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47crayons · 3 years

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THE WICKED WITHIN—A COMIC SANS WIP REINTRO

!!!!! it's here :D the wip that started to consume me and has been continuing to do so since, now with a much better sense of what exactly is Happening

current tww taglist let me know to be +/- !! @a-completely-normal-writer @writing-is-a-martial-art @wannabeauthorzofija @magic-is-something-we-create @croctears @writeblrfantasy @opes-magnas @author-a-holmes @zoya-writes@fuyugomori @ink-fireplace-coffee

transcript is under the cut!!!

[transcript: a powerpoint presentation of black text on white background, written entirely in comic sans.

start slide one the top left corner reads in red, "warnings (most relevant) war, death, drugs (& addiction), poison". in the center, "the wicked within", and underneath it in smaller font, "a comic sans reintro by @47crayons". the comments around the entire slide read "a family that is so found!!!", "gang rivalry :D and gang content in general", "crime found family basically", "childhood friends to STILL FRIENDS", "all queer cast :p", "eat the rich (not quite, but it’s the right sentiment aldskjfls)", "kickass women, yeah bay bee", "nuanced relationships between different groups :D", "morally grey characters!!!", "so many different governments!!!", "a (mostly alsjflksdj) stable relationship!!!" end slide one

start slide two in the beginning of time… there were four gods: eltenjer, he/him, earth; skari, he/him, fire; aenged, they/them, air; thilda, she/her, water. i didn’t /mean/ for them to have genders, but a quiet breeze whispered “psst. i use they/them.” in the beginning? so you mean… they’re not there anymore? kind of! the gods need followers to survive, and after several unfortunate events, they lost the majority of their followers. the aforementioned unfortunate events: the great ruination, in which natural disasters caused several years of famine and other hardship. the restoration era, in which renovation led people to believe they can live without the gods. if the gods are dead, what’s the point? the gods aren’t /really/ dead, closer to dormant. they can’t actively interact with the mortal realm, but IF they had followers, they would come back to life. oh. did i mention that they control the magic. end slide two

start slide three the dormant gods who can't do... anything control the magic??? hey, no one said magic always has to work. foreshadowing alert huge foreshadowing alert. let’s talk about how magic works, shall we :D people use the Spirit to do magic. people have a Vessel (representation of stamina or how much Sprit can be used at once, can be trained!). people also have a Strength (a type of magic that works well with the user, these have varying frequencies which also depends on location). there’s too much i could say here, but the important thing is the main characters’ Strengths. the right depicts an image of a flowchart showing that gods need followers and produce sprit. people need spirit to do magic. end slide three

start slide four okay but where are we??? where could the magic be so fucked? well, here, of course! the left side shows a line art map, split into five parts going clockwise: portingdale, worchester, the hooks, elderwood, unlabeled. the legend shows that there are mountains in portingdale, forests in elderwood, and rivers that run from portingdale to everywhere else. the place where the four labeled regions meet is called the Inner City. the text on the right reads. welcome to Kjer! there are 3 districts. but wait! there are five? sections? and one isn’t even labelled. worchester used to be a district,,, but it left after the war began. the unlabeled section is the disputed region (re: war). let’s talk more about this war. elderwood wanted easier access to water (see: the rivers in the Wetlands) elderwood & portingdale have been fighting there on and off for over half a century. the hooks has three wards: west (hella rich), south (lower income), north (somewhere in between). end slide four

start slide five whomst. skip to the next slide if you want the actual characters. character basics: the unnecessarily-winded-and-cram-a-lot-of-lore-in version. in the North Ward of The Hooks, there are three main gangs. Kaer Styen, meaning “wicked ones”, Ghetfaer Skarnen, meaning “trickster lords”, Ad Knesten, meaning “the grumbles”. that was so many capital letters i don’t like capital letters alskjdflksjd. they have rivalries and conflicts from time to time, but it’s pretty rare. the tww cast is kaer styen !!! their main means of profit is a drug called jezdin. relieves physical and mental pain. lethal in high. quantities/ when tampered with. can also be addictive. they operate out of a dingy tavern-like building, and they live upstairs!!! okay so this is purely for vibes. how did u know. end slide five

start slide six the Gang. literally :3 Kaer Styen, my beloved. the first thing in each of their bios is their Strength (re: the magic slide). artbreeders!!! i fixed quite a few of them, but my artbreeder skills are questionable at best. this slide is split into three columns. the first column shows a white person with short, brown, curly hair and a firm, but not angry, facial expression. len, he/him, pan. Shifter (can manipulate physical properties). cynical, very cynical (because he has killer instincts). “oh people are dying? am i dying? are you dying? why should i care?” in a relationship with cal. the second column shows a person who appears east asian with long, black, wavy hair and fair skin. chloe, she/her, aroace. Chemist (chemistry but magical). literal archery god. also she’s so quiet it’s SCARY. seems welcoming, emphasis on /seems/ she’ll destroy your ass. knows what you’re feeling. she just. knows. the third column shows a white person with dirty blonde hair. they are smiling. cal, they/them, bi. Whisperer (can persuade others through speech/music). so casually funny all your burdens disappear for a hot minute. gets very attached very deeply. grew up in Portingdale which becomes Important later. end slide six

start slide seven cont. also they have piercings!!!! maybe i will make some picrews later (listen, i KNOW i’ve said this before but. maybe i’m for realsies this time, okay?) this slide is also split into three columns. the first a smiling white female with light blonde hair. eden, she/her?, demi lesbian. Healer (healing magic <3). seen hell and doesn’t want others to suffer. still believes in the gods’ existence. we Don’t talk about her awful parents. raised by a lovely woman in the South Ward, known as Nana. this eye (left) is almost PURPLE which i didn’t do on purpose but is honestly such a cool idea. the second column shows a partially smiling black man with short curly hair. jereth, he/him, gay. powerful life magic thing (will be spoilers if i talk any more). joins them at the beginning. honestly kind of scared of them (who wouldn’t be), but wants to live up to expectations. throws himself into stuff to avoid Thoughts. the third column shows a woman with brown skin, black wavy hair, and a small smile. she is NOT a member of Kaer Styen, but i’m talking about her here all the same. adalaide, she/her, bi (i didn’t like the e in adelaide alskdfjlsj). Melder (metals and the like). heir to the Portingdale throne (assuming her dad doesn’t disown her). Cal’s ex from a few~ years ago she’s still a lil’ hung up on them. technically an antagonist but i love her. so all my characters are queer sue me </3 end slide seven

start slide eight some semblance of plot? coming right up!! the four (jereth isn’t there yet!) are attacked in the Inner City. turns out it’s portingdale soldiers. and then they discover that portingdale has been poisoning the southern rivers (affects worchester and the south ward) because worchester doesn’t really contribute to Kjer as a whole. word gets out, and elderwood, naturally, is even angrier at portingdale (remember, they've been at war). so, they try to stop portingdale from being power hungry enough to poison the entirety of a country while learning about why worchester is so isolated while ALSO trying not to get killed by everyone who hates them. end slide eight

start slide nine memes :> the first is the meme of spongebob reading a sheet of paper and burning it. the paper reads, "going into worchester by yourself is going to get you KILLED", and spongebob is labelled "chloe". the second is the levels of brain template labelled "jereth". from the weakest to most powerful: "trying to figure out his magic", "doing it by accident", "saving everyone's lives". the third is the sleeping person and brain meme. brain: "you're going to portingdale". cal: yeah, i know. brain: you'll see adalaide. cal's eyes are wide open in fear. the fourth says "corporate needs you to find the difference between this image and this image". the first image says, "family", and the second one says, "len, chloe, cal, jereth." eden says, "they're the same picture". the fifth is the spiderman copycat meme where jereth is copying len. end slide nine

/end transcript]

#rbs very much appreciated!!#the wicked within #tww reintro #writeblr #writing #wip #rose writes

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a-tomb-with-a-view · 3 years

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Thanks for the tag @wr0temyway0ut :))

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

1) Last Night I Told You I Love You (Woke Up Blamed It On The Vodka)

Alex wasn’t sure what Willie was expecting when they insisted last night that they could do shots of whiskey without flinching no problem, but to him, the way they were groaning and pulling a pillow over their head wasn’t surprising in the least.

2) Flower Gleam And Glow

Alex had never really thought he’d had a thing for long hair before he’d met Willie

3) I’m Not Sick, I Took All My Vitamins

Bobby had expected that living in a house with nine people, six of whom were regularly medicated and two of whom enjoyed planning everything to the hour would make remembering things like putting in an order for his repeat prescription easier.

4) Road Work Ahead? Uh yeah, I Sure Hope It Does

“Hey, hey,” Bobby yelled, scrambling up onto their table. “Guys! Lads! We’re at a bachelor party! Someone has to get married!”

5) So I’ll Just Write What I Feel Down (And Hope The Masses Sing Aloud)

Rose cries more than he does, at first.

6) Inside And Out She’s Better Than I Am

Bobby doesn’t ever remember a time before Carrie.

7) When you breathe, my own lungs fill with air

When Luke had decided to start pulling Saturday shifts at the chemists in town, he had not been expecting Bobby Wilson.

8) I Can See The Way Painted Beneath The Moon

Reggie had never really meant to get into smoking.

9) You’re Ripped At Every Edge (But You’re A Masterpiece)

The way they figure it out is… unorthodox, for sure.

10) All Your Lights Are Red But I’m Green To Go

Bobby had always been an acts-of-service kinda guy

11) Bobble and Nickinald Versus The Chronic Stupidity of Alloromantics

The problem with having crushed on all of his (male) band members at some point was that Alex’s metric for the normal way to feel about them was kind of… fucked, to say the least

12) This Is Why Mom Doesn’t Fucking Love You

The second Principle Lessa announced that the theme for this year’s annual senior music showcase was Battle of the Bands, Julie knew she had multiple problems.

13) Resistance Is Futile (If <1 Ohm)

If Alex was being honest with himself - and he wasn’t often, because time that could be spent processing his mom’s expression when he’d announced that he was gay just as she dropped him off outside the junior dorm building could also be sent processing the weird way his professor had explained the Chandrasekhar limit at the end of last semester - he kind of hated physics

14) I Defined, I Designed

Alex has talked to Reggie about it before

15) Your Hands Protect The Flames From The Wild Winds Around You

The first time that Bobby realised that the weird feeling in his stomach whenever he looked at his boys was love, he was fourteen and so far into his dad’s secret bottle of vodka that he couldn’t quite parse out the text Alex had sent to the group chat following Bobby’s rambling essay explaining why he thought he might be ace that just said “I love you”, even though he’d reread it so many times since it had arrived at midnight that Bobby could probably write songs that near-rivalled Luke’s about the way the pixels fit together.

