#Columbo is a good pull to be fair

[snozzlefrog]

Working on the assumption most people aren't reading kid's puzzle books (although it is a pretty fun, more relaxed time if you fancy it!), I've compiled a list of main series related observations. Please only read if you don't mind spoilers - and the kids aren't mentioned much since they are Jr originals.

The book seems to take place between books 1 and 2 (plausibly could be during book 1, but unlikely)

Many of the events of book 2 and 3 were in motion beforehand, especially with Tekco

Rose, Raspberry and Indigo all have kids - Indigo's specifically is Olivia, one of the main detectives

This means Logico helped murder his junior employee's dad during book 3 (ouch)

Applegreen, Lapis, Saffron and Ruby work in the same school, alongside Raspberry Jr

Emerald and Earl Grey are neighbours

Logico seems to be a bit famous now, at least enough for strangers to recognise him and to be signing stuff

The Detective club is really well funded, and Logico appears to be in a high-up role, if not the president

Irratino is a "pretty swell" Uncle (likely a second cousin rather than secret sibling)

Irratino is consequently pretty good with kids

Logico is TERRIBLE with kids

Irratino has multiple classic secret levers and switches installed for secret rooms and passages in the II (something we'd all probably do with comical amounts of money to be fair)

Irratino has great memory, and has the entire Institute memorised (which may also be how he can navigate the impossible maze with little trouble)

While it's no surprise, Irratino is confirmed as a habitual wonderer and prone to boredom (AuDHD king)

Irratino is similar to Logico in that he likes being included as a suspect when relevant

Logico either does a decent amount of undercover work, or has a LOT of side jobs

Logico earns what I believe is his first colour association - marzipan! (Suitably beige in my opinion)

At least two of the four detectives don't recognise Logico with a very mild change in appearance (mustache and hat) but clearly know who he is - either face blindness is super common in Murdle, or Logico is gathering an army of specifically autistic children

Logico has a houseboat (unclear if it's a full-time home or for the case - I like to imagine it is indeed his)

Logico is good with computers - at least good enough to stump a tech prodigy

Logico is kinda bad at tone/jokes

The DC and II seem to be at least a little linked together now - Logico tries to recruit two of the kids at the II, and Irratino helps with a DC training exercise as a "favour"

The II has at least one other branch, on the Violet Isles

A funny possible plot hole - Logico knew at least part of SPY was corrupt before the events of book 3 (between that and SoM, I'm starting to think Logico got hit a bit too hard during chessboxing - that or I'm checking timelines in a children's book)

Logico not only successfully pulls off the patented Tino-death-trick, but Irratino (presumably) fails to pull off the same trick

Logico is, and I cannot overstate this, the dopiest, most awkward motherfucker on the planet. Seriously, it's so funny seeing him without his internal dialogue colouring all his actions. It's like if Columbo was actually Like That. He thinks he's super cool and awesome and he's actually Laios from dunmeshi (AuDHD king). He's smart in the logic department but the rest of his brain is empty.

NO BUT SERIOUSLY. He earnestly does the Perry the Platypus disguise TWICE. He wears his hat under a second hat in case he needs to do a dramatic reveal. He lets children go to a wartorn country and solve several murders with no plan while believing that this is a totally planned excursion. HE HIRES A CAT. HE LETS A SMALL CHILD BELIEVE HE IS GONNA BE A DETECTIVE BEFORE GOING "oh no sorry that's for the cat, welcome to the force Mr McPaws" WITH GENUINE SERIOUS INTENTIONS.

If I'm honest, I think the cat might be the smartest detective there (including the adults)

[txttletale]

you have any recommendations for mystery-type fiction? (I like fair-play whodunit kinda things, but I'm willing to branch out - god knows DE's mystery wasn't really "fair" as a murder mystery, but it was still a really good game regardless.)

for games, i'd recommend the return of the obra dinn and paradise killer as two (mostly) fair-play mystery games. paradise killer i especially like because the game has a lot to say about truth and justice--as the person investigating the murder, you can present trumped-up evidence and accuse the obvious patsy and have him executed ten minutes into the game if you want. if you want to find the truth, you have to go looking for it.

in terms of other mediums, uh... i think the city and the city by china mieville is pretty good. a lot of my friends will swear by columbo, which i've never watched. american vandal is a very fun and fresh take on the genre. knives out, despite its achingly lame liberal politics, is a very fun and competent genre homage piece. gideon the ninth, funnily enough, despite being advertised mostly as a science fantasy romance, is v. v. much a murder mystery structurally and in my personal opinion is extraordinarily fair (i guessed several of the twists before they happened because the clues were excellently laid into the narrative).

douglas adams' dirk gently's holistic agency is not very fair, in that all sorts of outlandish and ridiculous shit happens, but it's a wonderfully put together bit of chekhov's-everything--a finely tuned rube goldberg machine of a plot where dozens of disparate elements seem to come together into one cohesive story by magic at the end. the bbc america show is very different tonally (at once more grounded, more light-hearted, and more focused on character drama than comedy) but it pulls off the exact same trick marvelously.

if you want to experience the direct opposite of a mystery, i'd also recommend daniel handler's the basic eight, which starts off with the narrator telling you she killed somebody without explaining why and builds up to that moment over the course of several months of her life. the secret history does the same thing and is also quite good--basic eight plays it more for dark comedy while the secret history is mostly po-faced, though.

[crabcrabcrabmeat]

ten films i love, tagged by @javert

Mobile Suit Gundam: Char’s Counterattack (1988) Utterly obvious to die girlies auf tumblr but don’t worry, it’s the only franchise gatekeepy one. God tier animation, OST that gives me heart palpitations, plot symbolically rich in a way that draws me back. Absurdly ambitious and largely pulls it off. Insane. Phantom of the Paradise (1974) I’m a sucker for leitmotifs being re-contextualized and this movie is exactly that. I think a lotta people are put off by musicals because they expect Glee shit, so a horror rock opera that plays w genres is a style that slaps. In fact, it’s style over substance to the point that while the character Beef was made with homophobic intent(?), he makes for killer camp. So influential it buried its own grave deeper, but when my drag career continues proper I WILL have it step out of RHPS’s shadow. Magnetic Rose (1995) This one’s arguably cheating, it’s a short film within a theatrical omnibus and the only one of the trio I rewatch, lol. Better experienced than described, but iirc it’s the first screenplay credit of Satoshi Kon and his style benefits the conceit greatly. The space physics are top tier too. Bound (1996) Genre fiction that fucks. Akira (1988) After watching this for the first time, I wore a rip of it on a USB necklace for like a good month, lol. If you’ve seen so many homages and #aesthetic gifs that its memetically weakened, the manga will be a better vehicle for experiencing the actual plot and themes. (Kaneda isn’t a cool protag! He’s not even in it for a full volume!) But I fortunately got to go into it w next to no preconceptions. Tampopo (1985) One of those art-house pics that’s fun to general audiences. I wouldn’t watch it with young kids or new friends tho given the prawn scene, lmao. The Terminal (2004) Not a masterpiece by anyone’s standards, but it was my fav for years as a child and I’ve been told “thats so you” or “that explains so much” lmao. I still do love seeing how peoples values and coping mechanisms materially shape their world, so, fair! As an adult, i think Tucci’s character holds up the best, his tone is comedically sound while being realistically mundane for an american authoritarian, lol. Funeral Parade of Roses (1969) A breath of fresh air in style and substance. It’s like a vaccine against MCU sludge. God I need to watch more new wave. The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1970) Again, former obsessions here, not necessarily top quality. The first vignette is the only one that sticks with me, but boy does it! Gold standard for any fanfiction or diagetic media criticism. Mikey and Nicky (1976) Ough. Love me a good tragedy. This one manages to hit so hard it even overcomes Peter Falk being styled (‘styled’) like Columbo—italian accent and all— while playing a jewish gangster lol.) You know that post about how the more serious and well made a story is, the more likely its fandom makes unhinged memes? That’s me every time I make a “full of milk” joke abt this movie or realize it’s fundamentally changed my experience of taking antacids.

Anyways please note that i’ve structured this list so that the first and last entries form a niche parallel. That is to say, a personal fav scene in both Mikey & Nicky and CCA is where the lead guys fistfight and tumble onto the ground in a blur of violence-as-latent-homoeroticism. (George lucas voice): it’s like poetry, it rhymes.

I'm too shy to tag others but mutuals I Am Pressuring U lovingly. U don’t have to write as much as i did tho lol.

[writing-prompts-for-friends]

Notes on Robert McKee’s Story 33: The Principle of Antagonism

I had the hardest time trying to condense this section, so unfortunately this post will be almost entirely direct quotes from the text.

"The principle of antagonism: A protagonist and his story can only be as intellectually fascinating and emotionally compelling as the forces of antagonism make them."

McKee believes that the principle of antagonism is the most important and least understood precept in story design, and this is the primary reason screenplays and the films made from them fail.

