#Unreliable Narrator : the musical

[mothtral]

sunday was chained up in the rooms he secretly kept you locked away in. the family knew of the area, of course they did, it’s where they kept the traitors and the highest ranking criminals. they thought sunday was visiting various convicts to gather more information… they weren’t aware someone innocent was hidden away like a prized jewel.

mind you, many of the older members of the family wouldn’t have mattered if you were innocent, but luckily for you, many have been trying to find you for a long time. enough there’s been missing posters of you yellowing on penacony’s streets. a beloved friend of sunday and robin, including other younger elite members of the family. it was too public, them bringing sunday to that room.

so out you went and sunday guided inside. sunday said nothing. he didn’t look at you. maybe, he knew the dream you had, one where you were running through an open field under the sun, your arms spread apart like a bird about to take flight; free.

robin was horrified and bundled you away, she ignored the flinch you gave her when she got too close, too fast. most wouldn’t think you were missing for months, perhaps even years. dressed to the nines in silk clothes and not a single scratch or bruise on your body. the chains sunday used on you were cushioned; he wanted you by his side, not a walking punching bag.

time flew past you at a nauseating speed. you never were one for rollercoasters, or the pin ball transportations in penacony. one thing is for certain, when everyone’s backs are turned, you will leave and never step foot in penacony again.

first, you must do something. sunday took your life from you. but… you never wanted to see him in your place in that little cell.

“come to gloat?” sunday said. he sounded so bitter, tired. it was almost enough for you to take a step closer, to get within range of his telepathy.

sunday… he didn’t treat you badly, per se. you clung to your childhood much like he did; you, sunday, and robin. all brought to the family at young ages, the only ones at that time that were considered outsiders back then. you gravitated to each other, your dream much like theirs as a child.

your dream… you don’t dream anymore. you haven’t for a long time.

“no,” you whispered. you hadn’t spoken a word to anyone since leaving this cell. you hadn’t spoken a word since sunday brought you to this cell. it hurt. “i wanted to say farewell.”

you have never seen sunday like that before. after the words left your mouth, his head snapped up from where he was fixated at the ground, his neck audibly cracking. before, you thought sunday’s eyes looked like the evening sky, soft and sweet, the perfect sunset. now, they looked like threshold to mania, pupils shrunken and nearly glowing; something else was watching you from his gaze.

“you—cannot—leave me,” sunday rasped out, teeth bared and spit clinging to his lips. he strained against the chains holding him back that for a moment, he looked like a beast held restrained by flimsy material it could easily break free from. distantly, you noticed, they no longer held the cushions they did for you. now, they were a sickly purple; you did not want to know why it looked like that.

“i can. i will,” you replied. you thought this should’ve been more emotional; you did not have it in you to be passionate. exhaustion clung to your limbs, but somehow you kept striving forward. maybe it was the inherent stubbornness sunday used to bemoan.

you turned around; you saw enough. it was time to go, your goal accomplished.

“what about our dream?” sunday hissed. behind you, you heard something creak, and knew you couldn’t stick around for much longer.

“it has not been our dream for a long time, sunday. i hope just that one day you realize it wasn’t your dream, as well.” you wondered if you should clarify, let sunday keep this little flicker of a flame, of hope. and you decided you would. “i know i said this was a farewell. we both know you won’t let it remain that. i await the day you find me again. maybe we can find a new dream together.”

[qprpbj]

miss me with the ponyboy hates being babied allegations. kid canonically literally admits to “being cold at night” so his big brother will cuddle him to sleep. be soo fr.

[demigod-of-the-agni]

FF7 REBIRTH SPOILERS!!!!

when i tell you i was crying in this sequence I MEAN IT

[hippolotamus]

Fuck it Friday 🥃

Tagged by @ladydorian05 @daffi-990 @wikiangela thank you loves (don't forget to check their fabulous snippets!) 💖

no pressure tagging @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @giddyupbuck @stereopticons @disasterbuckdiaz @monsterrae1 @spotsandsocks @honestlydarkprincess @eddiediaztho @thewolvesof1998 @forthewolves @chaosandwolves @wildlife4life @spaceprincessem @mysteriouslyyounggalaxy @heartshapedvows @loserdiaz @watchyourbuck @your-catfish-friend @statueinthestone @buddierights @911onabc @jesuisici33 @pirrusstuff @cowboy-buddie @the-likesofus @fionaswhvre @steadfastsaturnsrings @barbiediaz @eowon and anyone else who wants to (if i forgot to tag you no i didn't)