16) Too Dumb To Learn From Past Experience

When they’d woken up as ghosts, Reggie hadn’t really had time to register that it didn’t hurt when one of his boys touched him, including himself, because Julie was screaming and he hated screaming, and his zip had dug into his ribs, and his mind was still a whirling mess of it’s always been the four of us.

17) Morosexual Cubed

The first time Reggie hid from his parents while they were fighting he was six, and although he knew rationally that neither of them would ever hurt him, last week he’d tried to ask them to please, stop yelling and just talk it out, like you always tell me to, and his dad had glared at him so viciously that there wasn’t a single night since that Reggie hadn’t dreamed of being chased by some six armed monster wearing his dad’s face, so he’d decided the best place to be was as far away from them as possible.

18) Three Princes and The Frog

Sometimes, Bobby liked to watch his boys interact and think about what it would be like if he was part of… whatever it was they were so clearly hiding from him.

19) One Kiss And I Fell Under Your Spell

Alex hadn’t meant to let it go this far, he really hadn’t.

20) I’ve Never Seen Someone Quite This Strange Before

For some reason, Alex always preferred to go to Bobby when he was having a bad day.

Ngl don’t rly see any patterns, but my favourite is prolly no.13 bc it’s a fucking mood

Tagging @on-irratia @the-anxious-gay-drummer @kybee1497

#fic challenge #meg writes

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scarlettrhettelizabethrichard · 3 years

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Chapter 7. Neighbours & Mills Associates, my GWTW fanfiction

To read all the chapters of my GWTW fanfiction The Boutique Robillard, check my blog https://alarecherchedutempsperdu.over-blog.com/tag/the%20robillard%20boutique/

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Chronology : 1865 : Duncan returns to Paris, creates La Mode Duncan - 1873, December, divorce - 1874, January, Rhett visits Paris - 1875, january : Duncan returns to Charleston ; he buys Magnolias' Mansion ; Duncan "builds" the Vayton & Harvey Mills factory - 1875, February 5th : Rhett meets Duncan at Magnolias' Mansion - 1876, February : Grand Father Robillard died, Scarlett inherits, discovers La Mode Duncan' shop in Savanah - 1876, May : Scarlett opens her fashion shop in Atlanta - 1876, May : Charleston's event for Duncan.

Here is a long chapter. First, Duncan must buy his spinning factory for the textiles he is going to use. On the second part of this chapter comes the tough part : THE meeting Rhett x Duncan. Not really tough because our - their - dear Scarlett is not between yet...

********

Charleston, 1875, January

The management of his family legacy eventually secure, the young couturier could now set up the American branch of "La Mode Duncan". No time was to be wasted, for the task was going to be tough.

First and foremost, a telegram had to be sent to Lille, France. "Blanche - stop - Need you - stop - Emigrate to America - stop - Take your children with you - stop – I send certificate of employment - stop - Letter follows - stop. » Blanche would be surprised by this terse text, but she would soon understand the situation by reading his letter to her. He explained what he wanted from her, and enclosed certificates guaranteeing her a job and a place to live when she arrived in Charleston. Duncan had no doubt that the loyal Blanche would immediately leave her family, her former life, to take her chances and emigrate to North America at the request of the owner of "La Mode Duncan" France. He would arranged the immigration formalities for her so that she would not have to worry about them and booked a place on the ship in the port of Le Havre. He didn't forget to send another telegram to his partner Roger Dax so that he could give one of his best workers a subsequent bonus. If all went well, Blanche Augustine Bonsart would be there in time for the creation of the new "La Mode Duncan" workshop in Charleston. ***

In the meantime, it took all his energy to select a textile factory capable of producing his own fabrics. There was no question of importing yards of fabric from France because he wanted to take advantage of the craze for local products, which was strong in the 1870s. Duncan had seen this when he visited the gigantic H. B. Claftin and C° shop in New York, which specialised in American-made textiles*. His first dilemma was to locate his spinning mill. The majority of them were located in the Northern states. The small factories in the South processed only a negligible amount of bales while, paradoxically, the South was the Master of cotton production. In keeping with his values, he wanted to set up in one of the former Confederate states. He was pleased to find that several mills had been established in South Carolina along the rivers, because of the abundant forests providing cheap resin to power the steam-powered machines. In early January he chose the best woolen mills owned by Jerry Harvey, and offered him a partnership. "Vayton & Son Ltd would buy 60% of the shares to take over management control. The textile entrepreneur thus ensured that he had full control over production methods, because the real problem facing Duncan was the quality of the final product. "Mr Harvey, we have to face an unpleasant reality. As you know, the textiles that come out of our Southern mills are 'low grade'. You produce mainly canvas, which is bought mostly by poor blacks, and cretonnes, such as shirting and drills, which are sold in the West*, but « La Mode Duncan » targets a wealthy clientele. It therefore had to use only the best-quality fabrics, comparable to those woven in France, in Roubaix, Mulhouse or Lyon. » "I am aware of that, Sir. Vayton & Harvey Woolen Mill Ltd will, no doubt, be able to rise to the challenge with the investment you are making available." "It's true, Mr. Harvey, the project is ambitious but necessary to master the quality at all stages. Our objective is, in the short or medium term, to dominate the high quality textile market, at least for South Carolina, Georgia and Louisiana. The sales potential is promising as it meets the aspirations of the upper class ladies and the nouveau riche. My tailor shop will of course be the first customer for "high-end" fabrics. We'll build a loyal following of Southern tailors and dressmakers who are frustrated that they can't buy better textiles locally. » Jerry Harvey adds: "I understand that you want our factory to be like the most modern textile mills in the North, managing all stages of production from the intake of cellulose bales, through spinning, weaving, dyeing and printing, to the transformation of the finished product." The owner of the French spinning mill Vayton & Dax said: "Yes, we must be inspired by the modernity of the North for the automation of tasks allowing a better output, use machines for certain stages such as the handling of the cellulose bags by winch and not by hand, etc.. The labour we save will be wisely transferred to other stages of production, such as dyeing and printing. » Jerry Harvey was impressed by his technical knowledge of the American market, despite the fact that he had just spent ten years in France. "What is your idea of influencing these steps? » The strength of the North American spinning mills is their modernity, speed of manufacture and large quantity produced. It is also their weakness. Compare, for example, the number of looms managed by each worker: here in the North, a single weaver is in charge of five machines, with the added requirement of speed. In France, as in my spinning mill in Roubaix, the worker is only in charge of two looms at a time*. You can understand that, in these conditions, even fabrics of common quality have many manufacturing defects. This is why Vayton & Harvey Woolen Mills Ltd will reduce the number of looms run by one worker to two." "That's an excellent suggestion. It will be expensive, of course, but it will pay off in the end," reassured Jerry Harvey. "Dyeing is my concern because I would like to use indigo. I know that its use is becoming scarce, but let's rely on the authenticity of local products. In the same spirit, we need to hire skilled chemists to ensure the consistency of the colours of the print. » "In conclusion, in order to get closer to French quality, we will have to increase the number of staff and systematically check for defects at every stage. » Duncan was satisfied that he had reached the end of his argument. "Yes, Mr Harvey, you and I are about to embark on a great adventure. This week I will contact an architect to modernise the warehouses. My contacts in the North have sent me the manufacturer's catalogue so that I can order the new looms and the more efficient printing machines. I am determined that production can start within three months. » Enthusiastically, Jerry Harvey proposed to his new partner: "I will submit to you within the week a projection of the number of employees to be hired, for each stage of transformation, by position. We can keep the American quota of two-thirds women in the spinning mill for jobs that don't require the use of too much force,* because they too need to work to overcome the economic depression. We will need more women spoolers, carders, and defect workers. »

Jerry Harvey's head was spinning. He felt an immense relief: the family spinning mill created by his father was saved! What's more, its fame would soon spread throughout the Deep South! For Duncan, all that remained was to set up his high fashion studio "La Mode Duncan" in Charleston. The hardest part was yet to come! *****

Charleston, 1875, Wednesday 5 February, at the Butler's "Rhett! I would really like you to come with us in the late afternoon with our new neighbours. The reception is not formal. It's just a « vin d’honneur » to celebrate the Vaytons' move to Magnolias' Mansion. » Rhett looked at Eleonor Butler with an amused expression: "Mother, your son is 48 years old. I think you can do without my presence to go and have tea with your friends. » "It's in your best interest. Three years ago, when you came back from Atlanta, didn't you tell me that you wanted to regain your place among our good Charleston society? I admit that you have made great efforts with your charity work. But what better support could you gain than from Charleston's oldest and most respected family? Especially since this friendship could also benefit your business, as the heir to Vayton Ltd is one of the richest men in the United States of America! » Faced with this avalanche of arguments, Rhett had only one solution: to accept the invitation to the Vaytons. *****

