#Avon Flare

[theclinch]

National Velvet by Enid Bagnold

Art by Ted Lewin

Published in 1991 by Avon Flare

ISBN 9780380712359

[bybruce]

solar flare

[neopoliitan]

TEAM RAIN: ARC 4 CH6 - THE PATH LESS TRAVELED

A WRITE UP FOR THE REST OF TEAM RAIN: CHAPTER 6

We return to Zenith. Zelena Braith is still questioning Viorel Braith on what Kamala Braith’s final plans are. We are not told what Zelena was asking about as we open on her asking for a firm confirmation, which Viorel gives.

Zelena rests her head in her hand as she processes this. She says she wants justice as much as the next person, but is unclear what Kamala aims to achieve with her plans. Viorel cuts her off and says they have spent fourteen years trying to render “the machine” operational, and that Zelena should not make the mistake of wasting their time.

Zelena affirms that she appreciates Viorel’s work, and claims that Akane’s semblance has got inside her head. Viorel states that “fools will do as fools will do.”

They’re interrupted by Viola Braith, who skips into Zenith victorious after her “beta test” in Avon. She states global rollout will go off without a hitch. Viorel says there was no doubt it would work as they did the hard work, but are cut off by Sterling Braith, who enters the room and brings up Viorel’s failed plan to recruit the Crazy Bunch. Having not seen Sterling since the start of Arc 3, Viola expresses exaggerated shock at his haggard appearance.

Sterling confronts Viorel and says his new arms aren’t “good enough” and they need to “do better.” Viorel retorts he’ll have to wait till Tahlia and Gardner get home, as the former is the engineer/mechanic of the family - besides, Sterling “is lucky to get anything after such a pitiful display” at Unsei Ridge, and they did a “miraculous job” given the short timeframe they had to work with.

Sterling grabs Viorel by the chest and lifts them off the floor, stating they’ll find out how “miraculous” a job they did when he uses his new arms to break every bone in their body. Zelena looks worried, then glances at Viola, who is clearly getting a kick out of the drama.

There’s a decent-length fight scene between Otso Umber and Raleigh Radcliff. During the fight, Otso lands a direct hit on Raleigh whose aura flares and causes Otso to reel back in pain. 

Raleigh’s semblance is named “Return to Sender.” As the cost of aura, Raleigh will not take damage from enemy attacks - and instead deflect it back onto the enemy as they hit him. The more he focuses, the less damage he will take and the more his attacker will endure.

Raleigh mocks Otso for not recalling his semblance despite their forty-year feud. 

Raleigh: “Doesn’t matter how hard you hit me - you’re the one who feels it.”

Otso: “I’ll take it if it means killing you! You ruined my life!”

Raleigh: “You’re doing a damn good job of that yourself!”

Otso: “Just admit it! You stole everything from me!”

Raleigh swings at Otso and clips his cheek with his hatchet. Otso spins with the momentum, then turns and catches Raleigh off guard, knocking him to the ground with a right hook. Otso swings down with his greatsword, but Raleigh blocks it with his ax and sweeps Otso aside.

Raleigh: “You want the truth? FINE!”

Raleigh: “You would’ve lost us that tournament! You didn’t stack up! I was the only one who did anything about it!”

Raleigh: “I cracked your damn head open so that I could take your place. You would’ve lost anyway.”

Otso is stunned by this revelation, so much so that Raleigh closes the gap and swings his hatchet at him. Otso parries, then uses the opening to drive his greatsword through Raleigh’s gut. Impaled, Raleigh’s knees buckle.

Otso pushes forward, leaning in and forcing his sword out through Raleigh’s back. As the space between them closes with Otso’s push, he yells that they were like brothers once.

Raleigh raises his hatchet. He affirms “we were” and swings at Otso’s exposed neck. In delirium thanks to their shared mortal wounds, the two exchange glances and chuckle, almost seeing their 18-year-old selves again. Then Raleigh swings again and Otso falls.

Raleigh pulls Otso’s sword from his gut, fully aware the wound is fatal, and casts it aside before dragging himself to lean up against his ship. He winces in pain, closes his eyes, then tilts his head to the sky.

After a moment, he hears footsteps.

Gardner Braith enters the clearing. He ponders Otso’s corpse and weapon for a moment, before being distracted as Tahlia Braith calls to him. She warns him that Team RAIN is here and they need to leave. Recognising their task is complete, Gardner picks up Otso’s bloodied sword as proof of his death and the duo hop into the truck they used to get to Faraday.