"Human nature is fundamentally conservative. We never do more than we have to, expend any energy we don’t have to, take any risks we don’t have to, change if we don’t have to. Why should we? Why do anything the hard way if we can get what we want the easy way? (The “easy way” is, of course, idiosyncratic and subjective.) Therefore, what will cause a protagonist to become a fully realized, multidimensional, and deeply empathetic character? What will bring a dead screenplay to life? The answer to both questions lies on the negative side of the story.

The more powerful and complex the forces of antagonism opposing the character, the more completely realized character and story must become. “Forces of antagonism” doesn’t necessarily refer to a specific antagonist or villain. In appropriate genres arch-villains, like the Terminator, are a delight, but by “forces of antagonism,” we mean the sum total of all forces that oppose the character’s will and desire.

If we study a protagonist at the moment of the Inciting Incident and weigh the sum of his willpower along with his intellectual, emotional, social, and physical capacities against the total forces of antagonism from within his humanity, plus his personal conflicts, antagonistic institutions, and environment, we should see clearly that he’s an underdog. He has a chance to achieve what he wants—but only a chance. Although conflict from one aspect of his life may seem solvable, the totality of all levels should seem overwhelming as he begins his quest.

We pour energy into the negative side of a story not only to bring the protagonist and other characters to full realization—roles to challenge and attract the world’s finest actors—but to take the story itself to the end of the line, to a brilliant and satisfying climax."

To make your protagonist stand out even more, he needs to have a good antagonist that not only pushes him to the very brink of his ability and willpower, but also acts as a fine foil.

Take Story and Character to the End of the Line

“Does your story contain negative forces of such power that the positive side must gain surpassing quality? Below is a technique to guide your self-critique and answer that critical question.

Begin by identifying the primary value at stake in your story. For example, Justice. Generally, the protagonist will represent the positive charge of this value; the forces of antagonism, the negative. Life, however, is subtle and complex, rarely a case of yes/no, good/evil, right/wrong. There are degrees of negativity.

First, the Contradictory value, the direct opposite of the positive. In this case, Injustice. Laws have been broken.

Between the Positive value and its Contradictor, however, is the Contrary: a situation that’s somewhat negative but not fully the opposite. The Contrary of justice is unfairness, a situation that’s negative but not necessarily illegal: nepotism, racism, bureaucratic delay, bias, inequities of all kinds.

Perpetrators of unfairness may not break the law, but they’re neither just nor fair.

The Contradictory, however, is not the limit of human experience. At the end of the line waits the Negation of Negation, a force of antagonism that’s doubly negative.

Our subject is life, not arithmetic. In life two negatives don’t make a positive. In English double negatives are ungrammatical, but Italian uses double and even triple negatives so that a statement feels like its meaning. In anguish an Italian might say, “Non ho niente mia!” (I don’t have nothing never!). Italians know life. Double negatives turn positive only in math and formal logic. In life things just get worse and worse and worse.

A story that progresses to the limit of human experience in depth and breadth of conflict must move through a pattern that includes the Contrary, the Contradictory, and the Negation of Negation.

(The positive mirror image of this negative declension runs from Good to Better to Best to Perfect. But for mysterious reasons, working with this progression is of no help to the storyteller.)

Negation of the Negation means a compound negative in which a life situation turns not just quantitatively but qualitatively worse. The Negation of the Negation is at the limit of the dark powers of human nature. In terms of justice, this state is tyranny. Or, in a phrase that applies to personal as well as social politics: “Might Makes Right.”

Consider TV detective series: Do they go to the limit? The protagonists of Spenser: For Hire, Quincy, Colombo, and Murder, She Wrote represent justice and struggle to preserve this ideal. First, they face unfairness: Bureaucrats won’t let Quincy do the autopsy, a politician pulls strings to get Columbo off the case, Spenser’s client lies to him. After struggling through gaps of expectation powered by forces of unfairness, the cop discovers true injustice: A crime has been committed. He defeats these forces and restores society to justice. The forces of antagonism in most crime dramas rarely reach beyond the Contradictory.

Compare this pattern to MISSING, a fact-based film about American Ed Horman (Jack Lemmon), who searched Chile for a son who disappeared during a coup d’etat. In Act One he meets unfairness: The U.S. ambassador (Richard Venture) feeds him half-truths, hoping to dissuade his search. But Horman preserves. At the Act Two Climax he uncovers a grievous injustice: The junta murdered his son… with the complicity of the U.S. State Department and the CIA. Horman then tries to right this wrong, but in Act Three he reaches the end of the line—persecution without hope of retribution.

Chile is in the grip of tyranny. The generals can make illegal on Tuesday what you did legally on Monday, arrest you for it on Wednesday, execute you on Thursday, and make it legal again Friday morning. Justice does not exist; the tyrant makes it up at his whim. MISSING is a searching revelation of the final limits of injustice… with irony: Although Horman couldn’t indict the tyrants in Chile, he exposed them on screen in front of the world—which may be a sweeter kind of justice. 

The principle of the Negation of the Negation applies not only to the tragic but to the comic. The comic world is a chaotic, wild place where actions must go to the limit. If not, the laugh falls flat. Even the light entertainment of Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers films touched the end of the line. They turned on the value of truth as Fred Astaire traditionally played a character suffering form self-deception, telling himself he was in love with the glitzy girl when we knew that his heart really belong to Ginger.”

In Summary

“Fine writers have always understood that opposite values are not the limit of human experience. If a story stops at the Contradictory value, or worse, the Contrary, it echoes the hundreds of mediocrities we suffer every year. For a story that is simply above love/hate, truth/lie, freedom/slavery, courage/cowardice, and the like is almost certain to be trivial. If a story does not reach the Negation of the Negation, it may strike the audience as satisfying--but never brilliant, never sublime.

All other factors of talent, craft, and knowledge being equal, greatness is found in the writer's treatment of the negative side.

If your story seems unsatisfying and lacking in some way, tools are needed to penetrate its confusions and perceive its flaws. When a story is weak, the inevitable cause is that its forces of antagonism are weak. Rather than spending your creativity trying to invent likable, attractive aspects of protagonist and world, build the negative side to create a chain reaction that pays off naturally and honestly on the positive dimensions.

The first step is to question the values at stake and their progression. What are the positive values? What is the preeminent and turns the Story Climax? Do the forces of antagonism explore all shades of negativity? Do they reach the power of the Negation of the Negation at some point?

Generally, progressions run from the Positive to the Contrary in Act One, to the Contradictory in later acts, and finally to the Negation of the Negation in the last act, either ending tragically or going back to the Positive with a profound difference. BIG, on the other hand, leaps to the Negation of the Negation, then illuminates all degrees of immaturity. CASABLANCA is even more radical. It opens at the Negation of the Negation with Rick living in fascist tyranny, suffering self-hatred and self-deception, then works to a positive climax for all three values. Anything is possible, but the end of the line must be reached.”

McKee also breaks down what the positive, negative, contrary, and negation of negation are for many more common values such as love, loyalty, greed, courage, intelligence, etc. But that would make this post entirely too long. I definitely invite you to get this book and check them out yourself. 

I found this section incredibly helpful to me. Until now I've always thought of conflict in terms of "good vs. bad" and...not much more than that. I had never contemplated the Contrary, let alone the Negation of the Negation. If I can manage to pull off a conflict of that level, I think I might have a really good story on my hands! This has helped me to shape my antagonistic forces and plot. I hope it helps you too!

Source: McKee, Robert. Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting. York: Methuen, 1998. Print

[dutifullymadameashley]

Stonathan Fanfiction

A Study in Attraction: Chapter 16

Read from the beginning here.

John Fogerty’s “Centerfield” roared from the speakers of Hawkins Stadium. Steve glanced into the stands as he approached the plate to see Nancy whooping at him through her hands, enthusiastically clapping as he took a few practice swings.

But no Jonathan. Again.

Steve had tried to be understanding about Jonathan’s need to work full-time during the summer, but the frequent absences still hurt. He shoved the disappointment into a corner of his brain where he’d been keeping everything that he was resolving not to think about.

Like the unopened, too-thin envelopes received from the colleges he’d applied to.

Or the smug look Billy had given him from the lifeguard tower that forced him to reconsider a job at the pool.

Disheartened as he felt, Steve was playing a good game. He had already scored a game-tying home run and two RBIs. Now, he continued to channel his misery into deliberate physical drive, giving himself one last ineffectual neck stretch and wiping the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his batting glove. Focus, Harrington, focus.

Down by two runs, the opposing team had brought in a relief pitcher and with one brief glance at the mound, Steve sensed trouble. The handsome black reliever’s calm gaze was uncomfortably intimate. He wound up for his first pitch with a smirk, and gave Steve a quick, suggestive wink before drilling a fastball right across the plate.

Steve’s face felt hot as his bat made contact, firing the ball up and back where it landed softly in the catcher’s mitt for an easy out.

**************

While loading gear into his trunk, Steve heard the crunch of approaching footsteps on gravel.