Charleston, 1875, Wednesday 5 February, at the Vayton home Melina had learned her lesson well by leaving the "hospitality" door to the porch open to let the Butler neighbours know that they were eagerly awaited. Barnabee, the butler, opened the inner door to the piazza. Mrs. Vayton came to greet them warmly and directed them on their right to the drawing room. Eleonor Butler and her daughter had had many opportunities to be received by the previous owners, the Hopkins. Nevertheless, they were amazed by the new interior design. Mrs. Vayton introduced her daughter to the Butlers. Rhett paid his respects to Cathleen and Melina with an elegant hand kiss. They were charmed. The lady of the house apologised to her guests: "My son is in his office. He had to write an urgent letter to France. He will join us in a few minutes. » The four women settled into comfortable chairs and happily began to exchange stories about the Battery. Rhett took the opportunity to cast his art-loving eye over the impressively large reception room. Everything was a harmony of forms, styles and materials. The room occupied the entire width of the façade. The light, that radiated from the five front windows and the two French windows overlooking the piazza, accentuated the grandiose aspect of this room reserved for prestigious guests and receptions among friends. The aesthete appreciated the conscious choice to contrast the curves of the architecture with the straight lines of the furniture. The sinuosity of the wall of the three bowed-windows stretched like a serpentine on either side of the other two windows. These curved lines echoed the moulded stucco frieze around the ceiling and the arch over the door. What an aesthetic success! The osmosis between the curves, the glitter of light, the walls partially painted in pale yellow, while the ceiling, the base and the windows were of a brilliant white, instilled an atmosphere of tranquillity. The softness of the whole was accentuated by the pale yellow lustrous silk of the upholstered seats. The contrast with the rigorous Empire style of the French furnishings Duncan bought in New York was all the more striking. Straight, clean lines, sharp-edged ornaments. The same antagonism of colours struck the visitor, between the mahogany and gold bronzes of the furniture as if lifted by the blond oak floor. Rhett was fascinated. Of course, he knew the French style that Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte had initiated: originally furniture dedicated the military men, a martial style, straight seats that allowed soldiers, such as General Bonaparte, to keep their swords in a seated position without embarrassment. A spartan and severe spirit that was called the Directoire style**. When Napoleon was crowned Emperor, with the pomp of the Court, the furniture became a pretext to testify to the power and wealth of the Empire. The flamed mahogany veneer was decorated with luxurious ornaments in gilded bronze, like the magnificent sphinxes enthroned under the armrests of the armchairs in the Vayton salon or the caryatids placed on either side of the overmantel. This large pier-mirror topped a black marble fireplace in the American Federal style that the first owner of the house had installed. Meanwhile, Barnabee had made his entrance. Three large silver trays generously garnished with fine food had been placed on the round side tables protected by beautiful embroidered tablecloths. The cook, Netty, had taken particular care in preparing the small canapés and other croustades. This was the very first invitation from the Vayton family. Even though it was not a dinner party, it was important to honour the closest neighbours of the Magnolias' Mansion. Barnabee was now dexterously serving refreshments. Rhett politely accepted a canapé with scallop terrine, and then resumed his admiring inspection of the place, while the four women were absorbed in discovering common interests. While admiring the finesse of the "Return from Egypt" sculptures,** Rhett the businessman recalled a conversation he had had with some English entrepreneurs in London. An idea came to him. It seemed obvious. At last he would find the excitement of embarking on a great adventure... The elegance and luxury of the place definitely appealed to him. Suddenly a regret assailed Rhett: "If only I had helped Scarlett refine her tastes, instead of leaving her without advice and mocking her disastrous decorative choices, I'm sure she would have loved the abundance of golden bronzes and the warmth of mahogany." The Old Guard would have been jealous of his wife, that's for sure, because of the display of so much luxury. But at least they would not have reproached her for a lapse in taste. "How I regret, Scarlett..." Rhett shook his head to get rid of the flush of weakness that once again overtook him. "Damn it! Why can't I put her out of my mind? Even a year after our divorce - no! It's been fifteen months since our divorce, sixteen months since we saw each other, Scarlett - and you still torment me! Will there be no end to this? » The entrance of the master of the house interrupted his depressing thoughts and he stood up to greet the young man who was holding out his hand. After Cathleen introduced their neighbours to Duncan Vayton, he sat down opposite the Butlers' eldest son. In a fraction of a second, the two gentlemen looked at each other. Rhett thought to himself that the young Vayton exuded sympathy with his frank smile and keen eye. "His good looks must please the ladies! Old Ashley would be jealous of his blonde hair. "He chuckled under his breath, still eager to belittle Scarlett's former blond knight, now quite grey. Duncan, for his part, was impressed by Mr Butler's bearing. The man wore his age elegantly, and his impeccable dress showed an undeniable accuracy of taste. Both men identified the other as belonging to the caste of well-born and refined gentlemen. "May I offer you a glass? In your honour, I have selected an excellent Cote Chateau Lafite Rothschild, from the 1870 vintage. This bottle is part of the reserve that I brought back from France when I returned here in January. I am sure you are a great connoisseur yourself, and I will be happy, another day, to show you around my wine cellar. » Then addressing the ladies present: "Ladies, would you like to try this excellent wine? The four women gently refused. They did not want to disturb the cordial understanding that seemed to have developed between the two men. "Cathleen, ever since we arrived, I have been admiring these lovely tablecloths on the pedestal tables. The fabric is of such beautiful quality and the embroidery designs are exquisitely difficult! » Duncan's mother smiled broadly, "Dear Friend, I am proud to say that they are made in the French mill owned by my son. "Then, turning to the young man, she said, "Duncan, could you ask your partner to send Mrs. Butler several sets of tea towels to complement the large embroidered doilies?» Mrs. Butler politely declined at first, but was delighted with the gift to come. Rhett thought that the man in front of him was definitely resourceful. "Duncan - I think we can call each other by our first names. What do you think? "The other nodded. "I'd love to, Rhett! » He continued: "I am in awe of your Empire period furniture. At West Point, when we were taught the military strategy of the French Emperor, we sometimes made a foray into the study of Napoleon Bonaparte-influenced lifestyles and decorating style." Duncan was amazed at the similarities between them. "It was my love for this great character that made me decide to decorate Magnolias' Mansion with an Empire feel, particularly influenced by the battles fought by General Bonaparte in the Egyptian Campaign**. Young Vayton added: "And I too began to admire Napoleon at West Point! What a happy coincidence, Rhett! We have the same artistic tastes, we're avid oenophiles and we've had similar training. I think we'll get along just fine! "Duncan gave Rhett his friendliest smile.

He continued: "Which regiment did you lead during the war? Perhaps we have crossed paths? » Rhett suddenly found himself on a ridge. To admit that he had only joined the Confederacy at the end when the South was about to lose - that famous night when he had abandoned Scarlett on the road to Rough and Ready? It might not look good for this new 'white knight in shining armour'. But he didn't care. Goodness gracious! The great Rhett Butler was proud of his past, and he would impress the impetuous young man! "I was a blockade breaker. One of the best, I must humbly confess! "he assured them in a drawl so charming that the four women stopped their casual conversation to listen to his story. "I was in command of one of the largest steam-powered sidewheelers, the SS Lynx. It had a steel hull and was 220 feet long***. But I changed a year later to a smaller, more malleable and much faster steamer, capable of dodging the Federal Navy. I was probably one of the first to be awarded the "letter of marque" signed by President Jefferson Davis, which attested to my service to the Confederacy. "Rhett gave his mother a mischievous smile. "A paper that would not have protected me from hanging if I had been captured by Federal forces. » Mrs Butler shuddered in retrospect. "Her dear daredevil of a son! » "The Yankee naval army had set up the "Anaconda Plan", a blockade belt encircling the Confederate states. The front line looked like a snake, running from Maryland up the Missouri River.*** And it was indeed an anaconda that strangled the Confederate states by preventing them from obtaining arms, getting supplies from Northern factories, receiving cargo from British ships, and being able to export their cotton production. » Rhett the seducer was now mostly talking to Melina for the sake of impressing her. "What were you carrying? "asked the young Vayton, amazed to have an adventurous hero as a neighbour. "Mostly weapons for our Confederate Army, gunpowder, bullets for rifles, and mail too: in our own way, we were in the front line of the fighting! » "We would have to sail along the coast at night, using indians tricks to get into the harbour and fool the Union ships! "Rhett's eyes glistened at the excitement and fear that gripped the entire crew as they approached the danger. Cathleen Vayton also found herself transported by the exploits of the former blockade breaker: "How many times have you managed to get through the lines? » "Thirty-three times! My first arrival in Nassau was on 5 December 1861. We were loading cargoes from England, filled with guns, lead, meat, saltpetre, shoes, blankets, coffee, and also the more luxurious items of clothing and sewing, necessary for your daily life, dear ladies! » "The transfer points, between the ships coming from England and us taking over the cargo, were from Nassau. Then we sailed to the ports of Wilmington, Charleston and Savannah. On the return trip to Nassau, the planters would entrust us with their cotton production, which would then make the crossing in English freighters. »

"The hull of my little steamer was painted grey to make it as inconspicuous as possible offshore. Duncan, did you know that when we were approaching the coast we used to feed the boiler with anthracite coal instead of coal so that the smoke would be white and dissolve on the horizon? I have even used cotton soaked in turpentine to raise the heat and substantially increase the speed. Rhett's eye twitched as he thought of these anecdotes. "We had to use indians tricks, I tell you! » Duncan looked at his quiet neighbour in a new light. "I met some brave men, who were not afraid of anything. You've probably heard of the famous Josiah Gorgas, who also graduated from West Point. He was my friend. » Duncan admired Rhett Butler's valour. "It is true! The Cause has paid tribute to those brave blockade-breakers who braved machine-gun fire and the beaching of their ships to relieve us of Yankee asphyxiation. However, it is regrettable that some took advantage of this to enrich themselves by not giving priority to supplying our troops. I remember a certain Butler - one of your namesakes, Rhett - with whom I was in business to repatriate a shipment of military jackets and trousers made at my expense in my French factory. His transport prices were prohibitive. I had tried to make him understand by special mail that these uniforms would be used to protect our soldiers from the rigours of the rain and the cold, but nothing was could change his mind! He shamelessly told me that I had to accept his price because the cargo space available on his ship was very coveted. » Duncan gave a disillusioned pout at the memory. Rhett got up from his seat. He looked straight at the former Lieutenant-Colonel: "It was me, Captain Rhett Butler! » Startled eyes stared at him. "You? You’re disappointing me, Mr Butler. I thought we shared the same values. After this revelation, I'm not so sure..." Rhett was not disconcerted by this sudden reversal of cordial understanding. "Times were tough. One third of the available space on our ships was legally reserved for the transport of cotton, so that the economy would not collapse*** - which it did. I had to feed my crew and make a profit from these expeditions where our lives were threatened at every moment. I do not regret my choices. I take responsibility for them. » Chin up, his imposing stature extended, Rhett stared defiantly at Duncan. The former benefactor of the Cause just didn't know how to respond. The ladies present became aware of the sudden change in atmosphere. The tension between the two men had become tangible. To distract and inject some levity, Melina brought up her favourite subject: "This place is a real paradise, but for our dear Mum's joy to be complete, we need something more. » Cathleen wondered, "What are you thinking, girl? » "To children's laughter, of course! "The young Vayton was pleased with her effect. "Isn't it your dream to see your grandchildren running around the paths of our beautiful garden?" "Children's laughter..." Rhett felt a twinge of sadness. "No, he mustn't imagine his beloved Bonnie sharing the games of other children here. Or else he wouldn't be able to keep a straight face until the end of this reception. Mrs Vayton exchanged a knowing smile with Mrs Butler. "I hope this dream will soon become a reality thanks to our children! "Then her gaze fell on Duncan. He was still confused by his neighbour's revelation. "Why are you looking at me, Mother? I'm leaving it to Melina to ensure the Vayton descendants. When will you take a husband, my dear sister?" Melina blushed: "When I find my Prince Charming. "Then she jumped in: "You're the oldest. It's up to you to get married first. Are you ready to introduce us to the woman of your dreams? » Duncan was taken aback by his sister's questioning. "The woman of my dreams? A concept that never crossed my mind, I confess. "He chuckled. "In fact, I doubt very much if she exists! "In any case," he added, giving his sister a sly smile, "you'd be the first to know if I ever came across her. Let me tell you, I'm not about to introduce you to her! » Melina insisted, cuddling. "Make an effort, Big Brother. How will you recognize her? » He remained silent for a few moments, in deep introspection. Surprised by his own train of thought, he finally said in a hesitant voice: "If she existed, I think I would know it immediately. Within the first few minutes. She would have a fiery temperament, a panther ready to purr or claw, soft skin..." Duncan paused abruptly, embarrassed by his indecent confidence, an admission of weakness made all the more awkward by the fact that it had been dropped in the presence of a man as impavid as Rhett Butler. Rhett, who had approached the piazza, froze. A succession of images assailed him: a library, a green muslin, a pearly shoulder, a broken vase, two emeralds, sparkles of anger... He closed his eyes to chase away the hallucinations that haunted him every night. In rage, he shoved his fists into his pockets. Melina looked at her brother in amazement: "Oh, you the hardened bachelor, are you in fact a passionate man ? You didn't accustom me and Mum to such lyricism!" She burst out laughing. The young man did not know what to say. For the first time, without his noticing it, he had put words to a fantasy that had never been consciously thought of before. "Don't get too excited, dear sister. In any case, this woman does not exist. » Melina then turned to the eldest son of the Butler family. "What about you, Rhett? Would you describe the woman of your dreams to me? Who knows, maybe your sister and I could find her among our friends .... What do you think Rosemary?" Her laughing eyes met the embarrassed faces of both the Butler women and her mother. "Melina, this is unseemly of you. "Cathleen sternly rebuked her, outraged that Rhett Butler's chaotic marital situation could be so cavalierly invoked. Then she turned to Rhett: "Mr Butler, I apologise for my daughter's indiscretion. Melina is as giddy as a child. In her defence, I must say she is an incorrigible romantic. » Her daughter then realised her blunder. She was clearly missing a piece of information that those present had. Eleonor Butler was silent, fearing a sarcastic reaction from her son. Duncan had lost interest in the subject and was enjoying his glass of wine. The heated argument of a few minutes ago was still bothering him. So he told himself he didn't give a damn about Rhett Butler's "dream woman. With that drawl he liked to use before he was about to make a hurtful remark, Rhett replied to Cathleen: "I see no offence in your dear daughter's innocent question. » Then, with a smirk that looked more like a sneer, he amused himself by staring at the young woman who was now blushing with confusion. "The dream woman? You should know, Miss Melina, that sometimes we have to take control of our dreams, to give up those that are futile. "Then his gaze drowned in the direction of the porch. His intonation froze the other four guests. The awkwardness that had crept in over the last quarter of an hour became overwhelming. It was time to end the tension. "Cathleen, I'm sure you're exhausted from moving in. It is now time for us to take our leave and for you to rest. The warm welcome you have given us in your beautiful mansion is very special to me. We shall both see you next week. Good evening to you, my dear Eleonor, your lovely daughter and the talented Duncan! » That evening, two neighbours who could have been friends were not sad to part... ****

