#to be fair. this particular idea has been brewing in the back of my brain for a while.

[musical-chick-13]

Tfw I was GOING to write a fic for my event, but maybe I make a parody song instead.

[somepsychopomp]

As my brain rot turns more aggressive and I continue to fixate on omega Odysseus w/out treatment or rest, I am now imagining an AU of him being kidnapped to Troy. (Quick run down- Paris, Hector, & Priam are all alphas.)

Skipping over all the dramatics of him being in a foreign land with a scrawny loser of a new husband, plus him longing painfully for his wife & newborn son back in Ithaca, and also the idea of alpha Penelope donning her old armor & leading her men to Troy...

I cannot help but imagine Odysseus getting along with the royal family (aside from Paris), in particular King Priam. It's not that Odysseus sees his own father in the man, though there are a few superficial similarities including their older age & kindly/fatherly natures.

It's that, at least in my mind, King Priam is a very wisened old king who can easily match wits with Odysseus in games, riddles, and philosophy. Though Odysseus doesn't trust any of them at first and tries to escape Troy at literally every opportunity possible, it's not divine will or Paris that keeps him in place, but Priam.

He knows how a prisoner thinks, having been to war before. At the behest of poor Paris who cannot get any of his new husband's sexy thighs or beefy arms, Priam devises elaborate routes that the guards must walk, hides the entrances to all the secret tunnels leading out of the palace, etc. Pretty soon though, Ody figures out that it's not really Paris pulling the strings here, despite him being the one to have picked the most beautiful goddess & get a spouse as his reward.

It's also a little strange for Odysseus to be surrounded by so many princes and princesses. Ithaca is a small, rocky isle and his own family was not particularly large. In contrast, Troy is a massive trading hub w/ a huge royal family consisting of many of the king's offspring.

This new and wholly different setting stresses Odysseus out a lot and Priam takes notice. He instructs Hector to do his best to befriend Ody, thinking that the most cunning of the Achaeans could only be rivaled by the greatest Trojan warrior.

Side note- I'm really hungry and about to make dinner so I'll make this part short. When Hector manages to stop a few of Odysseus' escape plans, he thinks it's just luck. When Hector begins to challenge him to archery contests or sparring matches... despite the size difference (bc omega Ody is a short king)... Odysseus gets curious. What's this guy's plan? What is he trying to prove?

Long story short, Hector bests Odysseus in wrestling, but Ody appreciates that this big alpha didn't hold back or pity him. And even more interesting, he also didn't lord his victory over Odysseus' head.

In contrast, Hector's jaw drops as he witnesses Odysseus not only beat him in every feat of archery, but pulls out new moves and trick shots he's never seen before.

(Paris is watching from the sidelines as his big brother & his husband start to get along. Priam strokes his beard and smiles to himself, thinking that the palace will finally get a full night's sleep if Odysseus could accept them as his new family & stop trying to escape.)

Even so, it doesn't take long for Ody to figure out that Hector was told to befriend him by his father.

So Odysseus, finally, sits down with the old man and asks what his deal is. Considering Odysseus is technically married to Paris now, Priam says he only wants what's best for both his family & Ody.

In contrast, Odysseus insists what's best is for him to go home to Ithaca. Whatever ill will that's been brewing over on his side of the sea will surely abate once he returns safe and unharmed. He'll even vouch for Troy and assure his wife/allies that he was treated very well & that there's no reason to start a feud of any kind.

Priam... agrees. He thinks Odysseus has a fair point and that his plan is sound. But Paris was bestowed Odysseus' hand by the gods. He doesn't know what to do in this situation, and him admitting his shortcomings with patience and humility surprises Ody.

He begins to understand why the Trojans so revere their king. Ody wonders if he can convince the king to set him free.

But then Penelope comes, and she's backed up by a whole army.

Most of the Greek army is ready to go and want nothing more than to sack Troy for all its worth, but both Priam and Odysseus would rather try to find a diplomatic solution. Meanwhile, Penelope just wants her husband & omega back. She doesn't care if it's through conquest or diplomacy, she swears an oath that she will not leave Troy's shores unless it is with Odysseus at her side.

And uhhh..... let's say it's been about 10 years worth of intermittent peace efforts w/ the semi-frequent skirmish.

In that time, yes Odysseus angsts for home and wants his real family back, but I think Priam would no doubt begin to see Ody as one of his own. He admires Odysseus' wit and his intelligence, and Ody is forced to admit that the king is a skillful negotiator and an excellent strategist (even tho Hector's doing most of the leading on the battlefield). They tend to find each other late at night, when everyone else has gone to bed, and discuss things in hushed voices. The will of the gods, fate, love, family. Priam holds much wisdom and Odysseus much cunning.

Plus, while Priam has some omega daughters, he's never had an omega son before. A part of him thinks it must be some cruel twist of fate that he's become so fond of what is essentially Paris' captive.

In the most insane AU ever where the war ends amicably, I'd like to imagine Priam kissing Ody's hands before he departs for Ithaca w/ Penelope at long last. He wishes Ody well and says that his absence in Priam's court will be felt.

In turn, Odysseus thanks King Priam for his hospitality.

Priam also cannot help but send Ody home with gifts. Bedsheets and clothing woven in traditional Trojan styles, a newly made quiver, and a small golden brooch taken from Priam's own wardrobe. In his mind, despite the hardship brought upon his house by Odysseus' presence, sending him off to Ithaca feels like he's marrying off one of his own children. He may never see Odysseus again and can only wish the best for him.

As Odysseus' ship leaves Troy's waters, he stands at the stern with Penelope at his side. With one hand intertwined with hers, he raises his other and waves goodbye.

[thebmatt]

FFXIV Write Day 2

Aberrant - departing from an accepted standard OR diverging from the normal type.

CONTENT WARNING: asshole parents denigrating their child with sexually charged language

"Master? A letter arrived for you."

Ahldblaet Fyrilberksyn looked up from the stack of documents with an irritated expression at the servant who'd interrupted him, a hyuran male of fair skin and hair.  "Well, boy? Who is it from then? Twelve save you if this isn't worth interrupting my very important work!"

The man went even paler. "I....I don't know, master. The envelope was not signed. The post markings indicate that it originated in Eorzea, but otherwise the only marking is that of a small green axe. I don't know..."

Ahldblaet's eyes, normally perpetually narrowed due to being deep set in his face, widened in shock. "Give that here!" he shouted. "And be gone with you!"

The servant scurried over to Ahldblaet's massive desk and practically dropped the envelope on the nearest corner before fleeing with all haste, as though for his life. Ahldblaet immediately snatched it from the stack of parchment it had fallen on and inspected the markings that the servant had mentioned.

"Husband?" a voice called from the side door that led from his office further into the home.  Said door opened and a shorter Roegadyn woman stepped through, her ash-colored skin in marked contrast to the sea-blue dress she wore. Her dark grey hair framed a face that wore an annoyed expression. "What is all this bellowing about? You are disturbing my guests. It is...unseemly."

Ahldblaet turned his severe gaze upon the new entrant. He was tall and exceptionally broad, a picture of strength in his youth, but his body had taken on a measure of fat in his older age and more sedentary work. Despite this, and his balding head of hair, his steely eyed expression still cowed many of the people he dealt with on a day to day basis. "It would seem, wife, that the enormous investment we have paid into those mercenaries we dispatched to Eorzea may have finally borne fruit. This is a missive their leader sent me. After our last communication I told him, in no uncertain terms, not to contact me until he had something of note to report. Unless he has foolishly ignored my orders, this would mean he has something."

The woman was not cowed, having long becoming immune to her husband's glares. Impatiently she gestured to the envelope. "Well, open it then, you great oaf!  Maybe we will finally learn where our daughter vanished to!"

Ahldblaet tore the envelope and removed the missive inside. He began to read aloud, knowing from prior experience if he did not, his wife would snatch the paper from his hands mid-sentence. She was not a patient one.

"Masters Ahldblaet Fyrilberksyn and Lady Usynwyda Holaszirnwyn,

I am please to report that after much time and hard work on the part of the Emerald Marauders, we have located your wayward daughter. Furthermore, we have determined the reasoning as to why she evaded both us and every previous mercenary company your lordship sent to retrieve her

First, your daughter is no longer using her given name of Syhrwyda Ahldblaetwyn. Asking after that name yielded no results, aside from the merchants who recognized it only as pertaining to you. By sheer luck, we eventually stumbled across a Roegadyn language scholar who knew the translation of her first name and directed us to an adventurer known as 'Fearless Willow', one of the Warriors of Light.

I am hoping the story of the Warriors of Light does not require an explanation for your lordship, but I will remind you that these people are slayers of godlike beings who regularly enslave the minds of mortals around them, have engaged massive numbers of Garlean soldiers and magitek armor, defeated Imperial Legatuses in single combat (including the Crown Prince), and decisively ended a thousand-year war between a dragon horde and the nation of Ishgard.

From there, we set out to determine if this woman and your daughter are one and the same. It is well known that one of the Warriors of Light is in fact a Roegadyn woman, but we needed to be certain. Adventurers are often well traveled and thanks to the Aetheryte network, difficult to track. Your descriptions were also primarily of the physical sort, which did not help, as appearances are easy enough to change.

We caught a break in speaking to one of the mercenary crews you'd previously hired. Many of them had been either entirely wiped or or reduced in numbers to the degree that they'd disbanded. What few remained refused to speak with us once it became clear who we were tracking. One particular mercenary of an Ala Mhigan band (known as the Graybear Den, which if you recall abruptly returned your payment and refused the contract) however, let slip some valuable information after our agents plied him with enough drink. Once he realized who we were speaking of, he grew agitated and swore he would never help us find 'the Warrior o' Light". It would seem the Graybears believe they owed a measure of loyalty to the Warriors of LIght for their instrumental parts in liberating their homeland.

It was, however, enough. Once we determined that your daughter and this Warrior of Light were in fact one and the same, we began looking for ways to isolate her and take her prisoner. Unfortunately this has proven extremely difficult. As they are involved in affairs that affect the entirety of the star, the Warriors of Light are often on the move, moreso than normal adventurers. Furthermore, as I have mentioned, they are peerless warriors, often in each other's company or those of their fellow Scions of the Seventh Dawn. If you don't know the order, suffice to say they are Warriors and Scholars both who labor on behalf of all peoples to defend the world against tyranny and false gods. They are exceptionally successful in this regard. The Scions often meet and collaborate with the leaders of various powers on this continent, who are often accompanied by their own soldiers or bodyguards.

We have remained patient however, and managed to catch a glimpse of her. As I mentioned was likely, she has extensively changed her appearance. Her hair is now of a longer cut and nearly all black, with only highlights of the teal you had mentioned remaining. She has also taken to wearing dark makeup.

We have also determined that unlike her fellow Warriors of Light, she does not dwell in the Scion's headquarters. Instead, she has taken to living in the Hingashi port city of Kugane, where she has a modest home in the district of the city reserved for foreigners.

Finally, and you may wish to brace her ladyship for this part, she does not live there alone. Our spies have reported that her home is occupied by two other women, and their observations of them interacting within the city indicates that the three of them are lovers

We believe that this is our best shot at capturing her, but the price for her return to you has just doubled.

You are doubtless shaking with rage, but you hired us to retrieve a woman that you led us to believe would provide minimal resistance. Even isolated from the other Scions in Kugane, we believe we will face extreme resistance in this job. For starters, your daughter has mastered several forms of combat, including the ways of the Hingashi samurai, the axe-masters of Abalathia's Spine, and the art of thaumaturgy. She is also known to wield the Sharlayan art of Astrology, and has mastered a form of dance from Radz-at-Han that wields circular blades with deadly precision.

Furthermore, Fearless Willow is a known and loved name within the borders of Kugane, despite being a foreigner in a city that remains neutral to all concerns beyond their borders. She was instrumental in aiding their geomancers in repelling an attack from a fox-like beast known as 'Kinko' and she also trained alongside the Sekiseigumi (the samurai order that enforces the laws of the city, brutally so) and helped them put down a rebellion from within their own ranks. One of her lovers is a high ranking member of the Sekiseigumi. The other is a member of her dance troupe who is on an extended tour in the city. She is every bit as deadly in the art as Fearless is.

The point is that, even isolated from the other Scions, many people will rush to her aid. We expect heavy resistance and significant losses. The original reward will not suffice to cover this.

We will not move forward with this operation until we have your confirmation of acceptance of the new price. And we suggest you hurry, as events brewing suggest your daughter will soon be called back to the fight, at which point it is impossible to tell when we will have another opportunity

Cmdr Guji Pokiji Chief Executive, Emerald Marauders  

Ahldblaet set the letter on his desk, shaking with rage as he looked to his wife."How DARE that miniscule INSECT think to extort us?? A Warrior of Light, indeed. As if our useless fool of a daughter has the brains to take on even one sort of combat discipline, much less five! How gullible does he THINK us to be?"

Usynwyda nodded, a disgusted sneer on her face. "The NERVE of her, to merely toss aside the name we chose for her, only to refer to herself in the....ugh...common tongue! Still, the name cannot be a coincidence. Whatever other lies that little gnat undoubtedly told, this is the best lead we have had on Syhrwyda since she ran away."

"It is. And if they are not all lies, then it is all the more imperative we retrieve her before word of any of this gets out among our enemies. The very idea that she would toss aside the husband we painstakingly chose for her after careful selection and delicate negotiation in favor of laying with another woman, much less two! I worried she would do stupid things, but this level of degeneracy, of abberance? It is unconscionable!"

Usynwyda shuddered. "We cannot let this get out. I can never face any of the ladies if they should learn my daughter has become no better than some...common whore. We must marry her off to the Greinmyrgan boy with all haste before she does any further damage to us, to the company."

Ahldblaet scribbled furiously. "I am already writing orders to have our ship made ready and for our elite guards to prepare for a journey. We will find her and we end this nonsense."

