I'M NOT A KING.

[Fic] Homestuck: All Helps and Advantages of War, Rose♠Eridan

artillie — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 02:55:05 GMT

Title: All Helps and Advantages of War (AO3)
Authors: byzantienne and artillie
Fandom: Homestuck
Characters: Rose Lalonde, Eridan Ampora, Feferi Peixes, Dave Strider, Terezi Pyrope
Rating: M
Words: 10k, this part
Contains: revolution, horrorterrors, sloppy angry public hatemakeouts, Dave/Rose/Terezi, gratuitous politics, Commandant Feferi Peixes, and the worst half-cape in the known universe.
Notes: Pretty much all of this is urban_anchorite's fault, I swear, yeah. Yeah. She and gileonnen and gatty beta'd this for us!

Summary: The clutch of trolls subsides into an awkward silence, glancing back and forth between them. Eridan takes a step toward her, his hands half-raised from his side as if he’s prepared for violence, with the whole room watching.

Rose gives it to him first.

On the eve of Her Imperious Condescension's visit to the Ninth Hivefleet, Eridan Ampora tries to balance his career in the Alternian High Command and his loyalties to Feferi Peixes, while Rose Lalonde is drawn into a revolution -- and into reprising her role as emissary to the horrorterrors.

(Takes a left turn at end of Act Five, lands splat in the middle of a space opera.)

( Truly, Rose thinks, neither the slippery piles of alien canapes on skewers, nor the grating tones of the Alternian equivalent of a military brass quintet are the most egregious examples of poor taste in this ballroom. )

artillie — Fri, 30 Sep 2011 04:25:36 GMT

Oh, yes, I have an LJ. There's probably a big gay post to be made about how awesome hs_olympics was and all the cool people I met and LOOK AT THE COOL THING MY TEAM WROTE for the collab round, which was an insane two weeks, and I need to re-use those aliens and the technology and their civilization somewhere. ...but I'll let this paragraph suffice.

And here's a meme from velcromouse. (Hoo hoo hoo the kids are growing up, look at Clark, all 17.)

1. Reply to this post with "hey, jerk", and I will pick five of your icons.
2. Make a post (including the meme info) and talk about the icons I chose.
3. Other people can then comment to you and make their own posts.
4. This will create a never-ending cycle of icon glee.

It's just my default? That's Jessica Stam, I got it from niyin's icon journal, dopoguerra.

HRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRNGH. In short.

Okay, so, there's actually a funny story behind this one--once upon a time, I ended up writing cranky--in the sense of "your tropes annoy me and I want to play with them until I like them"--Spain/fem!Romano porn for @bildicksroman and the inimitable, inevitable, insatiable @brynn__ on Twitter, and needed an appropriate icon to post it to the main comm with. This is that icon! The keywords (which, I'm sure, dear Clark, is why you chose this icon) are "casually prostitutes self" because that's precisely what I was doing.

Here's the full picture of this. I have this weird blind soft spot for Kate Moss, this
is a really nice shoot, okay, okay.

And here's the full image of this one. I don't usually make up icons for the original characters I play with on everywrites (oh god I'm running that asylum now, sup), but Julien Héroult is a Special Case, and anyway the picture is pretty, don't you think?

[Fic] Homestuck: The MacGuffin File

artillie — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 20:12:18 GMT

Title: The MacGuffin File
Author/Artists Writing by me; art by odie and cephiedvariable
Fandom: Homestuck
Words: ~3000.
Rating: PG-13, for a little bit of violence
Summary: They say it's a lost Dostoyevsky manuscript; otherwise it's an unpublished Tchaikovsky sonata or Rachmaninov's fourth symphony. They say a lot of things, but for Agent Dave Strider of the CIA, the file means one thing: trouble.

Notes: For Round Three of the HSO! It placed... somewhere between seventh and ninth place, I don't know, there were a lot of ties. (I could whinge for days about not having had 1500 more words to tell this in; Jenn and Odie are champs; gatty was my gracious beta.)

> PAST DAVE: EXPOSIT

The name's STRIDER. DAVE STRIDER. The year--1955. The place--Budapest, Hungary, in a crappy hostel overlooking the ELIZABETH BRIDGE, because your handlers are a CHEAP TROLL and a RANK SADIST. But it could be worse. It could be Australia.

Your Cover Is A College Student On Exchange A Hostel Is The Most Appropriate Venue For Your Stay

She's absolutely right, Dave. Your charming, roguish baby face and inability to deal politely with any authority figure that doesn't hold your testes in a vicegrip make this the ideal way to get you into a hostile country.

You hate it when they do that.

ok fine whatever chief ill live
but when i get my ass rolled in a dark alleyway i expect you all to cry at my nice catholic funeral
rio grande pouring out of the cathedral wrecking everyones good shoes
maryam i know how much you love shoes

You're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, don't be ridiculous.

damn right
so what exactly am i retrieving anyway

--wrong question. The two of them stare at you from across the chief's desk, and Agent Maryam speaks first.

Your Clearance Isnt High Enough To Know That Agent
Meet The Contact
Obtain The Envelope
Now Lets Talk About Your Wardrobe

Let's.

> PRESENT DAVE: ASSESS

And so you have in your possession: ONE SUIT (navy blue, pinstriped, jade green tie: courtesy of Agent Maryam, who doesn't trust you to make sartorial decisions), two sets of COLLEGE-STUDENT DUDS (generic), AVIATOR SUNGLASSES (suave), an assortment of TEXTBOOKS (obscure), and an ARRAY OF VERY FANCY SPY GADGETS whose exact nature will be revealed when, or if, the narrative demands their use.

> WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?

Everything.

> NOW YOU'RE JUST BEING UNFAIR TO YOURSELF, COME ON, HOW HARD CAN THIS BE

Chief Lalonde says that a true secret agent maintains a supple, healthy core of self-doubt under a layer of paranoia beneath an aura of cool wrapped in a three-piece suit.

You suspect that she's just screwing with you. In fact, you're sure she is. But it's a good point.

> HAVE A NIGHT OUT ON THE TOWN

The nightclub is decadent in a thin, drab way, incredibly illegal, and in a massive bunker on the Pest side of the city. Where else would your contact pick? The walls are plastered with propaganda posters up to the ceiling; and the booze is cheap and plentiful, but all of it is unlabeled vodka smuggled over the Polish and Croat borders in the dead of night. And there is so much pálinka.

You'll stick to the vodka.

You take a shot of it straight, no chaser, and it burns down your throat like you imagine bleach would, or paint thinner. Your iron stomach earns you some appreciative glances from a few trolls sitting down the bar from you. And from Terezi Pyropova, actual exchange student from Leningrad, sitting under a poster advertising the Soviet Air Force, sipping something dubious and grinning at you.

> WELL, THAT'S NICE, BUT GO MEET YOUR CONTACT ALREADY, WE HAVE A FUCKTON OF STORY TO TELL AND NOT A LOT OF SPACE TO TELL IT IN

You catch sight of the back of his head in a booth that looks like it was salvaged from a wrecked airplane's seats. Dishonorably discharged from the Marines, defector to the Soviet Union, extreme double agent: he's risking his cover just being here.

And he's your big brother. Strider the elder looks at you over his glass of--yeah, it's pálinka, you should've tried it, fuck.

i mean if you had to give me a rough estimate
ballpark it for me big bro

please, i didn't even have time to, calm yourself, little man.

youre full of it

i see you're getting all paranoid
coming along nicely
and now you're doing big fancy pickups for the government, i am so proud.

You sit down, lean back against the back of the chair, and--

shit shit shit

see, you still don't keep your guard up
your allies are the ones you have to watch the closest, i taught you that
big brother is watching you.

shit
ok
do you have the thing im here for

of course, kid
and sit up straight, christ, be a little more suspicious-looking, why don't you
two amerikáncy or whatever meeting in a booth in a shady nightclub, nothing to see here, folks.

From the seat next to him, he picks up an enveloped marked both "Макгафин" and "麥高芬." They say it's plans for a missile defence shield. They say it's a lost Dostoyevsky manuscript; otherwise it's an unpublished Tchaikovsky sonata or Rachmaninov's fourth symphony. They say it contains blood slides from the troll Soviet premier, Feferi Peixes--rumored to be the only Tyrian purple blood in the world. They say a lot of things.

And now you have it sitting on the table in front of you. You think real hard about asking Bro how he got his hands on this, but decide against it; and when you look up again, he's vanished.

> WELL, THAT WAS COMPLETELY UNEXPECTED

So you go and see Terezi. You met her on the Elizabeth Bridge two days ago, and she showed you around Budapest, bought you gulyás and exclaimed over how red it was. The two of you debated ideology and morality and law, and then she shoved you into the Rhine when you tried to end the argument and laughed when you pulled yourself out, sopping wet and furious. It can't hurt to say goodbye to her.

> IT'S NOT LIKE THIS IS GOING TO END WITH YOU HANDCUFFED TO A CHAIR OR ANYTHING

What, no. That's just silly.

H3LLO H3NDSOM3 M4N, 4R3 YOU W4NT1NG--

> SWITCH THAT CONVERSATION RIGHT OVER TO RUSSIAN

Bitches love your immaculate command of Russian.

so whats a nice girl like you doing in a shitheap like this

4 N1CE GIRL NEEDS TO RELAX
YOU KNOW HOW BUSY 1 4M WITH MY STUD13S

too busy for me
that it
givin me the brush off pyropova
after all weve been through
first you throw me in the river now you throw me under the bus
hurts me right in my feeling parts

YOUR3 US3L3SS 1N TH1S C1TY W1THOUT M3, 1 WOULDNT L34V3 YOU ON YOUR OWN

That smile. That unhinged smile. Forget saying goodbye to her: if you play your cards right, this is going to be a very good evening.

dont be silly my animal instincts wouldve guided me

OH Y3S OF COURS3
4ND WH4TS 4N 4M3R1C4N BOY DO1NG 1N H3R3
WH4T 4 CO1NC1D3NC3

what no im canadian miss pyropova
maple syrup ice hockey bad beaver jokes
true north strong and free and whatever the french lyrics for it are

> FLAG DOWN THE BARTENDER, ORDER THE LADY A DRINK

You lean back on the bar, scanning the room for threats. Nope. Nothing. Comrade Pyropova shifts a little closer to you when your drinks come.

TH3 HOR1LK4 H3R3 1S D3L1C1OUS
TH3 OWN3R 1S UKR41N14N, SH3 M4K3S 1T 1N TH3 B4CK ROOM

> CONSIDER ASKING HER BLOOD COLOR

Shit, no. You've only known her for a few days, and communist trolls obscure their blood color, or else do their class symbols up in bright red, like the Sufferer did when he fought alongside Lenin. It's nice to know whether you're dealing with a highblood or a lowblood in bed -- whether she's going to levitate you off the ground or have naughty feelings about pulling your intestines out for streamers -- but she seems mellow enough for you to not want to worry about it. You guess rustblood -- goldblood, at the highest. Harmless psionic. Nothing to get the adrenaline racing, but you'll have enough of that until you're safe on the plane with the file.

WHY MR STR1D3R, YOUR3 ST4R1NG

yeah you caught me
fish out of water struck dumb by your proletarian beauty
flopping around gasping for air
quick comrade tell me about lysenkoism and collective agriculture
im ever so grateful for your assistance maam

A little too Good Southern Boy, but you don't think your accent carries over to Russian. Terezi takes a sip of her drink and and shuts her eyes and smiles like she's having something inappropriate done to her.

Which is the last thing you remember before blacking out.

> DAVE: WAKE UP

You're tied to a chair, for starters. Whoever did this to you didn't suspend a naked lightbulb over your head -- no, there's morning light creeping around the edges of the yellow-and-puce curtains. Those, and your chair, are the only pieces of furniture in the room. The walls are scrawled with chalk, but only at the very edges of your vision.

Points for style, at least.

Someone's shuffling around in the next room over. The pattern of footsteps means troll, and --

HOW DO YOU F33L, MR STR1D3R?
PL34S3 DON’T STRUGGL3 4G41NST TH3 KNOTS, TH3YLL ONLY G3T T1GHT3R

so is this the part where you tell me you spoke english all along

NO, 1 ONLY SP34K RUSS14N
BUT 1 D1DNT H4V3 TO L1ST3N TO YOUR CONV3RS4T1ON W1TH YOUR LUSUS F1GUR3 TO KNOW WH4T H4PP3N3D TH3R3
4FT3R 4LL, 1V3 B33N W4TCH1NG YOU S1NC3 YOU 3NT3R3D TH3 C1TY

She has. She has. You are so fucking stupid. She walks around front of you and leans against the wall. Her uniform says KGB, says legislacerator; the insignia and piping and class symbol are all in...