Team RAIN pursues Tahlia into the clearing to see the truck pulling out. Wil marches forward, saying all he needs is a truck to close the gap - Irving adds that the tyre tracks will basically draw a map to Zenith.

Akane and Robin spot Raleigh and kneel at his side. Robin says they need to get him help, but he tells them not to waste the effort on a dead man. 

Raleigh pulls a photo out of his vest pocket and hands it to Akane, telling her he has a son, Cordovan. He adds he has a daughter, Rosie, by a different mother. He asks her to find them and tell them he’s sorry, and that he’s proud of them. Akane protests that he can tell them himself, but he scoffs that it’ll mean more coming from her - they’ll know she’s telling the truth.

Raleigh slumps. Robin stands up and places her hands behind her head as she takes it in as Akane studies the photo.

The roar of an engine brings them back to the present - Wil announces he’s found a truck that works. Everyone piles in as Akane pockets the photo for later. 

Wil: “Where’s Radcliff?”

Akane: “He didn’t make it.”

Wil: “How well d’you know him?”

Akane: “Barely.”

Wil: “Then we can worry about it later.”

The truck pulls out, in pursuit of the Braiths.

–

Things get much more nebulous from here, as very few scenes are fully scripted (all of the next chapter was written pretty early, though.)

The following would have been a vehicle fight between Gardner/Tahlia’s truck and Team RAIN/PALM’s truck, involving a lot of bumper bashing and side-swiping. 

By the end of the vehicular battle, Tahlia would have climbed out of the sun-roof of the Braith truck, ran along the roof to the back of the vehicle and jumped off, landing in front of the Team RAIN truck. Using her Repulsion Semblance, she would repel the truck off the road and down a bank where it would be trashed.

Tahlia stands at the top of the hill, looking down at the wreck with slight remorse. Gardner pulls up next to her and climbs out of their truck, brandishing his weapon and telling her to get in the truck as she doesn’t need to witness what comes next.

Gardner proceeds to march downhill as Tahlia stares blankly at the horizon. After a moment, she notices something and squints - a blurry figure appears in the distance. She calls out to Gardner, telling him that someone is coming.

Gardner spots the figure too. His eyes widen and he turns, gently pulling Tahlia towards the truck. 

Gardner: “We need to go.”

Tahlia: “But what about–”

Gardner: “Just get in the truck.”

Gardner looks over his shoulder at the stranger.

Tahlia: “Who are they?”

Gardner: “Don’t worry about it.”

The Stranger watches the two Braiths peel away from the scene of the crash as they approach the wreckage. Irving pulls himself out, groaning as his aura flickers. The Stranger’s boot lands in front of him as he looks up worriedly, but he is relieved as the stranger offers a hand to help him up. We see their face is obscured with a hood, with a neckerchief and goggles covering their eyes and mouth.

Stranger: “Here. Let me help.”

–

Hours after the crash, Robin wakes up in a cave, a blanket covering her. She reaches for her sword, but its scabbard is empty. After a brief scan she sees her sword lying against the cave wall, and quietly picks it up. 

She rounds a corner nervously, where we see an obscured close up of the Stranger warming their hands at a small fire, their back to her. Robin slowly creeps up with her weapon, but the Stranger interrupts without turning - telling her that if they wanted any harm to come to her, she’d be dead already.

Robin asks where her friends are, and the Stranger tells her they’re resting - as she should be. Ignoring this, Robin presses further, asking why and how a random stranger would come to rescue them in the wilderness.

The stranger ponders for a moment as they stand up, playing with their fingers. They tell her they’ve been watching the Braiths for a while now. Robin asks why - who are they?

We see over the Stranger’s shoulder as he turns around to face Robin, whose eyes widen.

It’s a man in his fifties, with untidy grey hair that was once black. His eyes are a piercing white - both sclera and iris - ringed with dark circles of age and sleeplessness. He has a streaked, unkept beard, but his expression shows an innate kindness.

Stranger: “Oh, you know… just their father.”

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Northern Light

Thirty-six hours before Jeff Buckley died, I saw him standing on a quiet Memphis street corner. A sheriff's car had pulled over, and the beige-suited federale stood towering above him. Jeff was my neighbor and friend, so I turned my car around to see if I could extract him from his tangle.

The incident had ended by the time I got there. It began raining. I pulled up next to Jeff. He didn't like strangers stopping him, and he kept his face forward as I drove beside him. He didn't look up until I spoke, then he stormed into the car, furious that the deputy had stopped to ask who he was; Jeff thought the lawman recognized him from his videos. I tried telling him their paths happened to cross at a corner that was known for drug activity, but he wouldn't hear it.