Far away, in Kugane, the Warrior of Light known as Fearless Willow shuddered as she prepared to fall asleep. She had no ping from the Echo, no signal from her finely honed danger sense to explain it, but she definitely felt as if trouble was heading her way, and no idea what it might be.

[acommonloon]

TL;DR

What a delicious memorable night!

Except, I returned to the scene of a crime and got a last call beer and I'm a little disturbed I can't remember what it was. Let me think.

Oh that's right. I remember now.

____________________________________________________________

I remember hours before, going in The Raven, circling the bar before walking back out, not a single beer worth the time to drink it.

I remember darting across two busy lanes of traffic to see what The Ainsley was all about. It was the second venue to inhabit my much loved and missed Blue Grass Brewing Company, where I bought countless beers in past years. I never went in The Sullivan, it first followed BBC but, The Ainsley laudes itself as an upscale sports bar.

I nearly didn't go in. The building outside blinded me with unadorned white walls and...they took all the fucking windows out! Still, I had just braved rush hour on Frankfort Ave in 90deg heat so I pushed on. I was back outside in less than 5 seconds.

The inside was...where old white people go to die and maybe a few patrons at the bar had succumbed. The place reeked like a basement couch leaking generations of old man farts and the barely moving white heads scattered along the bar looked like moths fluttering their last against a hot window sill. I ran back across Frankfort.

Briefly I considered bailing. I could be home in under an hour where I've got beer worth drinking for days, weeks even. I'm no quitter though. I was parked in front of Street Grub and Hops, a bizarrely named venue I'd been in a few times since The Mellow Mushroom failed to survive in Louisville's over crowded pizza market.

I remembered they had 30+ taps behind their large U-shaped bar and I could see the whole side of the building was open to the sidewalk. Inside a band was setting up to play so I was assured in this place I wouldn't need mothballs to dispel the odour of human demise.

If my sense of failing mortality seemed unaccountably morbid on a bright Friday afternoon, in my defense, a new place next to Street Grub caught my eye. NSD Bar it said on the sign. What's that? Never Say Die Bar <shakes head>

I was met at the bar by a lively young man with a lush black beard and handlebar mustache. Thirsty? he asked. You've no idea.

He gesture towards the wall of taps and said let me know if you see something that piques your interest.

I chuckled and said that's a tall order. I spend too much time beer hunting.

He laughed then and said to which spelling are you referring?

My brain stuttered then I got the clever play on words he'd heard in my "tall order" reply, accidental for sure.

Which did you mean I countered, then I spelled peak or pique? The second one he smiled as he walked off.

<sigh> it was 5:10 already and I didn't know it but I'd just experienced the high point of my visit to Street Grub. In spite of their large list, only one beer piqued my interest and Austin, of the peaky facial hair, apologized when he discovered it was no longer on. My second choice, in spite of being a Stone Brewing offering, had no more character than the Miller Lite branded glass they brought it in. Worst of all, the fried pickles sucked. I should have remembered that because I'd had them there before.

I got back in my car with no particular plan. Then remembered a friend had mentioned the bar I had visited on Saturday had a Speakeasy room in the basement. <shrug>The Speakeasy theme has never interested me but such places often do high quality drinks and my recent visit to Gerties upstairs bore that out. They made me a Penicillin or two actually and they were terrific. I could do with another or two.

As soon as I walked in, the bartender greeted me with, "You're back!" I grinned back at him and said, "I heard you've a room in the basement." We do and he pointed around the bar to a door and said tell the bartender downstairs his Penicillin isn't as good as mine.

Recently, the guy that runs a nearby wine bar told me I was memorable. He said, "You make an impression." I wasn't sure he was complimenting me but I do appreciate it when the bartender remembers what drinks I like. I headed downstairs into the dark. It was really dark and I was worried I might trip as I shuffled toward the dimly lit bar. The bartender shouted a hearty welcome and then he said knowingly, "I bet you want a Penicillin!" WTF

I replied, "What, the guy upstairs rang down? No he shook his head. I was at a loss until he took pity on me. He said, "I was upstairs the other day when you asked for a classic Penicillin. I make up all the drinks here so I noticed. Oh right, I said but actually, you look very familiar. Where have you worked before. When he said Red Herring it sounded right but I couldn't remember where that was. As soon as he told me it was next to the Silver Dollar the memories flooded back and we fondly reminisced about the drinks and food there.

Soon I had a classic Penicillin in front of me and we began to talk drinks. We included the only other guy at the bar in our conversation. He was rail thing, wore a scarf on his head, and had a robust but not too pornish mustache. I suspected he was staff there at Gerties. He was clearly interested but not so experienced. For the next two hours I enjoyed the back and forth and drinks.

Chad is a professional bartender who loves his job. He loves making drinks and he loves talking to people. While we chatted, more than twenty people, in pairs and sometimes larger groups came downstairs, got drinks and eventually left. At one point I was sure Matt Gaetz sat down at a two top. I did a double-take to be sure the woman with him wasn't Marjorie Taylor Greene in a wig. It was hard for me not to stare but I kept stealing glances. Eventually I concluded this guy was what Gaetz would look like if he wasn't befouled by evil. A very good looking guy!

When he left, I asked if I was the only one who thought that? No one had noticed but, by that time, Terrence, a large black man who'd come down with two white friends was standing next to me. He'd been ordering drinks when the bar conversation turned to German food and he joined our conversation eagerly. After delivering drinks to his friends, he returned to talk. When I suggested the guy who'd just left looked like the American traitor Matt Gaetz, he said no way! He went on to say Gaetz was a POS and if it had been him there might have been trouble. Lol, now that would have been memorable.

Terrence left wishing Chad and myself a good day, remembering both our names. It turned out the guy with the scarf on his head was a sous chef at nearby Bar Vetti. OMG, I'd meaning to go there but I worried D wouldn't like it. I asked him if they would make her a pepperoni pizza. He said they had one but it had calabrian and peppadew peppers on it. Yeah, can you take those off. Um yeah?

I said I'd just go check it out myself for dinner after I finished the Negroni riff Chad had excitedly made up on the spot using a special dry vermouth and something that wasn't Campari. He referred to it as a white Negroni. It was delicious!

Bar Vetti was only about a hundred feet down the sidewalk from Gerties. I enjoyed the early evening as I walked, it was comfortably warm with a gentle breeze and for the first time in a long time, Nulu felt normal. People were sitting outside the Taj and the Mayan Cafe, the evening was alive with conversation, color, and movement. When I looked in the windows of the new swanky Marriott Hotel it was the same inside and there might not be room for me at the bar.

I walked past the unattended hostess stand into a storm of blaring conversation. I stopped in front of an empty seat but there was a drink there so I turned around to the other side. I asked a man in a suit if the empty seat next to him was taken. It's yours he answered without looking away from his companion. I sat and picked up the wine list.

On my left were three young men, obviously of southwest Asian heritage. Within seconds I understood they were native English speakers and they were having a good time. The youngest one was next to me and he seemed barely old enough to shave. He was rather louder than the others and seemed to be mildly complaining about something. The bartender came over to them and appeared to pick up a conversation she must have started before I got there. It was really more of a lecture and she was telling them that she couldn't spend all of her time in front of them as she and another bartender had a full bar.

I felt myself tense a little, wondering if there was going to be an altercation. I didn't look at the young men but watched the bartender closely. While her words were stern, her body language seemed relaxed. I heard the man furthest away from me say, "That's fair." The bartender didn't acknowledge his words. She poured me a water and I asked for a glass of wine. Then I turned to the men.

"Are you guys from here or visiting?" I could see them tense up the young guy on guard most of all. I went on as if I hadn't noticed and said, I overheard you say this was your kind of place a minute ago. This is my first visit here and it's a bit fancy for me. They relaxed. I felt sure they were expecting to be challenged and I might look just like the kind of old white asshole who would do that.

We're from California the young guy said but we live here and work at Rabbit Hole. Do you know it?

Of course I said, it's something the city can really be proud of. I've been over there in the bar many times and the facility is gorgeous. Cameron seemed near to burst with happiness. He said, "We're just about to have a drink, will you join us? I said, sure what are we drinking. Rabbit Hole he said, "We got to represent!"

From that moment on, I had a dinner companion who was overjoyed to talk to someone who knows about the Kentucky whiskey business. When I said, the marketing for Rabbit Hole is genius, Cameron threw his hand up and pointed at the man farthest from me. Justin is our marketing!

Justin said well, to be honest I've only been there for 3 years and Cameron replied, "He's being too modest. We've only been open for 4 years. I asked Cameron, are you a distiller? I was when I first started he said. My uncle is the founder and I've got a business degree so now I work the financials. Wow, I replied.

He said, you have to come over and ask for us! We'll give you an insider tour. I waived that off a bit and said, I'll be sure to come back over but your beautiful column still is out where I can see it when I go to the bar on the roof. Sometimes I just stand at the end of the hall by the elevators and admire it. He said, "OMG we never get to talk to anyone like you!"

We had a drink of their Heigold and I didn't have to pretend it was good. I said, "I'd drank their sourced whiskey before but this was the first time I'd had something they'd distilled themselves other than their gin. It tasted more mature than I'd expected and I said I'd likely pick up a bottle now that I'd had it. I will.

Soon, Cameron's girlfriend came in and sat next to Justin. Cameron pretended to be annoyed and she seemed maybe a little suspicious of me. Soon she was sitting next to Cameron and was telling me all his faults. It was bar buddies in the best form. I asked for the whiskey list and suggested I buy us all a drink. I was disappointed by the selection TBH. The owner is a well-known whiskey aficionado and his BBQ joint just a block away has a much bigger selection of whiskey. I noticed an Old Forester Single Barrel Rye on the list and suggested it.

I specified it be served in rocks glasses instead of glencairns and we clinked our glasses when everyone had their drink. It was candy in a glass and far too sweet to be anything I'd recognize as rye whiskey but my bar buddies claimed to like it so no harm done.

When their food came, I settled my check and Cameron again expressed his pleasure at our talk. He renewed his invite to come to the distillery and I walked back out into the night.

When I got back to my car I looked up and saw Akasha Brewing was still open with people sitting at tables outside. The street at this end was quiet and peaceful. I remembered my last visit to Akasha hadn't gone well at all. The server there had refused to give me a taste of a beer. I was shocked. I'd already bought and paid for one beer when I asked for a taste. I said I was trying to decide which of two others I'd take home in a growler.

She said it was their policy not to give out tastes because people sometimes asked for lots of tastes and didn't buy a beer. WTF I had already bought a beer! I was so annoyed I'd decided not to drink at Akasha until they changed their stupid policy. If they were going to treat me like their worst customer, I wasn't going to spend my money there. Still, one more beer would be nice. Then I saw what I wanted.

That's it. A strong Belgian golden ale is what I had there!

[tomakeitbeautifultolive]

Listen, I might be playing the devils advocate, but I don't think Dany's fate in the GoT finale was due to D&D being sexist.I think it was just because D&D can't write for crap.

It’s not about intent.

Allow me to begin by saying that I completely understand the knee-jerk reaction that people have to the term ‘sexism’. It’s very polarizing, and when men read the term, they immediately go on the offensive. That’s not what I want at all. I don’t use the term to alienate or exclude men, I use it because it’s the dictionary definition of what I’m trying to convey:

sex·ism (noun): "prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination, typically against women, on the basis of sex.“

That said, allow me to play devil’s advocate here and say that I do not believe the writers intended to have an underlying sexist message. They are more oblivious than they are malicious. It is born of sheer ignorance (lack of knowledge or information) and the privilege to ignore it because, as males, it doesn’t affect them.

Let’s put aside the dozens of articles that came out after the finale calling out the sexism. You guys know me, I like to pull receipts, cite my sources, and throw in some visuals to help aid my point.

For most of the 70+ hours of Game of Thrones, Daenerys actually does not fall victim to these sexist tropes. Honestly, that is what subverted my expectations for seven seasons. That Dany always teetered on the edge of these tired, overused tropes about women, yet she remained steadfast in her ruthless yet good nature, her moral compass was always aligned even if it didn’t match the viewers, and she was a gods-damned hero, straight through to episode four of season eight.

But the demoralizing reality is that Daenerys was hit with trope after trope in the last three episodes. In the final hours of the show, the writers pulled a bait-and-switch, giving us a ‘shocking’ heel-tern whose only foreshadowing was a very bad retcon job full of double standards. And so many fans, such as yourself, justify it. Not because the show foreshadowed it, but because these tropes are so, so ingrained in our brains from decades of media feeding us these narratives that we now expect them.

In the end, Daenerys succumbs to numerous sexist tropes:

'God Save Us From the Queen’ trope

“The Good Kingdom: A lovely, wealthy country ruled by a benevolent king, a wise prince, and a fair princess loved by the populace. But what’s that? There’s a queen? Oh, brother, we’re in trouble.”

Disposable Woman trope

“This character has a familial or romantic relationship with a protagonist, which allows creators to derive heart-wrenching sorrow from her death.”

Evil Infertile Woman trope

“Women are often divided into "breeders” and “the barren,” with the latter coming off as cool and distant at best, and malicious and desperate at worst.“

The Double-Standard Trope

"A double standard occurs when members of two or more groups are treated differently regarding the same thing. Gender is one of the most common causes of double standards.”

Hysterical Woman trope

“This trope characterizes women as less rational, disciplined, and emotionally stable than men, and thus more prone to mood swings, irrational overreactions, and mental illness.”

Woman Scorned trope

“What’s the only type of woman more dangerous than a Mama Bear? A woman who’s been dumped or otherwise done wrong by her significant other. Especially if she’s been hiding some sanity problems.”

Women Are Delicate trope

“Even if women have toughness, competence, strength or stability, it’s less than what their male peers are capable of.”

The Woman Wearing the Queenly Mask trope

“They don’t want a young woman, or they don’t want any woman, or they just don’t want this particular woman on the throne.”