Teal. Teal means highblood.

There is no way you're getting out of here alive.

1 THOUGHT!

so i take it youre not an exchange student from leningrad

NOP3

> REMEMBER THE WORDS TO THE HAIL MARY

You rattle a quick one off in your head, then think hard about your escape routes once you've calmed down. A little. No, not at all, and the way she smiles says she can hear your heart is pounding.

In case of capture by a hostile highblood, the Company's policy says to get the everloving fuck out of there was soon as possible, and at any cost. Trolls don't think like humans, especially when you're at their mercy.

YOU 4R3 GO1NG TO 4NSW3R SOM3 QU3ST1ONS FOR M3 D4V3
1 C4N C4LL YOU D4V3, Y3S?

well seeing as youve been calling me dave for the last three days

BUT W3R3 M33T1NG 1N 4 PROF3SS1ONAL CONT3XT! 4ND 1 4M 4 CONSUMM4T3 PROF3SS1ON4L

sure call me whatever you want

NOW, DO YOU R3COGN1Z3 TH1S F1L3?

you know i do

3XC3LL3NT!
DO YOU KNOW WH4T 1T CONT41NS?

no

She pushes it up to your face, grinding it in.

1 WONT B3 H4PPY 1F 1 H4V3 TO 4SK YOU TW1C3
DO YOU KNOW TH3 CONT3NTS OF TH1S 3NV3LOP3?

(Failing that, cooperate through the pain and don't give away too many state secrets. And know that you died serving your country. You don't even know what's in that envelope, let alone why you should let yourself get killed for it. Fuck, that makes you mad. And Chief Lalonde wouldn't have sent you out here to die, not if there were a couple of legislacerators hunting in the city, so she must not have known. If she did, someone must have gone over her head. No wonder she gave you your pick of weapons.)

im not lying fuck why would i lie

TH4TS MY F4VOR1T3 TH1NG TO H34R P3OPL3 S4Y WH3N TH3Y'R3 B31NG 1NT3RROG4T3D
OF COURS3 YOU H4V3 3V3RY R34SON TO L13
4ND 1 H4V3 3V3RY R34SON TO F1ND OUT TH3 TRUTH!
4ND QU1T3 4 F3W M3THODS 4T MY D1SPOS4L

Then she draws her hand back way less than a human would need to to slap your face as hard as she does. Your head snaps to the side, and, sure enough--when you jerk, the ropes get tighter.

1 DO NOT 4PPR3C14T3 TH3 S4RC4SM, D4V3
4NSW3R TH3 QU3ST1ON

no fuck i have no idea whats in it
christ im just the messenger boy

She slaps you again. Harder. You didn't even know it got harder than that first one. Something on the inside of your mouth is cut and bleeding, but you won't give her the satisfaction of seeing you spit it out, so you grimace and swallow it.

WHO S3NT YOU?

youve been following me you gotta know at least that

Y3S, BUT 1 W4NT3D TO S33 1F YOU WOULD T3LL M3
CL34RLY YOU N33D MOR3
T3ND3R1Z1NG

There's something wrong here. You can't tell what, but it's niggling at you, you've gotta to be missing something. Terezi grins and leaves you alone with your bleeding mouth, and whatever it is will have to wait, because your stomach rumbles loud enough to drown out your thoughts.

> BE TENDERIZED

By the time Terezi comes back, the sun is bright behind the curtains and you've lost feeling in your left arm from ill-advised wriggling against the ropes. And you have to use the bathroom. That's getting to be one hell of a problem. She's got a few things under her arms, and she sets them down right out of your sight.

nice to see you
i was getting lonely for a little while there
and id twiddle my thumbs but there seems to be a logistical problem
by which i mean your knots are fucking insane
mind cutting me some literal slack here comrade

No response. She walks up to you to put your sunglasses on your face, but before she manages to get them on you catch sight of a fresh teal bruise spreading on her jaw, a few smears of blue--no, cerulean--blood that weren't there before.

All right. That makes sense. Trolls fight all the time, even communist ones.

> SHUT THE HELL UP AND PAY ATTENTION, YOU'RE ON TO SOMETHING HERE

1 SHOULD K1LL YOU

and im still alive here
how about that
you have the file you dont need any more from me
just send my body back as a warning

BUT 1 C4N ST1LL G3T OTH3R 1NFORM4T1ON OUT OF YOU

im operating alone in the city
total communications blackout
one checkin with my handlers when i arrive one when im about to leave

TH3R3 1S ONLY 4 V3RY SL1M CH4NC3 YOUR3 T3LL1NG M3 TH3 TRUTH
4ND MY M41N PR3OCCUP4T1ON 1S W1TH TH3 TRUTH

so hit me again

But she doesn't. God help you, she doesn't. Instead, she spins on her heels to pick up a stuffed animal, slips a slim noose around its neck, and hangs it from the curtain rod.

im trying hard not to thanks
can i at least go to the bathroom

H4H4H4H4H4H4H4 NO

> HAVE A SUDDEN REALIZATION

Legislacerators are a holdover from Tsarist Russia, and were officially absorbed into the First Chief Directorate, the anti-espionage unit, in 1947. Right after the war. They're deadly, they're vicious, and they never lose their quarry.

And they always work in pairs.

so wheres your partner

YOU NOT1C3D

of course i did
hell yes
one man observation machine right here

1 D1DNT TH1NK SH3 N33D3D TO B3 H3R3
H3R PR3S3NC3 WOULD H4V3 B33N R3DUND4NT, YOU S33M TO H4V3 4 V3RY W34K W1LL

cut the shit

Terezi advances on you, but then she stops and shakes herself out in that troll way that's halfway between shivering and vibrating. You've seen that look on her face before, that softening of the sharp lines of her face, when she wound her arms around your neck at the top of Géllert Hill, and, oh. That explains it. But you're sure she's still perfectly willing to pull out your throat, so no way are you working this angle.

SH3D K1LL YOU W1THOUT TH1NK1NG, OR 3LS3 D3L1V3R YOU TO TH3 PROP3R 4UTHOR1T13S

so you did this to save me

NO D4V3 NOT 4T 4LL
BUT 1 F1ND MYS3LF R3LUCT4NT TO HURT YOU
1TS TH3 STR4NG3ST TH1NG
1 H34R TH3YR3 WORK1NG ON 4 V4CC1N3 FOR TH4T, TH3YLL 1NNOCUL4T3 US WH3N W3R3 WR1GGL3RS

does it even work like that

1T DO3SNT
BUT W3 H4D FUN, D1DNT W3?

ok seriously can i please go to the bathroom now
my bladders pounding on the walls and crying here

And the thing is, you did have fun. You really did. It could have started to feel like troll serendipity, before she drugged you and tied you to a chair.

Then Terezi hits you again, and a fresh wave of blood fills your mouth. You spit it in the floor this time. While you're distracted, she snaps the ropes holding you down and claws you deep down your left forearm, hard enough to make you shout and swear in pain.

SH3 N33DS TO SM3LL TH4T 1 D1D MY JOB
3V3N 1F H3R NOS3 1SNT 4S GOOD 4S M1N3
SH3LL B3 4BL3 TO TR4CK YOU BY TH3 BLOOD 4S LONG 4S YOUR3 ST1LL BL33D1NG, SO G3T 1T CL34N3D 4S SOON 4S POSS1BL3
UND3RSTOOD?

nice knowing you terezi

GOODBY3, 4G3NT STR1D3R

She wets her fingers in the blood dripping down your arm and gives you the best fucking kiss of your life, and she's the one who breaks away, in the end. You don't realize you're clinging to her uniform jacket until she plucks your uninjured hand off of her and points toward the door.

> GO TO THE BATHROOM

The window is unlocked, and you're only on the first floor. You grab a towel to wrap around your arm and run, fast and far as you can. You don't look back: not at the blood you're trailing, not at Terezi Pyropova's empty eyes boring holes in your back as you go.

[Fic] Homestuck: While we're here, might as well, Dave/Terezi

artillie — Sat, 20 Aug 2011 21:53:13 GMT

I come bearing Homestuck fic!

Title: While we're here (might as well) (AO3)
Authors: byzantienne and artillie
Fandom: Homestuck
Words: ~3000
Pairing: Dave/Terezi
Rating: NC-17 for porn and porn and bloodplay, but mostly the porn.
Summary: Bodyswap. With inevitable followthrough. This is actually not the strangest thing that has ever happened to Dave Strider.

Written for the first round of the hs_olympics, with ffffabulous illustrations by odie.

( ...and someday he is going to reflect on this moment and realize that he is willingly slobbering all over his own junk and under most circumstances this would be not only gay but also distressingly narcissistic. That time is not now. Future Dave can suck it. Future Dave can contemplate Past Dave sucking it. )

I exist!

artillie — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 21:19:00 GMT

Sign-ups are now open for the first ever Homestuck Shipping Olympics!

The HSO is an event that brings fans together to create awesome stuff and hang out. You can participate by signing up with a livejournal account here and choosing which ship to support! Please only sign up if you can be polite and respectful about other ships; we want this to be a really fun experience for everybody. Sign-ups will be open from now until August 1.

Me and odie (and maybe byzantienne) are on Team Dave♥Terezi and I guess there's--next to no one on my flist into Homestuck, but I feel the need to announce it. Oh gosh what am I even doing. I almost signed up for Mindfang♠Redglare, but I wanted to be on a team with someone I knew.

I've been dissolute and unemployed this summer, and it's really hot and I can't stand it; and I'd like it to be September sooner rather than later. Mostly for my cash-flow, but, fortunately, the only real money-sinks of the season are 1. my ticket for totaling my grandmother's car and knocking down a streetlight and 2. getting coffee with gileonnen.

MOLDOVA = FIERCE, FLAWLESS, FABULOUS, BETTER THAN YOUR FAVES, and also Twitter cockblocked me so

artillie — Sat, 14 May 2011 22:38:43 GMT

I can't join in the disappointment.

EUROVISIONNNNNNNN.

in before all the Europeans say to me "But Sam that's how it works."

I'll just leave that there.

My summer in lists

artillie — Tue, 03 May 2011 18:47:14 GMT

THINGS I NEED (MATERIAL AND/OR IMMEDIATE):
- a job. (There's a part of me that doesn't mind the idea of being unemployed this summer. I have enough money in the bank, and I'll be living at home. But still. I don't want to have to feel the need to budget myself tight, not that I'm ever in danger of spending money like water.)

- a pair of sneakers that aren't so broken in that my toes go numb when I even think about walking in them, let alone doing anything more strenuous than walking. Because my toes do go numb. It's awful. Also probably get another pair of Cheap-Ass All-Purpose Black Flats? And carefully monitor the decay of my Converse. I am the shoekiller.

- clothing.

- to learn to drive.

- to figure out how the whole grad-school-applying thing works DDDD:

- to apply for those goddamn scholarships, there is no excuse. Related: to change advisors to one who actually likes me. One who actually advises. Have I mentioned that already? Well, there it is again.

- to clean my goddamn dorm room, thoroughly, before finals week.

THINGS I NEED (IMMATERIAL, FAR INTO THE FUTURE, TL;DR, OR PLAIN OLD DUMB):
- a plan for het_bigbang. What was I thinking? What was I thinking?

- to catch up on my goal of reading 80 books this year. I'm at 20-going-on-21. Jhereg is slooooooow and not great but people have got to be pissing themselves over the Vlad Taltos books for a reason. And I'm halfway through.

- to clean out the magazines accumulating on the one shelf of my bookshelf back home.

- to possibly start selling some of those boxes upon boxes upon boxes of history books my great-aunt sent me when she retired from teaching? There's some cool shit! Mostly ancient history, mostly mythology. But I just don't need all of it, or even most of it.

- Finish More Fanfiction. (The writing isn't the problem! Focus is. But that's another to-do list entirely.) Talk more with noyadespate about Northern Europe Stuff.