At the corner, instead of turning toward our street to go home--he lived a few doors from us in a rental house--I turned away. An anger I didn't know flared up. He demanded to be let out and opened the door while we were moving. The rain was hard and heavy, a dark rain. He did not want to know that I was only going one block out of the way. To calm him I told him I would take him home directly. F---it, if he wanted to act like a rock star, I'd indulge his fame, don my chauffeur's hat, take his assholiness home, and then do my errand.

If he'd not died, the incident would have meant nothing.

I see my happening onto him right after the cop as proof--if he was seeking proof--that he could not take a walk and be alone. He had owned Manhattan and walked away for a place he could be alone.

He leapt out of my car and was immediatelly soaked. "I'll walk," he said. "It's nice out." It was not nice out. Is that what he had to say to be alone?

Jeff rang our doorbell at six sharp. "Look at this," he told my wife, leading Mr. Clean into the kitchen. He wore a frilly green three-piece thrift-store suit, two-tone black and white shoes, and a wide-brimmed hat tilted forward over his face. I assumed a matching green Cadillac with a fake fur steering wheel was parked out front. He said, "I like to dress for dinner."

He and I drank red wine outside in the pre-summer heat. My four-month-old daughter cooed at him, he cooed back, and they laughed. After dinner he wanted to retrieve a notebook he'd left at the downtown club where he had a weekly gig. "Sure they're open," he said, "live bands seven nights a week." We walked to his house, where he got the keys to his rental car. Before leaving the house, he put on a Dead Kennedys CD and left it at top volume. One the street I could hear every thudding syllable. An Avon lady lived next door to him. I didn't ask questions.

He drove like his verbal riffs: all over the place. The club was, of course, closed. But his outfit was glowing, we were half-lit, and we hit a Beale Street beer hall that had a pool table. He put down two quarters in line for a game and steadily pumped the jukebox.

In Memphis Jeff could play at anonymity: a dangerous, green-suited pool hustler running Beale. The bartender found his Grifters selection too noisy and pulled the plug. Jeff leapt onto the pool table and demanded not only that the machine be turned back on, but that he be given his money back so he could play the song again. A pretty girl recognized him and between pool shots she handed him a menu and asked him for an autograph. He was polite; I think the occasional recognition was enough to sate his ego, but not so much that it interfered with his daily affairs.

My wife and I fed him a couple of times, hung out a bit. Usually his blinds were drawn, and we mostly left him to his work. One evening I stopped by on my way to the neighborhood bar. He talked about his dad that night, also a singer with a clarion voice. Tim Buckley was twenty-eight when he found a packet of powder and, mistaking the heroine for cocaine, laid out a fat line, inhaled, and died. Jeff was eight at the time. He lived with his mother, her husband, and his half brothers, and back then his name was Scott J. Moorhead. Then he'd entered his old man's business, and though he didn't know him (he'd only spent a week with his dad), he was feeling the weight of his father's shadow. Dead at such an early age, Tim Buckley would be forever young. "The only way I can rebel against him," Jeff told me, "is to live."

You don't go swimming in your boots without some kind of intent somewhere. Jeff was thirty when he drowned in the Mississippi River. I don't imagine that his father's specter ever left him, but I do believe life must have refracted through the ghost differently during Jeff's last couple of years. My wife's father died accidentally when she was a child, and she speaks of the mixed feelings she had when she passed her father's age. Survivors' guilt tinged with survivors' triumph: "It didn't happen to me" becomes "it couldn't."

People like me who write about musicians have a relationship with celebrity that is either symbiotic or parasitic, depending on the perspective. Jeff and I had met accidentally, laughed a lot at that first meeting but were never introduced, and I left thinking he was just some new guy in town. It took an effort by me to supress the opportunism presented by his fame and maintain that purity in our friendship. We never discussed doing an interview, though I took notes for one. He had recorded an Alex Chilton song on his first EP; Chilton plays a significant role in my first book, It Came From Memphis, but we never discussed that either. He'd never played his fame card before, and offering to drive him a mile home that day it rained, when I was a block from doing that anyway, made me painfully aware of the shared natures of fan and servant.

Fame is a buoy that raises you up and a weight that brings you down. Jeff Buckley was beautiful to behold, a blast to be around, a singular talent. He seemed strong enough for fame. His core bubbled with energy, an excitement that sometimes overpowered him. Talking about his dad in the bar, he bent to his drink and gnawed on the glass with his teeth. Though he could wrangle his power, like when he made music, he seemed most at ease letting it pour fourth: A rush of comic routines. Impulsive actions. His wardrobe. Swimming in the river.