Tropes in and of themselves are not bad, but very outdated tropes that are associated with the emotional or mental ‘fragility’ of women are. Why? Because they reinforce deep-seated and subconscious stereotypes of women that audiences hold.

“It’s just a show/book! Who cares!”

People have been turning to art (including literature) for years for meaning, for philosophical guidance. Most people in my own country turn to one book to both find and justify their morality (the bible).

“Literature offers not just a window into the culture of diverse regions, but also the society, the politics; it’s the only place where we can keep track of ideas.”―Reza Aslan

It’s not just a show. The art and media we consume helps shape who we are, for better or worse. When men refuse to consider the consequence of their sexist narratives simply because it doesn’t affect their own lives, it inadvertently causes harm for others who don’t share their privilege.

And it’s not just Daenerys. She’s just the figurehead.

There was a great article from BBC about how much women actually speak on Game of Thrones:

I can already hear the counter-argument brewing…

“So what? There are more male characters!”

Yeah. There are. And that’s a problem, too.

Of the top-grossing 1,200 films from 2007 to 2018, 28% of films were led or co-led by women. Meanwhile, around 49.6 percent of the world’s population is female.

By featuring so few women and by giving women who are featured 20% of the airtime to speak their minds, the writers are unintentionally devaluing the speech and opinions of women. This inspires the audience to devalue women in a subconscious way.

Whether or not it intended to, Game of Thrones and its shocking 'heel-turn’ has very troubling sexist and political implications (amongst other things).

Go ahead, tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m blowing this way out of proportion.

Tell me it’s just a show or a book and every single fan knows how to separate fiction from reality (they don’t, go look at Maisie William’s Instagram comments following her season eight sex scene for proof of that). Meanwhile, here in actual reality, we see things like this:

@thescarletgarden1990 informs me that over in Italy, political figures are using Game of Thrones advertising in their campaigns, too:

Translation: “Invaded by masses of Others? Not Today. Immediate naval block, let’s defend our borders.”

What makes it worse is that, at least Donald Trump, identifies with House Stark. Or, those who rule the northerners. The people who showed their blatant racism toward the only two black named characters. And the writers never bothered to critique the problematic behavior, instead, rewarding their people with independence and driving those pesky evil foreigners ’back where they belong’.

I’ve barely had time to scroll my dash and I’ve already seen a troubling amount of harassment towards Dany fans via anon asks (including myself, though I just block the IP and delete but I wish I’d saved them for proof).

Why? Because the ending justifies their personal narrative, this bad writing confirms their worldview. Meanwhile, on the other side of the spectrum, the same thing is happening in reverse in response to the takedown of a figure like Daenerys Targaryen:

“Khaleesi’s heel turn is particularly troubling for fans who might have felt a true sense of connection to her character following her epic story arc, which has seen Dany escape some awful circumstances to literally walk through fire, free the slaves, bring Dragons to the north and help rally the troops to defeat the Night King. She has basically been Abraham Lincoln, Hercules and Winston Churchill combined into one person riding a dragon.” (x)

The point here is that the show is doing its audience of 19,300,000 viewers a great disservice by succumbing to very outdated tropes and double standards, and sending troubling messages as a result. For instance, a woman can do countless heroic or selfless things, but you should never trust her! She needs to be tempered. Women cannot wield power responsibly. There are endless messages you can take away from this ending and the dialogue that led us to the show’s conclusion (my personal favorite being ‘Cocks are important’).

And the fans who want to say 'you’re overreacting’ to everyone who speaks up against it are only aiding in this ongoing legacy of 85% male writers who get to tell our stories, poorly, and reap all the rewards.

Sure, all of this could be solely the result of ‘just bad writing’…

Nevertheless, it is what it is.

[sammy-jo1977]

Winning the Heart of the Devil Part 2

Link to Part 1

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Alex (oc)

Warning:  Clumsy Matt, Some more sexy times, intense scary situation almost could be rape, bit of cursing, almost smut

Disclaimer: I Do Not Own Daredevil or any related characters

Tags: @sllooney

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was days before they saw each other again. And only in a rush through the hall. Either him coming and her going, or reversed. And it was weeks before they could actually stop and speak to one another. Still even that was short lived. But one morning something changed. It was in the early hours. 3 maybe 4 am. She had just gotten to her door, digging her keys out of her bag, when she heard it. Now granted she had heard all sorts of things many nights. A rather painful sounding thump from inside her neighbors apartment. She went ahead into her own space as she set her beg and keys down and went to check her fridge for any leftovers from the previous night. But while she was reaching into the back for whatever bowl she was digging for, there was a series of loud thumps and knocks. Almost like someone had taken a punching bag and dropped it down a set of stairs. It dawned on her after a second or two. She blamed the slow process of her brain on lack of caffeine and the fact that she had been up all day then into the night. Food forgotten she rushed back to her door and out into the hallway. Once at his door she knocked and called out to him. "Matt?!" There was no answer. But she heard something from the other side of the door that sounded like a pained groan. "Matthew please tell me you're okay. I thought I heard.. I don't know what I heard. Just…. Look I.." More noise. She reached up to knock again when suddenly the door opened. Matthew Murdock was a wreck for lack of a better term. Wrecked and a little bloody. His glasses were missing from his face. A fresh bruise started to bloom along his jawline. His dark hoodie had slipped from his shoulder and she noticed more bruising before he zipped it up. "Matt what happened? It sounded like you fell down the stairs." A half smile pulled at his lips. "Yeah I uh. Actually kind of did. But I'm okay honest. Just slipped." She caught herself reaching out for a cut at his hairline. "You're bleeding Matt. Let me help?" His own hand went up to the cut. A quick grimace of pain flashed across his features. But he nodded at her request and led the way into his apartment. He moved to grab his first aid kit from where he kept it as he heard her moving about his kitchen. Dropping himself onto the couch he sighed and let his head fall back a little. He felt her perch herself on the arm of the couch and lean over him. "Let me see." With his eyes closed and head back, he brought the box up for her to take. She pulled out what she needed and set the box down in his lap gently. She tore open the wrapped alcohol pad and carefully started to clean the cut that ran from just above his eyebrow down to his temple. He hissed through his teeth at the burn of the alcohol. She pulled back but he nodded that she was okay to continue. "Sorry." she whispered. They sat there in silence while she worked. His eyes were closed for the most part. Her hand was steady. He listened to her steady breathing, her heart rate was just a little fast. Nervousness maybe. Her teeth dragged against her bottom lip a few times before she spoke. "Matt?" He hummed an acknowledgement. "Now. I don’t want to pry. Honestly I don’t. But what happened? I've seen enough bar fights to know what it looks like when someone gets clocked a good few times." He didn’t answer at first. The heavy rise and fall of his chest with the sigh he let out. "Would you believe me if I said it was a bar fight?" She almost wished he could see the incredulous look she was giving him. "Doubtful. But if that’s what you wanna go with." He opened his eyes, an unfocused gaze just around the area of her chin. "Yeah." She shook her head and focused back on her work. "Well I don’t think you need stitches which is good. It's not deep." He nodded. His hand reached up and brushed along the underside of her arm. "Good." She reached over to the box in his lap and put back the items she had pulled out but didn’t use. "Are you alright? Really?" He chuckled quietly and nodded. "Really. I had gotten home late. Went up to the roof to get some air. When I came down my foot slipped. I was more than halfway down anyway so I really didn’t fall that far." She huffed, shifted to stand up and go throw away the alcohol wipes away.  But stopped when his fingers wrapped around her wrist. He looked up at her and whispered, "Thank you Alex." She smiled, her wrist turning in his hand to brush her fingers lightly against his own wrist. "You're welcome Matt." They sat that way for a moment as she watched the lights from the billboard outside his window play across the lines of his face. The white butterfly bandages she had used stuck out blaring against his skin. "I should um.. I'll let you get to bed. I'm sure you gotta get up in the morning." He let her hand slip from his and listened as she moved towards the kitchen. "You could stay." She stopped. "If you want I mean." He tilted his head to almost look up at her as she came back to the couch. Sliding back up onto the arm, her thigh pressed against where his arm now rested. She took a deep inhale before leaning down and brushing her fingers up his arm. "Much as I would absolutely love to stay. I can't." His thumbnail scratched against her jeans as he brushed against her thigh. Her muscle jumped a little under his touch. Her heart sped up. Body heat rose. Oh yeah. She wanted to stay. "Why not?" His voice had gone deeper, husky even. He caught a slight whimper, almost unheard. "Because Matt. I have been up all day. And now almost all night. I need sleep. And I get the feeling that if I stay. Sleep will be at the bottom of the list of things that'll happen." Her voice has taken on a different tone. Much like the tone she had taken that day they had met. The one when she had made her comment about him on his knees. He laughed, a smile that made her heart pound pulled at his lips. The laugh alone was enough for her body to react. Treacherous thing. "Fair enough." He pushed himself up from the couch. "Come on. I'll walk you out." He steered her towards the door, hand at the small of her back. "Well. Maybe next time we get together.." Her words were cut off by his lips capturing hers and pressing her back against the door. One hand had come up to cup her jaw, the other to her waist holding her firm between his own body and the wall. The feel of his body against her own resulted in a moan pulled from her lips. The kiss was slow but full of heat. His lips  combined with the way his firm body pressed so solidly against her own had her aching for more. The need for air had him pulling away just enough to catch his breath. His fingers dug into the softness at her hip, his other hand had gone into her hair during the kiss and was now running across her scalp. "Sure you don’t want to stay?" He dipped his head low and ghosted his lips along the edge of her jaw resulting in a shuddered gasp from her. "Oh shit… Fuck.. Matt." Her breast heaved against his chest, the thin fabric of her tank top did little to block the heat radiating off her body. A heat which now was threatening to overwhelm them both. She felt him smile against her jaw, and he chuckled which rumbled low in his chest. "That’s the idea." he whispered against her skin. Matt slowly pulled away from her. His hand that had been in her hair let the strand pull through his fingers, and kept the one at her hip to steady her. He opened his door and pulled her out into the hall to her own door. He turned her again, placing one brief kiss to her slightly open lips, his tongue licking into her mouth just enough to tease. "Goodnight Alex, Sleep well." He whispered against her mouth before pulling back. A filthy satisfied smirk on his lips as he walked backwards to his own door. Her ragged breaths mixed with her groan made him chuckle as she turned and headed back into her apartment. He waited there in the hall till her door closed before he turned to his own. "You low down dirty playing fucking tease." He caught her words through the walls separating them. Mixed with the fading scent of her mixed with arousal made him groan. "You have no idea sweetheart. No idea." He made his way to his bedroom, intent on getting what few hours of sleep he could before morning. Foggy was supposed to come by before they headed to the office. Alex woke later in the day. Her coffee pot had just started its timed brew as she shuffled into the kitchen. As if he had planned it, her dreams had consisted of almost bruising touches, lust filled kisses, and a flushing heat that spread through her body and threatened to burn her alive. Her body heated up again just thinking about it. And while nothing had actually happened with him yet, that didn’t stop her from wishing it would. In fact she actually counted on it. Chewing on her lip, she wondered if she would see him again when she got off work. With her coffee made and a couple pieces of bread in the toaster, she made her way back to her room to get dressed. The cinnamon vanilla creamer scent filled her senses as she took a quick drink before setting the cup down. From the dresser she pulled out a particular favorite pair of jeans. Worn soft to the touch, a few distressed patches worn threadbare. This along with a dark tank top and a red plaid long sleeve shirt. She headed back into the kitchen, her coffee cup in hand. Her phone buzzed from the counter where she had it plugged in. She went about fixing her toast with cream cheese and after slicing a peach, a few slices on top. Another set of buzzing drew her attention again. She groaned and went to grab it after finishing off the last bit of her coffee. She unlocked her phone and typed a quick reply. Locked it back and slipped it into her back pocket before going to go grab her boots. The steel toe boots were heavy but preferred. Especially working in a bar with less than reputable customers. Grabbing the last of her stuff, Alex headed out of her apartment. One earbud stuck in her ear, her music turning on as she made it out onto the sidewalk. Her fingers drummed along to the beat. Humming along she dodged and twisted her way through the crowded streets. Even late at night it seemed that the streets of hell's kitchen were still somewhat crowded. The smell of smoke and stale beer leaked out onto the street when she opened the door to the dimly lit bar. The night went on uneventfully. Only a few idiots try to get too rowdy. Finally though the time came to lock the door. The other girl who worked that night asked if she was good to head out. "Go for it. Told the boss man I'd finish cleaning up." The place had an old jukebox off in the back. Alex made her way over to it, dropping the rag she had on a table close by and plugged in the numbers for the song she wanted. She thought it was a little funny that they had this particular album. One that she deemed favorite of all time even if it wasn’t original. She let the music flow through her as she moved around the tables. She gathered the few glasses left, wiped the tables and such. Once done with everything and the bar was in order, she locked up and headed down the street to home. She pulled her jacket closer. The night was not overly cold, just a little rainy. Not full on rain but certainly a thick misting. With her music playing again on her walk home, she wasn’t entirely paying attention to her surroundings. It was the couple guys that started up the street after her. Hanging back just far enough to not be noticed. She also didn’t notice when they started to get closer. Just when they got close enough for her to hear them. "Hey sweetheart! You ignoring us?" "Not very nice." She wrapped her arms around her, slipping her phone from the inside pocket of her jacket to see if she could call from help. "Hey now. No need for that." One ran up and grabbed her arm and snatched her phone away. "We just wanna have a little fun." "Look just.. Can you leave me alone? All I wanna do is go home." She was more exasperated then scared. The two started to cage her in. The one with her phone being in front of her. "Come on guys. Just.. Stop okay." They exchanged a look, one that made her nervous. The one closest to her reached out and grabbed her arm. Something she managed to avoid. Alex turned to run, to get as far away from these two guys as she could. But she only got a short ways before one of them caught her by the jacket and slammed her into the brick wall. She screamed, cut off by the groan of her connecting with the wall. The one who grabbed her moved in close, pressing his body into her back making her cringe. "All we want is a little fun sweetheart." She groaned in disgust. Her skin crawled where his hands touched her as he reached up and brushed the hair out of her face. "Get off me you prick." She knew she had a very short amount of time before the situation went very bad very quickly. The grip he had on her tightened. He had her pressed against the wall, her back to him with her arm twisted up behind her, face pressed into the brick wall. While he was distracted, talking to the other one, she threw her weight back with as much force as she could manage, slammed her foot down into his shin, and tried to twist out of his grip soon as she felt his hand loosen on her wrist. He howled in pain. Loosing his balance he stumbled. His friend made a move to grab her as she slipped from the other one. She reached out and grabbed the nearest thing she could to throw back at him. Her wrist burned after being wrenched in such a way. There was not as much force behind the trash can tumbling over as she would have liked. But he did stumble just short of grabbing her. She ran to the end of the ally, towards the street lights hoping to maybe flag down a car. Her phone had been dropped when she was grabbed. Someone grabbed her soon as she rounded the corner. She fought against the grip, not getting a good look at whomever had her. "Shh. Hey you're okay." She took in the man's appearance. At least for the split second she could before he turned her and pushed her back against the wall behind him then rounding on one of the men who had grabbed her. The guy coming around the corner swung wide, feeling brave due to still being in the shadows. Alex watched as the man in black ducked, letting the idiots fist connect with the wall. She watched, a bit in shock as the men fell back into the alley. Her adrenalin ran high, but she couldn’t move, her heart felt like it was going to burst from her chest. She looked around the street. A sparse few cars passed on the street. She struggled to get her breathing to slow, a sob threatened to break from her. She slid down the wall, hearing the fight slow to a stop. The man in black came slowly around the corner. His chest heaved, arm wrapped around his midsection. He crouched down next to her, his arm steadying him against the wall, close but not so close. "Are you alright?" A shuddered breath fell from her. "Breath. Slow down, you're okay now. They won't hurt you." His voice was low, a whisper. She almost didn’t hear him over her own heart beat thundering in her chest. "This door to the left, go inside, call the cops." She struggled to take deep breaths to calm herself. Her lungs burned, eyes stung from the unshed tears, she tried to focus in on the man who crouched beside her. He didn’t touch her but calmly whispered reassurance and later instructions. After he repeated what he had said before, he waited till she was inside the door and heard her talking to someone inside before he left. Though not completely until the police had arrived. Brett Mahoney among them. Knowing she was in decent hands Matt left. But promised himself he would stay up and wait till she actually got back to her apartment. With everything happening he didn’t get much of a chance to really take stock on how she was. And he found himself wanting to make sure she was really okay. Hours went by. He had lay on the couch after showering, one arm up behind his head, his body sore but not overly as much. He sighed heavily, his mind wandering just a little but still staying focused on any indication that Alex was back. Eyes drifted closed, chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The sound of feet on the stairs, a slight shudder with each breath, a sniffle followed by a groan. He opened his eyes and listened as Alex stuck her key in her door and pushed her way into her place, the door closing behind her. He listened to her as she got ready for bed. The shuffle of her bed sheets. But after a moment he breathing got labored. Trying to hold back the tears. But the dam broke, though not at full force. Sobs tore through her, enough she couldn’t catch her breath sometimes. But after a while they started to subside. And only when her breathing evened out to a slow steady pace indicating she was finally asleep did he let himself drift off.