- to quit worrying about whether macroeconomics is going to tank my GPA this semester. Going lower than a 3.5 isn't bad. I mean, it's not good. I can't help being one of those douchebags I'm sorry! But it's not bad.

- to do better next semester. Not that I did bad this semester. I just feel like I've been lazy.

- to stop obsessing in the small hours of the night about how I'd do this whole college thing over. It's neither productive nor healthy.

My favorite trainwreck

artillie — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 18:58:29 GMT

Excerpts from Thunder at Twilight, for pentatonikk's benefit, before I forget.

The solemn, perpetual ball that was the Imperial court encompassed the whole town. London was other things besides the King's residence. Even in Bourbon days, Paris had been much more than a royal encampment. But Vienna meant Habsburg. Habsburg meant Vienna. Vienna and Habsburg kept inventing each other into a crowned, turreted, sunset-hued fable that floated above ordinary earth. Compared to other urban centers in Europe, Vienna had little commerce, less industry, and hardly any of th e workable grayness of common sense. Fact-ridden pursuits could not leave much of an imprint on a city with busy with the embroidery of Christendom's foremost escutcheon. Factory and counting house were dwarfed by the magnificent shadow of the Palace. Century after century of Viennese devoted themselves to the housing and feeding and staging of their suzerains' legend. (15-16)

And then there's a bit about how although the Habsburgs were known as the House of Austria and Franz Joseph was the Emperor of Austria, "Austria" didn't exist on paper except as "the lands and provinces represented in the Imperial council;" a "grandiose ghost whose radiance must not be bounded by definition."

Inside seethed a witches' sabbath of nationalisms. Here the ethnic groupes of the Empire's non-Hungarian part went at each other through their representatives. Six million Czechs attacted ten million Germans for under-financing Czech schools in Bohemia and Moravia. Fice million Galician Poles, banged desks to demand greated administrative independence. Three and a half million Ukrainians stamped feet for a Russian-language university to counteract the Poles' cultural domination. Deputies from the South Slav area contributed to the multinational brawl.

Through their representatives' throats, over a million Slovenes and three-quarters of a million Serbo-Croats shouted their grievances. German-speaking deputies split bitterly into Socialist and Conservative movements, the latter divided still further into the anti-Semitic Christian Socialist and pan-German parties. Such schisms inspired similar front lines within other ethnic fashions. Occasionally all groups joined to excoriate Hungarian politics as practiced by the sister parliament in Budapest.

It was less a legislature than a cacophony. But since it was a Viennese cacophony it shrilled and jangled with a certain flair. Polemics were delivered through clenched teeth. Yet the vitriol came with whipped-ream rhetoric: "If Your Ministerial Excellency would finally condescend to reason!" Friction ran red hot without becoming altogether raw. Instead of exploding the Empire, nationalist fury spent itself in theater. Representatives bristled so histrionically against each other that often they had little energy left to use against the Emperor's Double Eagle under whose wings they were allowed to stage their confrontation. (18-19)

Because I'm halfway through my law homework and don't feel like it anymore?

artillie — Wed, 20 Apr 2011 09:48:30 GMT

- Went to lay down for a few minutes at 11PM last night; woke up at... 2:45. Read some (I'm fffinally reading The City and the City by China Miéville and it's good), made a token effort at sleeping, gave up, read some more, started doing my laundry.

- 21st birthday passed without incident or particular drunkenness. I mean, any more drunkenness than usual. And no really interesting swag, though Rachel sent me Atomik Aztex and Thunder at Twilight: Vienna 1913-1914, the latter of which promises to be massively entertaining.

- Macroeconomics fills me with despair for the human condition. The class, that is, not the subject.

- I'm hungry.

- The subject line says halfway-through-law-homework-ugh, but Business Law is the best class this semester? That, and American history. I suspect that the American history guy fails a few people every semester for not participating, as object lessons, so when they come back to take his class he recognizes them and makes them say why they failed, and thus get enthusiastic participation from everyone smart enough to realize he's not fucking around.

- Writing: porn of someone else's dickbag emperor, still that Hungary/Sisi fic, kill me, gigantic genderbend fic that I could finish if I sat down and made myself, which is what I always say but can never quite do. Thank god for having people to shanghai into word-warring with me. /ducts Also, maybemaybemaybe Homestuck fic maybe, I just like Rose a lot, okay.

- There are four boxes of oatmeal sitting on top of the dresser in my dorm room. My mother is a troll. A troll with coupons.

- That's about it.

- Yep.

- Time for some caffeine.

Prussia/Lithuania drabbles

artillie — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 23:23:39 GMT

Two times, a certain laurasaurus rex mentioned Prussia/Lithuania on Tumblr, and I got pinged hard enough (for whatever reason) to write her tiny bitty drabbles on the spot. These are those drabbles. 142/248 words.

Pounding on the Duchy’s door gets Lithuania nothing more than a muttered fuck off; Lithuania knows he’s strong enough—this century—to break it down, but it would be a waste. Of a good door, that is, not of time.

"If you’re"—he’s a good Catholic (this century), he shouldn’t even bring it up—"busy, it’s okay," he says. "I just—I just need your signature. It’ll only take a second."

Only his mind catches on an image of Prussia’s pale, rough hand gripping himself, and tugging, and Prussia grinding his teeth, the way he does when he and Poland take an argument out into the courtyard and settle it with steel. Like pagans—and Lithuania’s not sure which image is more arousing. But Prussia shuffles to the door and he’s holding a rosary, of course he’s holding a rosary. Of course.

*

He wakes up next to her and — well, they’re all brothers and sisters in the Communist Party, Russia likes to say (to parrot, more like, but Lithuania’s not bitter or tired enough to judge him for it). All the rhetoric aside, and there’s a lot of rhetoric, Prussia’s going to wake up and strangle him any second now. Any second.

Sure enough, Prussia stirs. All of Lithuania’s bad thoughts always come true. "It was dinky," she says first thing, tugging the blanket up around her chest. "Stop looking at my tits, needledick."

"I-I’m sorry." He says it more out of habit than out of actual contrition. He knows it’s not little, and he doesn’t think she was that good in bed, anyway; not good enough for him to think really hard about it. He’s slept with a lot of countries. Prussia wasn’t memorable, or anything.

She cracks one eye open against the grey Vilnius morning light. "Get me a glass of water."

"Are you hungover?" he asks, because he doesn’t expect a German to hold their liquor, anyway — not real liquor, that is. Beer doesn’t count.

"Shut up." She flings the back of hand over her closed eyes. That's a yes.

He says, "Okay," and he’s going to spill it on her when he gets back. The room is cold; there’s never enough heat, he doesn’t want to get out of bed: therefore, Prussia deserves it. She deserves a lot of bad things. It’s the least he can do.

Preface

artillie — Sat, 02 Apr 2011 15:55:58 GMT

It's a completely gorgeous Saturday! We were promised a freak snowstorm, that snowstorm failed to materialize, it's a great day to go for a walk, and guess where I am? At work. In the library. Like I do on alternating Saturdays. And it's a little chilly in here.

I'd say interesting things about my life right now but there isn't anything going on -- I'm turning 21 on Monday. (I work until midnight at the library on Mondays; getting snockered is mostly out of the question [and it's a Monday, do I seem like an alcoholic to you, Rachel and Eddi are exempt from answering that question]; I may spike my thermos of tea in the spirit of things.) I've been watching a lot of good TV and movies and reading good books, though not as many or as quickly as I feel like I should be.

And speaking of books, my copy of Unmaking the West came in today through ILL. It's relevant to the Thing That Me and Rachel are Working On, on and off. (We saved the Byzantine Empire! For another three hundred years at least! And we saved the Aztecs, too, and civilized most of the New World to boot! ...now what.)

Imagine a book that began:

We Chinese take our primacy for granted. We are one of the oldest civilizations in the world and the oldest continuous culture in existence. Every day our much sought after products, specialty agricultural goods, and products of popular and high culture are exported to every corner of the glove. Our language and culture have spread far beyond the river valleys where they originated; currently, almost two billion non-Han people speak or understand standard Chinese. It is the universal language of science, transportation, and business. With the exception of a minor European country and its former New World colony along that banks of the Zian-te Lo-rent River, schoolchildren everywhere begin studying Chinese in their first year of school. Almost a third of all Han live overseas, intermingled with the peoples of the islands and archipelagos south of us or in the new continents they colonized. New Guangzhou, whose twelve million people are spread out in the valleys and hills of what used to be a desert bordering the far side of the great ocean, rivals Beijing in size and wealth. Its free and easy lifestyle, suitable to an automobile culture in a sun-drenched climate, seems to have an irresistible appeal to our own youth.

Did this have to be? Could China have failed to achieve the cultural and political unity that gave it a jump start on other regions of the world? ...Many people will refuse to take such questions seriously. We Han are a practical people, not given to flights of fancy: our language does not even include "would have been" tenses. ... The honorable historian En Hao Kar once compared counterfactual argument to mah-jongg: both are parlor games played by old women with time on their hands.

And while I'm at it, Sophy's Iranophilia is infectious -- all you have to do to get me interested in something is to obsess about it in my general direction, though -- and so I'm 3/4 of the way through The Conference of the Birds. Here's a notably gruesome bit, in a book that's not really gruesome. Like, at all. I was like whoa.

When they were about to impale Hallaj, he only uttered these words: 'I am God.' They cut off his hands and feet so that he became pale from loss of blood. Then he drew the stumps of his wrists across his face saying: 'It will not do for me to look pale today or they will think I am afraid. I will redden my face so that when the bloody man who has carried out the sentence turns towards the gibbet, he will see that I am a brave man.'

[FIC] Young Justice: "Acid test"

artillie — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 05:13:52 GMT

So apparently I'm into Young Justice now?! I mainlined on the whole damn thing today, with my twitterfeed's encouragement. And now there is small fic, because Aqualad is my forever and ever girl. (SINCE WHEN DO I PING ON DUDES.) but omg look at this cutie patootie, I love M'gann so much

Title: Acid test
Fandom: Young Justice (TV)
Characters: M'gann and Kaldur
Rating: G for gen.
Summary: Kaldur only wants clarification.

Right after episode three (the one where M'gann makes the lads almost crap their spandex after she squishes the robot guy with a rock and my love for her is assured forever and ever). Less than 500 words. Call it a reaction shot or something.

"You could have told us," Kaldur says. The mass of milk floating through the air to the bowl of cookie batter swerves and avoids the side of his face, and M'gann -- he will not call her Megan, just as he will not have Robin and Wally call him Kal -- turns around to look at him. "You did not have to" -- surface language fails him; he turns it into a meaningful pause. "The rock."

There is a bag of flour circling the light over their heads. He has no doubt that she is showing off her abilities, to remind him that even through a conversation, telekinesis -- if that is what her abilities truly are -- is not an effort. "You wouldn't have taken me seriously!" she chirps, after the hitch in conversation has lasted too long. The flour descends to the table. He finds comfort in having to look up for a threat, like he would in Atlantis.

"You intentionally made us nervous." M'gann looks up, and to the left, smile lighting up her face, like he's told a joke. The refrigerator door opens, and Kaldur intercepts the eggs mid-air, before they reach her. He imagines that she allowed him to, but he is possibly reading too much cunning into her.

"You wouldn't have taken me serious," she says again. Softer. "Even after my plan worked out. So when I tried to read the thing's mind and when there was nothing there I thought, hello, M'gann, why don't you show them what you're capable of, and the rock was just there." The spoon, Kaldur notices, has not stopped stirring the milk into the batter. When he lets the eggs go, they do not drop an inch. "Was that wrong?"

"No," Kaldur says. Five minutes ago, he would have said yes -- but just as he had to learn surface customs, she must learn Earth customs. He is honor-bound to help in any way he can. "Thank you," he adds, because if they're anything alike she cannot hear it enough, and they would not have survived without her today.

SOME FRAGMENTARY THOUGHTS ON "V," UP TO 2.06

artillie — Sat, 05 Mar 2011 23:37:16 GMT

God, is anyone else even watching this show? Because it's either think about this or think about management accounting and/or and/or the writing I should be doing and/or torts and/or my piece-of-shit macroeconomics midterm and/or my history midterm that fuck you Dr. Rivera I'm gonna ace that motherfucker, come at me bro.

- It's not a very good show. It could've been, but it's not. The writing got really, really bad at the end of S1 and the beginning of S2. I think it's looking up some.