Turning, he observed that the relief pitcher was even better good looking than expected, taller than Steve by about two inches, with an easy smile that reached his warm brown eyes. He extended his hand. “Harrington?”

“Uh, yeah, Steve, actually.”

The handshake, firm and confident, gave Steve an electric shiver all the way to his Nikes. “I’m Josh,” the pitcher offered, withdrawing his hand with a soft chuckle. “You play a good game.”

Steve wiped sweaty palms on the front of his uniform and began a nervous ramble. “Yeah, I really thought we had you guys up until that last inning. That starter of yours was in real trouble, you know what I mean? But then they brought you in and - wow - you were so…you were really something.”

Steve felt short of breath, his restless gaze traveling over Josh’s clean-shaven jawline, the lean muscles of his forearms, those strong hands. “That is, I mean, your fastball is pretty impressive… but you probably hear that all the time…Look, I’ve got to get going - Josh, is it? Take it easy, man.” He nearly stumbled to the door of his car, cursing under his breath.

Josh piped up, “Say, Harrington - sorry - Steve? Could you give me a lift? My uncle’s having a barbecue and the game ran a bit late.”

“Sure, why not?” Steve muttered, settling into the driver’s seat before Josh could catch the uneasy look on his face.

He started the car, “When Doves Cry” blaring at top volume. Steve moved to turn it down but Josh put out a hand to stop him. “Nah, nah, nah. My man Prince needs to be played loud, otherwise it hurts my feelings,” he grinned. “My uncle’s place is on Washington.”

Steve couldn’t think of a thing to say, so he just drove in silence, trying to breathe in the musky scent of his passenger’s cologne without seeming obvious. Josh hummed along with the music, sometimes chiming in on the falsetto bits. “Say, this is a nice ride, man. Leather seats! How’d you get a car like this? You must be some kind of rich boy.” His tone was teasing, but the words stung.

“Just lucky, I guess,” Steve shrugged, trying to keep good humour. “You like cars, huh?”

Josh considered this. “I like you, actually.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair, and let out a long, slow breath, pretending to fixate on driving as he pulled up to a stop sign. Josh’s bold words hung in the air, leaving Steve to feel the weight of his passenger’s gaze, awaiting a response.

“You don’t…” Steve cleared his throat, refusing to take his eyes off the road. “You don’t even know me.”

“Fair enough,” Josh said, smoothly. “But I know a bit. I know that you love to play ball, and that you know good music. You appreciate a fine automobile. And - most importantly - I know that the first time you looked at me…you liked what you saw.”

Steve, wanting to offset his shock, attempted a laugh that was more of a wheeze dissolving into a coughing fit. “That’s quite an ego you’ve got there, Columbo,” he managed, when he’d recovered. “You’ve really got me all figured out, eh?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, man,” Josh remarked, giving Steve’s thigh a squeeze for emphasis. “I just know these things, that’s all. I just wanted to check in, in case you were interested.”

Josh took his hand away, and Steve was startled by how much he already missed that brief touch. The sudden awareness of his loneliness surprised him. He’d been so consumed with being fair to Jonathan, so afraid of seeming the needy, spoiled rich kid. He couldn’t blame Jon - and he didn’t - but if he was being honest, he felt neglected.

And here was Josh. Wanting him and saying so. Making it so easy on him to just take what he wanted without guilt or shame dragging on his conscience…

“This is my uncle’s place right here.” Josh pointed out a strangely familiar blue and white split level on the right, its long driveway packed with cars. As they approached, Marvin Gaye could be heard crooning “How Sweet It Is” from the backyard.

Steve parked along the curb, feeling dejected. Josh went to open the door then seemed to think better of it, searching in the gym bag at his feet for some unknown object, at last producing a baseball and a pen. “For my #1 fan,” he giggled, as he scribbled on the ball. He got out, closed the door and tossed the ball gently through the open car window with one last smile. “Thanks for the ride, Steve. You play a good game.”

Steve was still sitting in his car pondering a phone number scrawled on a baseball when another vehicle pulled up to the curb ahead of him. A Ford LTD with a bad muffler.

Will Byers jumped out of his brother’s car and called to Lucas Sinclair who greeted him from the front porch. Josh’s cousin, Lucas.

Shit.

[blind-rats]

In 2004, UPN debuted “Veronica Mars” to what quickly became an adoring audience. Three years later, after a chaotic run that involved a network change, the constant threat of cancellation and a thwarted attempt at a Season 4 set at FBI headquarters, the series came to a close.

This week marks the 11 year anniversary of that last episode, and while it wasn’t the last we saw of Veronica (Kristen Bell) and her friends thanks to the 2014 feature film, the show’s cancellation stung. For fans who might want to revisit the first season’s highs and lows, we’ve come up with a list of the ten best episodes that demonstrate why “Veronica Mars” remains gone but not forgotten. If you’re looking for a quick introduction to the show, this list might also work (which is why we’ve arranged it chronologically).  But if you’ve never seen it, watch it from the beginning. Season 1 is just. too. good. 

“Pilot” (Episode 1)

Written by: Rob Thomas Directed by: Mark Piznarski

In less than an hour, creator Rob Thomas sets up the universe of Neptune, California — a rich elite used to getting what they want, the lower-class folks just trying to get by, and plucky teen detective Veronica Mars, forging her way through this polarized world while also investigating the case of her life. So many shows have begun with this question: “Who killed [name of girl here]?” But the fact that the person trying to solve the mystery wasn’t some unrelated detective, but the girl’s best friend elevated the series to a new plane. All of this and more was set up by the pilot, immediately diving us into a show rich with scandal and secrets, one with its own voice.

“The Wrath of Con” (Episode 4)

Written by: Diane Ruggiero Directed by: Michael Fields

This early episode doesn’t feature any major plot reveals — but it is hugely informative when it comes to the girl who was Lily Kane, and the impact she had on her friends. In paying tribute to Lily (who was brilliantly played by a then-unknown Amanda Seyfried), “Veronica Mars” went beyond the “tragically dead girl” trope to make sure Lily was remembered as vibrant, complicated and real — a message made explicit by Logan’s (Jason Dohring) tribute video seen at the end of the episode, as well as Veronica making good on a long-ago promise.

“Like a Virgin” (Episode 8)

Written by: Aury Wallington Directed by: Guy Bee

We meet the awesome Mac (Tina Majorino), the show takes on slut-shaming in an era prior to the term slut-shaming, and Veronica gets confronted with a major reveal. “Like A Virgin” is one of the show’s great examples of how to blend one-off narratives with a season-long arc; the final sequence features a jaw-dropping gut-punch pulled right out of soap operas, except the show makes sure it feels well-earned. Bell’s performance, as she copes with the potential reveal, is the primary reason for that.

“An Echolls Family Christmas” (Episode 10)

Written by: Diane Ruggiero Directed by: Nick Marck

A fateful poker game becomes a layered mystery with multiple points of view — a classic mild “Veronica solves the case” investigation with plenty of fun “Columbo” flare. What makes this a standout episode of the series, though, is the other storyline: A stalker is threatening Logan’s father Aaron, and the final minutes unravel the Echolls family in a brutal fashion. It’s one of television’s most deeply cynical Christmas episodes, but captivating on that level.

“Silence of the Lamb” (Episode 11)

Written by: Jed Seidel & Dayna Lynne North Directed by: John Kretchmer

Hey, special guest star Aaron Paul! It’s a few years before “Breaking Bad,” so he’s not listed as special, but he’s special in our hearts. Also, the case of the week is a rare dive into a hardcore murder investigation but comes with a big surprise for Mac and notable movement forward for Veronica as she takes on the Kane family’s attempts to silence her.

“Clash of the Tritons” (Episode 12)

Written by: Phil Klemmer & Aury Wallington Directed by: David Barrett

There’s a fair amount of silliness in this episode (including a sequence entirely devoted to creating an opportunity for Kristen Bell to show off her singing talents), but it’s enjoyable silliness. It also unveils a fair number of student secrets and, in the final moments, sets off a plotline that has a major impact on the rest of the season.

“Mars vs. Mars” (Episode 14)

Written by: Rob Thomas (story), Jed Seidel & Diane Ruggiero (teleplay) Directed by: Marcos Siega

This is a standalone installment from the first season, but it kicks off with a fascinating dilemma: A charismatic teacher is accused of sexual misconduct by a student and Veronica sides with the teacher. It probably helps that Mr. Riggs is played by longtime Thomas collaborator Adam Scott (who would go on to star in the seminal Starz comedy “Party Down,” created by Thomas, John Enbom, Dan Etheridge, and Paul Rudd), but the great guest star appearances don’t stop there, as future “Gossip Girl” queen bee Leighton Meester plays the girl who stands by her story despite the evidence Veronica uncovers.