[homenum-revelio-hq]

Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Jess!

You have been accepted for the role of LILY EVANS! We really enjoyed reading your application. We especially loved the moments in your app where you showed that Lily is not perfect. You really gave us a clear view on both her strengths and her flaws. Her failed career as a healer was just an example of that! We are so excited to have you as part of this roleplay!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: Jess

AGE: 23

TIMEZONE: GMT+10

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I tend to be fairly active, my goal is usually not to let 3 days pass without doing my replies and I generally meet this (unless I have left a uni assignment to the last minute!)

ANYTHING ELSE: N/A for triggers

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Lily Geraldine Evans

AGE: 21

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Cisfemale, she/her. Pansexual/Conceives of herself as heterosexual

BLOOD STATUS: Muggle-born

HOUSE ALUMNI: Gryffindor

ANY CHANGES: No thanks!

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY:

Lily Evans was made Head Girl in her final year at Hogwarts for more reasons than simply being a figurehead for Albus Dumbledore’s pro Muggle-born ideologies – although certainly, that helped. Known by many of her teachers and peers for being quick-witted and intelligent, the fact that she came to magic later than most of her peers did not hold her back for long. Lily’s intelligence soon helped her excel at magic, seemingly gifted at charming and conjuring all manner of magical items. She has a particular strength for defensive magic and healing, while her fondness for Potions rests in her stubborn and comforting belief that it is the most similar to the Muggle ways she employed in her youth, that the simple Muggle methods of hands and brain are just as powerful. Offensive magic is more of a struggle for Lily, she is by no means a natural fighter, although it is something she determinedly works on.

Also known for her kindness, Lily has an open heart and is truly an extrovert. She delights in the company of people and is always teasing someone or other, a fond smile and a ringing laugh never far from her countenance. In fact, lightly teasing others is her foremost means of showing affection, though this is something that never (or at least, rarely) strays into cruelty.

Kindness, however, is by no means softness. It is true that Lily believes in forgiveness, but she also has high standards and expects them to be met. Her love is not unconditional, and nor is her forgiveness. Her principles and ideals are close to her heart and for others to stray for them or betray them is to be met with Lily’s anger. She is forgiving, but not endlessly so, and does not forgive unless the merit is there, unless she decides the person deserves it. She is also used to being in the position of judgement, not to being the judged, which tends to bring out her self-righteous side, being so clear on what she believes to be right and wrong. When Lily is in the wrong, she struggles to admit it, having a strong sense of pride. She can become prickly and defensive, not so much playing the role of peacemaker as she is inclined to retreat, wounded. It’s a part of herself she’d often only seen in conflict with Petunia - maybe even a part of herself that mirrored Petunia. Resentment. And a sense of selfish pride, wounded self-righteousness so deep, it was easier to push the loved one away than apologise, than try to repair damage done. It’s not a quality Lily likes about herself, but it’s also one intrinsic, perhaps learnt by both at their parents’ knee.

Rightfully a Gryffindor, Lily is fierce and true. Her ideals always lead her to action, she is not one to sit back, even if she is not necessarily suited for a fight by nature. That does not stop her. Bravery runs quick and deep within her, and in fact, the more opposition she receives, the more she is inclined to push back. Her bravery then, extends to a defiant streak – even to provocation. Lily tends to take pleasure in talking back to those she scorns, in daring them to insult her, in attempting to prove herself above their scorn. There is indeed something desperate inside of her, a thirst to prove herself better than all that has been said about her kind.

Behind this solid sense of pride, however, lies a more sensitive side. Disapproval, disappointment - Lily hates letting people down, associating conflict with rejection. For that she can probably thank Petunia. When she found magic, she lost a best friend, her sister. When she found magic did not want her, she lost a best friend yet again, Severus. It is one thing to deal with the rejection of a whole world (or at least, so the Death Eaters and their allies often seem, a crushing weight) – that, Lily can shrug off, shoulders high, defiant until the end. But the two people she thought cared for her most, loved her most … that can only hurt, even still, years later. Lily remains insecure that she is not truly loved, that ultimately, she will lose people, no matter how much they seem to care for her now.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY: 

Lily grew up in the industrial town of Cokeworth, in the Midlands of England. The daughter of Adrian and Geraldine Evans, she has an older sister, Petunia Evans (now Dursley). For many years, her family was a close one, her parents strived hard to make it that way. The Evans parents used flower names for both of their two daughters. This was not particularly due to a family tradition or any reason other than that Geraldine Evans liked the idea of connecting her two children to each other. She was always glad they were born so close in age because she never had any siblings and wished for a sister for a best friend. The girls’ closeness growing up delighted her, at least until it ended with a letter in green ink, carried by a bird.

Four lends itself neatly to division, and it was true enough for the Evans family, Lily her father’s daughter and Petunia all their mother’s. This is true in appearance as much as personality: Lily’s looks are from the Evans side of the family, she shares her red hair with her father and both are more heavily built, while Petunia looks more like their mother - pale hair and bony features.

But at first, there was no problem, not for any of them. Lily was the fearless one, climbing trees and playing in the mud – but Petunia did it all with her, too. That was the thing – the part Lily cannot forget. Petunia always followed her, despite not caring for dirt and mud mess, and Lily worshipped her for it.

Meanwhile, Geraldine was cloying, clingy, she tried to hold on hard to her girls, even Lily, who would disappear to a world she could not know. Adrian was quieter, stiller – Lily could always come to him. It’s easier now, when she has so much to hide from her family, barely seeing them, desperate to keep them from danger or any association with her. She avoids going home, missing her family, but struggling under the weight of the lies, as she tries to keep any knowledge of the war from them. Adrian asks much less of Lily. The downside to that, of course, is that he lets her slip away. Though generally seen as having taken after her father, Lily has something of her mother’s nature, too, something shared with Petunia. She can never let things go, her heart is one that holds on. To the good and the bad.  

OCCUPATION:

Lily always wanted to become a Potioneer, brewing potions was her favourite subject and the part of magic she liked most, even if she was never as talented as Severus. She liked the fact that potions took brains more than it took magic, that it used hands, not a wand. But, with a war going on around her, it seemed decidedly less than useful. She became a Healer Trainee instead, thinking she would be in the best position to help others and to learn important spells she might use to save those in the Order at a time of crisis. The problem was that Lily was never truly dedicated to this role. Yes, many victims of the Death Eaters came into the hospital, but it was rarely the case that Trainee Healers were entrusted with cases of Dark magic. Lily was mostly fixing the accidental magic mishaps underage wixen got themselves into - dull and draining work. Even more than that, her higher loyalty was always to the Order, the war remaining her priority. Lily had less and less time to study the healing magic she needed for her job, focusing far more of her energy on missions for the Order, to the extent she even missed shifts at times. It only got worse as she began working with the Task Force - finding something she was truly passionate about meant she kept even less time for her Healing studies. She wasn’t exactly fired, but it became clear that she was not performing to the required level and had to leave the program. Even though she was hardly happy at the hospital, this fact burns. Lily Evans, who was supposed to have such a bright future. The failure is a blemish on her record, yet another thing that has gone wrong in her life since leaving Hogwarts, yet another way she seems to be incapable of living up to the image everyone has of her.

As it is, she works solely for the Order now and lives off James’ money. This fact too is something that weighs Lily down, that she can never stop thinking about. She never wanted to be dependent on him, on anyone. Sure, she didn’t make much as a Trainee Healer, couldn’t contribute her fair share to their home, but at least she had something of her own. It’s something at the back of her mind whenever she is with James.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER:

Lily has a desire to impress, she always had. Somehow surrounding herself with rebels, all of them heedless and reckless in her eyes, though very much loved for it - she herself respected authority. That is, if the authority deserved to be respected. Sometimes it crosses her mind, the fact that she, of all people, is technically a vigilante, and she can only laugh. A bitter, somewhat frightened laugh, but with hints of amusement all the same. There are still people she can look to for the approval she craves in the Order – she respects Moody, Shacklebolt, Dumbledore. And she believes in them, in the path they’re setting out for all of them, but … it gets harder and harder every day.

Perhaps that’s why the Task Force means so much to her. It’s palpable success, it’s a way to actually help people, to see the results before them. Especially the Muggle-borns – the people who, like herself, are caught up in something that threatens to overwhelm them, who deserve to have someone stand up for them and affirm their (her) right to be in this world. Fighting (and often losing) endless battles with the Death Eaters, missions that seem to go nowhere, do nothing, even if there is supposedly some greater scheme – Lily feels herself breaking the longer it goes on, the less light there seems to be at the end of this long drawn out struggle. She knew it wasn’t going to be over in a year – but knowing that, and living it, are two very different things.

This wasn’t supposed to be her life. Failed job. Failed war. And now more than ever, failed relationships. This was never supposed to be Lily, who everyone thinks of as a bright spark, as hope and kindness personified. It’s hard to let go of, that image, the perfect Lily Evans, something she clung to when she was reminded of her sister’s hate, of half the wizarding world’s hate. But she isn’t a bright spark, or at least, she doesn’t feel that way. Not anymore.  

SURVIVAL:

To be honest, Lily often feels her survival is a matter of her inconsequentiality. At Hogwarts, things seemed different. She was a bold symbol, the Muggle-born Head Girl, bright and clever and beloved. Practically a spit in the face to anyone who thought Muggle-borns were inferior – and there were plenty of students who showed her their displeasure. Lily faced them all proudly, though James’ support was something she depended upon, taking strength from the knowledge that he had her back, no matter who else despised her. She felt like she was making a difference. Now, even as an Order member – what’s she really doing for the war? That importance she used to have, it’s faded away now. She’s not especially successful, she’s not especially threatening or powerful … that doesn’t mean Lily isn’t careful, of course. Her home with James is well-protected and Lily takes Alastor Moody’s warnings very seriously. Constant vigilance indeed. But at the end of the day, there are times Lily thinks … she simply doesn’t matter. Not outside of being James Potter’s mudblood girlfriend, at any rate.

RELATIONSHIPS: 

Lily loves James, but she knows things are strained between them. Lily’s relationships are deeply characterised by respect – she is someone who cannot be happy with someone, even if she loves them, unless she can respect them. That hasn’t changed with James, she still admires him almost more than anyone else, for his strength and dedication, his idealistic nature. Most days, Lily thinks it’s her who is the problem. Nothing she does lately seems to be working out and this is no different. She knows he’s starting to catch on to her unhappiness and she wants to reach out, to tell him she hasn’t stopped caring for him, but something stops her. Maybe it’s just that sense of hopelessness, of burning out, the fear that she isn’t the person she once was anymore. How could he understand that – he’s never been anything but himself, never had to be afraid to be himself, never failed, and right now, he’s in the thick of it, the inner circle – of course he is. Everything has always come easy to James, born to success and brilliant in his own right.  It seems as if their paths after school are inverse, he with all the accomplishments (so high up in the Order, so trusted) and she with none. Even if he did fail, he wouldn’t be like her. The Muggle-born out of place, the Muggle-born who has failed to make her place in the Wizarding world (all those snide voices at the back of her mind – of course she was going to fail. Don’t they always? They don’t belong). She can’t talk to him about any of this. It’s easier to dedicate herself to the Task Force instead – but James doesn’t seem to understand that either.