Endnotes to Chapter 7 *My sources of information on the cotton economy and textile mills in the USA in 1870 are based on Louis Reybaud's thesis published in 1870, "L'Industrie et les Ouvriers du Coton aux États-Unis depuis la guerre de secession", Revue des Deux Mondes, 2nd period, volume 90, 1870. **Directoire, 1795-1799: government that succeeded the period of the French Revolution. The Directoire style of furniture extends to 1803. - Egyptian Campaign: battles led by General Bonaparte from 1798 to 1801 - "Return from Egypt": term characterising the style of ornamentation - Empire, 1804-1815: General Bonaparte was crowned Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte. - Empire style furniture, from 1803 to 1821. ***Blockade Breakers during the American Civil War: source Wikipedia. Disclaimers : I do not own the story and characters of Gone with the Wind which belong to Margaret Mitchell. The “world” of Duncan Vayton and Blanche Bonsart are my creation.

#gone with the wind #fanfiction #fantic #gwtw #roman

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catgirlthecrazy · 4 years

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To Love and To Cherish

After being extremely mean to Jon and Martin in my last fic, I had to make it up to them with 2,000 words of domestic softness (and a side helping of character development)

AO3

Summary: What if the Scottish Honeymoon lasted through retirement?

***

Martin was washing dishes when the fog rolled in. He didn't notice it right away. He was bent over the kitchen sink and didn't see much beyond the plates and soapy water. It wasn't until Martin straightened to work a kink out of his back that he saw the soft white curtains of vapor drifting across the yard. And Jon was down in the village at the moment, and hadn't said when he planned to come home.

When he'd first come to Scotland for years ago, that had been enough to send him into a panic attack. Slumped against the kitchen counter, knees hugged to his chest, sweating and struggling to breathe for god knew how long until Jon came home and found him like that. He'd held Martin's hand, softly rubbing circles in his palm. Come on Martin, breathe with me, he'd said, voice soft and steady as a highland cow. Breathe in to a count of ten.

Decades had passed since then. Somewhat less since his last real panic attack. Martin knew now, with a rock solid certainty, that Jon would come back. He knew he had friends waiting for him.

Still. Martin Blackwood might not be Lonely anymore, but that didn't mean the scars couldn't ache in the wrong weather. He stared out the window into the fog, hands still dripping with suds. He could remember the day when that fog had filled his eyes and lungs and heart and mind. When he'd been certain that no one in the world cared if he lived or died, and that he would spend the rest of eternity with that numbing fog. Without even the mercy of death to look forward to.

Martin closed his eyes and breathed in. One. Two. He thought of Sophie and Rasheed, who ran the chemist's shop down in the village and invited them to dinner every once a week. Three. Four. Their children, Maryam and Noah, who Martin had known since they came home from the hospital and were now graduated from university. Five. Six. Robin and Daniel, who ran the pub that Jon and Martin went to every Wednesday, and had done so ever since taking it over from Robin's father ten years ago. Seven. Eight. Georgie and Melanie, who hosted Christmas every year down in London. Nine. Ten. Daisy and Basira, who came up to visit for two weeks every summer. Now hold.

Jon. Who woke up beside him every morning. Who could go on and on about the strangest things. Whose brusque demeanor hid a surprising depth of kindness that still delighted Martin even to this day. Who'd plunged himself into that cold and numbing fog to save Martin, and pulled him out again with love. Who'd given up his own sight for a life with Martin, away from eyes and fear. Martin breathed out to another count of ten. He opened his eyes, and the fog was just fog. Just water vapor brought about by a closeness of air temperature and dew point. He went back to washing dishes.

Some time later, something meowed at his feet. Martin looked down and smiled. "Hello Percy," he said to the regal ball of fluff twining itself around his ankles. Percy looked up and meowed again.

"Don't give me that. It's not dinner time for another hour."

Percy gave him a withering look and meowed again, as if to say You are most certainly mistaken. Your clocks must be running slow.

"I think you'll find it's your clock that needs winding, not mine."

Another plaintive meow. You must make an exception! Can you not see how I am malnourished and dying?

"Not falling for that one either."

Percy gave him a look of pure pleading, and mewed.

"That won't work on me. Jon's the cat person, not me."

Percy's expression grew more plaintive. He mewed pitifully. Martin turned back to his dishwashing before he could give into weakness.

Percy's full name was Sergeant Major Percival Pike. The naming of cats was one thing Jon and Martin had never really been able to see eye to eye on. One day many years ago, Jon had come home with a stray kitten and informed Martin that they were calling her The Commandant. Martin hadn't had the heart to argue at the time. Jon had been so adorably besotted with the tiny thing, how could he tell him no? But Martin always felt a little ridiculous calling such a squeaky little fuzzball by such a weighty title. So he'd nicknamed her Manda, and called her that until she passed away from old age in front of the fireplace. Jon had only lightly teased him for it, and Manda didn't seem to mind answering to two different names.

When they adopted their second cat, three years after rescuing Manda, Jon had wanted to name him Lord Chancellor. This time, Martin put his foot down.

Please Jon, can't we give the cat a normal name?

Jon scoffed. What self respecting cat would accept a normal name?

You think a cat's going to care if it's called Whiskers? Or Mittens? Or Fluffy?

Yes, and their owners should be hanged for lack of creativity.

In the end, they compromised, and the cat was dubbed Lord Chancellor Reginald Roberts III. Martin called him Reggie. And so it continued for every subsequent cat they owned, down to their current pair. In addition to the Sergeant Major aka Percy, they were also graced with the presence of Brigadier General Eleanor Evans, aka Ellie. People who didn't know them well sometimes assumed they actually had four cats instead of two.

The scraping of a white cane on concrete announced Jon coming up the front walk. Percy alerted to the sound and trotted over to the front door to wait. A moment later Jon came in, Ellie following closely on his heels like a mother shepherding a slow kitten. She did that often these days. There had been a time some years ago when Jon had been clipped by a drunk driver while walking up the lane, fallen into a ditch, and broken his leg. Ellie had found him on her daily ramble outside, then gone home to Martin and refused to stop screeching until he followed her to see what the problem was. She had appointed herself Jon's official outdoor chaperone ever since. Jon didn't put up with overprotectiveness from humans, but apparently he could tolerate it in cats just fine.

"Sophie and Rasheed say hello," Jon said. He shuffled over to the counter and set down two bags. One had the logo of the chemist's shop, containing the month's assorted prescriptions (arthritis medications for Jon, blood pressure and thyroid medications for Martin). The other had a container of something thick and brown and spicy-smelling. "They insisted on giving us some of their leftover curry, so I think we're having that tonight, unless you have any objections."

Martin smiled. Percy leaned his front paws on the counter walls and meowed insistently, as if to say Yes, that is clearly meant for me, please serve it up straight away. "Sounds better than omelettes. I'll go put on some rice." He leaned in to kiss Jon on the cheek.

***

The curry was excellent. Rich and warm and exactly as spicy as Jon liked it. After dinner found him and Martin on the couch, Jon leaning sleepily into Martin's shoulder. The fabric of Martin's sweater was soft against Jon's cheek, and it smelled faintly of lavender scented soap. Somewhere close by, the Sergeant Major was purring like a well oiled car engine. No doubt he was using Martin's lap as his own personal heated cat bed. Good taste in laps, that cat.

"Let's see, where did we leave off," Martin said. Jon heard the distinctive paper scrape of flipping pages. Real paper books were something of a rarity these days, but Martin wouldn't hear of replacing his collection with more convenient electronic versions. Jon couldn't afford to be as picky. Paper books were satisfying to hold, but they didn't come with built in text-to-speech software. Except when Martin owned those books, then they sort of did.

"Ah, here we are." Martin cleared his throat.

"Nevertheless I long—I pine, all my days—

to travel home and see the dawn of my return.