- Or I could be thinking that because the show is getting good at being manipulative, and it's at its most manipulative when no one's talking, or almost no one's talking, and the cinematography and music take over.

- That said, it's not a visually pretty show, either, not in the sense that BSG and Heroes were, and that Misfits is.

- Relationships of mothers with their children are doomed. See:

-... actually, no. Relationships between parents and children are doomed. The nuclear family is doomed. The Visitors doom it. Diana/Anna/Lisa: doomed. Tyler and Erica were never going to be fixed. Ryan the Reptile and his baby girl, doomed, but the show sure as shit made us hope. And, hey, if we want to go there, Father Landry and God. He's still got his faith (you can take my collar but you can't take my--), but he's not part of the Church anymore.

- You know what I wish? I wish Erica and Lisa got to deepen their connection the way Anna and Tyler have. It'd be a neato child-switching thing. (I might ship the former, don't judge me.)

- Hot priest hot priest hot priest.

- So now we've killed off all the black people except the hybrid hostagebaby. Cool. Okay. All right.

- Oh. Hot defrocked I-used-to-be-a-soldier priest. Even better? Even better.

- Anna's presentation is distinctly sleek, colorless, and reptilian, unless she's trying to present herself in a way that a group humans will connect to? We saw it in 2.05 with the red dress at the Concordia announcement. I wonder if this holds true for other parts. Lisa's wardrobe is similarly colorless, but she shares her grandmother's -- feline? -- facial structure. Mammailan, at least. Anna looks very lizardy.

- THEORY: Anna's wardrobe gets incrementally less austere and incorporates more detailing in the form of soft pleats (is that even what you call them?) as the series goes on.

- And speaking of BSG, hi, actress who played Tory! I see you're playing a turncoat again. A dead turncoat. Hi, actor who played Sam!

- I keep referring to "The Show" as if it's a person.

- V, you're lucky I have a boner for alien invasion plots and that you've made me want to see how you end. If you don't get cancelled. Oh well.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to download this week's episode of Fringe and roll in the quality science-fiction. (Ugh, bitty Peter and bitty Olivia, you are going to break my fucking heart.)

artillie — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 16:44:04 GMT

It was wet-cold all yesterday evening, so I should've seen it coming, but suddenly snow, snow everywhere.

I have no classes at all today~ And just a 7-11 shift at the deli. And my mother just texted me to tell me that I got a fat tax return, which is mostly going toward summer courses, as soon as I figure out what exactly I need to take.

And rather than kill myself trying to apply for the LOC Junior Fellows internship in a week, I'll just wait until next year. Ten bucks says I'm graduating at least a semester late, anyway. SUMMER COURSES, COME SOONER.

Falling into that trap.

artillie — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 03:46:42 GMT

I don't know what to put here anymore! I don't really Do Things; I work a lot and do homework, and my major is dull, and only a stepping-stone before library school. So have some fragmentary updates about my Life. (This ran very long.)

THE ONE WHERE I got a ton of tea this week, so I'm no longer subsisting on Formosa oolong and Earl Grey. And, okay, Darjeeling, which is basically perfume in a cup, but I need big meaty manly black teas to keep me happy. Tea is not an expense, on the financial statements of my life. It's a plant asset.

THE ONE WHERE I still haven't gotten my cards from talkjive and mennybeads. (I know elsane's gotten hers! What the heck!)

THE ONE WHERE my off-the-books assistanting thing for the teacher who does the Fiction Writing course is pretty boss. I mean -- it makes me feel like a fraud, not a hack, but a fraud (not a robot, but a ghost, if we're going to get all pretentious and indie about it) -- but I get to sound all authoritative about writing. And I am. A little. A tiny bit. More than the rest of the students, at least. I think I've come a long way since this time last year, even if I haven't Produced a lot for public consumption.

Except there's people I know in that class. The girl who's lived two doors down from me for the last two years, for example. Another person who's more interested in me than I am in them, in the make-you-my-project, why-don't-you-smile-more way that I hate. Someone I used to be in a club with. And none of them had any idea I write. I don't know whether that's a good or a bad thing. It's probably more good than bad.

I want to explain to them, after I talk about dialogue punctuation, that character isn't a list of traits, it's drives, it's wants. I don't even know if I'm right about this, or if it makes sense outside my head. There's a lot of plots, in this class. Not a lot of characters.

THE ONE WHERE speaking of writing, That Fic about Hungary and Austria and Elisabeth of Bavaria (who was a white hot mess of a woman) isn't quite coming together. It's off of my floor, at least. I'm just not looking at it for a little while. Maybe it'll make more sense in a few days.

THE ONE WHERE it's not my back, my back is strong and flexible, it hasn't been my back since junior year of high school. The problem is my bra, which is far too big. I'm going to have to be fitted for a new one soon, and for some reason I'm not looking forward to it at all, even if the underwires in 2/4 of mine are snapped and sticking out well beyond the point of being sewn back in.

-- I use a wadded-up sock to keep from getting stabbed, by the way. It works.

THE ONE WHERE this Saturday will mark my first almost-full day of rest in about four weeks. I'd say "a month," but that's a singular unit. Weekends continue to be something that happen to other people. And the Body is fine! The Body is fed (except for the first two weeks of the semester when I went a little nuts, ascetic-nuts, but it's passed, I swear), watered, and put through its paces. The Mind sometimes hovers on the brink of exhaustion. I had my first migraine the other night. Um.

THE ONE WHERE I was so angry after macroeconomics on Tuesday that I went to the library and checked out an irresponsibly large stack of books, which are now sitting on the floor outside my closet. I'm just -- I'm at the point where I want to tell him off, loudly: You're not being cool by giving us options and forcing us into a do-you-want-to-leave-early-or-not corner, you're the teacher, it's undermining what little authority you have left, don't you have a plan, why am I paying for this class. And why my pride, why did I think I could sit down with a textbook and learn it myself --I mean, I still can -- but I should have tried to horn in on the other section.

THE ONE WHERE Planned Parenthood v. the Pence Amendment hit hard, and has me thinking about ~narratives of poverty~, and mine in particular. I think I was sort of lucky, as these things go. I know I'm being vague. I know I'm falling into the self-indulgent trap of making myself the protagonist in my own story. I'm not a story. Am I?

See also: The Use and Misuse of Srinvasa Ramanujan, about a great Indian mathematician you probably haven't heard of and the romanticisation of his circumstance. It's been riding around in my head ever since I read it, it resonates so hard. (I'm completely addicted to 3quarksdaily; it's a blog of Links to Smart Things, and I'm completely knowledge-starved. Thank god for my most esteemed mennybeads letting me abuse her university's database access to get scholarly articles on anything I might be even remotely interested in.) And now that I've allowed myself a narcissistic parenthetical:

The reason for neglecting such ability was simple. The system schooling Ramanujan was not designed to detect or produce men of outstanding talent. [...] In Europe at any point after the Renaissance a student of Ramnujan’s genius would have found a mentor. In British India he was allowed to proceed in much the ordinary fashion. His talent actually became a hindrance.

[...] Hardy himself had once noted, "He would probably have been a greater mathematician if he could have been caught and tamed a little in his youth. On the other hand he would have been less of a Ramanujan, and more of a European professor, and the loss might have been greater than the gain…."

The qualifier is in keeping with the romanticism that surrounds Ramanujan. It fits in far too comfortably with notions of the mystic East and the rational West, a comparison that has always worked to the advantage of one side. Ramanujan himself would have not chosen the course of life that was inflicted on him, as his attempts to find recognition show. It is no wonder that more than a decade later Hardy was to term his own observation 'ridiculous sentimentalism.'

Definitely falling into that trap.

Oh well.

Sam vs. ECON 124

artillie — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 04:25:43 GMT

Let me tell you about macroeconomics this semester with an imperfect, drawn-out, painful metaphor.

So you're taking a carpentry class. You want to learn how make your own shelves! This is a noble goal. It'll certainly save you money in the long run. But when the teacher shows up, he comes with only a hammer in his hand, and no other materials. He talks for a few minutes about the making of shelves, but once that's over he starts telling you about the history of hammers! And this is okay, this is interesting, you can go with this, but then you realize that he's only going to talk about about the history of the hammer. Which is not what you came here to learn. Then he starts talking about all the different kinds of hammers, and claw vs. ball pein vs. cross pein--

Finally, he has everyone take up their very own hammer and put nail after nail into a piece of wood, until they can do it perfectly.

That would be fine--fundamentals and all that--only he does it while holding the wrong end of the hammer. You know it's the wrong end. But he insists that you do it, too. So you go along with it, and burn with resentment.

That's what macroeconomics feels like.

Incompetent toddler-teachers.

/rolls

artillie — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 23:42:31 GMT

This is one of those weeks where I wish there were four of me: one to get a degree in Something Useful, one to be gainfully employed, and two more to get into small suburban artsy-fartsy liberal arts colleges and study Awesome Things.

I started the semester with a roommate, found her insufferable, gave her the cold shoulder, the frozen shoulder, for a week solid, and when I stumbled in from work at three in the morning last night, I found her gone.

I'm on my second week of my three-week-straight run of weekends at the library, and then I have three glorious weeks off. With one of them, I'm going to the Bronx with Old Roommate! Only I don't remember which. Her (jerk) brother's coming home from Afghanistan, which occasions a party, which I'm invited to.

The couple of weeks of school have passed in a ~blur of work. I dropped the admissions office thing, and my mood improved pretty much right away, but I've still got a lot going on. Which is a good thing.

Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy

artillie — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 18:30:36 GMT

(This is the sort of thing I would freak out about on Twitter, except this is a little tl;dr for 140 characters at a go, and I really need to get it out of my system--and I don't even know whether I'll end up posting it--)

I'm just. Having scheduling panics. Over-scheduling panics. My only real free time is on Tuesday mornings, and that's going to get cut into by my admissions office job's need for someone with a room on campus to give tours at 10AM, except I'm already scheduled give tours on Tuesdays at one, and have I mentioned that I have no free time at all except in the little gaps between classes and late, late in the evenings, but only some evenings; I work every other weekend at the library so I can't relax then (but I do have ample time to get homework done); my deli job keeps me up until 3AM three nights a week (though that's going to have to change, because I can't spend Friday nights from 11-3 at someone's throat); and I can't quit any of this because the deli pays relatively well, I love the library a lot, the Admissions office bit is for a scholarship, and I really do need the money.

And that's only really the start of it. In short: I work like an alcoholic drinks. I am the fucking Haymitch Abernathy of overwork. If you haven't read The Hunger Games--that's not a flattering comparison. But it's an accurate one, only I'd like to think that I'm less smelly and unshaven.

Chronic pattern of overwork

artillie — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 02:32:39 GMT

I've resigned myself to an entire semester of being exhausted, if this weekend is anything to judge by.

INTERESTING TEACHERS:

American History looks like he broke peoples' kneecaps with tire irons for a living, and then decided he wanted to live a little more dangerously and went into academia. (I think it's the gigantic silver watch and very tiny head and the fact that he dresses like a Serbian mobster.) But he passes my decent teacher litmus test, which is, "When the teacher stops talking, do the students stay quiet?"
World Civ is very opinionated, very competent, very strange, and would rather be at the University of Chicago. Or some other Institution of Quality. According to the librarian who's willing to gossip about faculty, he's never tried to leave.
Business Law wants substance, class, substance, give me substance, your answers have to have substance, it can't just be one sentence, give me substance, class. I like her a lot, though.

And I've got another Incompetent Toddler this semester, this time for macroeconomics, and I like economics. I had a really good teacher for micro. I'm going to be so bitter and angry by May, thank god for venting on Twitter because the teacher doesn't have the stones to tell me to get off my phone, etc; and thank god I'm that very special kind of bitter that drives me to work really hard on my own.

The New Roommate is an odd duck, but in a mostly benign way.

New Fringe is making me happier than it should. Yes, Peter and Olivia, be broken some more, you cannot ever make that window whole again once you've thrown the baseball through it, and oh, what a baseball.

814 / 5000

This is a long post about school.

artillie — Thu, 06 Jan 2011 20:38:59 GMT

My GPA last semester was a 3.72, thanks to some Christmas miracle, or me rallying and kicking the last test right in the sack, which gave me a B in Statistics instead of the D I expected. My schedule looks like this next semester.