“Weapons of Class Destruction” (Episode 18)

Written by: Jed Seidel Directed by: John Kretchmer

Would this episode make this list if it didn’t feature the season’s most anticipated kiss? Absolutely yes, even though it might be one of the most notable kisses of 21st century television, because the episode is also an interesting look at the issue of school violence and bullying, from a time when there wasn’t a prescribed approach on how to approach it, and even a former bully might have a tender side. Jonathan Taylor Thomas as a guest star isn’t necessarily a selling point, but he does add interesting spice to the mix (especially given that the show features no shortage of actors well above the age of 18 playing younger). More importantly, Joey Lauren Adams, as a substitute journalism instructor with the best of intentions, is legitimately a heartbreaker.

“A Trip to the Dentist” (Episode 21)

Written by: Diane Ruggiero Directed by: Marcos Siega

There were two major mysteries running through the first season of “Veronica Mars”: What happened to Lily Kane, and what happened to Veronica the night she was roofied and maybe raped? One of the show’s most brilliant moves was to solve the latter so that the former could be the entire focus of the season finale, and the way in which Veronica untangles the mystery surrounding Shelly Pomroy’s party makes for maybe one of the show’s most captivating installments.

“Leave it to Beaver” (Episode 22)

Written by: Rob Thomas (story), Rob Thomas & Diane Ruggiero (teleplay) Directed by: Michael Fields

“Leave It to Beaver” hinges on a few key reveals — it’s a deliciously twisty episode — followed by a terrifying conclusion that’s rich with action. Most importantly, it manages an impossible task: Create real closure for the season arc, but also establish interest in the narrative to come. And believe us, Season 2 is equally soaked in riches.

[fanfic-scribbles]

32. All Saints Day

A/N: Ho. Ly. Cats. I can’t believe we actually made it to the end. And with so many people digging it! Because my browser and Tumblr aren’t playing nice right now I want to say thanks to everyone who commented, messaged, reblogged and liked my little ficlet drabbles and chapters for this story. I decided to put this self-challenge on Tumblr on a whim, on the off-chance other people might get a kick out of it and so many more of you like this than I expected, oh wow. So, other ficlets and such will be posted on here (after, like, at least a week of vacation) but this little story-that-wasn’t-and-then-suddenly-was is at its end. I hope you enjoy this super lovey dovey conclusion.

Words: 1889

Warnings: Hop-scotching the prompt for word-and-feeling-association. Fluff. Romance. Totally not sorry; we earned this one.

    There’s an abandoned church in the woods maybe a mile or two from the bunker. It’s near an old dirt road that you’ve never seen anybody use. In fact it was probably only ever used to get to Sunday service. The church itself is very traditional: white, has a steeple, and is utterly tiny, maybe able to seat twenty people and it’d probably be filled to standing capacity with fifty. Stained glass windows line either side of the building, letting in very little actual light, but they’re still somehow intact while half the pews are broken.

It’s old and drafty and so peaceful that it’s become one of your favorite places in the whole world. Sometimes you like to imagine how it used to be, with people dressed in their Sunday finery, either fanning themselves from the heat or bundling up to brace the cold, but always here every week, in a tiny little chapel off the beaten path that was probably packed to the gills. It is decidedly quieter in real life than in your imagination, and that’s the way you like it. This is yours, now, and in this place there is still something hopeful; holy and idealistic. You don’t have to be psychic to feel it. You take a deep breath and continue your silent vigil, thinking about nothing in the way only utter silence can help you achieve.

Wings rustle and you stiffen, losing a bit of the calm that being here has instilled in you. However you’ve been here long enough that any tears have dried and you have some semblance of control. But then your name is murmured in that same deep voice that still somehow makes your knees weak.

You clear your throat. “Hi Cas,” you say, trying to be fair and friendly. You knew going in that Cas might not feel the same and you're not going to let your feelings fuck up a perfectly good friendship. Sure, it’ll sting for a little while, but you have faith in your abilities to move on. You love Cas and want him to be happy. And Cas is generally reasonable and blun– er, up front. He will tell you he does not return the depth of your feelings (or that he may be open to finding out, though you don’t hold much hope for that) and you will both, eventually, get back to normal.

Though…given how emotional he became last night…

You sigh and slump. Who are you kidding. This is going to suck.

“May I sit here?” Cas asks, standing next to you. The stained glass window behind him casts a yellow pall that looks sickly on everything except for him.

“Of course.” You sound normal. Score one for this going in a good direction.

Cas sits next to you, not close enough to touch but close enough to still be in your space. You try not to overanalyze but you know how you feel, and he knows, and you’re not sure how to act. You shift in your seat. If Gabriel asks one more time if he can do anything, you’re going to have him take you back to October 1st so you can punch yourself in the head.

“This place is wonderful,” Cas murmurs and looks around with wide, admiring eyes. You suddenly forget why you’re upset when you see the beginning of a smile on his face.

“It’s pretty peaceful,” you agree.

You both lapse into silence. You’re staring ahead again, very studiously trying not to seem bothered by anything, and Cas seems…content. For the most part. After a few minutes he seems to remember why he’s here and he sighs. “I often wonder how you, and Sam, and Dean, manage it.”

You wait. Nothing. “Manage…what?”

“Living a life filled with endless decisions. Where you must somehow make choices and live without regret.” Cas is staring up at the ceiling, his eyes pinched back at the corners in a sort of sadness. “I have had so few decisions to make by comparisons and yet…I have so many regrets.”

You snort. What group of perfect (or sociopathic) humans has Cas been hanging out with? “That’s just life, Cas,” you say softly, trying to lessen any perceived insensitivity. “Everybody makes bad decisions along the way. Good, bad, and in between. The bad ones just stick out more.”

“Doesn’t it frighten you?” Cas looks at you and you freeze, caught in a bright blue that the sky must envy. “Having a decision to make and not knowing which choice you might regret?”

“I guess it…depends on the choice and the consequences.” You clear your throat. “You never know how something is going to turn out. You weigh your options and you make the best decision you can.”

“Like your choice to tell me how you feel.”

Your throat closes up. “Yeah,” you say and try to keep your mind blank for the inevitable next part. He studies you for several long seconds. His lips turn up in a small smile. A kindly gesture to ease the pain, you think.

But then he moves forward, connecting his mouth with yours, and you don’t have to try to keep your mind blank– you short circuit and all you know, have known, will ever know, is this. Your lips are almost chronically dry these days from the oncoming winter and you're sure Cas wouldn’t know what Chapstick was even if he carried five pounds worth of it in his pockets. Somehow his lips are still the softest things you can ever remember feeling.

Your eyes burn from the air and you have to consciously force yourself to blink. In the split second it takes to shut and open your eyes he doesn’t disappear. He does, however, pull back, and you barely suppress what surely would have been the most pathetic whimper ever released by a human.

“I know I likely do not deserve it, but will you let me explain myself?” Cas asks.

“Uh huh.” He could tell you to take a hike to Canada and you’d be walking before he finished his sentence.

That silly thought leads to the serious realization that he’s not telling you to hit the road, Jack. You blink some life back into yourself, sit up straighter, and somehow manage to tear your eyes from his lips (seriously, way softer than they look,) to his eyes.

He turns his body to angle towards you and you do the same, brushing your knees against his and waiting. Cas takes a moment.

“I have great regrets. I have done terrible things,” he says slowly. “Made bad choices and been led to do things I cannot undo.”

His eyes drift down in memory and you bite your lip to keep from interrupting. However you do slide your hand to his knee as a light reminder that you’re here for him. He responds by taking that hand in both of his, holding it, squeezing lightly. He looks at you again. “Sometimes I’m paralyzed by fear. I wonder if everything I see and think is a manipulation by Naomi or her underlings. Or I think that there is some dire consequence to what I am doing. So I busy myself by running errands for Gabriel, or helping you and the Winchesters. I focus on the things that help and do not hurt, but even then I…make mistakes.”

He grips your hand but his gaze is too intense to look away from. “This is not the first time I’ve thought of the idea. Of being with you. Some months ago I realized that what I was feeling for you might be…could one day be…” He swallows. “It was a sudden realization that I knew had been building over the years. It felt natural. Inevitable. Terrifying.” He looks at the pew in front of you. “Like I was falling all over again and I didn’t know what it meant.”

You don’t dare breathe.

“I couldn’t possibly choose that; choose to drag you down with me, so I assumed it was fate, or something else. I even made…surreptitious inquiries into the possible involvement of cupids.”

Oh no. You use your free hand to cover a small smile. You remember Lt. Castiel Columbo. ‘Surreptitious’ is not a part of his normal vocabulary.

“The cupid I spoke to was emphatic against their involvement and even advised me against taking any further involvement with you. At the time, I agreed. And so I tried to remain distant.”

Suddenly you really, really want to stab a cupid. Or pick up a bow and arrow and turn the tables.

“It didn’t work.” He shakes his head. “I can’t stay away from you, or Dean, or Sam. So it festered. It became something awful, until that night with Crowley– and I snapped. I just…I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know whether to be selfish, to claim you for my own and keep you from any semblance of normalcy you can grasp in your violent life. Or whether to…let you go. I thought on that so much last night. I agonized over what I should do.”