Friendships have become more difficult than ever. It’s still easy to put her life into anyone in the Order’s hands. She trusts them with that. But Lily feels more isolated than ever. Hardly anyone seems to remember what they’re fighting for – to save people. To save lives. It’s all become about who is right and who is wrong (Lily forgetting that she too thinks of herself as right and the others as wrong). The people she would trust with her life feel less like friends the further they go into this war together. And yet Lily cannot stop reaching out, even to the friends who seem to greet her with distaste these days, disliking her priorities. Lily will always believe that friendship is important, that tenderness is important. It can’t be true that they are only soldiers these days, and nothing else.

With Severus coming to the Order, Lily will remain deeply conflicted. For so many years, a sign like this, that he was definitively, absolutely choosing her, siding with her, would have meant everything. But as so often with getting the thing you want most, by the time you get it, you can barely recognise it. Lily may well be more suspicious than anyone else, if only because she has been through this before. The desperation to trust him meeting with her deep suspicion that this is just another lie, that she never really knew him at all.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: 

Lily/James, Lily/Chemistry (I very much love writing Lily/James but that doesn’t mean I’m not open to exploring other things or exploring Lily/James in an untypical form. Chemistry is important, and one thing I find very interesting in this rp is the conflict and break down of relationships. On the other side, platonic relationships are very important to me, especially since we know so little of the friendships Lily had, I find them fascinating to develop and deconstruct.)

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

I would say Lily’s strongest bias is essentially tunnel vision. She has always tended to believe she knows right and wrong – and that her understanding of right and wrong is what is right and wrong. When it comes to things like the war, she utterly condemns those who choose to fight for the other side – and even, to an extent, those who remain neutral. While she tries to be accepting of it, that not everyone can fight, that people are torn by conflicting loyalties, that it may not be life or death for everyone, she can’t truly understand or respect how anyone could make that choice. Furthermore, she believes what she prioritises is most important. The more she turns to the Task Force, the less she will be able to understand how the others in the Order can so easily dismiss it.

Another bias is against dark magic, which she believes is wrong without exception and looks down on those who use it. This also extends to dark creatures – notably excluding werewolves, due to her long friendship with Remus Lupin (she also tends to be quite biased in favour of those she loves), but creatures such as Dementors, hags, vampires, giants, she tends to regard with fear and disgust. Her boggart would be a Lethifold - another Dark creature, highly aggressive and tending to attack people at night, as they sleep. It symbolises her fear of being defenceless and unable to act to protect those she loves, as well as her deep fear of Dark magic.

For privileges, obviously she lacks privilege in the wizarding world as a Muggle-born and is notably a target of the current war. I would say that lack of privilege is certainly something that spurs her on to protect others. She certainly resents the way she is treated by others and devalued simply for her birth. It’s something that colours her relationship with James – it’s not his fault, but she knows others look down on them being together. They might both well be better off if they weren’t together, in fact, being together makes them a target. As a witch of two worlds, Lily would also be aware of the fact that her privilege is very different in the Muggle world, being white. It’s interesting that in her relationship with James, the privilege would be reversed in the Muggle world. And in fact, Vernon and Petunia’s treatment of James suggests this very personally for Lily, and is something that angers her, yet at the same time, she does want to regain a good relationship with her sister.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? 

There are a lot of aspects I find appealing – I like the way this rp uses multiple player threads so paras involve more than just two characters. It’s something I haven’t seen elsewhere and I find compelling for exploring the whole tapestry of the Order and how the organisation interacts with each other. The focus on the Order also appeals to me – I’m typically far more interested in ‘the good guys’ and especially in exploring the flaws and weaknesses of ‘the good guys’. Lily for one is presented as fairly saintlike in canon and it’s so interesting to deconstruct that image and find out about the real person she was, flaws, warts and all.

PLOT DROP IDEAS (OPTIONAL): N/A for the moment

ANYTHING ELSE? Nothing, thanks for considering me!

[lumiereswig]

what if. an amnesia fic. where they. ALL. Got. A m n e s I a

fuck. you

State dinners never put Cogsworth in a good mood. Oh, he liked them afterward, when everything was going smoothly, and he could smile and make polite compliments to the diplomats’ wives, and down congratulatory bits of brandy from the sideboard, and bask in the praise of a job well done, but the beforehand bits? With everyone fussing and carousing, and Lumiere flirting with somebody in the closet when he ought to be working, and Belle being grumpy because she had to dress in something beyond cottons and calicoes, and Adam informing him that he wanted it to be “a simple affair, really,” all the while secretly picturing champagnes and party favors—well, it was enough to put anybody off their carefully-calculated stride. And that was before the table linens got involved.

“How dare you call my napkins so, you ticking time bomb?!”

“And what do you think of calling THAT, you, you, you, you perturbed piece of paraffin?! I’ve seen better displays of kitchen linen in rubbish-bins!” Cogsworth throws the napkin down with all the spirit of a furious wombat. His cheeks bulge; his eyes start; somewhere, he is sure, a blood vessel bids its last adieu. And here stands Lumiere—all forty feet of him, in all his prodigiously lanky height, dressed to the nines and tens in golden satin, having the nerve to argue with him about table settings. Even if the man hadn’t been a candelabra earlier, Cogsworth would still assume his brains to be about as abundant as a drop of wax. “If you call this party planning, I call you an Englishman! I could have done this better myself if I were half mad!”

“Than you must have been dwelling in the asylum when you taught it to me, fifteen years ago,” Lumiere retorts. “Or have you forgotten that, too, as well as I am the master of napkin-folding?”

“You’re not the master of much, if this is your example of it. Master indeed! Master, look at what this besotted fellow calls a table arrangement, and see if you can call it much of anything.”

“Is everyone in a quarrel today?” cries Adam, rubbing his head. He has a headache brewing, but nobody seems to mind; Mrs Potts is in an awful fuss about the state of the tea-pantry, and Cuisinier is haranguing her about it, and he would go hide with Belle if she wasn’t currently arguing down the joined attacks of Madame de Garderobe and Plumette on her choice of evening wear.

He hates state dinners. He really, truly hates them. He wonders if his life would be easier if he were only a servant, with the only concern on his plate being, well, the plates.

“Do I look as though I know napkins?” he says in despair. “Work it out between yourselves, please. You’ve had enough quarrels to work through this one.”

“Don’t remind me how many times I have had to listen to this fool jabber on,” says Lumiere warningly. “I cannot bear a history with so much tension to it!”

“And I cannot bear a memory of you fawning and flouncing and forgetting how to fold a napkin because you’re chasing down a girl in a cupboard!”

“Cogsworth, be fair! The girl WAS the cupboard, at the time.”

“Don’t you go bringing up the curse at a time like this!” cries Cogsworth, wagging his finger.

“Don’t you go mentioning time, when I can tell you where that second hand pointed not too long ago! Up your forehead, wasn’t it? Or did it wind around and pat your own back for you, when the occasion warranted?”

“MY HANDS WERE MY MUSTACHE, AND YOU KNOW IT,” Cogsworth explodes, and Adam flees down the hall.

Everywhere, chaos. Maids angry at footmen for putting ladders where they shouldn’t; footmen furious with maids for putting buckets where they should have known they would step. Belle bursts from her room, ribbons all stuck in her hair, shouting at Plumette to “leave me alone, leave me alone, I don’t want to wear a gown and be a lady!”; Garderobe comes after, dressed in a new creation of hers, crying out that la princessa must submit to being royal if that was what was required. Adam sighs, and beats back his hair from his face, and sits on the only clean set of stairs in the palace with his head between his hands.

After a moment, he realizes someone is sitting next to him.

“You’re not running frantic,” he says.

“No, I’m not,” says the woman. “But I see that everyone else is.”

“State dinners are such a terrible affair,” groans Adam. “Everyone has to put on a mask, and restate their identity ten fold. Oh, I’m an Englishman! I’m a Frenchman! I’m a king, you’re a lady, you’re a gentleman, who outranks who, what is the history between nations; there’s such a fraud-filled game to play, where everyone has to be his most decided self—or how he decides to be seen—in front of everyone else.”

“And that doesn’t suit you, face-changing one?”

Adam is too exhausted to notice the shift in her voice. “When I was a monster, I was still me, and I was free to change. In front of that assembly, with all the history and petty feuds, I feel I must be one unchanging character, with my whole self hanging in the balance. I’m the Prince, and Belle’s the Princess, and we’re not allowed to be anything else.”

“Such a weight for you to bear,” says the woman, laying a consoling hand upon his knee. “To wear history on your sleeve for all to see! To feel so confined to one self—”

“Yes, yes,” says Adam, “and—what’s that you’re doing with your hand?”

Gold light pulses from the woman’s hand, rippling against his blue-silk leg in concentric rings like the surface of a pond disturbed by a dropped stone. He feels sunlight blinding him, and sees the green and blue of reflected river-plants beating against his eyes, and the sound of the water rushing in his ears.

“Be blind if you would like,” says the woman, her hand very hot against him. “Be free, if you would like.”

The sunshine grows too hot. The pond grows cold. Adam feels the beat of the stone dropping, dropping down—and drops down too, sunshine clouding both his eyes.

Chandeliers are the first thing that swan into their view. Then the dazzling ceiling, all painted cloud and sky; and then the brooms, abandoned, and the leaking mops, and the marble steps still soaked with soap-suds.

The room they’re in is sparklingly clean: as bright and airy as they feel.

They sit up. They feel their knees and bones. All right; that’s all right. They stand, and slip, and stand again. Water glitters on the floor. The reflection in the mirror—someone unknown, and dressed in blue silk, and still looking dazzled by the sun—feels the smooth expanse of the floor, as if looking for some particular stone sitting in a river that nobody can see.

It takes them a while to reckon they ought to be doing something.

“I’m sure I had something to do,” they murmur, but that’s been taken away, so they toddle off to see if somebody else has an idea.

They look in the mirror, and see the unfamiliar face again, and carry on.

More unfamiliar faces stare out of mirrors, and also windows, and sometimes doors. They find an unfamiliar face in one of the rooms, ribbon curling through her hair, looking in a mirror.

“Is it supposed to do that?” she asks.

“The ribbon? I suppose so.”

“No, the face. Why does the eyebrow quirk up like that? Who put a pinch between those brows?” She looks at him suddenly. “Do you know what you look like?”

“No, not really,” they admit.

“Now that’s strange. Because there are mirrors all over this place, and you’re in it.”

“I’m sure I knew once,” they protest. “But I lost my name on my way to finding a face, so I thought I should look for one before the other.”

“A sensible plan. Well, I can tell you part of it: that you’re good-looking; and a man; and that you have nice hair, and good teeth; and that you’re horribly under-dressed.”

“Me? Underdressed?” He points to his white shirt, his clean blue silk breeches, so clean they still have soap suds from the stair on them. “But you’re dressed in only a petticoat, and a white shift, with a ribbon falling out of your hair!”

“Ah, but I’m sure I’m meant to look that way,” she says. “Let’s stick together, us two. I think we should get along.”

They haven’t ventured far before they find other faces, though no other names. Everyone seems to have dropped one—but instead of dropping the usual ones, such as the names of famous persons, or mutual acquaintances, or other names that could afford to be lost, everyone had dropped their own and let it roll away across the floor.

“There must be a proper order to this,” insists one of them. Wombat, thinks another, and has nowhere to put the thought. “We should all line up and present, and that would make things easier.”

“Would it?” says a second, picking up a dropped napkin and gently rubbing the other’s buttons to a shine with it. “I don’t know about you, stranger, but I think we should all say at once who we might be, and drop right into it. C'est vrai, non?”

“Don’t speak German, it doesn’t help matters.” But the wombat pats his hand indulgently, and turns to survey the assembled crowd of faces. “I say we work from the known, and then work to the point this fine, finely-satined gentleman suggests. We know we are in a palace; therefore, someone must be King or Queen.”

“It must be me, then,” says one. “I am dressed fine, as regal as la princessa; my gown is twice your size, and my hair towers over this little man with the blue silk breeches!”

“Very well.” He nods; she nods; they nod. Progress has been made. The grand lady, her hands full with a confused-looking dog, bows graciously and takes a dining room table as her throne. The wombat nods. “And if there is a Queen, there must be servants, staff. Surely that is the rest of us.”

“I wish I could remember what I did,” cries the girl, her fingers lacing through the blue-silk boy’s.

“There are hints in your dress,” says another, white feathers drifting from her exquisite hair. “You have ribbons in your hand; you are dressed simply, like a maid. Perhaps you are the lady’s maid!”

“Then I must be the footman,” says the blue-silk boy, “because we belong together. And I have soap on my clothes—so I must have been cleaning the stairs.”

“And all this mess,” says the wombat—picking up a mess of napkins, and depositing them in his lanky companion’s hands to take care of (for he really looked the sort to understand such things)—"must be caused by a grand affair. A dinner, perhaps! A ceremony!“

“For the Diplomat from England,” reads the girl with the feathered wig, looking at the place setting. “For the Diplomat of France. For the Diplomat of Germany.”

“Why, that must be us!” cries the lanky one. “We have noticed already that I speak German—trés bien, I accept—and you speak French so well, my newest friend, you must be the diplomat from here.”

“I speak with a slight accent, true,” admits the wombat, “but I firmly believe I have always had a distinct liking for the French character, if I could only remember it. And that, my dear, leaves you to be the English ambassador.”