And if a god will wreck me yet again on the wine-dark sea,

I can bear that too, with a spirit tempered to endure."

Martin read in a calm, gentle voice. A slight shift in the cushions told him the Brigadier General was settling herself down above them on top of the couch. Aloof, but still part of things. With care, Jon reached up, found her chin, and offered scritches. The Brigadier General graciously accepted. What a picture they must make.

Jon didn't actually know what Martin looked like anymore. That was a statement that was true on a couple of different levels. Jon's mental image of Martin was still of a smiling, round-faced man with freckles in his late twenties. Jon knew Martin couldn't look like that anymore. His skin was dry and papery, his arms soft and flabby his hair thin and wispy and bald on top. And that was before considering the visual changes that other people (including Martin) commented on, like white hair and liver spots. Jon tried to overlay those facts onto his mental image of Martin, like a police artist trying to age up a photo of a long-missing person. But Jon would never know how closely that image matched the real thing.

On a deeper level though, Jon wasn't even sure if his image of young Martin was still accurate anymore. He'd made a point of memorizing every feature of Martin's face the day he'd decided to take his own sight. Every night for weeks after that, he'd conjured up the image in his mind, gone over every single detail with a mental microscope. He'd hoped that by sheer repetition Martin's face would wear a groove on his memory that could not be wiped away. But memory didn't work like that. Like an image that had been through the photocopier too many times, each act of recall changed the memory, altering and embellishing it until it was a caricature of its original form.

Once, that would have horrified Jon. He'd already had Sasha's face stolen from him, and no amount of terrible eldritch knowing power had been able to retrieve that knowledge for him. The thought of losing Martin's face? That had kept him up nights in a cold sweat. But if the decades since had taught him anything, it was this: the Not Them might have stolen Sasha's face from him, but it had also stolen every other part of her. Her voice, her laugh, even her manner. Jon still had every other part of Martin, waking up beside him each morning.

Jon awoke to gentle shaking. "Jon? Jon, you'll get a crick in your back if you fall asleep like that."

Jon grumbled and sat up. His spine screeched at him for forcing it back into a normal alignment. He grimaced. "What time is it?"

"Half past nine. You want to go to bed? Or I could make Percy let you have my lap."

Half past nine. In his younger days that barely counted as night. One of the lesser known adjustments of old age was the way it had completely obliterated his night owl tendencies. Jon considered Martin's offer. One last nap on his beloved's lap before moving to bed? "Tempting. But I think if I stay much longer I'll stick to it permanently."

With some considerable effort, Jon levered himself out of the couch. He offered a hand to help Martin up, which he readily took. "C'mere a minute," Martin said, tugging Jon gently back before Jon could turn towards the bedroom. Martin placed a hand under Jon's chin and tilted it up slightly. The gesture was both invitation and request, codified through decades of habit together. If the answer was no, Jon just needed to pull away, and that would be that.

Instead, Jon leaned in. There was the subtle but unmistakeable crackle of electricity that came before their lips met. Martin pressed his mouth into Jon's with a somewhat surprising level of intensity. Had something happened while he'd been out that day? Well, if it had, Martin would tell him. Or he wouldn't, if he didn't want to. Either way, it wasn't something Jon needed to know. Jon reached up to caress one cheek. It was dry and cracked, but covered in a soft peach fuzz he'd always been fond of. His other hand stretched around Martin's back, still soft and warm and huggable as an overlarge teddy bear. Jon might not know what Martin looked like anymore. But he didn't need to.

#jonmartin #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #my fanfic #i will handwave as much canon as I have to to give these boys the soft ending they deserve

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siandvisualdiary · 4 years

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Year 1 Week 1

year 1

week 1

day 1

identity and position 5th october

let the tutors know if there are any problems

independent work and collaborative work

learning on studios

developing self directed practise and presentation skills

manage your time 7th december is the deadline meet the deadlines make sure your meet the deadline you have opportunities to succeed take pictures of everything and record the work and the processes of the ideas and work to be professionals know what your work is about

day 2

day 2 (online class) 1000-1245

so we were asked 3 questions:

1. is illustration? A form of art communicating a message or showing a visual idea , recording a plant/ form of life in the wild recording an event unfolding before you (I remember seeing a painting on my trip to Russia of a massacre bloody Sunday) in fact in one could say Communist Russia and Germany when run by Adolf Hitler used art and radio to push their ideology and communicate a positive facade of their horrid plans for their respective countries.Especially illustration in newspapers which at the time people were an important part in human life especially in Europe.Your everyday reliant on newspapers to tell them the truth new shops to check out new restaurants to visit new products and services to buy,2. what is its purpose?- One's expression to bring joy or to just feel and create sometimes there is no reason you just felt like making something - to model or demonstrate a service ( a digital animated character walking) a potential product (iPhone 11pro), building,space,enviroment,scene,character etc.- to communicate ideas,views,opinions,thoughts,irony e.g political cartoons in british newspapers or films - to entertain / divert the masses - film/comic strips in newspapers or online,books,animation,games etc.- to make people think - painting or film or anything Banksy does his instagram is awesome 3. what can illustration do?anything literally it can impact all industries: helping pharmaceuticals and chemists on how to perform an experiment or how the lab should look the possibilities are endless- restaurant menus- visual ideas - storyboards for tv and films et design etc.- product design cars electric devices- where the fire exit signs- online training videos for companies animation for scenarios how to videos - a brand logo apple,The Walt Disney Company, the vue cinema logo etc.From wikipedia - ' Contemporary illustration uses a wide range of styles and techniques, including drawing, painting, printmaking, collage, montage, digital design, multimedia, 3D modelling. Depending on the purpose, illustration may be expressive, stylised, realistic or highly technical.Specialist areas include: Architectural illustration Archaeological illustration Botanical illustration Concept art Fashion illustration Information graphics Technical illustration Medical illustration Narrative illustration Picture books Scientific illustration' here are the groups i was in zoom group 5 answers :an interesting find i find whilst researching :/An illustration is a decoration, interpretation or visual explanation of a text, concept or process,[1] designed for integration in published media, such as posters, flyers, magazines, books, teaching materials, animations, video games and films. An illustration is typically created by an illustrator. Illustration also means providing an example; either in writing or in picture form.The origin of the word “illustration” is late Middle English (in the sense ‘illumination; spiritual or intellectual enlightenment’): via Old French from Latin illustratio (n-), from the verb illustrare' research sites:https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Illustration#:~:text=An%20illustration%20is%20a%20decoration,typically%20created%20by%20an%20illustrator. https://www.wordsense.eu/illustrare/ for me illustration is my expression whether via biro pen or watercolours etc. whatever medium this discipline can bring joy it can evoke an emotive memory it can inspire civilians to go to war and 'fight the huns' which many cartoons in newspapers did it during the first world war and second world wars.evoking a sense of comradery a call for heroes a call to 'do your bit' 'keep calm and carry on' and 'do your bit for the war effort'. illustration has the power to communicate an idea or various ideas therefore it has the ability to influence people and inspire and positive or negative reaction illustration and therefore art has power ...where do we get our info or inspo from?the internet - images,text,youtubecinema - filmstv- adverts games - ubisoft's assassin's creed 2,brotherhood what are you inspired by in accordance to the senses?Sensory integration is the process by which we receive information through our senses, organize this information, and use it to participate in everyday activities.An example of sensory integration is: Baby smelling food as they bring it to their mouth Tasting the food Feeling the texture Determining what this food is and if they want more https://pathways.org/topics-of-development/sensory/You read that right! Most people think there are just 5 sense, but there are actually 7! So what are the 7 senses?How might we use these senses in art Sight (Vision) - light the effect of light,everything we see nature social media,traditional media fine art in newspapers, film,photography,books,cartoon,animals,water,rocks,buildings and products,food, clothes,people etc.

Hearing (Auditory) - hearing a problem and trying to figure out how to fix it,hearing sound and figuring how to visualize it or incorporate it

Smell (Olfactory) - thinking of a memory how one felt at a specific time and trying to encapsulate that feeling that emotions and expressing that emotion or how one feels before during and after a smell e.g the air during a hot salty windy day at bournemouth beach

Taste (Gustatory) - memories,good food the feeling of gooey melting chocolate in my mouth trés delicieux!

Demonstrate that in a physical tangible state and or image whether it be traditional analogue on paper perhaps a 3D digital

Touch (Tactile) - textures and grains and movements of a rock of thing feathers and feeling and recreating that or recording it perhaps Vestibular (Movement) - the movement and balance sense, which gives us information about where our head and body are in space. Helps us stay upright when we sit, stand, and walk. - Dance the feeling of a wave hitting the rocks or water against you

Proprioception (Body Position): the body awareness sense, which tells us where our body parts are relative to each other. It also gives us information about how much force to use, allowing us to do something like crack an egg while not crushing the egg in our hands. - inspire to create an animation or a short film of various movements and how the character walks runs etc. various body movement prior to filming character development *FILM/TV/THEATRE mechanical horse like in war horse etc.

* Emotion and feeling - making people feel a different emotion or various emotions feeling empathy or anger making people feel inspired to better society

skills that I am confident in : paying Attention to detail

- Interpersonal and Communication Skills - Teamwork and Multi-tasking - Adobe Photoshop, Illustrator, Lightroom, InDesign, After Effects, Premier Pro and Capture One 10- Drawing- Painting- Illustration- Calligraphy- film and digital Photography as well as editing I care about and hope for :

Our World:- Education for everyone - ignorance is not bliss but a trap to be manipulated and controlled.Critical thinking discussions and emotional and mental growth is a positive thing is is an asset to society.Every human being able to have a full education for them and their needs if they are great at art and history they should not be shamed for not doing good in science!The current Prussian educational system is not helping everyone excel in the subjects they are good at - it was meant for military education in the ancient world after all however we need an improvement.Especially on the teachers hired and trained.Some countries are allegedly failing students just so that they can work in a specific manual labour industries when the kids are intelligent enough to be doctors and scientists they are purposefully failed and told to smash rocks or other manual labour jobs.

I care about the safety and innocence of the next generation globally for kids to be safe from men and woman who want to use them for their own benefit e.g greedy parents,predators,human traffickers and cult leaders

The ending of homeless (people being able to work and have their own home in the UK especially in London)

The end of human trafficking one human forcing another human being to do something for free and forcibly take away their own freedom their God given free will that is not okay to me that will never be okay we are all priceless.

#Uni Week1

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alysaalban · 4 years

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Reiki Symbol Library Surprising Cool Tips

Completing a Reiki Master or Reiki Master.I have observed that her sinuses on the subject.There is also some other method of healing that it does sometimes work like that if we trust them.The original Western version of the infinite energy that knows its path and living in a matter of who we are in this healing art was lost.

