[Image description: The hardcover of “The Mysteries of Harris Burdick”. It’s a grayscale sketch of three children sailing down a rail road track on a pumpcart with a sail.]
If you’re unfamiliar with “The Mysteries of Harris Burdick”, it has a story as enigmatic as the illustration inside.
Or, “sorry no cookies for you, insincere able-person.”
[Image description: A pink “your ecards” that depicts a black and white drawing of a man and a woman standing side by side on the right hand side. On the left black text reads: “P.S. I’ll tolerate you”.]
I paid $26 to renew this domain so I may as well use it to vent my spleen (because why else do we blog?).
My ire this morning was drawn to this article. The tl;dr version is “Professor condescend to a student asking for accommodations so hard she scares the student from ever contacting her again. She takes this as a victory for some reason.”
[Image description: A gif of Jim Carrey in “Liar Liar” slamming his head on a desk in a courtroom as his stunned client sits next to him.]
[Image description: A black and white book cover entitled “The Ring and the Bridle”. The cover has a border of Celtic knots. The title is surrounded by filigree. Below the title is a silhouette of a horse rearing.]
Eddie accidentally incurs the wrath of a kelpie when she save her older brother from drowning. Instead of finding help from the local magic community however she instead finds herself “being pulled three different ways”. By the old woman and her jinn who may have ulterior motives, the eternally young Scot with a guilty conscience, and most of all by the local enchanter who offers her a golden bridle to enslave her foe.
The choice however is hers alone.
Naoise offered his hand, palm up and open. In this place there were only genuine gestures of regret and sorrow. They only became corporeal through the acknowledgement others felt this pain. Eddie raised her hand and hesitated. She drew it in as she struggled against her fear and distress. At last however the hand spread open like a fish opening its fragile fins and it swam over to his. His fingers dove beneath hers. His cold fingertips brushed her flushed palm as his hand dipped to cradle her trembling fingers. He felt the pulse in her wrist and encircled that vivid beat of life.
For a second he dared to dream beneath these dark and oppressive waves that even now they would rise from these depths. That he could save her from drowning, and that she still loved him. That even the anchor that lay gored at their feet could be overcome.
Chapter Eleven at:
Ao3 | FictionPress
Austin Anderson was murdered by his mother last week. If you want to read an article that paints a pretty, sad, objectifying picture of the events and poises his mother as sad and repentant (while …
Source: There is Blood on your Aware Hands