“How neatly we are seated together!” The Diplomat from the Emerald Isle offers her hand to Germany. “I’m sure we shall be great friends, in time.”

“In time!” The wombat starts. (He knows it isn’t truly French to be so tense, but sometimes he likes to break the expectation.) “That reminds me—though I don’t know why—this dinner of state likely begins soon, if the state of this table has anything to say about it. What a tremendous job you have done with those napkins, my Saxon friend.”

“Thank you! I don’t remember how, but I believe a dear friend of mine may have taught me how to do them. They look good, do they not? Servants, what do you think?”

“I don’t look as though I know napkins,” says the blue-silk footman, glancing uncertainly at his face in the mirror, “but I’m sure they’re fine, if you agree. Mistress Maid? Miss Ribbon? Beauty? Should we prepare ourselves in the kitchens?”

“I may have lost my name,” says the maid, the ribbon curling in her hair, “but at least I’ve picked up you. Let’s go, Vincente—or Charming—or Adam, or Eve, or whatever your name might be. At least I’ve got you straight.”

The dinner goes off without a hitch. Nobody from the palace remembers what they are supposed to do; if there is etiquette to these dinners, it must be guessed at. The lady in charge—the regal lady with the great gown—guesses at names, and alliances, and who should speak to whom; and the maid and the footman, unsure of due process, indulge each guest with the same broad smile and lack of notice for rank. The diplomats themselves are surprised to find new faces in the crowd; an enchanting emissary from England—a German native who speaks such good French he heals the wounds of offended Belgians, who had nearly quarreled their way with the previous diplomat into a war—a French chancellor whose fastidiousness wins over representatives long tired of the usual laissez-faire attitude of the French embassy. They talk, and skip over parts they can’t remember, and laugh and toast and sign treaties they can’t recall the advantages of; and the servants smile, and sip tea in the back—there is an awful lot of tea at this dinner, for the cook sends more and more, and the housekeeper (a man in black-checked pants, wearing a chef’s hat for a joke) can’t bear to turn her down—and they have a jolly good time, cleaning the plates and meeting each other and finding, in the other’s half-blank mind, things strikingly like their own.

The guests depart. The table rests, a mess, napkins on the floor, wine cups spilled sideways. Her highness picks up her pup and retires to the drawing room, to rest in her chair and toast her toes by the fire. The servants cuddle on the stairs, forgetting their beds, or where those beds ought to be, and falling asleep against the marble. The diplomats, lingering long over their wine, settle for sleep against crushed table linens.

As he breathes in the scent of the maid’s sweet, soap-stained hair on the palace steps, the boy thinks he hears water rushing in his ears.

He wakes, she wakes, they wake. Adam knows where he is. Belle takes a minute—”why are we on the back kitchen stairs?”—then remembers, and remembers, and gasps until her eyebrows pinch. There’s a loud crash from the dining room, and the frantic barking of Frou-Frou—the dog, the dog, of course Frou-Frou is the name of the dog—and Madame de Garderobe having a laugh in Adam’s best chair.

“Did it go horribly?!” Adam demands, skidding into the dining room. Plumette is half-crying from laughter into Lumiere’s cravat. Lumiere is using Cogsworth’s handkerchief to wipe away his own merry tears.

“We’ve probably ruined everything,” Belle cries. “That was an important dinner! We were supposed to sort out the treaty between Portugal and Rome—and, oh no, we were supposed to not put Spain near Austria—and, oh, I know we put the Turkish diplomat by the Polish, and you’re never supposed to do that—”

Cogsworth doesn’t hear a word. While they all slept, the messenger stopped by, and dropped note after note after note across the dining table of the sleeping palace; letters from across Europe, from every invited diplomat. He reads them with widened eyes.

“I don’t believe it,” he says at last, “I won’t believe it! After all my planning, all my calculating—this diplomat says they were delighted, this one that they’ve never had a better time. Poland is half in love with Turkey, after the introduction supplied last night by ‘the Queen in the grand dress’—what Queen?; and Spain tells me they’re so glad they had a chance to finally work things out with Austria, thanks to the comfort of the tea we supplied—what tea?! And here’s the Portuguese, about to become trading partners and more, and write a better treaty with Rome, modeling it on that drafted by the English emissary from last night! What are they talking about, the English ambassador wasn’t supposed to be there last night, he wrote to tell us he was ill— can’t fathom it! After all my planning, a bunch of amnesiatic idiots resolved it all!”

“And resolved more than that,” says Lumiere. “You finally admitted my napkin display was all right.”

“And you admitted I’m the friend who taught you to do them.”

“I admitted so from the first!”

“How dare you! I remember it quite clearly, and you never mentioned it.”

“Did I mention you forget many things, even when you’re not enchanted to?”

“You sputtering gaslamp, I’ll beg you to remember—”

Adam pulls Belle aside. “I’m glad I’ve got your name back,” he says, “though I wasn’t too far off with Beauty.”

“And I’m glad I know your face again,” says Belle. “I really do miss it when I’m not sure what it looks like.”

“Though it wasn’t too bad to not be ourselves, was it, and find out we’re much more than Prince and Princess?”

“Didn’t you know? We’ve always been.” Belle takes the ribbon from her hair, and uses it to tie up Adam’s messy ends. “It was a break to be someone else for a bit, but I’m glad you’re still Adam.”

“Me too,” he says. “Or at least until the next state dinner.”

[michaelfallcon]

Sam Keck: The Sprudge Twenty Interview

Sam Keck (Photo by 3000 Thieves)

Welcome to The Sprudge Twenty Interviews presented by Pacific Barista Series. Over the next few weeks, we’ll be featuring our 2019 featured class of Sprudge Twenty honorees, each one changing the coffee game worldwide. For a complete list of 2019 Sprudge Twenty honorees please visit sprudge.com/twenty.

Sam Keck is an entrepreneur and founder of Commonfolk Coffee, located in the town of Mornington, on the Mornington Peninsula south of Melbourne. Keck has spun a successful roaster/retailer into a series of social enterprise efforts, including Zukuka Bora, a farmers initiative benefitting coffee growers in Uganda; and Home Ground, which is focused on providing training and job options in hospitality to unemployed youth on the Mornington Peninsula. By fusing the high demand for quality coffee with organized social enterprise, Keck’s work shows us how coffee can do more than just taste good—it can also do very serious good for communities at home and around the world.

Nominated by David Bishop

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

What issue in coffee do you care about most?

Overall the sustainability of coffee as an industry. In particular the seemingly widening disconnect between producer and consumer. Too many “industry professionals” assume far too much and don’t actually bother to understand what a producer’s priorities are.

What cause or element in coffee drives you?

What started out as a cheap way to fuel my caffeine addiction has transformed into an insatiable desire to bridge the gap between my customers and my producers. I want to understand more about how coffee as an industry can continue to serve both our customers and provide meaningful and sustainable work for our producers.

What issue in coffee do you think is critically overlooked?

The fact that many people on both ends of coffee production are suffering. Many producers/farmers are among the lowest paid people in the entire world. On the flip side, many cafe owners—especially in small business—are going out of business at a rate you wouldn’t believe. If the two ends of the chain can’t make a fair income our industry has serious issues. A lot of people talk about the issues producers and farmers have (not that much is done about it), but there isn’t too much conversation about the struggles of the cafe/coffee bar owner. In fact, you could argue that the responsibility and burden of equalizing our industry, making it fairer for farmers, is too often thrust upon the final part of the chain: the small business owner, many of whom are broke and not really in a position to make a big difference. We should be looking at adding value in other areas and ultimately placing the responsibility on the consumer who has had it too good for too long, at least here in Australia.

What is the quality you like best about coffee?

There is no greater sensory experience than the aroma of freshly ground coffee!

Did you experience a “god shot” or life-changing moment of coffee revelation early in your career?

I was working as a barista in 2006 but I’d never really had “specialty” coffee and I visited St Ali, back when it was still owned by Mark Dundon, of later Seven Seeds and Paramount Coffee Project fame. I was lucky enough to order a natural Yirg as a filter coffee. I never believed that coffee could taste so extraordinary. Delicate aroma of bergamot and orange blossom, bright citrus acidity and a rich booziness—damn I was hooked. I haven’t looked back since!

What is your idea of coffee happiness?

Recreating some kind of rubbish Starbucks cocktail but with super high-quality ingredients, organic maple syrup, unpasteurized local dairy, and real vanilla beans. I love watching wanky baristas have meltdowns.

If you could have any job in the coffee industry, what would it be and why?

Probably the job I currently have.

Who are your coffee heroes?

James Hoffmann. In the early days he was one of the few people creating content online, so I felt like I wasn’t the only coffee crazy guy in the world. Also Alan Adler, the dude who invented the AeroPress. I bought my first AP in 2005 but I was so sketchy on it—any product that has to say “the best coffee maker in the world” on the box seems kind of suspicious—but I guess on this occasion they weren’t lying.

If you could drink coffee with anyone, living or dead, who would it be and why?

Tough question, but probably Sir David Attenborough. He’s a real hero of mine and I would love the chance to talk about his life and experiences, but also to pick his brain on the future of our planet and how he thinks we can turn things around.

If you didn’t get bit by the coffee bug, what do you think you’d be doing instead?

Following on from the previous question—I actually have a degree in Zoology and I was planning on traveling the globe filming nature documentaries, a la Sir David.

Do you have any coffee mentors?

There’s always been a real coffee culture in Melbourne but the movement towards “specialty” really only kicked off in the early 2000s. I was lucky enough to befriend ex-head roaster of Five Senses and Ceremony Coffee, Caleb Podhaczky, and he was instrumental in my coffee journey early on. I was actually lucky enough to employ him for about a year when he returned to Australia and it was really fun to work with one of the people who inspired you to start in the industry. Another key figure that was instrumental in my coffee journey early days was Shannon Roche, a barista on the Mornington Peninsula where Commonfolk is located. They’re one of the first baristas I met who focused on preparing quality coffee and really opened my eyes to coffee’s potential.

Otherwise, I try and look outside the industry for inspiration because I find that coffee sometimes insulates itself from the outside world and really limits our opportunities to grow as an industry. I take a lot of inspiration from the craft beer and lofi wine industries. I have some great friends who are really pushing the boundaries on what is acceptable in those industries, from brands like Mr Banks, Chevre Wines, Mornington Brewery, and Jetty Road Brewery, and a lot of their ideas/philosophies can be transferred to coffee—especially at the producing end.

What do you wish someone would’ve told you when you were first starting out in coffee?

No one has a fucking clue what they’re doing. Don’t take anyone seriously.

Name three coffee apparatuses you’d take into space with you.

AeroPress, Ikawa sample roaster, and a stubby holder (to keep my coffee warm).

Best song to brew coffee to:

Shout out to the Commonfolk bar—definitely “September” by Earth Wind & Fire.

Look into the crystal ball—where do you see yourself in 20 years?

Retired or at least with enough time to study coffee science and agronomy.

What’d you eat for breakfast this morning?

Black coffee. I’m trying to intermittently fast because dad bod.

When did you last drink coffee?

At lunchtime.

What was it?

A cheeky batch brew of a washed Yirg from the Gedeo region of Ethiopia.

Thank you. 

The Sprudge Twenty is presented by Pacific Barista Series. For a complete list of 2019 Sprudge Twenty honorees please visit sprudge.com/twenty

Zachary Carlsen is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Zachary Carlsen on Sprudge. 

The post Sam Keck: The Sprudge Twenty Interview appeared first on Sprudge.

Sam Keck: The Sprudge Twenty Interview published first on https://medium.com/@LinLinCoffee

[epchapman89]

Sam Keck: The Sprudge Twenty Interview

Sam Keck (Photo by 3000 Thieves)

Welcome to The Sprudge Twenty Interviews presented by Pacific Barista Series. Over the next few weeks, we’ll be featuring our 2019 featured class of Sprudge Twenty honorees, each one changing the coffee game worldwide. For a complete list of 2019 Sprudge Twenty honorees please visit sprudge.com/twenty.

Sam Keck is an entrepreneur and founder of Commonfolk Coffee, located in the town of Mornington, on the Mornington Peninsula south of Melbourne. Keck has spun a successful roaster/retailer into a series of social enterprise efforts, including Zukuka Bora, a farmers initiative benefitting coffee growers in Uganda; and Home Ground, which is focused on providing training and job options in hospitality to unemployed youth on the Mornington Peninsula. By fusing the high demand for quality coffee with organized social enterprise, Keck’s work shows us how coffee can do more than just taste good—it can also do very serious good for communities at home and around the world.

Nominated by David Bishop

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

What issue in coffee do you care about most?

Overall the sustainability of coffee as an industry. In particular the seemingly widening disconnect between producer and consumer. Too many “industry professionals” assume far too much and don’t actually bother to understand what a producer’s priorities are.

What cause or element in coffee drives you?

What started out as a cheap way to fuel my caffeine addiction has transformed into an insatiable desire to bridge the gap between my customers and my producers. I want to understand more about how coffee as an industry can continue to serve both our customers and provide meaningful and sustainable work for our producers.

What issue in coffee do you think is critically overlooked?

The fact that many people on both ends of coffee production are suffering. Many producers/farmers are among the lowest paid people in the entire world. On the flip side, many cafe owners—especially in small business—are going out of business at a rate you wouldn’t believe. If the two ends of the chain can’t make a fair income our industry has serious issues. A lot of people talk about the issues producers and farmers have (not that much is done about it), but there isn’t too much conversation about the struggles of the cafe/coffee bar owner. In fact, you could argue that the responsibility and burden of equalizing our industry, making it fairer for farmers, is too often thrust upon the final part of the chain: the small business owner, many of whom are broke and not really in a position to make a big difference. We should be looking at adding value in other areas and ultimately placing the responsibility on the consumer who has had it too good for too long, at least here in Australia.

What is the quality you like best about coffee?

There is no greater sensory experience than the aroma of freshly ground coffee!