The day after the rain, I saw a furniture rental truck unloading beds at his house; Jeff's band was arriving. When a British magazine editor called the next morning asking me to confirm that Jeff had died of a drug overdose, I reamed the guy. "Let him work!" I said. "He wants to be alone." The editor assured me that this news was based in fact, that someone from Microsoft News had--but I cut him off and told him to leave the guy alone. Ten minutes later a friend at Jeff's label called to say that reports were that Jeff had drowned, and what did I know about it? Geez, I thought, can't anyone let this guy work?

My wife said if I'd been called about another of my neighbors having an accident, I'd have run to their door and knocked, made sure everything was okay. I did walk down to Jeff's house and stood in front of it dumbly--his house looked like his house--but I wasn't about to disturb him with rumors of himself. An hour later, back home, I glanced out front and an image of his bandmates--their stooped backs, the shade of the magnolia tree, red Converse high-tops on asphalt--seared into my brain. Death. I'd never seen them before, but their dyed hair and disheveled look announced them as Jeff's guests, and their dazed walk and stupefied manner instantly confirmed the worst. It rained for four days after that.

The first daylight hours passed as we waited for the phone to ring--for Jeff to tell us that the current had swept him away and deposited him, tired and delirious, in a foresaken corner of a cotton field, and he walked for hours between rows to dirt paths to gravel and was finally calling from a gas station near a stupid Tunica casino, could someone please come pick him up right away and bring dry clothes, he was miserable. But that call didn't come. His mother came, his girlfriend, an aunt, a lawyer, and some record company people.

When Jeff Buckley immersed himself in that inlet of the the Mississippi River, he swam out on his back, looking at the stars, singing a Led Zeppelin song. A tugboat passed and left a wake. He swallowed water. The shadow was heavy. The refraction was blinding. His boots were full.

It's said about the blues singer Robert Johnson that he lived a compartmentalized life. That to some he was Robert Dusty, to others Robert Spencer, and that his personae were as varied and as independent as the people to whom each was known. Jeff had a life in New York I knew little about, and his family was in California. But his absence broke down those partitions, and we survivors clung to each other in his house, surrounded by his belongings, waiting for him.

The undercurrents in Memphis swelled in Jeff's absence. This city reveres obscurity, is hostile toward success. Beneath the reverence for the celebrated--here or anywhere--is a mean-spirited envy, a rooting for the lions over the gladiator. The tide of gossip rose: He staged his death for publicity. Or for solitude. He was on drugs. Suicide. Black magic.

On the fourth day, before his body floated up, his mother called his friends to his house for a wake. His beautiful photograph was propped on the table, along with a candle and maybe a flower. She wanted to celebrate her son's life and she made a toast, reminding me how little we can each know of even the ones we call friends. She raised her glass, and we raised ours. Her words startled me: "To Scotty."

His singing was magisterial, like a pipe organ, natural like the northern lights. Jeff's voice made me want to build shrines--though now I see Jeff Buckley was the shrine to his voice. His sudden end has seeped into my memories of his passion and vitality, and I can't seperate the purity of his tone from the tragedy of his fate.

My child is drifting off to sleep in my arms. She has learned to crawl, is beginning to understand spacial relations. The puzzle that is everything she sees is beginning to have pieces, and the pieces are beginning to fit. Her dreams have become more lifelike, and as she is momentarily disturbed into consciousness, her eyes open. She can't tell the worlds apart, and since the dream feels so much nicer than the coldness of reality, she doesn't fight the return. She drifts off.

Source: Robert Gordon

[suedesongs]

These Are The Suede Songs 003: The Drowners

1991. The University of London Union Ticket Office. Enter one Simon Gilbert, stage right. Gilbert, a twenty-five year old punk from Stratford-Upon-Avon, has just heard a demo tape from a band, supposedly one managed by, among a couple of other characters, his colleague Ricky Gervais. Gervais was, at this point, working at ULU and moonlighting in a band, as Brett Anderson recalls, called Son Of Bleeper. This was long before he would become better known for his “comedy” - and troubling views on transgender rights.

Gilbert asked Gervais if he could join, to which he was told he couldn’t “because he didn’t have flares and he didn’t have a fringe”.

Thank goodness, he would go on to ask another of Suede’s managers and secured a rehearsal. It would take six months of Gilbert believing he was on a trial period to realise he was officially in the band.