Your throat is filling with a lump of tears. “I know it would be nice but you can’t have everything, Cas,” you say and swallow. “You can’t have an honest choice but account for every possible variable. You can’t control it.” You put your other hand on top of his and grip both hands for dear life. “But sometimes, the things you don’t see coming, the things you can’t control…maybe sometimes they aren’t great. But sometimes they’re wonderful.”

“Like you.”

You blink several times to clear the water welling in your eyes. “Huh?”

Cas looks so soft as he takes his hands to brush away the tears escaping onto your cheeks. “You are the most wonderful thing I never saw coming. You are stubborn, sometimes petulant, fierce, strong, kind, protective, and so, so blindingly beautiful that your soul shines like a beacon. I care for you so much that I thought I could deny myself your presence because I hurt you, got you hurt, only to find out that I can’t. I can’t be away from you. I don’t ever want to be away from you.”

You don’t know what to say. Or maybe you have too many things to say. Either way it’s hard to breathe. When he lifts your hand to his mouth to press a kiss, for a moment you do forget how to breathe. You hold his face with that hand and he holds it there. Like you’d ever remove it.

“Of all the painful things that can come of this, not having you would be so much worse,” he murmurs into your palm. “If you’ll have me I want –Father, I want– to be with you, in any and all ways that you may want me.”

You take a few moments to breathe. You're tempted to take a few more, because he kind of deserves that after last night, but you honestly can’t stay away for long. You surge forward, wrapping your arms behind his neck, and you never, never want to take them back. He meets your kiss, just as open and longing, and his arms around your back hold you tight, just as unwilling to ever, ever let you go.

[acornswords]

Lost, Found, & Collected.

A Transformer’s Story.  

A story of how an Earth-stranded Ratchet finds the mission: “Protect Hope”.

Warnings of: Violence, Drugs, and mentions of Human Trafficking

Notes: I’ve decided to post some chapters on tumblr as well! Here’s chapter one, and if this gets enough notes I’ll post chapter two & three! All chapters are posted to AO3 already - and will be continually updated there! 

1998.  The tow truck’s tires kick the dirt road dust into Michael Lambert’s lungs as it brings in his latest buy.  Coughing the congestion away, he greets the burly driver with a humoring smirk as he trudges to see the towed vehicle.  The burly man, Todd McGiver, pats the helm of his own truck, and makes his way next to Lambert.

“Not the prettiest buy, I reckon,” McGiver chuckles, placing his hand on Lambert’s shoulder.

Lambert moves away from McGiver’s touch and moves to place his hand upon the windshield of his purchase, as he clears some of the dust and he inquires, “Engine work?”

“Didn’t bother to check. Thought you should do the honors.”

Lambert grunts, and reaches for the door handle, only to be stopped by McGiver’s question, “Out of all the cars, trucks, and SUVs on the market – why in the Sam Hill did ya’ buy this rusted junk?”

Lambert lets his hand fall to his side, “This ‘rusted junk’ is a fix up, and with that fix up and a retouch with a wonderful new paintjob, McGiver, this 1990 Ford Econoline e350 will bring us all the cash you could ever dream of.”

McGiver laughs, a hearty laugh but one with a twinge of mockery, after a stare from Lambert, McGiver clears his throat, straightens, and asks: “Jesus, Mike.  What has gotten into you? How could you look me in my blue ol’ eyes and tell me that some rusted, dusted ambulance is the key to our ‘business’?”

Lambert huffs, opens the door, and turns the key in the ignition – a rumble of power rips through the frame of the ambulance and its lights flicker on only momentarily.  As the vehicle shakes, Lambert’s mouth curls in to a grim, venomous smile. He steps away from the rattling ambulance, and places his hand onto McGiver’s shoulder. Giving McGiver’s shoulder a tight gripping, his smile uncoils into a snarl as he states: “Because, Todd, no one is suspecting an ambulance to be transporting our kinda cargo. Now, unhook my purchase, bring it to my workshop, and by high-time next week, inform all of our associates of our new ride – and their new means of transport.”

With a gulp and a nod of his head, McGiver is released from Lambert’s grip. Scrambling to the still rumbling ambulance, McGiver unhooks the vehicle from his tow truck, seats himself in the ambulance’s driver seat, and begins to drive it to Lambert’s workshop.  The property Lambert owns is a large one, filled to the brim with automotive parts, trash, and oil puddles. A cheap plot of land in the deadlands of New Jersey, close enough to the congested inter-cities to establish business, yet far enough away that no one questions anything. Some consider it a junkyard, but it is not one most know or use. Not that Lambert minds, more attention to his land, more people begin to question. The parts and automotive shells placed throughout his land are from vehicles he purchased, scrapping for parts and overturning cars to certain “higher-ups”. The transportation business is what Lambert works for, and who he works for (mainly) is that of the Ricci Family. A mafia family that is spread throughout New Jersey and New York, carriers of many trades and scandals but most recently into the growing market of heroine distribution. All intricacies and all illegal, the Ricci Family has been using Lambert’s Car Services for years.

As the ambulance’s exhaust grieves with every rolling motion, Lambert raises his garage door slightly high to accommodate the ambulance’s rear. And once the entire vehicle is within the walls of Lambert’s workshop, the garage door is lowered, and the fix up begins.

Hours were spent on the tuning of the ambulance, and as days and nights past the grin on Lambert’s face continued to grow.  He was going to be the genius the Ricci Family could not deny, who has even thought of using an old, decommissioned ambulance as a means of illegal drug trafficking? Not any of the other competing Families, nor the inter-city gangs – No, it was only just Lambert, and he was proud of his idea.  He’s work with the ambulance’s engine and tires was done, and now all he had to do was repaint and ship it off to Dominick Ricci, and a hefty sum of cash would soon be placed discreetly in his mailbox.

And as the final coats of paint dried, Lambert left his workshop to make the call to Dominick. With in the darkness of the garage, silence incases every corner. The ambiance of the garage is comforting, that is until its shattered by the sound of the ambulance’s engine revving to life.  Its newly replaced headlights flash on, dispersing the darkness. The engine stutters, only for a moment, and a voice grumbles:

“Where in Primus’ name am I?”

The engine of the ambulance roars again, and the voice continues, “Haven’t felt this good in a while…don’t change the fact I have no way of knowing where I am.”

The vehicle’s rearview mirrors move as if to look around it’s enclosure, and just as it was about to accelerate its tires to escape, Lambert walks into the garage.  Looking at the ambulance with a tilt of his head, he says his thoughts aloud: “Did I leave you on? Can’t remember – Guess I was too excited at getting ya finally fixed”

The ambulance’s voice makes no reply, and its engine continues a slow and steady hum. Lambert goes to its door, turns the key and the ambulance’s engine dies out. “No need to burn fuel, Dominick will be needing you by the end of the night,” and just as quick as he came in, Lambert left the ambulance in the same distilled darkness.  

***

“So, ya tellin’ me – me and the old man – that the best way to transport the new goods is usin’ this ambulance here?” Dominick crosses his arms and stares skeptically at the ambulance.  

“Yes, even more so if you use it during the night – however during the day is fine as well. No one, especially cops, take a second glance at ambulances and I’ve never see ‘em pull one over, have you?” Lambert retorts.

“No, but most aren’t unmarked! And whatta ‘bout other ambulances! They can call us in on just their suspicion! Especially because this thing ain’t registered!”

Lambert growls, and begins to pace the room, until finally and idea strikes him, “Remember Vinny?”

Dominick rolls his eyes, “Vinny Rossi? Vinny Russo? Columbo? Bianchi? There’s alotta Vinnies pal, be more specific!”

“De Luca! Vinny De Luca! He used to be big into forging documents and shit, remember?”

“Course, got me my first fake ID, and passport. What’s ya point?” Dominick huffs.

“My point, Dominick, is that he can forge a fake ID for this ambulance! A code in their systems that can override their verifications, so our dear ambulance is valid in all counties, despite being unmarked.”

Dominick tilts his head, and ponders on the idea, “Logical in theory, but have you met my cousin Vinny? He ain’t a real hacker, just a forger!”

“Lucky for, Dominick, I know just the guy.” With a quirk of his lips, Lambert leaves the garage, with Dominick behind him, to make a very important call.

***

“So, I’ve got your ambulance registered in all the counties throughout New Jersey and the Big Apple, upstate NY gonna take a bit longer, maybe a month or two – but I’ll get it, of course if Vinny continues to help with the credentials.” A filtered voice comes through the phone’s receiver as Lambert sits within the cab of the ambulance.  

“Of course, the Ricci’s and I are in your debt, Gerard” Lambert’s voice drips with satisfaction, and the passenger door opens to a smirking Dominick as he climbs in and situates himself.  

“Big words, might hold you up to ‘em, Lambert. Till next time.” And with that the phone call cut off, and Lambert tucks his cell away. He turns the key into the ignition and backs out of his garage, and starts down the road to their first pick up.