Did you experience a “god shot” or life-changing moment of coffee revelation early in your career?

I was working as a barista in 2006 but I’d never really had “specialty” coffee and I visited St Ali, back when it was still owned by Mark Dundon, of later Seven Seeds and Paramount Coffee Project fame. I was lucky enough to order a natural Yirg as a filter coffee. I never believed that coffee could taste so extraordinary. Delicate aroma of bergamot and orange blossom, bright citrus acidity and a rich booziness—damn I was hooked. I haven’t looked back since!

What is your idea of coffee happiness?

Recreating some kind of rubbish Starbucks cocktail but with super high-quality ingredients, organic maple syrup, unpasteurized local dairy, and real vanilla beans. I love watching wanky baristas have meltdowns.

If you could have any job in the coffee industry, what would it be and why?

Probably the job I currently have.

Who are your coffee heroes?

James Hoffmann. In the early days he was one of the few people creating content online, so I felt like I wasn’t the only coffee crazy guy in the world. Also Alan Adler, the dude who invented the AeroPress. I bought my first AP in 2005 but I was so sketchy on it—any product that has to say “the best coffee maker in the world” on the box seems kind of suspicious—but I guess on this occasion they weren’t lying.

If you could drink coffee with anyone, living or dead, who would it be and why?

Tough question, but probably Sir David Attenborough. He’s a real hero of mine and I would love the chance to talk about his life and experiences, but also to pick his brain on the future of our planet and how he thinks we can turn things around.

If you didn’t get bit by the coffee bug, what do you think you’d be doing instead?

Following on from the previous question—I actually have a degree in Zoology and I was planning on traveling the globe filming nature documentaries, a la Sir David.

Do you have any coffee mentors?

There’s always been a real coffee culture in Melbourne but the movement towards “specialty” really only kicked off in the early 2000s. I was lucky enough to befriend ex-head roaster of Five Senses and Ceremony Coffee, Caleb Podhaczky, and he was instrumental in my coffee journey early on. I was actually lucky enough to employ him for about a year when he returned to Australia and it was really fun to work with one of the people who inspired you to start in the industry. Another key figure that was instrumental in my coffee journey early days was Shannon Roche, a barista on the Mornington Peninsula where Commonfolk is located. They’re one of the first baristas I met who focused on preparing quality coffee and really opened my eyes to coffee’s potential.

Otherwise, I try and look outside the industry for inspiration because I find that coffee sometimes insulates itself from the outside world and really limits our opportunities to grow as an industry. I take a lot of inspiration from the craft beer and lofi wine industries. I have some great friends who are really pushing the boundaries on what is acceptable in those industries, from brands like Mr Banks, Chevre Wines, Mornington Brewery, and Jetty Road Brewery, and a lot of their ideas/philosophies can be transferred to coffee—especially at the producing end.

What do you wish someone would’ve told you when you were first starting out in coffee?

No one has a fucking clue what they’re doing. Don’t take anyone seriously.

Name three coffee apparatuses you’d take into space with you.

AeroPress, Ikawa sample roaster, and a stubby holder (to keep my coffee warm).

Best song to brew coffee to:

Shout out to the Commonfolk bar—definitely “September” by Earth Wind & Fire.

Look into the crystal ball—where do you see yourself in 20 years?

Retired or at least with enough time to study coffee science and agronomy.

What’d you eat for breakfast this morning?

Black coffee. I’m trying to intermittently fast because dad bod.

When did you last drink coffee?

At lunchtime.

What was it?

A cheeky batch brew of a washed Yirg from the Gedeo region of Ethiopia.

Thank you. 

The Sprudge Twenty is presented by Pacific Barista Series. For a complete list of 2019 Sprudge Twenty honorees please visit sprudge.com/twenty

Zachary Carlsen is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Zachary Carlsen on Sprudge. 

The post Sam Keck: The Sprudge Twenty Interview appeared first on Sprudge.

seen 1st on http://sprudge.com

[mrwilliamcharley]

Sam Keck: The Sprudge Twenty Interview

Sam Keck (Photo by 3000 Thieves)

Welcome to The Sprudge Twenty Interviews presented by Pacific Barista Series. Over the next few weeks, we’ll be featuring our 2019 featured class of Sprudge Twenty honorees, each one changing the coffee game worldwide. For a complete list of 2019 Sprudge Twenty honorees please visit sprudge.com/twenty.

Sam Keck is an entrepreneur and founder of Commonfolk Coffee, located in the town of Mornington, on the Mornington Peninsula south of Melbourne. Keck has spun a successful roaster/retailer into a series of social enterprise efforts, including Zukuka Bora, a farmers initiative benefitting coffee growers in Uganda; and Home Ground, which is focused on providing training and job options in hospitality to unemployed youth on the Mornington Peninsula. By fusing the high demand for quality coffee with organized social enterprise, Keck’s work shows us how coffee can do more than just taste good—it can also do very serious good for communities at home and around the world.

Nominated by David Bishop

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

What issue in coffee do you care about most?

Overall the sustainability of coffee as an industry. In particular the seemingly widening disconnect between producer and consumer. Too many “industry professionals” assume far too much and don’t actually bother to understand what a producer’s priorities are.

What cause or element in coffee drives you?

What started out as a cheap way to fuel my caffeine addiction has transformed into an insatiable desire to bridge the gap between my customers and my producers. I want to understand more about how coffee as an industry can continue to serve both our customers and provide meaningful and sustainable work for our producers.

What issue in coffee do you think is critically overlooked?

The fact that many people on both ends of coffee production are suffering. Many producers/farmers are among the lowest paid people in the entire world. On the flip side, many cafe owners—especially in small business—are going out of business at a rate you wouldn’t believe. If the two ends of the chain can’t make a fair income our industry has serious issues. A lot of people talk about the issues producers and farmers have (not that much is done about it), but there isn’t too much conversation about the struggles of the cafe/coffee bar owner. In fact, you could argue that the responsibility and burden of equalizing our industry, making it fairer for farmers, is too often thrust upon the final part of the chain: the small business owner, many of whom are broke and not really in a position to make a big difference. We should be looking at adding value in other areas and ultimately placing the responsibility on the consumer who has had it too good for too long, at least here in Australia.

What is the quality you like best about coffee?

There is no greater sensory experience than the aroma of freshly ground coffee!

Did you experience a “god shot” or life-changing moment of coffee revelation early in your career?

I was working as a barista in 2006 but I’d never really had “specialty” coffee and I visited St Ali, back when it was still owned by Mark Dundon, of later Seven Seeds and Paramount Coffee Project fame. I was lucky enough to order a natural Yirg as a filter coffee. I never believed that coffee could taste so extraordinary. Delicate aroma of bergamot and orange blossom, bright citrus acidity and a rich booziness—damn I was hooked. I haven’t looked back since!

What is your idea of coffee happiness?

Recreating some kind of rubbish Starbucks cocktail but with super high-quality ingredients, organic maple syrup, unpasteurized local dairy, and real vanilla beans. I love watching wanky baristas have meltdowns.

If you could have any job in the coffee industry, what would it be and why?

Probably the job I currently have.

Who are your coffee heroes?

James Hoffmann. In the early days he was one of the few people creating content online, so I felt like I wasn’t the only coffee crazy guy in the world. Also Alan Adler, the dude who invented the AeroPress. I bought my first AP in 2005 but I was so sketchy on it—any product that has to say “the best coffee maker in the world” on the box seems kind of suspicious—but I guess on this occasion they weren’t lying.

If you could drink coffee with anyone, living or dead, who would it be and why?

Tough question, but probably Sir David Attenborough. He’s a real hero of mine and I would love the chance to talk about his life and experiences, but also to pick his brain on the future of our planet and how he thinks we can turn things around.

If you didn’t get bit by the coffee bug, what do you think you’d be doing instead?

Following on from the previous question—I actually have a degree in Zoology and I was planning on traveling the globe filming nature documentaries, a la Sir David.

Do you have any coffee mentors?

There’s always been a real coffee culture in Melbourne but the movement towards “specialty” really only kicked off in the early 2000s. I was lucky enough to befriend ex-head roaster of Five Senses and Ceremony Coffee, Caleb Podhaczky, and he was instrumental in my coffee journey early on. I was actually lucky enough to employ him for about a year when he returned to Australia and it was really fun to work with one of the people who inspired you to start in the industry. Another key figure that was instrumental in my coffee journey early days was Shannon Roche, a barista on the Mornington Peninsula where Commonfolk is located. They’re one of the first baristas I met who focused on preparing quality coffee and really opened my eyes to coffee’s potential.

Otherwise, I try and look outside the industry for inspiration because I find that coffee sometimes insulates itself from the outside world and really limits our opportunities to grow as an industry. I take a lot of inspiration from the craft beer and lofi wine industries. I have some great friends who are really pushing the boundaries on what is acceptable in those industries, from brands like Mr Banks, Chevre Wines, Mornington Brewery, and Jetty Road Brewery, and a lot of their ideas/philosophies can be transferred to coffee—especially at the producing end.

What do you wish someone would’ve told you when you were first starting out in coffee?

No one has a fucking clue what they’re doing. Don’t take anyone seriously.

Name three coffee apparatuses you’d take into space with you.

AeroPress, Ikawa sample roaster, and a stubby holder (to keep my coffee warm).

Best song to brew coffee to:

Shout out to the Commonfolk bar—definitely “September” by Earth Wind & Fire.

Look into the crystal ball—where do you see yourself in 20 years?

Retired or at least with enough time to study coffee science and agronomy.

What’d you eat for breakfast this morning?

Black coffee. I’m trying to intermittently fast because dad bod.

When did you last drink coffee?

At lunchtime.

What was it?

A cheeky batch brew of a washed Yirg from the Gedeo region of Ethiopia.

Thank you. 

The Sprudge Twenty is presented by Pacific Barista Series. For a complete list of 2019 Sprudge Twenty honorees please visit sprudge.com/twenty

Zachary Carlsen is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Zachary Carlsen on Sprudge. 

The post Sam Keck: The Sprudge Twenty Interview appeared first on Sprudge.

from Sprudge http://bit.ly/2UBHzBV

[shebreathesslowly]

Sam Keck: The Sprudge Twenty Interview

Sam Keck (Photo by 3000 Thieves)

Welcome to The Sprudge Twenty Interviews presented by Pacific Barista Series. Over the next few weeks, we’ll be featuring our 2019 featured class of Sprudge Twenty honorees, each one changing the coffee game worldwide. For a complete list of 2019 Sprudge Twenty honorees please visit sprudge.com/twenty.

Sam Keck is an entrepreneur and founder of Commonfolk Coffee, located in the town of Mornington, on the Mornington Peninsula south of Melbourne. Keck has spun a successful roaster/retailer into a series of social enterprise efforts, including Zukuka Bora, a farmers initiative benefitting coffee growers in Uganda; and Home Ground, which is focused on providing training and job options in hospitality to unemployed youth on the Mornington Peninsula. By fusing the high demand for quality coffee with organized social enterprise, Keck’s work shows us how coffee can do more than just taste good—it can also do very serious good for communities at home and around the world.

Nominated by David Bishop

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

What issue in coffee do you care about most?

Overall the sustainability of coffee as an industry. In particular the seemingly widening disconnect between producer and consumer. Too many “industry professionals” assume far too much and don’t actually bother to understand what a producer’s priorities are.

What cause or element in coffee drives you?

What started out as a cheap way to fuel my caffeine addiction has transformed into an insatiable desire to bridge the gap between my customers and my producers. I want to understand more about how coffee as an industry can continue to serve both our customers and provide meaningful and sustainable work for our producers.

What issue in coffee do you think is critically overlooked?

The fact that many people on both ends of coffee production are suffering. Many producers/farmers are among the lowest paid people in the entire world. On the flip side, many cafe owners—especially in small business—are going out of business at a rate you wouldn’t believe. If the two ends of the chain can’t make a fair income our industry has serious issues. A lot of people talk about the issues producers and farmers have (not that much is done about it), but there isn’t too much conversation about the struggles of the cafe/coffee bar owner. In fact, you could argue that the responsibility and burden of equalizing our industry, making it fairer for farmers, is too often thrust upon the final part of the chain: the small business owner, many of whom are broke and not really in a position to make a big difference. We should be looking at adding value in other areas and ultimately placing the responsibility on the consumer who has had it too good for too long, at least here in Australia.

What is the quality you like best about coffee?

There is no greater sensory experience than the aroma of freshly ground coffee!

Did you experience a “god shot” or life-changing moment of coffee revelation early in your career?

I was working as a barista in 2006 but I’d never really had “specialty” coffee and I visited St Ali, back when it was still owned by Mark Dundon, of later Seven Seeds and Paramount Coffee Project fame. I was lucky enough to order a natural Yirg as a filter coffee. I never believed that coffee could taste so extraordinary. Delicate aroma of bergamot and orange blossom, bright citrus acidity and a rich booziness—damn I was hooked. I haven’t looked back since!

What is your idea of coffee happiness?

Recreating some kind of rubbish Starbucks cocktail but with super high-quality ingredients, organic maple syrup, unpasteurized local dairy, and real vanilla beans. I love watching wanky baristas have meltdowns.

If you could have any job in the coffee industry, what would it be and why?

Probably the job I currently have.

Who are your coffee heroes?

James Hoffmann. In the early days he was one of the few people creating content online, so I felt like I wasn’t the only coffee crazy guy in the world. Also Alan Adler, the dude who invented the AeroPress. I bought my first AP in 2005 but I was so sketchy on it—any product that has to say “the best coffee maker in the world” on the box seems kind of suspicious—but I guess on this occasion they weren’t lying.

If you could drink coffee with anyone, living or dead, who would it be and why?

Tough question, but probably Sir David Attenborough. He’s a real hero of mine and I would love the chance to talk about his life and experiences, but also to pick his brain on the future of our planet and how he thinks we can turn things around.

If you didn’t get bit by the coffee bug, what do you think you’d be doing instead?