This was monumental in Suede’s musical journey. Gone was the faulty drum machine which would constantly break down, and here was a proper full-time drummer, and the final push to shake off the unpleasant spectre of Baggy forever, and to comfortably slide into something tighter, more violent, sexier. Gilbert’s drumming is melodic and calculated, whilst at the same time booming and tribal. It’s the kind of drumming that fills stadiums, and what a better way to introduce Suede to the world at large than with his iconic drum fill on ‘The Drowners’.

It was around this time, too, that Justine Frischmann would depart the band. Anderson recalls to Dave Thompson that, as Butler was increasingly developing his playing to incorporate both lead and rhythm at the same time, this, sadly, made her feel her place in the band was becoming somewhat redundant. Frischmann herself remarks that it was “better to be Pete Best than Linda McCartney.”

Another reason for her exit was the shift in the band’s musical direction. Frischmann increasingly felt that songs were becoming too long and overwrought. Though she would, fantastically, go on to create short, spiky post-punk with Elastica later in the decade.

On January 2nd 1992, Suede attracted the attention of Saul Galpern, the operator of Nude Records, whilst playing at The Venue in New Cross in a show under the name “On For ‘92”. He offered them £3,132 for a two single deal.

In April of that year, Melody Maker made the bold choice to place Suede on their front cover, proclaiming them the “Best New Band in Britain”. This cover has gone on to gain an almost infamy amongst Suede and their fans. Anderson, in the 2022 BBC Documentary Rock Family Trees: The Birth of Cool Britannia, refers to it in disparaging terms, likening it to winning a competition in school as a child.

However less discussed is the contents of the article itself. Not only were Suede described as ‘The Best New Band in Britain’, but as “the most audacious, mysterious, sexy, absurd, perverse, glamorous, hilarious, honest, cocky, melodramatic, mesmerising band you’re ever likely to fall in love with.”

And this leads us back, finally, to The Drowners.

Released on May 11th 1992 as a double A Side with To The Birds, The Drowners peaked at a not insignificant number 49 on the UK charts at the time of release, however it would later go on to hit an impressive Number 17 in July 2023 for one week as a thirtieth anniversary reissue, albeit in a time when chart positions don’t mean all that much.

Suede would often be touted as some kind of antithesis to the Grunge which dominated the airwaves in the early 1990s, however, The Drowners’ opening chords could, in some sense, be described as “grungy”. They’re hard and powerful and dirty. Not dirty in the greasy-haired grunge sense, but in a way that oozes sex. This is what truly sets Suede apart.

In the Channel 4 Documentary Opening Shot, Everett True, at the time assistant editor at Melody Maker, explains: “the critics loved them [Suede] (...) because they are exactly the same as everything they grew up with. They hark back to an era of rock and roll that critics understand, 1993 down the front at the Hammersmith Odeon watching David Bowie.” I feel that this perspective, whilst it may have some truth to it, is rather an oversimplification and focuses primarily on Suede’s image (cobbled together from charity shops and largely consisting of whatever they could find). Suede only have as much in common with Bowie as any of their contemporaries, it feels like a rather lazy comparison.

Anderson’s vocals have once again assumed new inflections and has a great deal more character, not to mention confidence. Listening to the Rocking Horse Demo, which is a much rawer, grittier take, the first thing that sticks out are, indeed, the vocals. They’re sung in near falsetto, they’re a little girlish and coquettish. Inviting, sexy. If there’s one way that The Drowners can be described, it’s certainly sexy. The rhythm of the guitar line, the pounding drums, the pleading of Anderson’s vocals.

There’s the ambiguity of it all, too, as Anderson describes how “we kiss in his room”. Is this the room of a third party? A male partner? Or is he singing from a woman’s perspective? It’s kept completely open, and this ambiguity is something that will become a theme throughout Suede’s catalogue.

Interestingly, two music videos were shot. One for the UK market by Lindy Heymann, which depicts the band flouncing around a white soundstage intercut with footage of Anderson and an unnamed girl walking around a manky railway bridge in Camden (now a pilgrimage spot for avid Suede fans, complete with an unofficial blue plaque), and another for the US market, depicting a kind of frantic gig scene with fans, real fans, clamoring for a piece of the boys on the stage, before it devolves into a foam party. I feel the latter captures the song considerably better. It's so thrilling, sexy, dirty and primal. It's everything Suede are, and everything that drew me to them.

At the time of writing, this is the song that Anderson uses as his excuse to do his crowd walk, wading through a sea of adoring fans. It's fitting, with the use of the “we” pronoun (another characteristic of Suede lyrics), creating a convivial experience. Whilst the power dynamic between band and crowd will always place the band upon a higher footing, oftentimes literally, at this moment he becomes one with his audience. It's also a chance for Mat Osman and Richard Oakes to really shine.