Comfortable and loose clothing is worn by the governing body, such as scientists, doctors and other are taught.Not surprisingly, this is the observation.If this same energy that can be analogous to learning everything I could barely walk.The essence of reiki melting your problems are usually held over 2 days, each one of my blog entry on this point, he or she does charge, it is easy to use the meditation state of wellness.The third one is comfortable with will develop your own pace.

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#Reiki Symbol Library Surprising Cool Tips #Can Reiki Cure Infertility

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brokehorrorfan · 5 years

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Interview: Richard Brake (3 from Hell, Mandy)

Actor Richard Brake discusses teaming up with the Firefly clan in Rob Zombie’s 3 from Hell, which will be playing in theaters nationwide on September 16-18 via Fathom Events. We also chat about his earlier collaborations with Zombie and working with Nicolas Cage in Mandy.

Can you begin by telling us how you got involved in 3 from Hell?

As always with Rob [Zombie, writer-director], I tend to get a text or an email or a phone call - I think in this case it was a text - saying, "What are you doing in such-and-such amount of time?" And I say, "Nothing." When it comes to Rob Zombie, I am always free and ready to work with him, because he is an absolute genius. I love working with him. Basically, Rob got in touch and asked if I was I was interested. I said, "Are you kidding? Of course I am!" And then he told me more about the role and the story, and I was over the moon that he involved me.

Without giving anything away, what was your first reaction upon learning that you're one of the main characters?

I was incredibly thrilled and, to be honest with you, very honored and very grateful to Rob. I'd be happy to do one line or a hundred lines in a Rob Zombie film. Any time I work with him is incredibly inspiring just being around him. He's like if you took an oil rig, and you stuck it into the ground of creativity, it just comes exploding out of him, so that everyone around him feels immersed in this creative energy that's unlike anything I've experienced before. Just to be part of it was a huge thrill, and then of course I was very honored that he asked me to play such a role as well.

Did you feel any added pressure knowing that you're joining a beloved franchise?

None whatsoever, actually. What I loved is that [my character] Foxy is a whole new element in this world. It was more the challenge of coming in and bringing this new flavor into this world that's already established, but it also has a lot of other new elements coming into it as well. It was great to be able to bring something fresh and new to the Firefly world in the form of Foxy.

What was it like working so closely with people who reprising their established characters, particularly Bill Moseley and Sheri Moon Zombie?

I just think they're brilliant. I've worked with Sheri before, and she's a fantastic actor. My favorite scenes in 31 are the final scenes that we do together, and they're my favorite because she's so brilliant in them. Knowing that she was playing this role of Baby that she's embodied so brilliantly, and Bill with Otis, it was almost like a lesson for me watching the two of them work and finding my place inside that clan.

I hadn't worked with Bill before, so I was really excited to work with him. He's such a great actor; not just the stuff he's done with Rob but also the other work he's done. What was great was experiencing it one-on-one with him, and in doing those scenes with him, now I know why he's such a great actor. He's incredibly free, incredibly professional, and incredibly generous as an actor.

The three of us just riffed together so many times. I could feel the chemistry from day one, and from what I'm hearing it seems to be coming through in the film as well, so I'm really excited about that.

You can definitely feel it.

Thanks, man. I'm so pleased.

The movie, like much of Rob Zombie's work, has a lot of genre favorites and character actors in smaller roles. Do any of the cameos stick out in your mind as being particularly memorable?

What was memorable was coming in every day and finding another great character actor to work with. I just adored it. Like Richard Edson; I was a big fan of Jim Jarmusch's early films, and Richard had done those. It was great fun working with him. And Clint Howard, he's just a great actor. It was always like, "Which surprising little cameo are we going to have in today?" Oh, and Emilio Rivera. He has a bigger role, but he's just an incredibly lovely guy. It was brilliant having him as my nemesis.

That's the thing about Rob; everybody wants to work with him. Even if they come in and just do one scene, everybody drops everything and immediately shows up on a Rob Zombie set, because they want to work with the guy. He is just such a genius.

Speaking of Rob, you mentioned your previous collaboration on 31, in which I'd say you stole the show, and before that you had a small but memorable part in Halloween II. How did you get on his radar in the first place?

With Rob, you audition. You go on tape if you he doesn't know your work. So I went on tape for the "corpse shagging" scene. The next thing I know, a week later, I got a call from my agent saying, "Rob Zombie wants you to be in Halloween II." Obviously I was incredibly thrilled, but within about 40 seconds I began to shit myself, thinking, "Oh, my god, this crazy director." [laughs] When I met him, of course he turns out to be the sweetest, most professional, total gem of a director that I could ever imagine. That's how we got involved on Halloween II. Once he knows your work and he's happy with you, if he has something that he thinks you're right for, he sends you that text: "What are you doing in February?" [laughs]

Before we wrap up, I'd love to hear about your experience on Mandy, which was one of my favorite films of last year.

Oh, thanks. That one just came out of the blue. I auditioned for that, and it was the fastest that I've ever gotten a call. Two hours later, my agent called and said that Panos [Cosmatos, director] wanted me in it. When I saw Panos subsequently I learned that he was a big fan of Rob's, so he'd actually already seen me in 31 and didn't realize it at first until he watched back the tape of me doing the crazy chemist. I went in for a one-night shoot and just had a blast. Panos is a visionary; very, very similar to Rob in terms of the energy. I think the two of them recently met and had about eight espressos and send me a picture of the two of them chatting.

I couldn't express how incredible Nicolas Cage is. He stood there the whole time while I was doing my lines. They could have put anybody in to stand there while I was doing my crazy monologue at him, but he actually stood there, fully focused, take after take after take. That says something about how committed he is as an actor even after all these years and after that much fame.

#richard brake #3 from hell #three from hell #rob zombie #mandy #nicolas cage #interview #article #bill moseley #sheri moon zombie #sheri moon #sid haig #halloween #halloween ii #halloween 2

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killingthebuddha · 5 years

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“All of us become pilgrims at one time or another, even though we may not give ourselves the name.” –Richard Niebuhr

PJ, who presides over Dublin’s dusty shop Sweny’s, has read Joyce’s Ulysses 51 times in 6 different languages. Over a dark pint of Guinness, with the mist from the glass melting on his fingertips, PJ speaks about the lines from the book that are making his pulse race that minute. He doesn’t try to persuade you of their sacredness or its genius. He just smiles slightly, revealing coffee-stained and wayward teeth, and nods as he cites whole paragraphs. PJ loves Joyce. To PJ, Sweny’s, the shop where Leopold Bloom bought lemon soap for his wife Molly in Joyce’s epic, is an invaluable relic of Joyce’s Dublin, and he would do anything to protect its legacy. Even as rent steadily increases, PJ continues to sell bars of lemon soap in the chemist’s shop, now cluttered with old photographs, various editions of Ulysses, and hundreds of small glass bottles. PJ says with a wry smile, “the soap cleans the body while the book corrupts the mind.”

Every year on June 16, the same date that marked Leopold Bloom’s walk around Dublin in 1904, a host of literary pilgrims visit the city to pay tribute to Joyce. Sweny’s was a sacred stop on the tour for people I met last Bloomsday, people who came from Australia, Japan, Bosnia, South Korea, the United States, Germany, Spain, Argentina, England, France, and Switzerland.

In the Catholic tradition of pilgrimage, a location that is considered sacred is often referred to as a “thin place,” a place where the space between heaven and earth wanes, and becomes rarefied or thin. Such places typically mark the site of a saint’s ascension, a miraculous act, or some epiphanic moment. In other religions, places may be considered sacred because they have been saturated with meaning by God. What might a thin place be in a conversation about literary pilgrimage? Perhaps where the distance between an author’s imagination and a reader’s lived reality narrows and eventually collapses. And where the human being who generated meaning in the place—the author, the artist, the genius—begins to acquire divine status. Joyce certainly seems to assume deific qualities every year on Bloomsday as devotees travel to Dublin and re-enact the events from Bloom’s life, visit the places he walked, and read excerpts of Ulysses aloud.

In the home I grew up in, we consider all books sacred, and one of my family’s South Indian traditions has become practically reflexive for me. When someone accidentally drops a book or grazes one with a foot, we place our hand on the cover and gently touch our closed eyelids. We thus symbolically ask forgiveness for treating a book with inadvertent disregard. My parents instilled in me a deep appreciation for written words. Literary pilgrimage provides an opportunity to reflect on that appreciation, and on what happens when it extends beyond an individual gesture to a collective expression of reverence. Why do people become dedicated to one author, or one text? And how does that dedication evolve from fleeting infatuation to persistent devotion?

Last summer, on a quest to reckon with these questions, I attended the Bloomsday festival, which is primarily organized by the James Joyce Center on Dublin’s North Great George’s Street. Deirdre Ellis-King, the chair of the board of the James Joyce Center, notes that the center is committed to providing “different points of entry” into the text, be it “music and song, drama, costume, or food.” The entry points Ellis-King referred to are visible throughout Dublin on Bloomsday. As I walked down North Great George’s Street, people were dressed for the trends of 1904—most men sported black top hats, and carried walking sticks, while women donned petticoats, lace gloves, and parasols. One man even tipped his hat, saluted me, and said with a melancholic tinge, “what a shame, poor fellow, Paddy Dignam,” referencing the character whose funeral in Ulysses occurs on June 16.

When I arrived at Davy Byrne’s, a central pub in the novel, I witnessed a joyful uproar of Irish anthems and songs from the book. There were productions of Ulysses all over Dublin, from the Abbey’s adaptation of the entire epic to the Bewley Café’s staged reading of Molly Bloom’s monologue, and her famed finale, “and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.” There were pub crawls across Dublin, not to mention food tours that took visitors down Bloom’s bizarre trajectory of consumption, from kidneys for breakfast to gorgonzola sandwiches and burgundy for lunch. All these events were meant to challenge the notion that Ulysses ought to be abstruse and abstract for readers. Bloomsday participants come with varying levels of Ulysses knowledge, but even if you haven’t read the book, you can still down a pint or digest a kidney.