I was at a bit of a loss as to what to share today. Ultimately it's more of you're where I wanna go. This is from a later chapter but takes place earlier than any of the previous snippets. IDK the scene came to me and here we are 😘

“‘nother, please.” Buck hails the barkeep, not paying attention to whether or not his request was heard.  He swirls the last of the amber liquid in his glass, studying it like it contains the answers to everything in the universe. Maybe it does. Has anyone really proved that it doesn’t? People read tea leaves and tell fortunes and base their entire lives on where the cosmos were the night they were born. Why can’t he take meaning from a thin pool of translucent whisky? It’s not like he’s got much else going for him.  He turns the tumbler over, holding it over his open mouth and sticking his tongue out to catch any droplets that might fall when it's taken from his hand.  “Hey! Tha’smine.” Someone took his drink! Buck looks down at the shiny lacquered bartop only to see a full whisky, dark and glimmering. How did that get there? Did he ask for it? Maybe the filthy crook that swiped his first one took pity and gave him a new one. 

He rests his cheek on his hand, eye level with the cheaply cut crystal. His mother would hate this glass. Would say it’s not even worth having. The same as he’s not worth having. Her and Philip never really wanted Buck. Eddie doesn’t want him. Christ, why did he even come back? Oh, right. Maddie. The one person who’s ever loved him consistently and with purpose. Except she’s gone now, too.  Buck lifts his head and drains the glass, scrunching his eyes closed and grunting as it burns his tongue and throat. Doesn’t matter. He should suffer and feel pain and disappointment. At least that’s something he knows he’s good at.  “We’re closin’. Time to go.” William – or maybe it’s Billy or Mac? – raps his knuckles on the counter and takes Buck’s empty drink.  “Don’t wanna. Not ready,” Buck mumbles, laying his forehead against the cool wood.  “Sorry, kid. I can give ya a few minutes to pull yourself together. But ya gotta leave.” William doesn’t sound very sorry. More annoyed that he has to shuffle a handful of drunks out of his tavern.  Buck groans with the effort of sitting upright. He rubs at his eyes, hoping that will make the spinning stop. Unfortunately it doesn’t. He lays a few bills on the counter before dropping his feet to the floor, using his stool for support. Thankfully, he only sways a little once he lets go.

[thegirlisuedtobe]

hey your post were you mention the narrator of rebecca lies by omission is haunting (pun intended teehee) me, what did you mean when you said she lies by omission, feel free to rant btw

-💗

Did you mean [this] post?

AHH!! mrs de winter,,, that girl is a liar and the most conniving woman i have ever had the pleasure of reading jk

but actually i mean it tho that she does lie by omission. i tagged this as the musical but in terms of the show, i dont think she actually lies in that one, especially as far as how most actors in that role interpret her character.

but book mrs de winter?? my goodness,,,, when i made this post the scene i was really thinking was the prologue for the most part, when shes describing her life living with maxim at that hotel after the fire. there's this kind of way where shes saying shes content but like against her descriptions about the kind of glamour that manderley had, their quaint life together feels so,,, dreary, like a half existence, not really a life not really in death yknow? if u read in between the lines at this listless kind of development of setting, shes saying all these things about living an ordinary life but in a tone where shes not satisfied with it at all,,,

this quote from the the top of chapter 2 is like one that gets referenced a lot but people never quote the whole thing, she says "we have conquered ours, or so we believe." like first of all who the fuck says "or so we believe" in a statement where shes trying to justify or rationalise the ordeal that they went through and the outcome of it (being this dreary life) as a net positive,,, like why are u being so ominous now,,, and then the next line "the devil does not ride with us" like babe,,, ur not being honest with yourself,,,, u just said "oh we conquered ours, jk unless,,, but we did yknow," she has such a flip floppy way of framing things that makes u question which is it really? i think its a testament to that idea of rebecca being a mirror and finding what you want to see, and for me i see this person desperately trying to frame something that is still deeply affecting her to this present day as if it doesnt. like someone else who might wish to feel the same way might only see the oh we've conquered it and not pick up on the unease of or so we believe, just that the devil does not ride us anymore. to a reader who wants to see that, they will interpret this quote as a triumph, which often is usually the case.

like she says that the unrest has "mercifully stilled" but at the drop of a hat "the past is still too close to us." their situation remains in this precarious balance, if they go too far in any direction they endanger this so called peace,,, this is not a life that has progressed beyond what happened,,,

and the cherry on top is this beautifully long gorgeous passage that is EXPOSING HER for her lies about being happy in this small hotel half-existence with maxim. u just have to read all of it actually to understand, and if u dont, well,,,