Although, the production on The Drowners, and Suede’s back catalogue as a whole, I feel does Osman rather poorly. He's a truly accomplished bass player who creates some truly incredible baselines which compliment and tie together the songs so perfectly, and combined with Gilbert’s ferocious drumming, it's truly a match made in rhythm section heaven. The bass, though is so often disappointingly low in the mix, and so can only be heard with the highest quality headphones.

Anderson admits part of this would likely be due to how he listened to music throughout his adolescence, on a cheap sound system which cut out the low tones. The recent remasters rectify this somewhat, but it still rather feels a shame.

All in all, The Drowners is a delightful, sleazy, beautiful introduction to the world of a band who still aren't given the credit they're due.

If you enjoy what I write, please consider buying me a coffee! https://ko-fi.com/suedesongs

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

🦇 Tastes Like Shakkar Book Review 🦇

Rating: ��⭐⭐⭐

❝ "As a wedding planner, I have learned to appreciate blunt honesty. I mean, what's sexier than that? Being completely transparent and straight with another person takes a kind of fearlessness, doesn't it?" ❞

❓ #QOTD What's your favorite Shakespeare play (or retelling)? ❓ 🦇 Bobbi Kaur is eager to plan a blow-out, unforgettable wedding for her best friend. Unfortunately, she's paired with Benjamin “Bunty” Padda to complete the task; the groom's best friend and man who derailed her career as a wedding planner. After Bunty refuses to cater a previous wedding for her, Bobbi's boss and uncle loses his faith in her ability to one day manage the business. The Kareena Mann and Prem Verma (#Vermann) wedding could be her chance to prove herself and win an account with one of the biggest venues around. To make matters worse, someone is trying to sabotage the wedding. Despite their constant bickering and the shaadi saboteur's best efforts, can Bobbi and Bunty call a truce and (with the help of a few sleuthing, meddling aunties) turn the Vermann wedding into a happily ever after?

💜 How do I bottle up all my love for Nisha Sharma, Bobbi, and Bunty in a concise review? Oh, let me count the ways... (whoops, wrong play). "There's a skirmish of wit between them" is far more accurate. Tastes Like Shakkar picks up from the scene we missed in Dating Dr. Dil, when Bobbi and Bunty speak alone at Kareena's birthday party. A moment of misunderstanding flares into hostility, even though Bobbi and Bunty have more in common than they realize. Sharma does a stunning job of pulling from Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing while staying true to her Punjabi-American characters. So many books are categorized as romcom more for the situational comedy than actual laugh-aloud moments, which Sharma brings in spades. Bobbi and Bunty have all the wit and sass of their Shakespearian counterparts, but they bring the heat, too. This sweet, sassy story has a flare of spice that's bound to get your blood pumping. Whether Bunty is cooking up a storm in the kitchen or not, there are plenty of mouthwatering moments to spare.

💜 Bobbi's independence and ferocity are inspiring, while Bunty's foodie notes, text, and willingness to SHOW he's falling first are heartwarming. The layers of similarity between them—taking on familial obligations while trying to prove themselves—bring Bobbi and Bunty together when internal and external forces try to drag them apart. The aunties are, as always, a hoot, and Bobbi's curvy representation (and better yet, PRIDE) warmed my heart.

🦇 As much as I loved the story's mystery element, I pegged the shaadi saboteur the moment Bobbi chooses her first suspect. Sharma leaves plenty of little breadcrumbs for readers to follow. Though there's a TON of sizzle and spice (I'm fanning myself at the thought of that throne scene), I do think it was rushed, almost entirely resolving the animosity between them with smut.

🦇 Recommended for fans of Shakespeare retellings, @sonali.dev / Sonali Dev's The Rajes series, or @saradesaiwrites / Sara Desai's The Marriage Game series! Any rom-com lover is bound to fall in love with Bobbi and Bunty!

✨ The Vibes ✨ 💞 Enemies to Lovers 🤏🏽 Forced Proximity 📜 Shakespeare Inspired 🔍 A Dash of Mystery 🪷 Desi/Punjabi RomCom 💐 Chef x Wedding Planner 👗 Plus-Sized Female Lead 📚 Second in a Series 💜 Contemporary Romance 😂 Banter & Humor

❝ "My body says 'let's go on an expedition!' while my brain is shouting 'evacuate mission!'" ❞

🦇 Major thanks to the author Nisha Sharma and publisher Avon Books/ Harper Voyager US for providing an ARC of this book via Netgalley. 🥰 This does not affect my opinion regarding the book.