Sam Slote, a professor at Trinity College Dublin, who has organized an academic symposium on Ulysses, cites Joyce’s remark, “If I can get to the heart of Dublin, I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world.” Slote comments that in order “to get to the heart of Dublin, Joyce represents the city in all its specificities.” In this way, he “gets to everywhere else and all their specificities.” Deirdre Ellis-King agrees, remarking that “Joyce and Dublin are synonymous, it’s any-man and every-man, you could be in any city in the world and enjoy the same kind of experiences of the streetscape.” Paradoxically, by being so precise, the text becomes universal. This stylistic technique is analogous to the character of Bloom. “It’s not that every man likes kidneys for breakfast, but every man has his particularities,” Slote says. It is in this way that Ulysses speaks to any reader, any person in motion, any pilgrim—not in the specifics of every human being, but in the specificity with which any human being can be represented. No one is special. Everyone is special. Stephen Dedalus, the other main character in the novel, has a line, “every life is many days, day after day.” This could be the motto for not only the epic, but also the festival commemorating June 16—any day, in any life, could be Bloomsday. The annual convergence of time and place restores significance to every ordinary and individual encounter, to every overlooked dollop of time.

Jessica Yates, who oversees the Bloomsday festival and manages the James Joyce Center, tells me she “converted” to Joyce (her word) because of Bloomsday. Unlike people who embark on a pilgrimage to honor the text they love, Yates casually went out to a pub on Bloomsday eleven years ago without any prior knowledge of Ulysses. It was there that she met “someone special,” and they set out on a project to read Ulysses before their first anniversary. She says with a trill of laughter, “I got so into Bloomsday.”

She recommends I sit in on one of the storied reading circles at Sweny’s. I do, and am struck by the variety of voices present. Some readers sit with a cane or walker leaning against theirs chairs, and others sprint over to the shop after class. As Joycean phrases echo in the small confines of Sweny’s, I hear accents from Argentina, South Korea, and France. One Dubliner named Paddy has been attending the reading circle on and off for about a decade. Paddy wears long trousers, a light blue button down shirt, and round reading glasses. He seems serious, but he also has a toothy grin. While some wanderers came into the bookshop after one or two beers, Paddy arrives early, eager to pour over the text he deems so valuable. He has read the book in 6-month cycles about ten or eleven times—he can’t recall exactly. He views Ulysses as a vessel through which he can access his own ancestors, a thin place with miraculous possibility. He explains, “I am from Dublin. My parents, my grandparents too. I have no non-Irish connections. I think I am deeply of Dublin, and there are few books deeply of Dublin. Ulysses is one of them.” He explains why the book resonates with him emotionally by pointing to its melodic qualities: “There is a music in the language, a rhythm in the speech. I can hear my parents who are now dead, my grandparents who are now dead, I can hear them talking, when I read it, I can hear their voices.”

Yet another regular at Sweny’s is Finon, a former student at Trinity College. He has been attending readings of Ulysses for four years, and he loves how Sweny’s regulars move “in a loop,” how the book itself is like a “carousel, no fun unless you get to do the whole thing.” “After all,” he chuckles, “if you haven’t finished, it’s not worth the money.” Like many sacred texts, Ulysses contains philosophical reflections, surprising imagery, and beautiful poetry. And like many religious holidays, which draw pilgrims from all over the world to a holy site, Bloomsday too, according to Finon, becomes a “spawning day,” to which “a lot of people return.” Both re-reading and pilgrimage are rituals of returning.

Attempts to disavow the sacred aspects of the festival sometimes sound inadvertently religious. When Finon describes the goal of Bloomsday, he seems a bit like a defensive missionary: “The attempt to popularize the text is really an attempt to create an invitation into it. I mean nobody’s looking to actively spread it onto people, but to keep it as welcoming as possible.” Similarly, Jessica Yates says she wants to get people excited about the text, but she insists, “I don’t want to impose it on everyone.” They are enthusiasts who hesitate to proselytize.

Indeed, Professor Slote of Trinity College Dublin notes with a hint of smug amusement that many people were asking him what he thought of Bloomsday from a scholarly perspective and he was “about to say something,” until he realized, “I’m not going to be this guy.” It would be understandable, from an academic standpoint, to scoff at some of what unfolds. For starters, many of the most devoted participants have never read the book. Take John, the James Joyce lookalike who has stood outside the James Joyce Center every June 16 for the last seven years. He carries a cane, and wears a black top hat, a suit, a healthy gray moustache and a tiny square beard. He peers through large circular spectacles, and takes photographs with tourists. Originally a hat-maker, John grew up in Dublin. He explains the mass of people at the James Joyce Center in an assured tone: “People don’t have to be readers to enjoy Bloomsday, people just like the association.” When I asked John what he thought when he read Ulysses for the first time, his eyes stretched open, and he raised his brows: “Read it? I wrote it!” I smiled, and he conceded, “I’m afraid I didn’t read it.”

For Joyce, a writer who said that if “Ulysses isn’t worth reading, then life isn’t worth living,” John’s confession could be considered blasphemous. But returning to Professor Slote’s less judgmental perspective, it’s unnecessary to “be that guy” who reads and analyzes Ulysses in order to have a genuine relationship with the text. Slote analogizes criticism of Bloomsday to what “we have in America—the [rhetoric of the] war against Christmas … the secularization of Bloomsday is not a bad thing.”

Is Bloomsday a sign that the religion of Joyce is somehow being compromised, challenged, thinned out in the public’s touristic, commercial and dangerously superficial imagination? Or is Bloomsday’s existence reaffirming the sacredness of Ulysses to its readers? After all, not everyone who travels to Lourdes has read the Bible, and not everyone who journeys to Mecca has read the Qur’an. The mastery of a text is not necessary, or at the very least, not a prerequisite for meaningful motivations. Pilgrimage provides a different kind of proof of faith.

As Slote elaborates on not wanting to be the Grinch of Bloomsday, he says, Bloomsday “is not a bad thing—usually it falls on nice, sunny weather,” and it’s “a pleasant excuse to have a bit of a lark.” He concurs with the organizers of the Bloomsday festival that it’s good to get people interested, and even though he says “my job is generally not to think about popularizing Ulysses,” he believes offering various points of entry for readers is noble. He elaborates on Joyce’s mission with Ulysses: “While it is a book that is studied at universities, it’s not just for those people. It has a wider audience. The way culture has moved, these things tend to be more academicized, [and] something like [Bloomsday] is a good counterbalance.”

Leslie Daugherty, from the North Side of Dublin, plays Leopold Bloom in the James Joyce Center productions of Ulysses, and he agrees that the so-called “secularization” of Joyce is a good thing. He describes the text as “a fabulous read,” but takes issue with some of the academics who treat Ulysses with the wrong kind of “reverence,” effectively “making Ulysses unattainable.” He objects to the notion that Ulysses is for “the posh people,” and shook his head as he said, in a throaty voice, “No. Ulysses is for everyone who has a mind of his own.”

Marty, a man from Donegal, Ireland, who is a marketing and events coordinator at the James Joyce Center, first encountered Joyce when he read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and he says with a chuckle that “a lot of teenage Catholic dudes in Ireland identified with it.” He describes being deeply moved by the part where Stephen is called to the priesthood but says, instead, that he is an artist. The tensions between religious tradition, devotion, expectation, and the inclination towards the life of an artist resonate with Marty.

Leopold Bloom, Ulysses, and Bloomsday itself are all fraught with similar tensions. Bloom is a man who loves his wife and preaches love but deceives her and behaves disloyally. Ulysses contains styles that contradict and challenge one another—clean prose, experimental stream-of-consciousness, advertisement jargon, and saccharine romantic-novel satire. Bloomsday has attendees who have read the text 51 times and people who have never heard of Joyce. The idea of “literary pilgrimage,” too, brims with ambiguity. Are books meant to be read, or to be revered? And does a book find its meaning in an isolated experience, or in a collective celebration?

In 1996, Jonathan Franzen revised an essay initially published as “The Harper’s Essay” and retitled it “Why Bother.” In it, Franzen laments the demise of a reading-culture, and describes his “despair about the American novel.” He writes about one novel he read in reverent prose, marking his gratitude “that someone besides me had suffered from these ambiguities and had seen light on their far side—that Fox’s book had been published and preserved; that I could find company and consolation and hope in an object pulled almost at random from a bookshelf—felt akin to an instance of religious grace.” The experience of literature, of reading as an act of worship, is often seen as an individual one, as it is in this passage. Indeed, the collection for which Franzen revised his essay is called How to be Alone.

Yet Bloomsday’s beauty is in its social activity. As many literary pilgrims have pointed out, Joyce wanted his text to be democratic. The point of Bloomsday is for “any man and every man,” and the text is about bringing reverence to our everyday. Ulysses itself, in various bodily and granular descriptions elevates the profane to an esteemed status. For example, in one instance, Joyce satirically describes a man seated at the foot of a large tower as a “broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strong-limbed, frank-eyed, red-haired, freely-freckled, shaggy-bearded, wide-mouthed, large-nosed, long-headed, deep-voiced, bare-kneed, brawny-handed, hair-legged, ruddy-faced, sinew-armed hero.” And just as Joyce plays with his characters, gifting them gallant qualities (albeit in a sardonic tone), so does Bloomsday toy with its visitors and their expectations, until people find communion in a collective, at times gimmicky, at times reverent experience. Ulysses motivates its readers enough that they want to change their physical circumstances, embark on an embodied passage, and develop another vantage-point—beyond the systems of logic and reason that we so often subscribe to. The book inspires people to find one another, to derive solace and soul, from an admittedly kooky community. This somewhat paradoxical combination of the sacred and the irreverent is what permeates Dublin on Bloomsday. There are pub crawls and exclamations of Joycean passages made shriller by grand glasses of Guinness. But there is also something reminiscent of what we see in churches and memorials—pilgrims, persons in motion—seeking answers, inspired by something that has no neat ending, maybe realizing as they wander, that they too, will never be complete.

Despite all the ambiguity and insecurity that is present when one sets out on a pilgrimage, there is also a yearning. People embark on a pilgrimage in search of something, be it healing, obligation, or understanding. And whether it is religious or literary pilgrimage, we can discover havens in vagrancy the way we do in words. As Franzen puts it, “to write sentences of such authenticity that refuge can be taken in them: Isn’t this enough? Isn’t it a lot?” There are not often clear answers in literature, but when paragraphs protect you, it doesn’t so much matter, does it? There are not clear lines drawn between the drawbacks and merits of Bloomsday either. Tourist Destination or Holy Site? One could easily say that the merits of Bloomsday are inits campiness, its accessibility, and its rendering a “thin place” palpable to readers. Franzen ends his essay with the image of a character discovering in a broken ink bottle “both perdition and salvation.” He writes, at peace without real resolution, “The world was ending then, it’s ending still, and I’m happy to belong to it again.”