“So, why are ya’ comin’ again, Lambert?  You fix the transport, not ride it.” Dominick relaxes in his seat, and looks disinterestedly out the window.

“I wanna make sure the transport holds up, make sure that you don’t blow this up for me. This could be a huge business, ambulance trafficking transport and such, need to see it first hand working.”  Lambert keeps his eyes on the road, and the conversation ends with Dominick’s “Fair enough”.

As they roll up to the run-down apartment, the two men leave the ambulance running as they leave to meet their contact. The ambulance waits in the silence of the street for several minutes, the street lights flicker and all that can be heard is the soft grumbling of a voice, “Comm. To Optimus Prime. Optimus? Optimus, can you hear me? I’m still located on planet Earth, more specifically on the East Coast? Optimus, if you can hear me, or even if you get this message later, know that I will try my best to find you and the team, but until then I may have to stay undercover with these humans. Please, if you are hearing this – send your coordinates immediately over Comm. I’d open another receiver, but I fear the Deceptions, more specifically Soundwave, will be tracking any open links. Until then, I’ll be listening, Old Friend.”

And just as the voice quiets, the two men bustle out of the doors of the apartment with large crates, and following behind them is one woman. They open the ambulance’s back cab, and place the cargo of crates within the holding, then the woman climbs within the cab, and sit against the crates with a thump.

“Ay, watch where ya’ put ya’ weight! That’s the new shit, and we don’t need no complications” Dominick growls.

“Bite. Me.” The woman mumbles. The ambulance’s engine seems to sputter – the sound almost mimicking that of a chuckle – until Dominick climbs into the cab and hits the woman across the face.

“Now, you listen here, tramp,” with the last word Dominick spits on the ground of the cab, “Your daddy set you up as payment – now you seem to be a little damaged but the way your goin’ it won’t matter. While the Ricci’s pride ourselves in Drug Trafficin’, we ain’t no strangers to human. Daddy couldn’t pay us with enough of the good stuff, so he offered you.  Now, as Ricci property, your gonna shut ya’ fuckin’ mouth or I’m gonna fuckin’ shut it for ya.” And with a growl Dominick pushes the woman’s shoulder hard enough to topple her over. As her back hits the edge of one of the crates with a thwrack, Dominick slams the cab doors and makes his way to the front.

With a roar of the ambulance’s engine, the woman looks outside of the windows of the cab’s door, and as the glow of each streetlight passed, she quietly hums herself to sleep. As she lays her head upon the cab’s metal flooring, she swears the engine hums along with her.

***

The drive Dominick and Lambert took to deliver the cargo was 5 hours, after delivering the cargo to its destination, a gas station owned by Antonio Ricci, the two men begin to drive to their next destination, the drop off point for the woman who lays in the back of the ambulance cab.

The woman is sprawled upon the floor of the cab, beaten for mocking Dominick, and voice hoarse for screaming at each passing car that was viewed in the windows. Her song had died in her throat, but the metal she lays upon was not as cold as it once was.  She curls herself into a position, and tears stream down her sore face and pool on the metal flooring. She holds onto her stomach, stroking it, trying to find words of comfort. Dominick, in only this sense, was merciful when he began his beatings. She is carrying, and to him no “real man,” would ever hurt a kid, even if the mother was “a dirty fuckin’ useless whore”.

Just as the last hour of the ride was ending, and the destination of drop off for the woman came near, the woman begins to scream.  Not out of fear, but actual pain.  The two men pull off into an empty road, and open the cab doors.  Writhing in pain, the woman’s tears stream down her agonized face.

“Tell me, tell me this fuckin’ broad ain’t havin’ her fuckin’ kid right fuckin’ now” Dominick grasped his forehead, and his eyes dart between Lambert and the woman.

“Christ” Lambert lifts himself into the cab and turns the woman over, “Come on, Dominick, get ya’ ass in here! Can’t deliver her bleeding and cryin’!”

“Can’t deliver her fuckin’ kid either, Lambert! What the fuck, what the fuck! No way I’m gettin’ all up in that broad’s bleeding and being a fucking nurse! No fuckin’ way man!”

“Are you fuckin’ – Alright, fine Dominick, I’ll deliver the kid, but at least fuckin’ get in here and hold. Her. Down.” Lambert grits the last words, and Dominick scrambles into the cab and grips the woman’s wrists and hold her down.

“You fuckin’ worthless bitch, couldn’t wait to pop ya fuckin’ kid until we got ya’ to the drop off, could ya’?” Dominick sneers and through her gasps and tears the woman was able to quiet usher a “Fuck, you.”

Before Dominick could retort, Lambert yells, “Dominick sit‘er up! We need this kid out before anyone hears the fuckin’ screaming”

“Lambert, we’re in a fuckin’ ambulance, don’t think anyone gonna question us too much.”

After 8 grueling hours, a small scream can be heard piercing the walls of the ambulance’s cab.  The infant, born two weeks early, wails as its hands can barely flex or grip.  The woman, exhausted, calls for her child and Lambert hands the babe over.  She sits against the walls of the cab, dried tears and sweat cake her skin, her eyes drop, her lips cracked and bleeding. She smiles at the child, her chest heaving too hard, and she softly coos at her child.

Lambert stares just for a moment, and calls Dominick to discuss what to do next.  Left alone with her babe, the woman, eyes barely in focus, her breath trembling, whispers in a cracked voice, “If anyone can hear me, if anyone is listening, please, please, protect this babe. She’s, she’s the greatest accomplishment, greatest joy I’ve experienced. Please, if your listening, someone, anyone, please. Please.”

The baby continues to wail, and the all too frail mother coos for it to quiet, and just as she begins to hum, the baby tries to grasp her hair, but fails. The mother’s hum begins to falter, yet it is accompanied by the hum of the engine of the ambulance. The mother smiles, her eyes closing, and she slowly slips onto the warm metal flooring of the cab, she curls to her child, her breath trembling, as she whispers, “Protect Hope”.

[tasteofswallowedwords]

The Perfect Shot

Part Two

Pairing: Jughead x reader

Warnings: Swearing

Summary: The disgruntled reader is forced to take part in a stakeout with Jughead

Part One

I watched through the window as he pulled up outside my house. Why am I doing this again? I thought to myself, and came to no logical conclusion.

I shouldered my backpack and headed out the door before I could change my mind. The crisp autumn air calmed me slightly, lending me the courage to open the passenger side door and slide into the car.

“Good evening,” I muttered bitterly, glancing at the boy who was already scowling.

“Whatever,” he sighed, and turned the stereo on. Green Day blasted from the speakers and I schooled my expression, lest he notice that I was enjoying the music and turn it off.

We drove in silence. I didn’t once look at him, instead I busied myself with my camera. I attached the lens and fiddled with the settings until I was satisfied I could take the pictures in night vision mode. By the time I was finished, Jughead was already pulling over, down the street from Sheriff Keller’s house.

“You can put that away,” he said wryly. “This could be a while.”

I huffed, setting my camera on the dashboard and rooting around in my backpack. “Chips?” I offered as I emerged with a bag of Doritos.

He scoffed. “You’re kidding me.”

I crossed my legs underneath me, opening the chips. “Like you said, this could take a while,” I shrugged, doing my best to remain civil. “You really can’t expect me to sit in this car for an undetermined length of time without snacks. So… chips?”

I held the bag out for him, and he rolled his eyes but took a handful.

“Oh!” I said through a mouthful of chips. I dug in my bag once more and retrieved two cans of Coke, holding one out for him. He exhaled a breath and shook his head in astonishment, reaching for the can, his mouth pulled up at the corners.

“Wow,” I grinned, retracting my hand. “Are you… smiling?”

He stared at me, no hint of amusement on his face. “No.”

I sighed, handing him the Coke. It was slightly overambitious to expect him to have warmed to me already.

Silently, we munched our way through the entire bag of chips and a pack of Twizzlers. By midnight, with no sign of Kevin or Joaquin, I was already yawning. Condensation had fogged up the windows of the car, and I found myself shivering. I rifled through my bag and produced a blanket, tucking it over my legs.

“Seriously?” Jughead said bluntly.

“Look, Columbo,” I jibed, “you may have been hardened by all these months of fighting crime, but I’m just a rookie. A rookie who doesn’t like to be cold.”

“I don’t exactly like being cold, either,” he grumbled, shifting further into his seat.

I sighed, taking the edge of the blanket and throwing it over him. “Then aren’t you glad I’m here?”

He seemed to have some internal debate, before relenting and tucking the blanket over himself. I curled up, resting my shoulder on the back of the seat so I was facing him. The streetlights cast an orange glow over his features as he stared pointedly at the Kellers’ house.

“Stop staring at me,” he said without looking at me.

“I’m not,” I dismissed, hoping it was dark enough that he wouldn’t be able to see the blush spreading across my cheeks. I closed my eyes. “Wake me if something happens,” I said sleepily.