[snuh]

Tim Hildebrandt: The Science Fictional Dinosaur - Avon Flare #77974, February 1982

[telomereschronicles]

Hello tout le monde !

En ce dimanche, voilà la présentation de l'équipe de super-héros de Nova, les Supernovas !

Créée officiellement en 1987, l'équipe des Supernovas est constituée de 6 grands héros choisis soigneusement par Nova pour protéger le nord-est des Etats-Unis ainsi qu'une partie du Canada. Très fidèle à leur corporation, ces héros sont des exemples pour la société, travaillant en équipe constamment et intervenant un peu partout. Les Supernovas sont menés par Solar Flare, secondée dans sa tâche par Wraith. Les apprenti.es sont choisi.es pour leurs capacités et leur force de caractère ainsi que pour ce qu'ils pourront apporter à l'équipe à l'avenir. L'équipe se compose actuellement de 6 membres officiels, des héros entraînés et connus du grand public, ainsi que de 4 apprenti.es, des membres encore en train d'être entraînés par les Supernovas et leurs équipes. A l'heure actuelle, seuls 2 membres des Supernovas ont été envoyés à Atlanta : Hachiman et Scorched Earth. Ils sont accompagnés de 4 apprentis qui sont là pour se former autant que prouver leurs capacités.

Actuellement, 2 membres des Supernovas sont jouables, les autres sont des PNJs qui ne se trouvent pas dans Atlanta. Voici tout de suite la liste des personnage, leurs pouvoirs et avatars !

Solar Flare (PNJ) - 45 ans, leader des Supernovas, contrôle de l'énergie solaire, Morena Baccarin

Wraith (PNJ) - 49 ans, second des Supernovas, mimique de pouvoirs, Benedict Cumberbatch

Siren (PNJ) - 42 ans, manipulation des émotions, Angela Sarafyan

Ironclaw (PNJ) - 38 ans, contrôle du métal, Janelle Monáe

Hachiman (PV libre) - 33-38 ans, combattant surdoué aux capacités augmentées, Andrew Koji

Scorched Earth (PV libre) - 28-33 ans, pyrokinésie, Will Poulter

Et en plus, nous avons 4 places d'apprentis au sein des Supernovas que voici !

F/M/NB, 23 ans, pouvoirs libres Originaire de Boston, apprenti.e de Nova depuis environ 2 ans après s'est fait.e remarquer en étant vigilante dans sa ville natale, envoyé.e à Atlanta pour lui faire connaître de vrais combats contre des criminels

F/M/NB, 19 ans, détecteur de mensonges Originaire de Detroit, apprenti.e lae plus récemment arrivé.e chez Nova, quelques mois à peine, pouvoirs basés sur la détection du mensonge et autres capacités télépathiques, envoyé.e à Atlanta pour utiliser ses pouvoirs sur les criminels appréhendés

F, 25 ans, contrôle du fer Originaire du Canada, est apprentie depuis 5 ans, formée directement par Ironclaw pour prendre sa succession, capacités en lien avec le contrôle du fer et de ses alliages, envoyée à Atlanta pour la tester et l'entraîner en condition réelle

M, 21 ans, pouvoirs libres Origines libres, placé sous la tutelle de Hachiman un an plus tôt pour lui permettre de s'entraîner et devenir potentiel partenaire de combat d'Hachiman, apprenti depuis un an seulement, envoyé à Atlanta pour suivre son mentor

[vtgbooks]

NICOLE DAVIDSON Crash Landing 1996 Vintage HORROR Avon Flare Book 1990s Retro

[retrogirlsbooks]

Silver by Norma Fox Mazer

ISBN 0-380-75026-0

[bwthornton]

Poole Pottery Flare Asymmetrical Bowl 9cm in Height #Poole #Pottery #Art #Ceramics #StratfordonAvon

http://www.bwthornton.co.uk/poole-pottery.php

Poole Pottery Flare Asymmetrical Bowl 9cm in Height #Poole #Pottery #Art #Ceramics #StratfordonAvon

[gayness-and-mayhem]

Leather flares are a rather...bold choice aren't they Avon? I suppose that's not exactly unusual though.

