naughtiness below the cut*

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For Their Words

Words were my first love. I think I must have fallen for them before I could even begin to grasp their meaning, back when they were just entrancing syllables of odd sounds somehow meant to convey my parents every feeling to me. This was so very long before I learned how to siphon meanings from the little black squiggles that lined pieces of white or ivory paper.

It took me longer to grasp those than it had taken any other child in my class, but with my love of words and the brilliant artful tapestries called stories that could be woven with them, I was determined to be able to figure out the meanings of those squiggles that always seemed to move under my hands and eyes, even now a letter or two will trade spots and the meaning of the words will be lost to me for a moment.

My first grade teacher, a woman who kept snakes and lizards and fire bellied toads in the classroom so that we’d learn not to fear them but to respect them, berated my mother for not helping me learn well enough, after all with my inability to even read a simple sentence she must not have been reading to me at home, but that wasn’t the problem.

In fact my mother read to me any chance she had. While she was cooking she’d have a novel or novella, set out on the counter to read to me from, and before the chimes of bedtime we’d sit on the small bed I shared with my sister and she’d run her fingers under the words of smaller books, and I’d try to read them only for my understanding to fall short of how the lines on the page meant the beautifully decadent words that came from my mother’s mouth.

That same year the school gave me private lessons with a woman named Cassandra. She would take me to the school gardens, the heat of Tucson Arizona seeming to bake us even in the shade, and we would read together. Eventually my mother and she became friends. She and her Husband took me to the first ballet I’d ever seen. I found it almost as entrancing as I found words, but not quite. Though dance and music have done their part to shape me as well as the words I love I suppose. Not that I have any formal training on either.

Finally, when I was in my fourth year of school, elsewise known as third grade, the words on the page sorted themselves out under my determined gaze and a whole new world opened to me on the page. It was magic.

But words are just that aren’t they? An enchantment spoken through a soothing cadence and whispered descriptions of scenes captured by their wielders. All my life I’d wanted something like that. Something that could make people see what I wanted them to, think about what I thought of the world around me.

I think when I was young that was what books seemed like to me. Magic, and something about that word has always rang out as home. More than my godmother’s spanish rice. More than my mother’s curry. More than my father and me rolling down a once dusty highway covered in mud from the summer rains. Words, magic, home.

Once I could read, I soon read all the books I could get my hands on, and by the end of third grade I had more than caught up to the others around me. My ability to spell however had not, thank whatever divine being is above us that spell check is out there or else what I’m saying here would make no sense at all. By the end of fifth grade my vocabulary was comparable to what was expected of a senior in highschool, and it kept growing.

My happy space was, and is still, in between the tall shelves of books in a library with my nose deep in a book, mostly science fiction, or fantasy, or even the occasional romantic drama, anything as long as the writing entranced me.

My father introduced me to Hemingway and his hunting stories. My mother to Nora Roberts, and J.K. Rowling. On my own I found Brandon Mull, and Rick Riordan, Leigh Bardugo, and Sarah J. Maas. Their words captivated me, brought me to new and extravagant worlds, allowed me to see the impossible in the possible. They brought me hope. Their words made the gears in my head turn, made my soul sing for my own voice, my own creations, to be seen and heard.

I thank them for that. I thank them for the magic, and the mayhem, and most of all for their words.


Video Wednesday No.20 (DELAYED)

Sharpie Lettering #1

This is a great way to use a Sharpie in order to create that contrast between thick and thin strokes without using a brush pen or paintbrush etc. I know a lot of letterers write everything out in a thin stroke first and then add the thicker strokes but I prefer to do that all in pencil to start and letter everything in sections as I go, I find that I’m less likely to make mistakes that way. Anyways, I hope this helps anyone who wants to start lettering with a Sharpie or any fine point pen. If you are going to give this a go then please share your photos with me! I’d love to see what you letter.

I added this to Instagram last week but then I lost wifi/landline for a few days and completely forgot to add it here. My bad!

This one is for the books

by May Jurilla

Books in the Philippines generally tend to have short shelf lives.  Our environment is host to many conditions that are not friendly to books, conditions that constantly threaten their survival.  One of such is the frequency of fires.