(i also annotated it; red is the negative aspects, blue is the postive/their ordinary life, and green is when she starts talking about manderley and her love of that place)

i feel like its so easy to attribute the love of manderley as being primarily held by danny or by rebecca or by maxim even, but the person who loves manderley most in this novel (yes by virtue of it being a first person pov but also bc its true) is mrs de winter. i highlighted in my physical copy of rebecca ever single time she mentioned manderley in a very flattering or loving way and its basically the whole book. she loves this castle, this place is the epitome of all her aspirations; becoming a lady, rising in class status, the image of a perfect marriage a perfect home a perfect family, manderley holds all of that in her heart so when she talks about manderley she exposes herself so deeply if you are willing to listen to her.

that part about her saying "colour and scent and sound, rain and the lapping water, even the msits of autum and the smell of the flood tide," these things that quite truly colours our quality of life are "secret indulgences" implies that these inherent basic things that make life beautiful are things she cant access without rocking the seemingly still peace that they have. especially with the way that maxim reacts to it and how she picks up on that. she has to rely on the dull and the boring monotonies to continue that so called peace even though thats not whats personally fulfilling for her,,, the line where she says "we prefer to store up our excitement; the result of a cricket match played many days ago means much to us" ,,, doesnt that sound so sad? theyre not even living in the moment anymore, if they did i think it would kill them to be quite honest.

so many of the positive/ordinary lifestyle descriptions are weaved against these pitiful sounding statements and its truly like,,, why stitch it like this? if daphne du maurier wanted us to feel like this was the life that was better, the one that you should choose or idealise, than the chaos of manderley why did she write it like this? why not just say that she was happy, why add those hints of melancholy?

and because of that i feel like shes lying by omission. its like all these things shes saying are half truths. its true that ordinary or even dull days are better than chaotic ones because youre not pained by such hurtful circumstances but at what cost? the joy and excitement of life? its like all of her descriptions of their life after the fire are backhanded compliments,,,, im just so curious about the other half that she isnt saying,,, when she doesnt say what shes implying it just feels like what she did say was a lie by omitting the rest of it.

does that make sense? do u get it?

[juniperhillpatient]

I love you stories where revenge is unquestionably evil & toxic to the person perpetuating it & we see how horrific actions hurt the person committing them BUT also it’s still a victory it’s still a win even if it haunts you forever because finally the person who did unforgivable things that ruined you has finally paid & that’s a victory no one can take away I love you stories that aren’t afraid to make revenge brutal & evil but also a moment to cheer for

[paarthursass]

there’s a lot of really fascinating discussion revolving around elisabeth and what certain songs mean, the motivations behind certain character decisions, how active is death truly in the story...

but i think there needs to be MUCH more consideration for ‘lucheni as an unreliable narrator.’  bcs that flavors the musical SOOO much more.  it’s easy to get caught up in the story and to take everything lucheni’s saying as truth (and you do have to, at least a little. you need to buy into the story he’s telling at least a little bit in order for there to be any sort of emotional stakes) but also he is 100% a biased individual.  he’s narrating the story of a woman he assassinated.  he’s extraordinarily harsh towards her for most of the musical; unafraid to point out her hypocrisy later on and mocking and unsympathetic towards her in her weaker moments. 

and that makes the moments where she IS treated sympathetically by the narrative (by him!!! by lucheni bcs lucheni is spinning our narrative here) all the more fascinating!!!  this is why lucheni is forced to relive this story ‘night after night for a hundred years.’  In Kitsch he condemns the public and media for commodifying Elisabeth’s story, for simplifying this complex woman down into a marketable fairytale, but he did the exact same thing, just at the other end of the extreme!  He simplified her down into all of the negative parts of her character.  He turned her into a symbol of the sinking, rotten Hapsburg Empire.  He pins all of its issues onto her, and then he killed her for it.

And then he’s forced to tell her story over and over and over again, and he’s forced to confront that she was neither of these things.  She was just a woman, a woman who made many regrettable choices yes, but still just a woman who was clawing for freedom. 

Lucheni thinks himself above everyone else in the story, but by being forced to tell it again and again he is forced to examine the people, look at their flaws and their dreams and desires and reconcile with the fact that they were people too.