[yello80s]

Another 80s donation to our Little Library and an Avon Flare classic. #80sbooks #yello80s #teenreads #yabooks #avonflare #vintagebooks #paperbacks https://www.instagram.com/p/CCYWPJWJtUS/?igshid=1twfbrd71adl7

[snuh]

Tim Hildebrandt: The Science Fictional Dinosaur - Avon Flare #77974, February 1982

[nevertellmetheodds2017]

are you in need of some motivation???  .... THE ONLY EASY DAY WAS YESTERDAY

Cause I’m on day 4 of 0mg of steroids and the steroid withdrawal is making me all sorts of loopy so yeah, I AM. So I’m going to drop the first of what might be a series of motivation posts. Or it might be a standalone. Who knows, lol...  (ETA, look at that, there is a Part Two! now,  Part Three!! and Part FOUR!)

So, there’s a recurrent theme in cancerlandia.... all about how cancer made people better. Media loves this narrative. They love a story about a person diagnosed with terminal cancer who then discovers what’s important in life ... and has some epiphany... and they’re all joyous and blah blah (barf, barf, insert gagging noises from me)

As I was recently saying to someone online, I was the same person after my Stage 1 diagnosis. I did what needed to be done and got on with what I had planned for the rest of my life. Then I recurred as Stage 4 and I still don’t feel any wiser (in fact, on some days, between the stress and chemo brain, I feel definitively duller). This isn’t a growth journey for me. This is just a horrible circumstance.

And I leaned hard into the coping skills I developed over decades. You know the ones... anger and depression. Very helpful, I know. 

But it’s not for nothing that I’ve been in the hippy world of attachment parenting, extended breastfeeding and homeschooling. Self-help, meditation, yoga, fucking West Coast wooo are all adjacent to those worlds & that helped me not get too stuck in the anger & depression.  Thich Nhat Hanh’s book Peace Is Every Step is on my bookshelf somewhere. I’ve read Pema Chodron’s When Things Fall Apart twice now. (I should probably read it a third.)

But I will still defend everyone’s right to remain angry and bitter right to the end. You don’t have to ever let go of those. They can burn in a little corner and flare up whenever you want. It’s ok to keep them. & not just keep them – I mean really keep them. I’m tending mine carefully, feeding them little tidbits regularly and letting them out to scream and whine occasionally.

Nevertheless, if you’re facing cancer or another terminal diagnosis, you better get your good coping skills lined up and yes, you better figure out quickly what is important and what isn’t. Your time is suddenly limited and after your anger and depression are carefully tended to, you need to put on your big girl panties and get on with shit.

Now, as a rule, I hate warrior and battle analogies for cancer treatment (I might write more about that one day but for now just know – nobody loses the battle with cancer; medicine runs out of treatments and their body loses ability to self repair. That’s it. We need to stop with the battle language because we’re not warriors. We’re people with a disease. And anyway, it’s a tie. The damned cancer dies with the patient, so there.....) BUT, one thing I’ve liked for decades is the heavily romanticized world of Navy SEALS as portrayed in romantic suspense. SEALS get stuff done. My Harlequin and Avon Books etc SEALS are yummy and romantic and they’re my candy. 

So here’s one of the SEAL mottos:

The only easy day was yesterday.

Now I admit that I’ve had to sit with this one for a while. How the fuck is this helpful? I mean, some days suck so much and you think, really, that was the easy day? Tomorrow will be worse? But, here’s the thing. This is not an easy thing to go through. There will be hard days, and then there will be harder days. Know it now. Suck it up buttercup. You didn’t sign up for this, but you’re here. Try to enjoy the ride. And for me, it is helpful to know that it will be hard, harder and hardest. Just expecting that makes it easier somehow.

Get up (or don’t, if it’s a bedbound day or week or month – that is the reality, I know). Your GET UP might consist of opening your eyes. That’s it. CHAMPION! Yesterday was the only easy day. Be ready for this day, you’re strong enough for whatever comes, whenever it comes.

A bonus! 

I’ve decided to edit & make these posts even better with a book reccomendation because if you’re feeling down, you need some swagger and overcoming and all the good things triumphing stories. See my stash of SEAL romantic suspenses and romantic adventures? That was a quick one pass of my bookshelf...there are no doubt tons more but here you go. Let’s start with Suzanne Brockmann & her Tall, Dark & Dangerous series. My editions are twofers, two books in one: 

First up: Prince Joe & Forever blue, repackaged as Tall, Dark & Dangerous. Recommended! Find it, buy it borrow it, read it. Let me know what you think! (I’m going to link you gals to a Kindle version which has the first 3 books...because apparently mine is OOP now)

(credit: The 7 Motivational Seal Sayings which I’m going to use in this series are from an inc.com article by Brent Gleeson)

[vtgbooks]

Vintage ELLEN EMERSON WHITE Friends For Life 1983 Vintage HORROR AVON FLARE