As a book historian, I know this all too well, for there is no dearth of accounts of the burning of books throughout Philippine history.  Take, for example, the fires at the San Agustin convent in Intramuros in 1574, then in 1583, and yet again in 1586, each one razing the structure to the ground and consuming all the possessions of the poor Augustinian friars, including their books.  By the time of the 1586 fire, they had built up what has been described as a “very rich library,” one of the best in Manila at the time.  But it was just as vulnerable as any other library, best or worst, to the ravaging force of fire.

Another important collection lost to fires is the manuscripts of Francisco Baltazar (Balagtas), which was left with his family after his death in 1862. Balagtas is generally known primarily if not only for Florante at Laura, but he actually wrote many other poems and more than a hundred plays.  Only a fraction these works have come down to us today because of the two fires that hit Orion (now Udyong), Bataan where his family lived.

Then there was the fire at Plaza Moriones in Tondo in 1940.  It was actually a bonfire, the centrepiece of a protest action by a group of writers who were of the younger generation of Tagalog authors.  Decrying the stagnant state of Philippine literature and blaming commercialism as the impediment to progress, they cast into the fire printed novels, short stories, poems, and other writings that they considered unworthy of being passed on to future generations.  Most of works they burned were by the older generation of writers.

These fiery incidents and the many more like them serve well as data in my work as a book historian, but their aftermath—the loss of books, documents, and other texts—are the stumbling blocks and the dead-ends of my research, which have caused me much frustration.  The feeling seems petty now.  I knew all too well that books have been lost to fires throughout Philippine history.  But, as we in academe perhaps sometimes forget or fail to acknowledge or don’t realise, knowing something—reading, writing, speaking about it—is one thing; experiencing it yourself—seeing, hearing, smelling, feeling it—is quite another thing altogether.

On 1 April 2016, a fire razed the Bulwagang Rizal, better known as the Faculty Center (FC), in the Diliman campus of the University of the Philippines.  Built in the 1960s and site of the administration and faculty offices of the College of Arts and Letters (CAL) and the College of Social Sciences and Philosophy (CSSP), the FC was second home to hundreds of people who walked its halls everyday—faculty members, administrative and support staff, and students.  While some parts of the building were spared from the flames, the larger part of it, most of it, was totally gutted.  The fire ate up everything in its path.  

If this were just another book history case I was researching on, I imagine that, being keen on irony, I would’ve gotten a kick out of it.  Consider this: a fire that happened in a place of high intellect on April Fools’ Day and on the day right after the end of Fire Prevention Month; when just the day before, a colleague concluded her lecture in class dramatically (as she usually does) with the line from Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, “I’ll burn my books…!”; when the burning of the building had long been a running joke among its occupants, for it was such a firetrap with its highly combustible contents and its absolute inadequacy in fire-safety features—no sprinklers, no fire alarms, fire escapes made into bodegas, hardly any fire hydrants nearby.  No one is laughing at the joke now.  I myself am not so amused by the ironies now that I know that not even a paper clip survived in my room.

We of the FC are so grateful that no one was hurt in the fire, yet we are wracked by a deep and painful loss nevertheless, as if we ourselves were gutted.  Our books and readings, data and records, research materials and writings, personal and professional mementoes, gadgets and equipment acquired, collected, and maintained carefully through the years, not without difficulty or sacrifice, as anyone familiar with the UP budget would know—all gone.

At the CAL meeting, held while FC was still burning, there were grim faces and teary eyes all around the room.  It felt like a wake.  While the fire-victim in me was grieving, the book historian in me was fascinated to find that what my colleagues were mourning most for was the loss of books—the ultimate tools of our trade.  For some, it was their entire libraries, books of a lifetime, housed in their FC rooms for decades or just set up a few months ago, as in the case of a young colleague who recently got tenure and, finally, a room of her own. For others, it was significant sections of their collections, transferred into their offices due to lack of space in their rented apartments.  For most, it was their working libraries, the books they used for their teaching every class day, every semester, every schoolyear throughout their entire careers so far.