He laughed coldly. “You’re not going to sleep.”

“Yes, I am. I won’t be able to get up for school tomorrow if I don’t get some rest.”

“This is a stakeout,” he said, finally turning to look at me. His gaze made me want to shrink away from him, it was so intense. “It involves keeping watch. How do you plan on doing that if you’re asleep?”

“It doesn’t take two of us to watch an empty street in the suburbs.”

“So you’re just gonna take a nap and leave me alone for the whole night?”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “I hadn’t realised you were enjoying my company that much.” 

“Good point,” he nodded, turning back towards the window. “Sleep tight.”

  The Collins English Dictionary defines the phrase ‘rude awakening’ as “an occurrence of being made to face an unpleasant fact”. According to this definition, my rude awakening was opening my eyes to find that I was, indeed, still confined in a cold car with Jughead Jones. A more literal interpretation, however, would define my rude awakening as Deep Purple blasting from the speakers of the car, disturbing my sleep.

I shifted, grimacing. My entire body ached, my neck was stiff, and my nose was numb from the cold. The sun had risen, but it did nothing to combat the icy chill in the air.

“Finally,” Jughead grunted, shaking his head disapprovingly. “I was beginning to think you were dead.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I muttered, sitting up slowly. I stretched my neck cautiously, rubbing the tight muscles until the pain eased. “How was I supposed to sleep through this noise?” I grumbled, switching the stereo off in a brief moment of bravery.

“How about you don’t touch the stereo?” he spat.

“How about you don’t be a dick?” I retorted, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“Wow,” he said. “You’re cranky in the morning.”

“You’re cranky all the time.”

“Only when I’m with you.”

“Likewise,” I said, flashing him a sarcastic smile. I glanced at my phone. It was just after six am. I sighed. “Did you stay up all night?”

“Someone had to,” he said bitterly.

“We could’ve taken turns.”

“Convenient for you to say that now,” he sneered.

I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m guessing Joaquin didn’t show up?”

“Nope.”

“Does that mean we can leave?”

He thought for a moment. “I guess so.”

With that, he turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled to life. He dropped me home, merely scoffing at me when I said goodbye.

 I could barely keep my eyes open through school that day, which is more than I could say for Jughead. I glanced to his seat at the back of our chemistry class to find him asleep, cheek resting on his hand as his elbow rested on the table. His lips were parted slightly, his breathing soft and slow.

But I wasn’t staring.

I went home and fell right into bed, asleep before my head hit the pillow.

  I woke to several texts from Betty:

 3:45 pm – Hey!! We’re meeting at Pop’s at 6 to discuss the stakeout :)

 5:01 pm – Hey, I hope you got my last message? 6pm, don’t be late! :)

 6:10 pm – We’re at Pop’s

 6:12 pm – Should we start without you?

 6:23 pm – Your food is getting cold

 “Shit,” I muttered, pulling a sweatshirt over my head, shoving my shoes on. I took a glance in the mirror. My hair was a mess, and there were indentations down the right side of my face from where I’d slept on my hand. I attempted to make my hair look a little more presentable, but quickly gave up, dashing from the house and into my car. Pop’s was only a few blocks away, so I was there in minutes.

“I am so sorry,” I breathed as I plopped into the booth beside Betty and across from Jughead. “I fell asleep.”

“Typical,” Jughead said, rolling his eyes.

“That’s okay!” Betty said brightly. “I bet you were tired after last night. I should’ve thought of that.”

“She slept the whole time.”

“No I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did,” Jughead said sternly.

“Let’s not do this,” Betty intervened. “(Y/N), Jughead was just telling me that it was a bust.”

I nodded. “Sorry, Betty.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she smiled. “We can try again another time. For now, I have a new lead.”

She looked at me and her eyes were glinting. I couldn’t help but be intrigued.

“So as we already know,” Betty continued, “Jason was working for the serpents before he died. It turns out he met with them in a building on the outside of town.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

She shrugged, “Polly let it slip last night.”

I didn’t pry any further, aware that Betty’s sister was a sore topic for her after she moved in with the Blossoms.

“Do you know which building it is?” Jughead asked.

“I have a fair idea,” Betty nodded, avoiding eye contact with us both. “We can check it out some time this week. (Y/N), we’ll be out late. Is there any day your parents won’t notice you’re missing?”

I frowned. “They work late on Thursdays. We could do it then, as long as I’m back by eleven.”

“If we leave at eight, that’s more than enough time!” she beamed.

Betty ordered a round of milkshakes, determined to discuss theories and potential leads. All I wanted was to leave. I kept glancing at Jughead to find him glaring at me, and I’d just look away, blushing. What did I do to that boy to make him hate me so much? I probably shouldn’t have slept through the whole stakeout, it only made things worse. In my defence, I thought I’d only sleep for an hour or so. I thought he’d wake me sooner.

As we left, I decided to try to make it up to him. “Do you guys need a ride?” I asked.

“That’d be great!” Betty smiled.

“No, thanks,” Jughead answered.

Betty cocked her head to one side, looking at him. I rolled my eyes. “It’s just a ride home, Jughead. Not a damn friendship bracelet. You can still hate me afterwards.”

“I don’t need a ride,” he asserted, turning to walk away.

“It’s the least I can do,” I called. “Just get in the car, Jughead.”

“Yeah, Juggie,” Betty agreed. “It’s just a ride home.”

He let out a puff of air, shaking his head. “Fine,” he grumbled, climbing into the backseat.

He insisted I drop Betty home first, much to my bewilderment. I couldn’t understand why he would want to be alone in the car with me if he could avoid it. He sat in the backseat, giving me directions to his house. Eventually, I pulled up beside a pastel blue house with a white picket fence.

“This is it,” he said, reaching for the handle.

I locked the doors.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“This isn’t your house, Jughead.”

“Yes, it is, (Y/N).”

“No,” I insisted. “Reggie Mantle lives here.”

“How would you know that?”

“I was at his last birthday party,” I shrugged. “What’s your problem with me knowing where you live?”

“I don’t have a problem-”

“Then tell me where to go.”

“Just let me out here.”

“No, Jughead,” I said, exasperated. I turned in my seat to face him. “There is a killer on the loose in Riverdale. I will not let you walk home alone. I am going to drive you, and you are going to get in the passenger seat because right now I feel like a taxi driver and I don’t like it.”

He stared at me for a long time, no readable emotion on his face, before he sighed and climbed into the front seat. He resumed giving me directions, until we ended up at the school.

I stared at the building in confusion, half expecting it to morph into an apartment complex before my eyes.

“You’re living here?” I asked quietly.

He exhaled a breath, and I took that as a “yes”.

“How long?” I asked.

“A few days,” he said. “A week… maybe two.”

“Oh, my God, Jughead,” I almost whispered. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I was staying with Archie, but his dad is really struggling right now. Financially, I mean. I told them I could stay with my dad again, but I came here instead.”

I clenched my jaw. “Fuck this,” I said. “Go get your stuff. You can stay with me.”

He huffed out a sharp breath. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious.”

“Why would you do that?” he said loudly, anger brimming dangerously close to the surface. “Why would you do that for me? You hate me.”

I rolled my eyes. “You can’t stay here, Jughead! This is a school.”

“I’m aware, thanks,” he replied sarcastically.

“Then you should also be aware that sleeping here is trespassing on government property. You could get arrested.”

He stared off into the school grounds, thinking. “What about your parents?” he eventually asked.

“They don’t have to know,” I replied, hiding my fear for his sake. “They aren’t home yet. I can sneak you in before they get back.”

He nodded, biting his lip.

“If you hurry, that is,” I continued, looking at him expectantly.

“Right,” he said, nodding. He took a breath, as if he was going to say something, but decided against it. He seemed to swallow the words before they escaped. His brow was furrowed, gaze distant. I started to ask him if he was alright, but he left the car, squeezed through a hole in the wire fence of the school. He jogged off behind the building and returned ten minutes later with a rucksack of his belongings. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy when I realised how long he’d been living out of that bag.

Part Three

[lovenicksherlock]

CAPE TOWN ART FAIR QUESTIONNAIRE

1. In the Woodstock, Blanc gallery space, the sculptures and objects they have on display are very rarely placed on plinths. The galleries objects and sculptures are worked into the space. Whereas at the art-fair, Blanc made use of a number of plinths for work. On top of this, there were only big works, and small portraits, there were no medium sized works and not very many obscurely shaped works, most of them were rectangular and framed. The Stevenson space in Woodstock usually paints their walls a colour that synchronizes the space with the work. At the art fair, the Stevenson space only had white walls. In addition to this, the gallery like to spread their work inside rooms and not across a stage, they divided their area at the art-fair into little cubes with the white room dividers/walls.

2. Three works I really enjoyed: Bad paper Nico Krijno, The Fluid Right Edge 2017, Kyle Weeks – Vezepame Hembinda. Zander Blom – Zebra Butt. Three works I really didn’t enjoy: Kilmany jo liversage, machinika119. Distortion 1 horizontal lines, ihosvanny. Tuirya magadlela, hlinyo ngiphumile kuwe thando.