[firedragon1321]

#justwriterthings :)

[refrigeratorhumming]

The clock reads, "3 am."

Frank Sinatra’s got this unique spell in his voice. I have been to every nook and cranny the vocal jazz genre has to offer but seldom compares to the way he croons through The World We Knew. It’s got a build up right at the start, a theme fit for a climax and an underlying hope that the very birth of something, deserves a grand crescendo of it’s own. Intriguing.

I stare at a daunting cursor as it blinks on the sheet-white screen before me. A story missing a fitting conclusion, held up somewhere in the middle, or has it even started?

Frank Sinatra offers me a welcome reprieve through the tangled mess of earphones, sitting haphazardly in my ear. One things for sure; this story won’t see an end tonight so I think to give the entire ordeal a rest for now and close my eyes, diving off into the pitch black.

When I rise again, it’s to the scent of smoke and vices, thick and heady. The red glare of the overhead bulb digs into my disorientation as I take in the cold table I was slumped on, not too long ago.

A few moments pass and it’s safe to assume that I have taken residence in some sort of club. A while later, it dawns on me with a bit more coherence. The cuffs of my shirt are loosened and I tug the discarded suit jacket at my side closer, running my hand along the front. It’s a vintage, mahogany and double breasted in it’s visage — a striking ensemble.

The Ice swirls about thrice, clinking the sides of a whiskey-laced glass and there’s a definite deduction before there’s a fourth: I am somewhere in the Mid – 20th Century.

A young black lady waltzes her way through an Ella Fitzgerald classic up ahead, the auburn of her evening gown shimmering under golden spotlights. I find myself pulled in and singing along; a force of habit.

My fingers clutch a little tighter, rivulets sliding down the warm crystal glass easing the tension set in my shoulders.

Logically, my mind should be running anxious laps but I find my current circumstances to be quite pleasant, instead.

A mumbled curse reaches my ear, and I look to where a young gentleman sits in a condition no less pitiful than mine, a table away. And to think I would be taking the runners up prize for that particular title.

Eyes down, a straight line for a mouth and darkness below striking pale eyes give away his lack of sleep and perhaps the cause for his muted distress. I watch him scribble in a short notebook, the scratch of lead magnified. Scratch, repeat, scratch, a long tear from harshly striking out a sentence, repeat.

He’s up against the greatest tempest known to man; finding the right words.

Very few have ever passed this particular storm and I nod lightly in understanding.

I have a feeling I’ll be here for a while longer so I do what I do best – relax. Good music, good wine and a reality with blurred edges is the ideal form of life after all, it’d be a pity if I don’t soak it in well.

I blink away the mist settled under my lenses. It is the alcohol acting up, I surmise. Feeling oddly shaken and bold, I gather my meager belongings and plan to grace the troubled gentleman with my presence. Before I reach the end of that conviction, I'm knocking down his table.“You seem a bit worse for wear.”

He startles at my voice, pencil scratching the edges and running of the square page. “Oh, this.” The man gets out, considers and then sighs. “I write, and need an end for this novel of mine but I - ,” can’t seem to find it. The part that goes unsaid. I nod again, hope it conveys that the sentiment is not uncommon and mutually shared.

“Tough luck getting to the endings, you could say that again.”

The man gives me a peculiar look, brows drawing in. He tilts his head in acquiescence to me occupying his space and time. “I seem to not know where to begin, so finding an end is a long ways in my list of troubles.” I say, as a conversation starter, not a good one I realize. This odd man seems to share my stunted abilities when it comes to social graces.

“Have you tried letting go?” He murmurs, distracted and off-kilter. Has the lady stopped singing? The quiet red-glow presses me into a chamber of suffocation. I take a breath and answer him in the next.

“Letting go?”

“You hold on too tightly, kae.” His voice is light and his gaze holds a tinge of ancient foreboding, a self-centered air which would look like pride on anyone else. He scritches circles at one corner, lead on lead, over and over. “Let go.”

“And how do you suppose I do that?’ I scoff, already retreating back on a failed attempt at indulgence.

“It can’t hurt to try.” The gentleman sounds too sure for someone facing a tempest of his own. I still turn over the sentence in my head. It makes sense, in a way. I grab my glass again, the tang of the spirited-burn taking the edge off me, again. There have been a lot of agains, I note.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt-“

A crash from my left cuts me off. The high pitched screams tear down my ears as the glass in my hand digs into my fingers. The singer from before tugs her gown in my periphery and scurries between the abandoned piano and thrown cello.