The Department of English and Comparative Literature (DECL) suffered a particularly gut-wrenching loss: In February this year, the family of the late Francisco Arcellana, National Artist for Literature, donated his library to the department.  It comprised over a thousand books, the most special ones marked with annotations in his hand and inscribed by their authors for him, along with rare first editions of Philippine literary works.  Some of my colleagues and I were in the process of sorting through the collection.  It was tedious and literally dirty work, but it came with the privilege of catching a glimpse of the life of the mind of a brilliant man who was a pillar of Philippine arts and letters and who was once one of us, a member of the DECL faculty.

The best items of Arcellana’s library are irreplaceable indeed.  Many of the books lost in the FC fire, though, are not.  New copies may be acquired, be it in print or digital form. But this, I know, is cold comfort for my colleagues and me.  There is, on the one hand, the practical issue of the cost and time entailed in replacing those books, which any UP teacher would be hard-pressed to address. On the other hand, and this is just as real an issue, there is the psychical and emotional value of those books. You may buy a new copy of a book lost in the fire, and it would have the same contents and serve the same purpose as your previous copy.  But it would never ever be that particular book that has been with you since your BA, through your MA, up to your PhD days; or the one you bought during your first overseas conference and had signed by the author who was the keynote speaker; or the one your favourite professor, now deceased, bequeathed to you when she retired.  Once a book has been owned, it is never the same copy as any of the hundreds or thousands of the same title.  That’s what makes the printed book so special, the life that becomes attached to it and that it expands, the story it acquires beyond the story it tells.  I don’t think that the digital book is quite able to transform itself and its reader this way.

In time, I am sure that we will get over the loss of our books; we will move on and carry on owning, reading, and writing other books.  I am certain, too, that the memories of joyful learning that we all shared in FC and the friendships that we forged there, no fire can ever burn.

Bangon CAL-CSSP!  Kaya natin ito!


May Jurilla is Associate Professor at the DECL, where she teaches book history and literature.  One of the books she lost in the FC fire was her hardbound copy of the classic Chaucer’s Poetry in Middle English, edited by A.C. Baugh, with her notes from graduate school and for the English 122 and 233 classes that she taught.

Letters of the Lost and Found (Chris/Darren)

Title: Letters of the Lost and Found
Pairing: Chris/Darren
Rating: G
Word Count: 15k (ish.)
Summary: Chris is sixteen and spending a month at a Christian military training academy trying to be who his parents wants him to be. It proves a lot harder when Darren comes along.
Warnings: Religion, religion not portrayed in the best light, homophobia, internalized homophobia, bullying. 
A/N: Thank you to Sarah for the word wars, Robert for the art and hand holding, and Mav and mermaid for the many hours of listening to me whine about how hard this was to write.

Go check out @overcaustically’s art here

Read on AO3

A Teen Romance in Three Acts - Act III

TITLE: A Teen Romance In Three Acts
AUTHOR: freudensteins-monsters
WHICH TOM/CHARACTER: AU Loki (highschool student)
GENRE: Drama, Angst, Romance
FIC SUMMARY: An AU Logyn fic in which Loki and Sigyn are highschoolers meeting for the first time. Told from Sigyn’s (the readers) point of view.
AUTHORS NOTES/WARNINGS: Alright, so I’ve become a touch obsessed with Loki and Sigyn of late. This little drabble is inspired, in part, by the following artwork by nanihoosartblog: (x)(x)

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Merry Christmas, sparkofstiles!

Merry Christmas, sparkofstiles!  You wanted some magical Stiles with some pack feels.  I hope this fits the bill! Big hugs

“For the Best”

‘Hatz What She Said’. What an incredibly idiotic name for a store, even if it was only a holiday pop-up kiosk in a second-rate mall in Reno. Derek almost snorted aloud when he saw it.  

His breath caught, though, when the guy manning the booth turned away from the mother and son he’d been entertaining with some slight of hand, and pulled a T-rex hoodie off his cart and handed it to the mom.

Derek supposed if he’d been paying attention, he would have recognized the nicely rounded butt in those tight black jeans, but he’d been too wrapped up in following a scent that had been both familiar and at the same time, not.  He’d felt the need to follow it; sharp and undeniable. Plus, Stiles was wearing a red fox spirit hood that hid his hair and part of his face.  

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