3. This year, many of the works on the show were paintings or had a painterly quality. There wasn’t a lot of installation work at all, which is not much of a surprise considering the point of showing at the fair is to sell things and installations are not necessarily as easy to flip or sell to a tourist or a collector as a painting or an easily transportable object.

4. There were passageways created between booths and stands. A lot of the spaces were divided with columns and few were made into cubes. I noticed that a lot of the photography galleries tried to make white cube spaces whereas the more contemporary painting galleries had dividers in the cubes.

5. Some of the spaces didn’t use printed labels, one in particular, used pencil writing on the walls as labeling! This didn’t look much like a creative decision, it looked more like a last minute fix. Some works had prices next to them, others you had to request. Most of the spaces hung the work at eye level.

6. The fair was almost split into three main sections, with photography booths, painting and then sculpture/object-based work. With the restaurant section on the one side and the sponsorship sections on the other. It was difficult to zoom out and gain a feel for where the space was going or how the curators wanted us to move across the fair. 

7. Lighting was artificial and bright.

8. A lot of people at the fair had a tourist type look about them, holding cameras and wearing floral button up t-shirts. Prospective buyers or visitors seemed to dress affluently and even sometimes eccentrically, gallerist’s dressed conservatively and formally.

9. Most of the galleries seemed to pull their grandest most extravagant or large- in-scale works out for the fair. It seemed like the galleries tried to push their biggest names out into the fair. Some works on plinths, notably Athi-patra Ruga’s sculpture of a figures bust, titled Approved Model of the New Azania, was almost screaming “buy me”. It had its own solo booth and was placed strategically on the outskirts of the gallery space, close to the pathway, subjecting passers-by to its glamour and extravagance.

10. Athi-patra Ruga’s sculpture, titled, Approved Model of the New Azania, had a shimmery, gold finish. The work exemplified wealth in that it was an object, that had no physical function (apart from being an artwork), made up of what looked like diamonds, expensive crystals and pendants. Although the work may not have actually been made of real diamonds, the piece felt as though it was dripping with fortune and wealth. Something that someone might have in their lounge, just for the sake of having it, and because it looks so expensive.

11. There was a gallery called Retro Africa, a lot of the work they had up at the fair didn’t seem like it was doing “African Art” any justice in that the works on display looked very unskillfully made, they did not display any technical skill. The works looked like something one might pick up on a smaller scale at a trendy curio shop in De Waterkant. As an establishment I am sure Retro Africa don’t uphold this kind of image outside of the fair, it just seemed as though they were really trying to appeal to anyone outside of Africa that wants to own something stereotypically “African looking”, something that says “I spent a holiday in Africa and came back with this generic yet exclusive piece of African art.”

12. Gallerist’s and sales persons were very open to revealing prices to me, I am not sure if it was because they just didn’t take me seriously or if it was because it is a fair, but both galleries I asked were comfortable and approachable with revealing prices.

13. Sponsors were not that pushy with putting their brand in every bodies face. There was a Boschendal wine stand, I imagine this is good marketing for them as tourists will buy their wine at restaurant’s or shops after tasting it at the fair. As for investec, I didn’t see that many logos floating around at the fair. I suppose Investec as a company sounds quite exclusive and serious, art-fairs are considered big budget, exclusive events. Investec as a company seems to uphold that sort of exclusive attitude. I think that there was a lot more sponsorship going on behind the VIP section.

14. CTICC is a great place for conventions I imagine because it is geared for events. It has a large open space, it has all the facilities to facilitate large amounts of people, it is centrally placed in Cape Town, it is next to hotels and restaurants

15. Some of the Kentridge looked older most of the works at the fair.

16. Lea Columbo (25)

17. Solo booths were tailored to suit the style of the artists work on display. For example, in Athi-patra Ruga’s solo booth, the walls around his work were painted a dark tone. As for the way the walls were arranged, they cornered off his work from the rest of What if the Worlds space, also, the lighting may have been a little different and the work was facing outwards towards the pathway/route people were taking around the fair.

18. Jody Paulsen is popping up online and in a VISI publication this year. Bad Paper are also popping up on social media.

19. This year, many of the works on the show had a tactile quality. A lot of what we saw felt like it was created with a sensitivity or a consciousness towards the tactile. In addition to this, what came as no surprise, most all of the work at the show was rectangular in format. With regards to framing, a lot of the prints were in frames that did not speak to the work in some way. However, the Ayanda Mabulu piece had a frame that spoke directly to the semiotics of the work. This was one of the few paintings that used a frame in this way. It also looked like a lot of the work at the show dealt with Afrocentricity and many of the works I took note of dealt with conversations around post vs. the idea of neo-colonialism.

20. The French Gallery, Officine Dellimmagine, because they aren’t based in SA and they deal in Euros but are interested in some South African artists. Then again What if the World would be amazing because they are local and feel progressive in the sense that they embrace new, contemporary work, and their artist all seem to say good things about the gallery.

21. I would not like to work for a gallery if I had to choose I would choose Officine Dellimmagine because it would force me to learn another language really well and I would work in their sales department and travel the world selling their photographic work.

22. If I were to show at the fair I would enjoy creating a booth for independent, student work. I would show only student work and it would only be fun art.

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Haute mess: how the scruffy trench became fashion’s favourite coat | Fashion

As with many things in fashion today, the evolution of the trenchcoat can be traced to Kim Kardashian’s Instagram feed. On 16 October, the day before she was held at gunpoint and thieves stole $5m of her jewellery, she attended the Balenciaga fashion show in Paris, dressed in a trenchcoat masquerading as a ballgown, tied at the waist, cleavage in full effect. Fast-forward six months and the look had changed. On a night out, the star wore her trench open, shrugged on her arms, an apparently half-arsed attempt to cover up an outfit that consisted of a corset, lace leggings and little else.

Kardashian isn’t an insouciant dresser by any means – this is a woman who once explained to the internet how “we”, as in her team, wash her hair, and who popularised the term “glam squad” for said team, on hand for her every contouring whim. But casual is how to wear the trench now. Kardashian isn’t the only one doing it. Rihanna is into it, too – she wore hers oversized with an equally huge T-shirt. Then there’s Gigi Hadid in an open trench and crop top.

Trenchcoat by Boutique at Topshop

It has good catwalk game. This take on the trench for autumn is never tightly belted, always worn long and often in a size that the less fashion-literate might judge too big. It came in paper-thin leather at Céline; long and checked at Stella McCartney; belt trailing, bike helmet in hand at Vetements; creamy and flowing at Burberry. Finery and Marks & Spencer do fine examples on the high street, while Topshop says its trench is a bestseller this year. The trenchcoat with plaid cuffs is the piece all of fashion wants from the JW Anderson x Uniqlo collection, out next month.

Crucially, though, this trench is also worn by those without blue-tick Instagram followings. You will see it on public transport in the morning – worn crumpled with Birkenstocks, jeans, probably with a Daunt Books bag and no makeup. If once the trench was the symbol of the pulled-together, worn by those on their way to boss a meeting or sort out the gender pay gap, this one is more likely to be on the back of someone who works for, say, a midcentury modern furniture dealer, who has a subscription to Kinfolk and Aesop toiletries in her bathroom. This trench is the opposite of the pulled-together, Kate-Middleton approved trench, worn buttoned-up and with a blowdry. In fact, it’s downright messy.

Vetements trenchcoat, Paris 2017. Photograph: Kristy Sparow/Getty Images

If “humblebrag” is a term honed in the digital era, in fashion it’s a concept as old as the hills – the messy trench is classic “this old thing?” dressing, the kind of item that implies your wardrobe is so fabulous that you don’t even need to try. That’s why the trench now should never be belted. To do so shows a misunderstanding – we’re looking for a nonchalance, a laissez-faire attitude to ironing, taking the carefree summer thinking into this bit of the year, when one day in August could have a month’s worth of rainfall.

The trench has its roots, as the name suggests, in the trenches. It was designed, depending on whom you ask, by either Burberry or Aquascutum and worn by soldiers in the first world war. Since then, memorable civilian wearers include Columbo, Holly Golightly, Inspector Clouseau, Meryl Streep in Kramer vs Kramer and Prince, with black bikini pants, on the cover of Dirty Mind. Now, most women have a trench on their coat rack. It’s part of the elite of fashion classics, along with Breton tops and ballet flats, a sure thing on internet-based lists of items that every woman should own.

Céline trenchcoat. Photograph: Victor Boyko/Getty Images

This latest version shows it as part of a wider trend that turns the everyday into a meme – from the Balenciaga Ikea bag to the just-released Supreme-branded chopsticks – where nothing, not even a fashion classic, is immune from a reworking. This take is a clothing cliche come to life – worn knowingly, lightly, with no respect for its august history. Respect for your elders is over in fashion. It’s time to get messy.

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