Following on from the previous question—I actually have a degree in Zoology and I was planning on traveling the globe filming nature documentaries, a la Sir David.

Do you have any coffee mentors?

There’s always been a real coffee culture in Melbourne but the movement towards “specialty” really only kicked off in the early 2000s. I was lucky enough to befriend ex-head roaster of Five Senses and Ceremony Coffee, Caleb Podhaczky, and he was instrumental in my coffee journey early on. I was actually lucky enough to employ him for about a year when he returned to Australia and it was really fun to work with one of the people who inspired you to start in the industry. Another key figure that was instrumental in my coffee journey early days was Shannon Roche, a barista on the Mornington Peninsula where Commonfolk is located. They’re one of the first baristas I met who focused on preparing quality coffee and really opened my eyes to coffee’s potential.

Otherwise, I try and look outside the industry for inspiration because I find that coffee sometimes insulates itself from the outside world and really limits our opportunities to grow as an industry. I take a lot of inspiration from the craft beer and lofi wine industries. I have some great friends who are really pushing the boundaries on what is acceptable in those industries, from brands like Mr Banks, Chevre Wines, Mornington Brewery, and Jetty Road Brewery, and a lot of their ideas/philosophies can be transferred to coffee—especially at the producing end.

What do you wish someone would’ve told you when you were first starting out in coffee?

No one has a fucking clue what they’re doing. Don’t take anyone seriously.

Name three coffee apparatuses you’d take into space with you.

AeroPress, Ikawa sample roaster, and a stubby holder (to keep my coffee warm).

Best song to brew coffee to:

Shout out to the Commonfolk bar—definitely “September” by Earth Wind & Fire.

Look into the crystal ball—where do you see yourself in 20 years?

Retired or at least with enough time to study coffee science and agronomy.

What’d you eat for breakfast this morning?

Black coffee. I’m trying to intermittently fast because dad bod.

When did you last drink coffee?

At lunchtime.

What was it?

A cheeky batch brew of a washed Yirg from the Gedeo region of Ethiopia.

Thank you. 

The Sprudge Twenty is presented by Pacific Barista Series. For a complete list of 2019 Sprudge Twenty honorees please visit sprudge.com/twenty

Zachary Carlsen is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Zachary Carlsen on Sprudge. 

The post Sam Keck: The Sprudge Twenty Interview appeared first on Sprudge.

from Sprudge http://bit.ly/2UBHzBV

[bighandslittlefeet]

Catching up!

Hello Everyone!

Oh my glob. I’m literally the worst at blogging. But hey, cut me some slack, we’ve been busy. So where were - ah yes, it was 2018 and summer was brewing nicely, we expected the pot to whistle at any moment…

So we set off from Seal rocks, bumping poor Val’s under carriage as little as we could by going at a measly 2 Km an hour. The road turned from dirt track back to sealed tarmac and soon the odometer was ticking over at a far more respectable pace. We decided to head for Port Macquarie, which I now retroactively know, having read around a third of Bill Bryson’s Down Under, was named for Lachlan Macquarie a colonial administrator who lent his name to pretty much every conceivable geographic oddity he could. At the time I only knew it was a place where we could see Australia’s only Koala hospital.

We arrived in town and parked up. Little did we know we had run Val’s battery down overnight and she had struggled to keep the fridge cold. At the expense of our future physical comfort, but hopefully our digestive grace, we parked in direct sunlight to keep her fully action ready. We needed to pick up an air mattress for our guests that were arriving soon and who would be travelling with us. We ventured into a nearby K-mart, a purely nomic marvel to us, no other reason, and soon left with a queen size self inflating mattress. Later on we would find it would not fit in the tent even after careful measurements. We walked into town along the harbour edge and wandered around looking for somewhere to eat. I immediately spotted Pancake Palace, bedecked in Braziliana, great toucans, flopping banana leaves, and grinning colourful monkeys, the connection between north american style pancake meals as advertised in their window and the home of the largest remaining rainforest on Earth still escapes me. All I knew is I like bright colours and pancakes. Becca declined - much to my surprise - what thought would be thoroughly rewarding dining option. We instead made our way towards a delightful eastern eatery and had a snack there.

Bikes were high on my list. If we could find some to rent then we could do a delightful ride around the harbour. We made our way towards Greg street a place we had been recommended by a bicycle shop as doing rentals. We dutifully trekked across town and found their rates and wheels to be quite good - we took a card promising to be back tomorrow. We visited the local tourist information point and picked up leaflets and noticed there was a quaint strange gallery behind frosted glass but that alas it was shut today. Again, we would be back.We started to hunt for a campsite and settled on one right in the crook of the harbours arm. We arrived and a lovely woman who had emigrated 10 years prior and yet still retained her Mancunian accent greeted us and let us know that Macquarie was fab, loads to do, but we must must must leave promptly on Wednesday as the entire campsite was being transformed into a weekend folkrock festival. We noted as we drove into the site proper and could see hoards of burly folk hoisting huge metal fences into place, we could see the gap between the site and the harbour wall rapidly closing so we made our escape from Colditz as fast as we could!

The Harbour at Macquarie is lined with fantastic painted stones. I’m not talking fantastic quality but of fantastic meaning. These stones are memorials to family holidays, student tours, and indeed memorials to grandparents long passed. One moment you could be reading a heartfelt thank you to the class of ‘97 the next a moving record of the life of Charlie - gone but never forgotten and taken too soon Sept ‘06 - Feb ‘08. It was an odd rollercoaster journey of emotion, laughter, deep sadness, quirky laughs. Another odd theme started to present itself to my mind also. Many of the rocks were for family holidays to this very campsite. But they stretched back continuously, one family to one rock, each year marked off in slightly bright less flaky paint than the previous, for more than 20 years! And the families! How large and prodigious. I began to suspect mormons. And then low, the watchtower emerged from the rocks! We had somehow found ourselves in a Jehovah’s Witness hotspot with a particular kink for very very large families - presumably to spread the good Word. I began to feel a little out of place, felt the searing glances of Patriarchs, a hundred toddlers tied to their waists marching up and down the wall looking for Dolphins, suddenly turning their gaze to me and noting quietly, yet certainly that I was not one of them. One of the flock. Then a teenager with a bandanna and no top flew past on a skateboard and screamed ‘Fucking ripper shred man!’. My entire being sighed an existential sigh of relief. I belonged.

The next day we noticed another couple in a van had parked up in the spot next to us. We were listening to the stellar podcast ‘My Dad wrote a Porno’ and we were stifling giggles as they walked past. We were determined to make some friends on this trip and so Becca went over and said hello and introduced us and wondered if they were up for going for a drink that night? They seemed friendly enough and said they would! With a possible mate date looming we set off for the Koala Hospital. Port Macquarie is home to the only Koala hospital in the country - people who find Koalas that seem unwell or injured are reported and the team comes and takes a look at them, if they need rest and recuperation then they are taken to the hospital. Its a fab volunteer run enterprise, started by a lady in the 60’s. Its since expanded due to a bunch of kind donors but its mission statement is the same. We saw a koala who was a lifetimer at the hospital - she had been found when a driver saw that a koala was lying by the side of the road, she was dead, but in her pouch was the newborn joey. The hospital took her in and a volunteer fed her every 2 hours for 3 weeks. As she grew she showed signs of development that were unusual. She had received brain damage during the accident that had killed her mother and she was blind. We practically sobbed learning that she just didn’t climb trees like the other patients as she had never learnt how. She was completely blind, and as such could never be returned to the wild. We met many other Koalas and learnt that they are not bears but marsupials, as some of you keen readers may have already noticed from the pouch reference, and learnt that they really don’t like to be held and usually do a stress poo - the hospital did not offer holding sessions and implored its visitors not to hold koalas if given the chance. Poor buggers. They also all had adorable names due to their geographical naming convention. Koalas are extremely territorial and have trees for all kinds of purposes, bedrooms, eating, defecating, socialising, grooming, etc. And if they lose a tree it really confuses them - deforestation is a real issue and leads to most road accidents involving koalas as they attempt to travel deforested areas to find their home range. As such when a Koala has been treated and deemed ready to return to the wild it needs to go back as close as possible to where it was found as this will reduce the likelihood of it having to travel to find its home range and thus lower its chances of being injured again. Our favourite name was this Opal Falls Allen. Named for the place where he was found, Opal falls, and secondly the person who calls them in gets to name them - we loved the idea of some person just being like ‘Ah mate, he looked like a fair dinkum Allen to me, no drama, he’s out here by bloody Opal Falls and he don’t look to ripper, can ya send someone quick!?’

We returned from the hospital with a bittersweet feeling - knowing that folk were helping and hindering the happy existence of the koalas through the hospital and through cutting down gum trees respectively. We found a nice bottle shop and soon had a bag of chilled goon in our fridge box and were ready to meet our neighbours proper! Nicole and Addy were from Oxford, a P.E. Teacher and Carpenter respectively, they were visiting a relative in Sydney but had taken a couple of weeks to rent a camper and drive up the East coast to Byron. We got on like a house on fire and were soon wandering the harbour wall into town to the hotel where we got a bottle of wine. We laughed and talked and soon made our way back to camp to finish off the goon we had started earlier. Somewhere in the midst of all this carousing, we exchanged travel notes and discovered we were both heading to Coffs Harbour next. We promptly booked in at the same site as them and bid them good night and safe travels!

It was safe to say we had not had a night of drinking any real amount of alcohol in some time and our heads were sorrier for it the next morning. Nevertheless there were the folk in golf carts still fervently assembling the wire fence for the festival. It looked a tad grey and we couldn’t stomach riding bikes around so we opted to wander back into town and go to the art gallery we had seen before. Sadly the frosted glass did not hide the visual delights we had imagined but instead the airbrushed efforts of a local artist whose aesthetic sensibilities we did not share - alas, it takes all sorts to make a world. We made our way back to the campsite, had a spot of lunch and then paddled in the pool as grey skies broke into a halfhearted drizzle. I always enjoy a swim in the rain.

The next day we were on the road waving goodbye to Nicole and Addy saying that we’d see them at the next stop. We drove on up the A1, Bruce Highway, and in a few short hours were driving into Coffs Harbour. We made our way into town to do a food shop and got our first taste of Australian poverty. The town seemed very like the more austerity afflicted Northern towns of England, empty shop fronts, job centres adorned with fluorescent graffiti, notably more fast food shops and people who frequented them. Tourism seems to be the main industry of the East coast. The only other industries I have heard of are the coal power, and associated mining industries. It seems inequality strikes here too - but I guess that's no surprise with a government that thrives on the traditional conservatism that feeds into the local fears of the outsider, but more on the politics of Oz later! Right now a culinary intermission:

Golden gaytimes. What a wonderful and tasty morsel. Golden gaytimes for the uninitiated are a unique type of ice-cream to Australia. A sort of burnt sugar cinder toffee flavour golden foamy ice cream rippled with a vanilla ice cream coated in chocolate and rolled in crushed biscuit. Really really quite delightful. As we were eating our new favourite sunny day snack we waved at Nicole and Addy who were driving into camp as we returned shopping bags in hand. That night we suffered through a long and hearty downpour, we had forgotten that the top flap was open and so had to improvise a pan for a pooled puddle that was slowly dripping onto us. In the light of the morning we were very thankful to see that there were no proper leaks and Val was still holding up admirably to the elements.

We set off to explore the bicycle path to the coast and found ourselves walking along boardwalks, gravel paths, and dirt tracks, through swamp, field, and pasture, until we came alongside the estuary. Its broad sweep was azure blue and shallow, we saw many people wading in it, which encouraged us with respect to the local flora and fauna, and soon were passing the dolphin sanctuary on our right. It had a distinctly seaworld vibe with vans of tourists outside and adverts proclaiming hourly swim sessions with the fishy inhabitants. We steered clear and dove into the river. We waded our way up to the coast and wandered around until we found some fish and chips. Fish and chips isn’t the same. We asked for fish and chips and they asked how many pieces. We said one. It turns out they don’t do cod or haddock they do barramundi or hoki. Both of which are quite small. The chips too - thin and crisp, like french fries - not the soggy sad affair of the british chip that I and Becca had our hopes and cravings up for. But our stomachs were satisfied and it was rather good. They love aioli here and it came with that which helped! However, lunch was not a peaceful affair. Ever since I was attacked by a seagull in Cornwall, Fowey to be precise, a very nice Cornish ice cream was lost, and a set of red claw marks were left along the side of my neck, Becca has a bit of a fear of gulls. I was the one who was attacked. My ice cream lost to the avian gods of hunger. My neck raked with webbed feet. And yet as we sit on a bench tucking into our ‘fish and chips’ Becca is the one growling at the encroaching flock of gulls. A periodic stand up and arm waving procedure was developed to minimise lunchtime distress.

From there we walked out along the arm of the marina which connected the coast to Solitary Island. We didn’t know it, but it was a nature reserve and as we stepped off the magnificently abstract concrete artwork that was the marina wall we found ourselves reading some fascinating information boards on the history and biology of the island. Home to a particular species of burrowing bird whose name escapes me now, it was connected to the mainland by the marina wall in the 50’s and rats promptly invaded the island killing most of the birds and eating their eggs. It was also the home of the aboriginal ‘moon man’ who took his rest on the island and was said to exact punishment on overly confident young men in the tribe who took too many eggs of the burrowing birds. The path to the top of the island was steep and paved with a herringbone brick pattern. It was bordered by spectacularly beautiful plants that hugged the earth wind blasted as they were by a stiff sea breeze. They bore an astoundingly bright purple fruit, like a blueberry, but larger, and iridescently purple. The view from the top was excellent and I refer you to the pictures to do it justice.

That night we sat with Nicole and Addy and played Uno talking about the day and where we were heading to next - we were both headed to Byron Bay.

And so dear reader, that's probably a good place to pause for the moment. I’ll start writing the next one now but post it in a little while, hopefully this will keep you all going!

With lots of love,

Sam and Becca

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