On top of this, 17.5-30 hours of work, exact figure dependent on whether the library has money to pay me to work during the week or whether I'm relegated to weekend duty. Money is money. I'm back at the late-night deli. I'm baking bread and cookies and slicing meat from Thursday night to Saturday night. I can only hope the utility guy I hate (shut up I don't want to talk to you, don't spray water near my baking rack I just took those out, yes I know they're not done, this is a convection oven, I'm rotating the goddamn rolls so they bake even, yes I know how to use the slicer, I don't need tips, my hands are not too close to the blade, I am not obligated to smile at you because we happen to be in the same kitchen, you creep) is--elsewhere.

I'm worried about the history classes, because of SAM vs. HIST103 last semester. One of the questions on the final was, "What religion does the Pope follow?" There was a word bank. The correct answer was "Christianity," because apparently we weren't expected to be able to distinguish between all the flavors. (The best reaction I got when I tweeted about it was Jewish; "hava nagila plays whenever you visit the vatican and the pope's hat is a modified kippah which is taller b/c he's closer 2 god," courtesy of Illie(bchen.)) I'm not sure my school even has a proper history department, there's certainly no option to major in it.

--according to Rate My Professors, one of the teachers I have will screw you if you don't speak up in class. I hate speaking up in class. I have rules. There are conditions that need to be met before I even think about talking. Time to man up, then.

I'm worried about getting to unofficially sorta kinda TA-ish help out with Dr. Weed's Fiction Writing class. She's going to put it up to a vote. If the students decide against it, I'll feel rejected; if they decide for, I'll feel like a fraud: a medium-sized fish in very, very shallow pool.

Meanwhile, the two winter classes I'm taking are fine, fine, fine, Nature Writing is nicer than I'd expected, despite the whinging my Twitterfeed has to put up with. I think it's because I fed my brain haiku and Chinese poets and William Carlos Williams as a teenager, and the reading, at its very best, reminds me of that.

Holocaust in Film and Fiction is a little rougher, if only because of the subject matter. The teacher sent me a message asking if she could share my ~first paper with the class, the paper that I wrote in about half an hour, wherein I made exactly one good point. It was an ugly, shoddy paper, and I turned her down. Medium fish. I think I offended her, though. I'll live.

That's about it.

2010 in review.

artillie — Sat, 01 Jan 2011 08:12:44 GMT

Just one paragraph, really. It was a quiet year.

I changed my major and discovered that I love wine and that I love accounting (shut up Lieke), but not at the same time. I came in $5 over my textbook budget for next semester, but hell, it was the first time I actually made a budget. I made what looks like Lasting Friendships with Cool People on the Internet, as opposed to passing acquaintances! I didn't read as many books as I wanted to, and am resolved to keep an honest to god List in 2011. I didn't write as much as I wanted to--or, well. Not until the end of August. I navelgazed more than I'll ever admit. I worked at a Macy's. I replaced the keyboard on my laptop with my own two hands. I managed not to develop strong romantic feelings for anyone at all (an accomplishment!). I played eleven games of dominoes in one sitting. It wasn't good, but it certainly wasn't bad.

[Fic] A Passage for Trumpet

artillie — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 23:40:05 GMT

elsane answered my dumb NYC questions and talkjive put up with my shit.

Title: A Passage for Trumpet
Characters: Austria, America
Rating: G for gen.
Words: 8800
Summary: He scanned the note, skipping the niceties: ten days in Manhattan, to improve international relations. They did not work like that—they were not dogs, to be introduced to one another at parks— Austria takes a vacation.

A Passage for Trumpet

I have watched
the city from a distance at night
and wondered why I wrote no poem.
Come! Yes,
the city is ablaze for you
and you stand and look at it.

William Carlos Williams, "To a Friend Concerning Several Ladies"

Autumn of 1964.

The arrangements were made without Austria's knowledge or consent; under normal circumstances, he would have marched to the Hofburg, knocked on the Chancellor's bedroom door, and demanded to know who was responsible. Staring at the plane ticket and note, however, he decided he was more indignant that his government had entered his home without his permission than their presumption.

He scanned the note, skipping the niceties: ten days in Manhattan, to improve international relations. They did not work like that—they were not dogs, to be introduced to one another at parks, held safely back from misbehavior on leashes and encouraged to sniff at one another's bottoms. He tapped the envelope against his palm and went to the warm kitchen, where his housekeeper had a pot of soup on the stove for him.

Yet before he could sit down, the phone rang. Austria picked up, prepared to give whomever felt the need to interrupt his meal a piece of his mind, and was disappointed by the heavy breathing on the other end. He tolerated it, however—for all of ten seconds—before asking, "How did you get this number, Frankreich?"

"You have found me out," France said. "They say you are to visit Amérique."

"They move very quickly."

"Evasive."

"Yes. And you are drunk, and I'm going to hang up now." France's tittering laugh rang loud and clear over the line. It stayed Austria's hand. "I fail to see the humor."

France cleared his throat, and Austria imagined smelling the stale wine on his breath. "Angleterre should be making this call."

"Großbrittanien is aware that I speak English."

"Perfect English. And I suspect that he speaks more German than he lets on! But he is so irrational—"

"I know that word," a voice in the background snapped.

Austria shifted the phone from one ear to the other and grimaced. "He is there with you."

"Ah," France said. "Yes. Would you like to speak to him?"

"Tell me—and please, be honest—have I done something to offend you?"

"Not in the past decade. In any event, I'm to tell you not to influence him unduly, to keep your hands—" France stopped, switched to absurdly accented English to say, "Yes, yes, I'm telling him."

"To keep my hands to myself," Austria offered.

"To keep your bloody hands to yourself," said France. "The nuance would be lost in translation. And I'm to remind you that we do not care what he does, or that Angleterre doesn't."

Yes. France was interested in America's well-being. That was precisely it. "If we are quite finished threatening an international incident, I would like to get back to my dinner."

"By all means, enjoy your vacation," France said, to the sour accompaniment of England's grumbling.

Politics—if this was indeed politics—ruined his appetite, and he indulged himself in slamming the phone down on the hook.

Austria ate. He packed, for there was nothing better to do. He did his very best not to wonder how France and England received word of his trip at the same time as, if not before him. He was almost positive that the sudden restlessness in his legs was imagined, but he gave in and made his way upstairs. Though this house had been built in the last fifty years, the stairs creaked under his feet and pipes groaned as he passed; Austria aged his surroundings, but it gave a building character. A draft hit his feet as he passed his music room, and was as good an excuse as any to go in and distract himself by fiddling with his things.

He picked over his music. Schubert—entirely too obvious, and too cheerful, to boot. No, he would have his fill of earnest bespectacled young men. He returned it to its place. Perhaps something from the unopened packages of music his neighbors sent him from time to time, as though his sage approval of their cultural achievements would make any difference in the grand scheme of things.

The envelope on the very top was from Spain. He sat at his piano bench, careful not to lean back against the keys, and slid a finger neatly under the seal to open it, then turned it over check the date of its postmark: 1915, Barcelona. He would have felt guilty if he thought that anyone honestly expected a response from him. Siete canciones populares españoles, transcribed by the composer himself for violin and piano, upon request of one Don Antonio Fernandez y Carriedo.

—how considerate of Don Antonio. Fernandez y Carriedo. Someone had moved up in his own estimation since disposing of his royal line, possibly twice; the madness, it likely had something to do with the sun, Austria was glad to have been untouched by it within his borders.

His violin was against the wall. He'd taught no lessons in it today. He could bring it with him. (The cello next to it had a coat of dust on its broad shoulders. The one he'd been teaching to play it would not return for some time.)

Austria had never crossed the Atlantic, he had only seen the ocean from Spain's shores, and once from France's. This only dawned on him once he stepped off the plane, whereupon he was assaulted by the same abrupt wrongness that accompanied leaving his own borders, only—more. Far more. He sneezed into the crook of his arm and looked up to scan the crowd and, there, that would be America, that blond head bobbing and ducking through the crowd to get to him.

Austria sneezed again, and when he looked up America, dressed as a chauffeur, was at the very front of the assembled with a sign that said, in even, childish block letters, RODERICK EDELSTEIN. He'd even colored horizontal bands of red at the top and bottom.

Well. He hadn't expected a motorcade and the Radetzky March.

"Welcome to Idlewild, Mr. Edelstein," America said. He stuck out a gloved hand, and Austria looked down at it until America remembered himself and took the suitcase from him, then set it on the ground. After sufficient pause, Austria shook. "How was your flight? Do you need a nap?" America continued, lest Austria get a word in edgewise. "And, oh—this isn't Idlewild anymore."

"My condolences," Austria said, removing his hand to take the measure of the boy before him.

America's even grin faltered, and he stuck his thumbs in the pocket of his coat and splayed the rest of his fingers, shrugging. "I guess—"

"I'm very tired," Austria said.

America hefted the suitcase. "Welcome to JFK." (Austria could not imagine becoming attached to rulers who were deposed every four years like clockwork.) "Hungry?"

He'd heard stories from France about what passed for food in America. "I believe I would like a nap." They involved grease. "Failing that, Mr. Jones, several strong cups of coffee." Austria had dealt with grease for centuries—servants brought their own cuisines, after all—but France had been dabbing at tears. "Am I correct in assuming that you drink coffee?"

Outside of the airport, the wind threatened to whip through Austria's sturdy wool coat. He tugged his scarf over his chin with one hand while squinting into the street, watching America perform a complicated dance just off the curb to summon a passing taxi to their aid. "I live on coffee," America said, with the air of someone confession a grave and terrible sin, and winced when the driver named his fee. He lowered his voice and scooted across the sticky seats, far too close for comfort. "When can I call you Austria?"

So Austria sneezed once more, if only to get a centimeter of space. "Human names are necessary." The taxi driver's radio was loud enough that America did not need to be theatrical; he must have picked it up from France.

"But they're weird."

And insulting, in the right tone, but no one had yet done anything to warrant insult. "Necessary."

America's apartment looked as though some well-meaning, matronly government official, or England, had grabbed America by the scruff of his neck, dragged him to a department store, and disregarded all of his preferences and chose his furniture for him. The walls in the living room were a bright sky blue—bright enough to make Austria's teeth hurt—and he half-expected to look up and see a model airplane hanging from the ceiling.

When they came into the dining room there was one, hanging above the table where a chandelier had once been.

"What do you think!" America set Austria's suitcase on the scuffed hardwood floor with a small thud and rushed to sweep a stack of papers off the table and into a drawer.

"Where are your other homes?" Austria asked.

"I'm not supposed to tell you that, am I."

Austria set his violin down. "Very good." He took his time peeling his gloves off, followed America into the kitchen, sat at the table. It was far cleaner than Austria would have expected.

Scratching the back of his neck, America pulled a matte green bag from his cupboard. It was much-abused. It was held shut with a rubber band. He handed it over, and Austria opened it as cautiously as he would defuse a bomb and took a sniff that was perhaps daintier than was strictly necessary.

He took a pinch of the stuff and sniffed it, then, under America's gaze, let it fall back into the bag, rubbing the tips of his fingers together to remove any residue it may have left behind. "This," he said, and let America's imagination finish the sentence. "Your government has given me an allowance?" He was perhaps being an ungracious guest, but an Austrian could not be denied decent coffee.

America's mouth hung half-open. Good. "A thousand bucks or so. I think."

"Very generous," Austria said, and America brightened immediately. "Will you ask the gentleman outside your building to find the quality shops in the area?"

"What gentleman?"

The one in the dark suit in the nondescript blue car, watching them through binoculars as they arrived. "I must have been mistaken," he said. "We will search by foot. At noon."

"How about seven!" America said.

Austria winced. "In the evening?"

"In the morning."

"Absolutely not."

"Why?"

And now was as good a time as any to see how well badgering would work. "Are you questioning my judgement?"

"No, sir! Coffee-hunting at noon, sir!" America snapped to attention and saluted, and it took every ounce of Austria's gravity to keep a smile off of his face.

"You have the right spirit," he said, and pushed the bag away from him.

America snatched it up and put it back in the cupboard. "You think so?"

It occurred to Austria that this—this enthusiasm—was all an act America put on, as it would be with Poland, or Prussia—and also that forcing him to drink better coffee counted as influencing him. France would approve, at least, on both counts. (Tea was a degenerate's drink, though no one in recent history had stooped so low as to accuse England of honor.) "I do," Austria said. "Now—if you would be so kind—"

"Your room is right this way, sir."