There seems to be a blast, the ringing in my ears keeps me rooted in place. The smoke still lingers; now something deadly instead of calming. The odd man sits primly surrounded by it, pencil still in hand. He continues noting down in hurried patches.

I move to grab his hand and haul out of here but my hand presses down against the whiskey laced sin still clutched in it. His mouth moves around words, garbled as they reach me. I squint through the newly-rising dust and the distant red to make them out.

“Oh, it always hurts. Terribly so.”

The red in my eyes is deep and dark. Blood, my mind supplies.

The man swirls in my vision, the smoke getting to him and I reach my hand out to grasp at his arm, ask after him. My hands meet cool metal and I snap the laptop shut, jerking awake. My red-rimmed eyes glance at the offending object, the clock beside it reads a red, glowing 4.32 am, an hour and some since I dozed off.

It always hurts, I whisper, lips ghosting around the words, afraid to touch.“It always hurts.”

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

this book put us both to sleep

[mhaynoot]

tbh id have like an animation instead of a live action

[delanuit]

❝ you're early. ❞ / because who am i if not a schmuck

Erik stands behind Christine where she sits at her dressing room table, appearing to have materialized out of thin air. he meets her gaze in the mirror and smiles. it is true, she was meant to have another week in this world above, but an outbreak of sickness had caused the opera to close temporarily, leaving all its unafflicted employees with a brief holiday. since she has no duties to fulfill, no performances to give, what reason has she to stay above?

she is permitted to stay if she has obligations, of course. she was made to be on the stage, in the limelight, and Erik would not let all their hard work be for naught. of course, she must come up every season and offer her sublime talent to the unworthy masses — how else would they adore her, worship her as she deserves? but Erik could not permit them to have all of her, lest she become distracted by the temptations of fame and the attentions of young and wealthy patrons.

he does not speak any of this out loud; he expects her to know. it is all a part of their agreement, after all. instead, he steps forward, placing his hands on the back of her chair — careful, as always, not to touch her. but he leans forward, smiling with all his teeth, an equal measure of possession and tenderness both in his words.

“ I missed you. ”

[czeriahshiptank]

Hi ! New fic just dropped....

Heaven envies the geese - Czeriahx

Summary:

Just as I was about to lay Tiān Zhīnǚ onto one of the bed, she grabbed my arm and, for the first time, spoke to me. Her voice was as soft as a breeze, made rough by her earlier crying, but I felt my heart flutter at being acknowledged nonetheless.

“My, my coat. You saved me, you have to give me my coat back.” “Your coat ?” “Yes. If you think any good of me, Lán HuáiYì, find my coat and give it back to me. You gain nothing while keeping it, I assure you.”

As soon as the words escaped her lips, I remembered the words of my master, and for the first time of my life, I lied.

“I will my lady.”

And then, he did not.

-----

Or, my take on what happened to Madam Lán, with a healthy portion of divergence and shapeshifters.

----------------->>>  https://archiveofourown.org/works/43880899 <<<-----------------

[gender-luster]

episodes that i think every tv show should have:

timeloop

whodunit

musical

beach trip

random genre change (especially if it's to a noir detective thing)

one where they get randomly meta and fourth wall breaky but then never acknowledge it again

one where something happened but we as the audience don't actually get to see how it happened and only see it through the unreliable narrated flashbacks as recollected by the characters

[trailertrends]

Michael Williams and Lily Adams Shine in 'Back to Black' Drama

Estimated Reading Time: 2 minutes 50 seconds Introduction: “Back to Black” is a gripping drama that delves deep into the complexities of love, loss, and redemption. Directed by Sarah Johnson and starring actors Michael Williams and Lily Adams, the film takes viewers on an emotional journey that is both heart-wrenching and hopeful. Plot Summary: The story follows Jack (Michael Williams), a…

[bethanydelleman]

I'm on a duet kick and I'm marvelling about what an amazing song Somebody That I Used to Know is from a narrative perspective. We're told this sad tale about love and we're all sympathizing with this poor man:

And then the girl shows up shouts, "UNRELIABLE NARRATOR!"

The guy tries to get us back, "No wait! This is my pity party! Hear my sad tale again." But he's lost us, we can't see him in the same way again. The spell is broken. And the spell remains broken, you cannot hear the first verse in the same way ever again.

The acting in the music video too, the way he silently accepts her words. The way he flinches as she talks. He was trying to write his own narrative but he can't stand hearing the truth. And he has no new rebuttal, he can't refute her.