"Please, don't call me sir."

Nonetheless, he was roused at exactly eight by the smell of grease wafting under his door, or jet lag—he blamed the grease. He didn't remember changing into his pyjamas, but his underwear was draped over the nightstand, and he snatched it off and tossed it into the hamper and wondered who would take care of his laundry while he was here. He stretched and ran a hand over his violin case and shuffled into the kitchen, where America stood before the stove in an apron. Clean and white. Very professional.

"Did I wake you up?" America asked.

"No," Austria said, cleaning his glasses on his sleeve. "I'm sleepwalking."

America shrugged the sarcasm off magnificently, if he'd noticed it at all. "It's biscuits and gravy day."

"I don't have sweets for breakfast." Austria inspected the silverware. On the counter, a pot of that foul coffee was brewing, but there was only one mug at the table.

"They're not—"

"Do you have any bread?"

Rather than answer, America went to the oven and pulled out a baking sheet. Biscuits. This English was not Britain's, and they didn't smell sweet. "May I?"

"Take two," America said, peeling one of them off with his bare hands. He didn't wince at the hot metal on his skin.

"One will suffice," said Austria, and America gave him two anyway, then went back to the stove to retrieve a pan with thick, white-grey gravy, and Austria took one good look and inched his plate away as politely as possible. He had done more than a few unappetizing things in the name of improving international relations—many of which had involved fluids of a similar color—if not consistency—but he could not force himself to do this.

And now America looked crestfallen. Devastated. "But you have to try the gravy."

—he made a strong case. "On the side, then." It smelled edible, at least, and the sins of English cuisine, the unsettling puddings and undercooked rice and questionable beers, were not visited upon America's.

This impression was affirmed at lunch, though his stomach growled well before then. Manhattan was overcast and oddly hushed in its din after all of the businessmen left the streets. Austria had to crane his neck all the way back to see the sky. The city had grown up, rather than out. "I had one of these in Paris, once," Austria said, by way of conversation, holding up his hot dog.

"What'd you think?"

Not as good as wurst. "Far better than fish and chips." In its sodden newsprint, soused in vinegar, though Austria had a healthy appreciation for vinegar.

He finished it off the precise moment before America took him by the arm and pulled him into the next shop. The search had been inconclusive; Austria could not find any of his familiar brands, or even the ones he would settle for in a pinch, or even the Turkish ones.

"Hey," America said, shifting the bag with Austria's other purchases to his other hand and picking at a bin of produce. The store itself was small and murky and smelled of nothing. "About the fish and chips thing, you don't gotta"—he took a deep breath —"I mean, I'm not just..."

The delicate pride of young nations—he applied his flattest monotone: "The unfortunate wet spot of England's cultural legacy, everything good you have is not borrowed, or stolen, from us, you are something entirely different?"

America looked sheepish, now. "That's the one."

"You've wanted to say that for a long time."

"Yeah."

"And do you feel better?"

"Sorta."

Now that that was out of the way—Austria picked a tin off the shelf at random: brushed metal, discreet logo, and he did not recognize it, but he was finished shopping and it displayed the hallmarks of quality, which was more than enough. His purchase went into a cheap brown bag, and he let America lead him from the store and back to the train, for his sense of direction was grew worse the further away from Vienna he got. And at least the sneezing had stopped.

And, naturally, the instant he thought so, he found himself taking a deep breath and muffling one with his sleeve. America looked back up the stairs at him, and Austria crinkled the bag in his hands. He was the only nation he knew with the problem, and it comforted him to think of alternatives that his fellows might suffer. (He wished sudden, violent incontinence on Prussia in particular.) They simply walked past the ticket booth, and in the station proper the air was damp and thin and did nothing for Austria's lungs.

A young man sat cross-legged against the pillar directly across from their bench. He had a guitar in his lap, and his pick in his mouth. There was money in the case open before him—by the amount in it, Austria imagined that he'd been sitting for two, perhaps three hours. That he had to re-tune so soon meant that his strings were in need of a changing.

Austria could hear how close he was to getting the string in tune. He turned away to look down the tunnel for a train.

Then the boy started playing, and Austria thought—Ah. Talent. He knew it when he heard it. There must have been hundreds of gifted musicians in the city, but for the universe to present him with one within hours of his arrival—these things were rarely insignificant, or useless.

"This city'll eat you alive," America said, when the train's doors closed behind them.

No, Austria thought, thinking on the boy's pinched face. He could have been handsome, with a meal in his stomach and clothes that fit. It will eat itself.

He was dragged, in summary: to the top of the Empire State Building, to the Statue of Liberty—a bouquet of flowers would have been less expensive, and less of an eyesore—Canal Street, the Bronx Zoo, museums, theaters, palaces of finance—all in the space of three days, and all with a suited man watching them from a distance, standing out to Austria's eyes from the crowds of men in suits.

"And tomorrow, I've got something for you," America said over a dinner of rice and beans and pork on the third day. Before Austria could guess, America hopped up and shuffled to the sideboard to retrieve an envelope from under a fine Italian vase, currently the resting place of America's fedora. Fedoras. (They did not suit his face.) "Take a guess."

"Shock me."

He slapped the envelope onto the table. "Tickets!"

Austria stopped himself from flinching, swallowed his mouthful of rice and beans. "For the orchestra."

America's shoulders dropped. "How'd you know?"

"Because." He dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin (paper) and peered at America over his glasses. "I can read your mind."

"If you think I'm gonna fall for that—" America stopped. "Wait, really?"

"Of course not," Austria said. "But where else would you take me?"

America blinked and sat down, slid the envelope across the table. "It's a big city."

"It is."

Another palace of finance, that evening, and the banker mistook Austria for a visiting dignitary and tucked a hundred-dollar bill into his breast pocket while America entertained the man's daughter. Austria was not a dignitary. He felt no need to mention it to America on the way back to the train station.

His busker—Austria had developed proprietary feelings for him—was sitting in his place, as usual, but there was another man, older, not as grizzled as he could be, with a cello case open at his feet. The two of them were sparring, if not with their instruments—they were playing together like good children, improvising a duet—then with their words. Austria only caught a word here and there. Cabrón. He knew that one, at least, and more words returned as he listened: Your mother's sweet ass, your sister's, your mother and your sister at the same time, while their instruments wound around one another, the guitar at the bottom of its range, the cello at the very top.

Austria put money in both of their cases; America checked his watch and peered down the tunnel.

Twenty paces away, a man in a suit took a picture of them.

—and an orchestra warming up sounded the same everywhere: looping violins and sudden blasts from the brass section. The schoolchildren squirming in their seats were all the same, their parents were all the same, the programs were all made along the same lines, and people who were not used to being forced into bowties all fiddled with them in the same manner. "Take it off," Austria said. America hesitated, hands on the knot, and he added, "You won't enjoy the music if you're fidgeting."

America did not need to be told twice. "What do you think?"

Austria considered his fumbling attempts to remove the tie and leaned over to help; America jerked back, wide-eyed. He looked around to—make sure no one was watching them?—and allowed Austria within his personal space. "What do I think."

"That's what I said!"

"Nothing, yet," he said, turning the program over in his hands. Goodbye to Nationalism. Whoever was arranging this trip had a sense of humor.

America turned his program over to read the advertisements on the back. "Isn't the book of music you brought with you by one of these guys?"

"Yes," said Austria, thumbing over Manuel de Falla's name. An appalling sense of humor. There was Czech music on the program, and though Austria was not still upset about being thrown out a window, centuries had passed, he was gratified that the German name of the piece was the one that stuck. Die Moldau. As things should be.

The children in the row in front of them were pinching one another's arms, stifling their giggles and flinches that their parents, bookending them, wouldn't hear. One of them turned to ask their mother whether she had something to eat—a child after his own heart, Americans did not eat nearly often enough—and was waved off when the conductor, preceded by his nose. Austria knew who the gentleman was, of course.

And so he chose to stay in his seat through the intermission. The music did not unsettle him. His reaction to it unsettled him. He was too old and too tired to be charmed, and glancing over at America, leaning forward in his seat, elbows on his knees—"Sit up straight," Austria said.

Now America slouched in his chair. "What'd you think of that?" He didn't sound as though he was trying to prove a point. Austria could have cared less, but he could not shake the sudden idea that he was a symbol, no matter where he went, and perhaps on this continent of only three nations his role was magnified: he was the old world, and America, the new. Or, less mystical, he had not spent years in this symphony hall and didn't know how the sound worked.

"—you in there, bud?"

"I," Austria said, "will reserve judgment until the concert is over."

America slumped deeper in his chair, hands shoved into his suit pockets, and Austria bit his tongue. He was a guest. This was his host's building, he could sit however he wished. "Judgment?" he asked.

"Nothing horrible."

"You're sure?"

"Would I lie to you?" Only if it benefited him.

"You sound just like England," he said, wrapping and unwrapping the length of cloth that had once been his bowtie around his hand.

"If I wanted to be insulted, boy, I would call Prussia."

"Don't call me 'boy.'"

Remember, Österreich, he is capable of throwing you through a wall. Several walls. "Britain calls you that."

"You're like him."

"Quite the contrary," Austria said—"I can announce that I am baking a cake and not watch, baffled, as everyone I know gives me a kilometer-wide berth."

"His cooking's not that—"

"For a month."

A convenient hush descended over the audience on month. His rational mind was as powerless against the concert (though the last two pieces were by an American and a Soviet who would become nothing more than program filler within twenty years; Austria's instinct for these things was unerring) as it had been, he realized, against the gravy and the busker. He allowed himself to wonder about the busker, then looked down at the little girl, leaning against her older brother's arm, shoulders rising and falling steadily, asleep even through the applause.

"America," he heard himself say, over the roar of the crowd. "I should like to shake the conductor's hand."

"It's against the rules," said America, and he only shrugged under the full force of America's arched eyebrow.

"The rules," Austria repeated. He must have misheard. The cheering was loud, these things happened.

America shrugged again, then whooped for the conductor. "It's a cultural thing!" he said, right into Austria's ear.

"And whose rules are these?"

Now the crowd died down. America looked up at the ceiling, and surely he wasn't thinking of saying God made the rules. "My bosses said you weren't allowed to talk to the musicians, is all," he said. Austria could believe this, America had not a drop of guile in him, and no nation could resist the urge to show off their finest, and despite these two truths—these self-evident truths, even—it was still an affront, and Austria saw no reason to hide it, and America made it no better by saying, "I could call somebody."

"Don't trouble yourself on my account."

"Really," America said grabbing him by the wrist. The concert hall was half cleared-out, and their voices were suddenly loud over the hush. "If you want to, I'll try."

Austria tried freeing himself, and came very close to rolling his program up and hitting America in the nose with it. "Do you want to be noticed?" he snapped, and America let him go. Austria stumbled and hit his thigh on the arm of a seat.

No one was staring. No one would ever stare.

Their dash from cab to door soaked them through, and they dripped their way up the stairs. America fumbled his keys and dropped them on the floor once before managing to open his door; Austria did not offer to help. It wasn't yet dinner time, but the apartment was dim enough for America to rush into the kitchen to turn on the light. It softened the room's edges, made the hideous chintz chair in the corner with the poorly-knitted throw look beautiful.

America turned around, in the middle of everything to strip down to his undershirt. It was light blue, rather than white. That explained who did the laundry. He was well-built from behind, but Austria would have been more sexually interested in unbaked apfelstrudel. Then he turned. The scant light from the next room caught his Erkennugsmarken—Austria forgot the English word—dog tags, he remembered; dog tags, with their chain falling over strong collarbones and broad shoulders, and a thin layer of comfortable fat over his abdomen, a strong nation grown somewhat complacent.

"—what'd you think?" America was saying. "Really."

Austria cleared his throat and looked into the dining room at the plane on the ceiling. It stirred and swayed in the breeze from an open window. "Magnificent." He cleared his throat. "The concert. Do you go often?"

America picked up his undershirt and toweled his hair off with it, and Austria indulged himself in wondering whether anyone had ever, so to speak, tilled this fertile field. Surely England had not, nor France, nor Prussia. "Once or twice a year," he said. "Free tickets, you know."

"Benefits." Austria went to the guest room to make himself presentable. When the water stopped running down his forehead and onto the sheet music, he took up his violin, but halfway through his warm-up America poked his head into the guest room.

"The kids next door are sleeping."

He didn't sound irritable; Austria only chose to take offense. More offense. "Are they."

"Could you keep it down?"

"I can try."

"And hey, do you want to—"

"I'm going to take a walk," Austria said, and pretended America's eyes weren't glued to him as he searched through the closet—at length, though it was no broader than he was—for his raincoat. And his umbrella. He wasn't nearly as ashamed as he should have been at his petulance, young states needed to be taken in hand, and Austria was far too old to finish what England had not.

And America's pout was pure Spain. "Don't get lost out there."

He would. It was a useful skill. A half-hour and ten centimeters of water up his pant legs later, the sound of a cello from a window above him, two stories up, gave him pause. This was the last thing he needed to dwell on, but he leaned against the lamppost to listen it. The child was no older than twelve, judging by the way their hands skidded on the strings. A breeze stirred the curtains, and the playing stopped. Austria imagined a small brown-haired girl (all women had brown hair in his imaginings) hopping from her seat, setting her instrument aside with the utmost care. And it was a girl he saw, poking her head out the window and shutting her eyes and breathing in what must have been clean, crisp air to her. The window shut, then, with the creak of bare wood scraping wood.

He carried on. The rain had not died down. It was late enough: he could go to the subway to listen to his busker play, on the pretence of catching a train, but he had no money for fare. Or he could go to the Polish grocery he'd seen the day before, he was losing his Polish; but he would not begin to know where to find it. He had no watch, but he imagined it had been an hour, and let his thoughts wander, until it occurred to him that—

He should have been in Budapest, not getting himself lost in a foreign city to teach a child a lesson, and how many years would he spend flagellating himself over something beyond his control? Ideological barriers were stronger than walls, to their kind. If they had been kinder to Serbia, or had beaten Prussia nearly a hundred years ago—he would have a bottle of vodka on his right hand and a bottle of wine on his left, being urged drinking shots from each to honor the memories of each of the twelve generals his own emperor had hanged. The hangover was atonement enough.

"You're gonna get sick," someone said, and Austria jumped in shock, tripped over his own feet and landed on his face. The umbrella tumbled away in the wind, but that did not matter so much as the snap of his glasses breaking, and the flap of America's coat as he rushed over to help him up. "Hey, bud, I'm sorry—"

"I'm fine," Austria said. He permitted America's hand on his elbow, taking his glasses off to assess the extent of the damage. The lenses were only scratched, and this was bearable, but the arm had broken off at the screw.

"Let's go back," America said, and Austria's pride was not so great that he would refuse the umbrella America held over his head.

"The best idea you've had all evening."

To America's credit, he did not rise to the bait.

When they returned, America held out his hand. "Let me look at 'em."

"You know someone who can fix them?" he asked, pulling them out of his pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief.

"Yeah," America said. He stroked his chin and sat down on his couch, spreading the remains of Austria's glasses out on the coffee table as precisely as Switzerland would disassemble a gun. "Six foot one. Blond. Handsome guy."

"Who could you possibly be talking about."

"—me."

"Never mind," Austria said, taking a seat in the chair and unlacing his shoes.

"That's one eighty-five." He turned the frame over in his hands. "I have to convert for Canada."

A brother to the north; a sister to the south. Austria could not conceive of a continent with only three nations, and imagined it unbearably lonely. "Impressive."

"How'd you go so long without knowing how to fix your own glasses?"

"I've always had—people," said Austria, watching America rush to fetch what looked like a sewing box from his closet. He opened it, and it was filled with thousands upon thousands of tiny screws, ostensibly organized by a difference in size that Austria's eyes could not see. "Who were skilled with their hands."

America nodded and fiddled with a tiny screwdriver. "Like?"

"No one in particular."

"Lithuania was good with his hands."

"I never ruled him," Austria said.

"Nah, neither did I, but he stayed with me for a few years""—as if Austria needed a reminder, all of Europe knew this. "Do you know Poland?"

"I ruled him."

"How?"

"Why." Vodka on his right, wine on his left.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, he's swell, I've got a ton of his people, he taught me a lot..."

"He was difficult."

"You guys are all nuts over there, anyway." Austria couldn't very well argue with that, and instead wondered what exactly America could have learned from Poland, of all nations. "But I like his pierogi!" America continued. "And his sausage! What's it called—"

"Kiełbasa." Question answered. America's stomach growled audibly, and the question of what they would have for dinner was also answered. He made an affirmative noise around the screw he held in his his lips while he picked a pair of pliers out of the box and unbent the arm of Austria's glasses. Austria indulged himself, considered America's mouth, then was properly appalled with himself.

And—honestly—there was no reason for him to hold it there, he could have set it on the table, it was too small to roll anywhere. "Here," America said when he was finished, and Austria's sudden impulse to correct his pronunciation of Hier jolted him into the realization that they had been speaking perfect German for the last ten minutes, if not since that they had walked in the door.

"But they say you only speak English," he said.

"They say that." Then America looked excited, I brought you a present, do you like it? His words came out in a rush: "And I've got enough of your people in me, yours and Germany's, and some of them that remember being Prussia's too, because, I mean, it wasn't that long ago, that I can sorta pull it up sometimes?"

"Do it again."

His face fell. "I can't."

Very well, every nation had its own mystery. He started, "I," and America leaned forward in his chair. Austria put his glasses back on to shield himself. "Thank you."

"I'm gonna go lay down," America said, pushing up from the couch. "Watch some TV, will you?" He handed over the remote before Austria could say he preferred not to and shut his door quietly behind him.

Austria paced the length of the room, considered his violin, and gave the idea of practice up—there were neighbors, and his host was resting. There was only one bookshelf visible, and it was covered in books on America's own history. And that was to be expected. He thumbed through one, but the words swam on the page before his tired eyes and he had to put it down. From America's room, the soft sound of a jazz record leaked under the door, into the living room.

It was only noise until something caught on Austria's ear, courtesy of that maddening habit that forced him to hear these things: a four-note repeated figure on the saxophone, over and over, in a different key each time—he gave counting at the fifteenth—up and down, half-maddening and half-attractive. He was tapping his foot to the rhythm. He stopped. He started again, and realized that he was supposed to tap his foot, and so he allowed it, until it distracted him from his reading. He knocked on America's door and entered before he was given permission. America lay spread-eagled on his stomach and lifted his head just enough to acknowledge him.

"Good evening," Austria said, as though they hadn't spoken to one another all day. The musician on the record started murmuring, sotto voce, and America gestured to a chair—the room itself was likely far less attractive by the light of day, but this was where he kept all of his books, and his collection of records. Austria sat back. And he listened.

Out of Austria's reach, on the second shelf from the top, the glint of a battered trumpet caught Austria's eye. The tracked changed, and in the momentary silence Austria asked, "Do you play?"

America started and sat up, shirt rumpled. "It's not mine," he said. "It was a friend's."

"One of your great musicians."

America ran a hand through his hair, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I can play a little."

"Show me." Austria leaned forward to remove the needle from the record.

So America stood up and put the trumpet to his lips. Austria waited patiently for him to correct his grip, which, after much puttering, was still wrong. He would tire out his left hand in minutes that way. Taking a deep breath and furrowing his brow, he made one clear, bright blast into the instrument, then lowered it to his chest. "That's all I can do."

Austria's fingers twitched to take the instrument from him and give him a lesson. Brass instruments were not his strongest point, but surely he remembered enough. But there was no time. He had six days left in the country, and his itinerary was packed with crass sight-seeing. "You ought to get instruction," he said, instead. "Do you play anything at all?"

"The flute," he admitted. "Just a little." Shrugging, America switched the record player off. There had not been a note of music in the house save what Austria himself had played since he arrived, and as he recalled he had never gotten the inevitable package of sheet music from America.

"The flute is a degenerate's instrument," Austria said. "There was a king who played it, you know. He was a tyrant." America sat down, the bell of the instrument on his knee, rapt. And, oh. Austria had not expected him to believe it. "The trumpet, however—you could do far worse."

"Maybe," America said.

"So I have to run up to see Canada—"

"Where?"

"Up north," America clarified, extracting himself from the phone cord he'd somehow gotten wrapped around his waist. "My brother."

Dear god, there were two of them. And Austria remembered—a small boy, clinging to two of France's long, outstretched fingers—he had not seemed significant at the time, imperialist powers had their favorites. "I won't destroy your apartment."

"No, I didn't think you would, just..." Austria raised an eyebrow, and America spoke faster, like a cornered schoolboy: "I'm just saying that if a couple of guys in suits come around looking for things, and they're not going to say what those things are, don't give them any trouble, okay?"

"Have you anything to hide?"

"No," said America, "that's what I'm trying to—"

"America," said Austria. "Have you anything to hide." Perhaps a hidden of his comic books, or bootlegged jazz LPs, for what could a nation get up to in less than two hundred years of existence? Not very much. And then Austria thought of Germany and changed his mind: the ones who grew to power too fast were the very worst of them, though there was not much more to be said for old states, or for attempting to apply human standards of good and evil to any of their number.

"They just like to look around," America said.

"These men are from your government."

America nodded mutely.

"You are explicitly monitored." America nodded again, and Austria felt the coppery tang of horror spread in his mouth. This was not Europe, where rulers understood that there were things a nation could not, and should not, share with their people. "And the man in the car."

"His name's George."

"Are you being blackmailed?" Austria could not decide whether he took more offense at America's apparent cowardice or at having been lied to. The cowardice was the better option, and more easily remedied.

"They mean the best," America said, holding his hands up, "they're just trying to make sure I don't get up to anything, you know."

"Communist."

"How'd you know?"

As an older nation, he was required to take some measure of interest in the well-being of his younger counterparts. There were so very few of them, after all. "One can guess. Now, tell me the first words of your declaration."

"How do you know about that?"

"Your mother country spent a decade being miffed after you broke free, and France spent the same years gloating, and both of them to anyone who would listen. Half of Europe knows at least the first three words."

Poor boy. "He's not my mother country."

Austria waved it away. "The first three."

"We the People," America said, and wrinkled his nose, as if the words were champagne bubbles tickling it.

"You. The people. Rule your government."

"They don't rule me."

"You are quicker than expected," Austria said, and instead of noticing the backhand in the compliment, America's grin spread ear to ear. "And instead of submitting to their inspection next time, what will you do?"

"Punch them?"

"That is not quite the—"

"I'm kidding!"

"Delicacy," Austria said, "and foresight. You will have terrible rulers, and they will need to be reminded of whom they serve." On the other hand—and he was sure America wasn't thinking of this—his government was too large to be properly shamed into submission; he still longed, in the bottom of his being, for an enlightened despot, and held democracy at an arm's mental length, but he caught up with his times, if only because he had to. "You will do as you please."

"It's not like they order me around—"

"Say it."

"I do what I want."

Good enough. "Invest in a cane," Austria suggested. "tap it impatiently against your foot when you hear someone out. And you are wearing glasses, are you not? You are. And when you are explaining to your leader why his course of action is wrong and his advisors bob their heads in unison..." He sat down at the table and pressed his fingers into his brow. "Push them up," he said, modeling the gestures as he spoke, "to see them clearly, and hope that you have heard them incorrectly—but, no, they are still there, and still stupid. So remove them in horror, maybe it is a trick of the light, of the lenses—but that fails you as well, so put them down, rub your face, visibly pray for patience, pray to any number of Gods. Do you understand?"

America's mouth was gaping open a few centimeters; Austria could have reached out and tapped it shut, but he chose not to. "You," America said.

"I?"

"You are the best. Ever."

Modest press of the hand to the breast. America would forget that within the hour. "So I've heard. Alternately, you may stand up suddenly, slam a hand down on the table, and pull your glasses off in horror." Austria demonstrated, and America looked appropriately cowed.

"Where'd you learn all this stuff?"

"Practice," Austria said, "watching centuries of great men command rooms. Do you think that brute force will win you everything?"

America pumped a fist into the air, and Austria stopped himself from cringing. "Diplomacy is good!"

Write that on the blackboard ten more times, young man, and perhaps you will remember it. "Think on what you've learned today," said Austria.

"Wait!"

"Yes?"

"You never said you wouldn't give them any trouble."

"I won't give them any trouble." None at all.

Austria enjoyed the quiet for all of the first hour America was gone. He lounged in his bare feet. He made it to the Polish bakery, finally, discovered that the owners did not speak the language, and spent only an hour lost on his way back. He browsed through America's records and found nothing to interest him. He paced the length and breadth of the place, tidying things, for there was no housekeeper.

And only when he ran out of things to clean did he turn to his music—neighbors be damned—and he moved it into the dining room, and set the book out on the table. The binding was already half-cracked from the strain of all ten times he'd opened it. (He would have to have a talk with Spain about it, if they were on speaking terms within the next fifty years.)

He had the low, mournful Asturiana most nearly memorized, and he played it through, now. It appealed, though it was meant to be played on a far deeper instrument than the violin, which was likely why it appealed, and he would take on a cello student when he got home.

When he finished, he stopped. And put his violin back in his case.

He knew his way to the station by sheer force of repetition. He didn't know what moved him, but it was the right time for his busker to be around, and the boy—in his shoes, with heir soles coming away from their uppers—doffed his cap. The recognition thrilled him: he was Austria, music followed him wherever he went, as sure as angry fathers followed France.

The boy played for him, looking him straight in the eye, as though this was an audition. They were alone in the station. Austria's applause echoed off of the walls, carried by the damp air, and he muffled a sneeze into his sleeve.

"Let me help you," he said, in the most correct Spanish he could muster. The boy held his hand up, No more money, please, and Austria shook his said. He held his hands out for the guitar. He hadn't touched one since—a trip to Seville, perhaps. 1902. He'd had one shoved into his hands at a café, handed a piece of sheet music, and of course he could play, but he would have appreciated being asked first. He'd picked out a simple soleá while Spain danced with a young woman with a flower in her hair, and complained bitterly about it afterward. The boy handed it over, and sat frozen while Austria fixed the tuning for him, plucking at the two strings a few times, fiddling with the peg until they sounded right.

The busker, skeptical, strummed at it, then his face lit up and he held his hand up to shake. "Enrique Garcia."

For a mad moment, all he wanted to say was Republik Österreich, but he caught himself and said, "Roderich Edelstein."

Enrique picked up a twenty-dollar bill from his guitar case and attempted to hand it to him, but Austria put a hand over his heart and shook his head to decline. He wanted, suddenly, to take this young man out of the station, buy him a suit, bring him back to Vienna for the best musical instruction, but there were lines, and there were limits, and this was not one of his people. He could not look at him and at a glance know his history. He wanted to ask, but what little Spanish he had was outdated, Castillian, and too rusty to be of any use in conversation.

Not half an hour after he returned, there was a knock at the door. Austria paused in the middle of his partita, transferred his bow to the hand holding his violin and opened the door for two dark-suited, very solemn gentlemen. "Please," he said. "Come in. Have a seat."

America announced his return by the stomping of his boots on the doormat, New York's sky was blue at last, and it snowed from nowhere. The apartment wasn't nearly warm enough; the kitchen only gave the illusion of coziness by virtue of its narrowness. Rats scuttled beneath the floorboards, and Austria hated them with the passion of a thousand granaries and was glad for the distraction. "You have mail," Austria said. He looked up only an inch from his cup of coffee, his second, while America tore the envelope open with his bare hands and leaned against the kitchen counter, skimming it. Once, then twice. "What is it?"

"An apology," said America. A rivulet of meltwater ran down his face and dripped onto the paper, and he wiped his forehead. "Gosh."

"From?" Because it was astounding how much fear one could strike into the heart of a leader with the simple words, Do you know what we do to rulers like you in Europe? When the true answers were something to the effect of Show up naked to important meetings. Or Get drunk. Or Disappear into the woods for weeks at a stretch, none of which Austria had ever lowered himself to.

America crumpled the letter between his fingers. "Nobody. Did you..."

"Your government? Don't be absurd." Austria took in America's incredulous look. "They must have had an attack of conscience. I hear penicillin will clear that sort of thing up."

"Like syphilis."

"Are you familiar with it?"

America's ears flushed, and only his ears."No, but, I mean—"

"When one spends enough time around France," Austria said. "I understand." Far too well.

"What do you want to do today?"

Distraction achieved. "Where haven't you taken me?"

"I dunno. Central Park?" America rotated his neck slowly, and Austria imagined that it was as much to relieve an ache from plane travel as it was to test the feeling of a burden off of his shoulders. Another count of influence—of interference. Somewhere, England was having palpitations and attributing it to the dankness of his capital.

"It's cold," Austria said. He added a thick layer of and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for suggesting it to his voice. America glanced out the kitchen window, and, no, the snow did not stick to the ground. "And you should rest."

America scratched his nose. "I guess." He poured himself a cup of coffee and shrugged off his coat at last, draping it over the back of a chair; then, he pulled the tin of coffee out of the cupboard to examine it. "How'd you know to buy this stuff?" he asked.

Austria warmed his hands on his cup and thought, My unerring, absolute good taste, but shook his head. "A lucky guess," he said, watching America turn it over and mouth the name out to himself. Another palpitation for England. The thought warmed him.

And he noticed, for the first time, that America took it black. And that, but for a single hot dog, they had not eaten outside of America's home. "Bring your trumpet," he said, in the bored same tone he would tell someone to drop their trousers, or lift their skirt. (This was the point in the diplomatic visit that he would ask, or order, a host to do just that—as a parting gift—and he had no grounds to lecture America on not letting one's government get out of hand when he'd agreed to this trip without the smallest objection, but hypocrisy was a cherished family value.)

Yet America's face lit up, and he set his cup down to rush into his bedroom and retrieve his trumpet. "You don't have to," America said, "I mean, I don't wanna..."

Which was exactly what his host would say in the other way this situation could play out. Austria took the instrument from him and turned it over in his hands. Sturdy construction. Previous owner's initials etched into it, now faded, and they may have been L or a T. "Correct hand position is essential for comfort and stability," said Austria, right out of a method book, modeling the incorrect position America had been unfortunate enough to pick up, then the proper one. As he would with one of his students in Vienna. He hadn't touched a trumpet in decades. It wouldn't be a problem.

"Hey," America said. "Thanks."

Austria handed the trumpet back and wished desperately for his cane. "Stand up straight. Do you know how to care for your instrument?"

"Nope."

"First lesson," he said. It would come back to him as he spoke. "Straighter, America."

-

-

-

- It was only noise until something caught on Austria's ear--A Love Supreme. John Coltrane.

- That concert? Actually happened.

- Autumn in Hungary is a very sad time.

- That busker? Puts himself through college, becomes a music teacher, and has a kid who has a kid who becomes the president of the United States.

In case you were wondering.

artillie — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 22:37:47 GMT

Why marketing and by extension my entire college experience this semester makes me kinda miserable
Two weeks ago, I eavesdropped on one of my classmates in Marketing trying to convince the instructor that she should have been given more points for an assignment that she could barely make heads or tails of when asked to read it aloud, let alone the teacher.

And the extra credit assignments the teacher offers are generous and easy to the point of absurdity, to the point where it looks less like she's trying to give us help and more like she's trying to curry our favor. If anyone was on Twitter the morning I was shrieking about the logo redesign I like don't get why the Starbucks logo like has a mermaid so I like put a cup of coffee on it hurr extra credit project--you know.

The other thing I found out this semester is that fully half of my school's teaching faculty is made up of underpaid adjunct instructors. 51%. I don't think that's normal, is it?

Meanwhile, my accounting teacher is the head of the committee to find a new provost, and I was walking behind him one day on my way to another class and overheard him ranting about how provost candidates have been promising for years to address the inequities between the ag(ricultural) side of the school and the rest of the school. The divide is physical as much as it is financial; the ag side is separated from the rest of campus by a huge road. They say that the shiny new equestrian facility is poorly run--people have had their whole tack trunks stolen.

My Thanksgiving
was bearable and uneventful. My mother hosted it for the first time in her life, which meant this year was the first time she made a turkey, and it turned out well. We didn't have much! But it was good. I was laid up in bed on Saturday, though, and I used the time I would have otherwise spent writhing in discomfort to blaze through The Hunger Games. I still writhed a lot, though.

I'm in it for the free sandwiches
This semester I took some time off from my middle of the night deli job because I hate all of my classes and the stress was too much to handre. I still had the library. It was good, and then it wasn't good, and now it's pretty okay. But the library doesn't know how to budget (or it doesn't have enough money in that budget), so I'm probably going to get cut down to just weekends like I was last spring, so it's back to the deli for me.

Accounting moves too goddamn fast
Mama Gemmiti, good sir, oh you of the most robust combover, how do you expect me to absorb and regurgitate three chapters' worth of information in a week? And yet I do, every time. I still think I'm going to scream, and I've got managerial accounting next semester with a teacher of unverifiable quality. Gonna scream.

I don't think this exactly counts as real life but it's growing pains goddamnit
I've been consulting the thesaurus so often lately that I think I'm just going to keep it open in the next tab over when I'm writing.

As I mow down some pretzels and a bottle of water--

artillie — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 18:48:59 GMT

I have been a sad sack lately! I apologize to those of you who've had to put up with my sad sack-ness! And today, I gave blood! I will refrain to ending all of my sentences with exclamation points!

Today, I gave blood. I intended it to be some good old-fashioned self-flagellation, but I found out that:

- my iron level is awesome
- my blood pressure is 120/88
- I have nice, juicy veins (that's how the nurse described them. Juicy. I got the blood out in six minutes. I don't know if that's fast or what, but I'm assuming it is.)

In short! My health is completely normal. Feels good, man. I'll take whatever I can get.

ETA: And the movie list for The Holocaust in Film and Fiction is going to be:

Sophie Scholl
The Diary of Anne Frank
Into the Arms of Strangers: Stories of the Kindertransport
Schindler’s List
Life is Beautiful
Defiance
Sophie’s Choice
Imaginary Witness
The Pawn Broker
Everything is Illuminated
The Reader

We wouldn't want anything untoward happening.

artillie — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 01:50:20 GMT

Here's a headcanon dump about the sides of the Austria-France-Prussia-England thing that aren't Austria-Prussia and France-England. There are reasons for it--working backwards on why it felt so right to have Austria make endless mental cracks about England, for one--but they require more context than I'm willing to give! So sit back and enjoy me thinking too much about Hetalia.

(All of these carry the caveat of "when they're not at war or otherwise trying to tear each other's throats out, or on each other's side in a war, or any of the obvious other exceptions you know what I mean." And the bit in italics at the end of Prussia and England is talkjive's $0.02.)

Prussia and England: cautious regard. Prussia is too chummy with France for England's liking; England is too much like Austria for Prussia's liking. You know I read this fic that mentioned how Prussia and England both found the trappings of imperialism tailor made for themselves and ever since I have the feeling there's a slight discomfort between them, from having excessive similarity in that one regard. Like sometimes they meet eyes in the middle of a meeting and look away from each other, knowing they're both thinking just kill the bastard or just bomb it or collateral damage. Though mostly it doesn't come up, just this little awkward moment sometimes. When both America and Germany are there, mostly, and they're both like "you're young, be more brutal."

France and Prussia: They get along swimmingly! It's because they both respect each other. Sure, France finds Prussia painfully uncultured, and Prussia thinks France has had a few too many dicks in his mouth (mon amie let us not make this about our sexual mores! / Frankreich. What sexual mores.), but they're good drinking buddies. By far the healthiest relationship on the list.

Austria and France: The less said, the better. They're capable of being in a room together, sure. They've had sex, sure. They've gone to war, absolutely. Austria's resistance only makes France's penis harder--but who says he's not doing it on purpose, tsk tsk--and Austria likes to send Hungary after France for sport. (I'd talk about Hungary's thoughts on the matter, but as much as it pains me to say so, this isn't about Hungary. And besides, one can guess.)

England and Austria: So much bitchiness, so little time. In England's eyes, Austria is no better than France, and we all know how Austria got that empire, hmm-hmm, disdainful sipping of tea. And Austria thinks that England is a brute. And possibly a pederast. Not that Austria's passing judgement. Oh, no. He just advises that Switzerland keep Liechtenstein very far away; we wouldn't want anything untoward happening.

Russia. Russia is very nice! Russia wants to be your friend. Russia wants to be everyone's friend. None of these jerks know what to do with Russia except France, who knows exactly what to do with him.