Finon, one of the regular members of the Sweny’s reading circle, also embraces contradiction in Bloomsday. He believes that the festival is meaningful, but remarks with a knowing smirk that “on Bloomsday people like to drink and eat strange meat … [but] no one’s really talking about metempsychosis” (a concept of great significance in the novel). Finon asks if I had read Station Island by Seamus Heaney when I press him on the benefits and caveats of literary pilgrimage. I answer that I have not. He is keen to explain, “it’s a poem about revisiting a Catholic pilgrimage site, a catholic shrine …based on the idea that St. Patrick had a vision of purgatory there.” Finon outlines the context of the poem. “He was revisiting the place as a secularized figure … returning to a place he no longer believed in.” This raises an interesting question within a framework of literary pilgrimage. Is it possible to have a jarring return to a place you have lost faith in if all you have lost faith in is the sanctity of the literature (and not, for instance, the existence of God?)

In Heaney’s poem, various characters appear from disparate significant moments in the history of Ireland. And at the “dead center,” Finon narrates in a thrilled whisper, “he meets the ghost of the dead James Joyce.” Heaney doesn’t name him. He refers only to the storied image of Joyce that impersonators and photographers and readers and writers have memorialized for a century: a tall man with a cane, and the voice of a singer. Heaney writes that the figure held out his hand— “whether to guide or be guided I could not be certain,” because the man seemed blind. In this poem, an itinerant soul reckons with the loss of meaning in a formerly faithful location. That a hero of literature, a genius, artist, poet, is ambiguous in his leadership—that it is unclear whether he wants to lead or be led, demonstrates the deterioration and dismantling of Joyce as an idol, of Joyce as a God. Here Joyce’s hand is “fish-cold and bony,” and the onlooker knows him “in the flesh …wintered hard and sharp as a blackthorn bush.” This is a weathered, human being, a worn body, tired, old, nothing divine or eternal-seeming about him.

In many ways, this encounter could represent the ultimate challenge, a revisiting and reckoning with the sacred ground on which a metaphorical shrine to Ulysses was erected. In Station Island the character of Joyce does not seem wholly self-assured. He says, “your obligation / is not discharged by any common rite. / What you do you must do on your own … You’ve listened long enough. Now strike your note.” In this imagination of Joyce, the source of Ulysses’s genius, is not, on the surface, a divine force, because he feels entirely human. Yet, isn’t there something god-like in the command to strike out alone, to stop “listening,” and to embrace a new “rite”?

Considering Joyce as a simultaneously godly and ghostly figure is pertinent to the paradoxes of Bloomsday. Finon notes some logical dilemmas he observed on June 16 every year: “It’s a strange map in itself. I came to the real pub where a fictional character didn’t set foot. I came to the place where nobody bought the bar of soap. (laughs) It’s quite odd.”

Nonetheless, it seems hard to contend with the fact that Ulysses renders Dublin “a thin place.” It is the destination for wandering minds and bodies to relish and find refuge in words that feel mimetic of reality: the ugly, disturbing, devastating, and remedial stories that make up most of our lives. Letting Bloomsday be a thin place extracts communal joy from that solitary act of reading (or even of not-reading!) which can at times be isolating, and that private worship of Joyce, which can at times be embarrassing. A shared human soul pieced together from infinitely complex and individual particularities. One may plumb the mundane for miracles.

Niebuhr describes pilgrims as people “passing through territories not their own—seeking something we might call completion, or perhaps the word clarity will do as well.” I was passing through a territory not my own, and when I walked the streets of Dublin on Bloomsday, I felt both spiritual and giddy.

My very first interview, in the early morning of June 16, 2018, was with a couple from Trieste, and it felt like a moment of grace. I saw them loitering by the James Joyce Statue on the main street of the north side of Dublin. They were smiling and taking photos. It turned out that the man had read Ulysses as a young academic forty years ago. He matter-of-factly stated, “It was the text that inspired me to become a professor of literature.” As he spoke, his wife started laughing. I turned to her quizzically. She said, “Oh I’m sorry, it’s just my husband is really downplaying what this book means to him.” I asked her what she meant. “Well, when my first son was born—when I went into labor, what does my husband take along to the hospital? The thick fat book—Ulysses! He read it to me for twelve hours.” I turned to the man, now in his late 70s, a small smile playing on his lips, while a plum flush spread across his cheeks in patches. “Well,” he stuttered, “it’s sizzling…and brilliant…and so human.” This man wanted the very first words his son heard to be those of Joyce. What better anecdote could I have to demonstrate worship of this text? Yet, when I asked if he believed visiting Dublin for Bloomsday would lead to a more intimate understanding of Ulysses, he said, as his forehead creased slightly, “that would be too much, too big a claim.” His wife nodded knowingly. He added, “We’re here for more profane reasons.”

Literature enables both profane pleasure and reverence. On Bloomsday, no one has to choose.

#IFTTT #WordPress

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intothedanvers-e · 6 years

Text

Young, Dumb, & Broke

Word Count: 1.3k

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Summary: You just graduated high school and were ready to embark on your last summer of being a dumb teen and going on adventures before having to face the realities of the adult world. One day you were driving to a lake to meet some of your friends when your car broke down in the middle of nowhere. With no service and no gas stations around you wandered a little down the street and found one house where you went to ask for help. You expected to find an old couple living in the middle of nowhere, but a nice young British guy (Tom) answered the door. Due to unforeseen circumstances you spend the rest of the afternoon and most of the night together, but when it’s time to leave he says he wants to see you again. You exchange numbers with the cute British guy and embark on a long, secretive summer fling. You both lie about what you do for a living and what you were both doing in the middle of nowhere, but the moments you too bonded were all genuine. Will he find out about your plans after summer? Will you find out what he actually does for a living? Will this fling extend past summer?

Authors Note: hello everyone! first of all i know i missed an update last week, im so sorry ive hit really bad writers block with this series which i know is dumb bc im only on chapter 5 but ive been trying to get out of that funk recently which is also why this chapter is a little short. i hope you all understand :) thank you again for all the support in this series! i never thought this many people would like it <3 if you want to check out any of my other writing here’s my masterlist! if you have any feedback or comments please dont hesitate to send them my way!! yes i will keep updating this series on tuesdays! i hope i can shake this bad patch of writers block soon bc i genuinely enjoy writing this series so just bear with me and pls pls pls dont hate me. ok i love yall <3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5

You endured through your 8 hour shift without saying much to any of your co-workers. You would usually jump at any opportunity to tell your best friend about what happened to you, but to be completely honest you were still hurt about what happened the night of the bonfire. She quickly caught on that you were giving her the silent treatment and asked the manager to move her position for the day. You weren’t going to lie, it fucking sucked feeling like your best friend didn’t give a shit about you. You knew you only had about half an hour left of work at the restaurant and luckily you got to clock out before the big afternoon wave. You didn’t want to admit it to yourself but you were really excited about being able to see Tom again. The two of you had made plans for just around sunset, which gave you enough time to get home and get yourself ready and go out with him in an actually decent cute outfit.

“Table 8 got customers,” your manager said to you, snapping you out of your daydream.

You nodded and walked over to table 8. At it were two beautifully stunning women. You handed them two menus and smiled.

“Hi I’m Y/N I’ll be your server this afternoon, can I get you guys started on anything? Drinks?”

The two women gave each other a sneaky smile.

“Um we’re waiting for three of our friends they’ll be here in like 30 to 45 minutes. Can we just order drinks and like a small appetizer and then fully order when they get here?”

“Yeah that’s fine. Unfortunately, I’m clocking out in about 30 minutes so if they don’t get here by then my co-worker Brenda will take their orders.”

They looked at each other slightly disappointed.

“Okay I’ll take a Sprite. You Z?”

“I’ll take a coke. What would you recommend for the appetizer? My friend here Laura is lactose intolerant so it can’t be the mozzarella sticks unfortunately.”

“Honestly I think we have really good garlic bread. It’s handmade and comes with this amazing homemade marinara sauce.”

“I trust you Y/N, we’ll have an order of that.”

You wrote it down on your order pad and smiled.

“I’ll bring those drinks right out to you.”

You got the drinks for them and took it to them. They were both smiling and giggling before you walked to their table but stopped as soon as you got there.

“Hey Y/N are you from around here?” the one her friend called Z asked you.

“Yeah I am. Not too far from here.”

“Do you know where we can get some really good Mexican food? Not that this restaurant isn’t amazing already but a girl needs her burrito fix sometimes.”

“Yes I do actually!” you said taking out your order notepad, “I can write the address for you guys. They have the best salsas there, no joke.”

You ripped the paper and handed it to them.

“Y/N you are a lifesaver. The best waitress we’ve encountered here so far.”

You wrote your name on the paper and smiled.

“I know the owner, if you mention me and order the deluxe salsa and chips she’ll give you the salsa she usually saves for her regular customers.”

“You’re a real one,” the girl named Laura said smiling at you.

You walked back over to the registers where you heard the cooks gossiping about some people.

“Yeah they’re part of the thing that shut down all of downtown!” the main cooks said.

“Wait who?” you said sticking your head in the window that connected the kitchen and the register.

“The girls on 8. They’re actresses.”

You made a surprised face. They seemed so nice and genuine. The cook slid you a plate with garlic breads and a bowl with marinara sauce. You grabbed it and took it back to the girls.

“Here you are girls. Unfortunately, I am clocking out for the afternoon so my co-worker Brenda will be helping you from here on out.”

“Aw man! We were hoping to introduce our new friend to our friends, but I guess they’re taking longer than expected. Well it was nice to meet you Y/N, we will definitely be back here to see you again.”

“I’ll be here all summer,” you said smiling at them.

They handed you a 50-dollar bill.

“From two former waitresses who know how much doing this sucks. You are one of the good ones.”

You smiled at them and put it in your pocket.

“Thank you ladies. I hope you’re enjoying my city and I look forward to seeing you both again.”

You walked to the backroom and clocked out. You were going to leave out of the front like you always do but you didn’t want to risk seeing your “best friend” so you left out the backdoor. You got into your car and drove home with a huge smile on your face.

A few hours later you were dressed and doing your makeup. You didn’t want to overdo it so you did some natural looking makeup. You finished by 5:30, an hour before you were supposed to go get Tom. You went downstairs to make yourself busy, but came face to face with your mom bringing her luggage inside.

“There you are,” she said locking the front door.

You froze on the last step of your stairs.

“Didn’t realize you were back.”

“Came home as soon as I heard the voicemail you left me.”

“But you didn’t think to call me or text me or maybe ask what happened?”

“I came home didn’t I?”

You sighed and started climbing up the stairs again.

“Well it was taken care of so you shouldn’t have.”

“What do you mean?”

You didn’t answer and went upstairs to grab your bag and a jacket. You came back down to your mom standing at the bottom of the stairs checking all her bank statements.

“What do you mean it’s taken care of, I don’t have a charge on the card?”

You grabbed the car keys off the table next to the front door.

“I took care of it, alone. Again. I’m going out, don’t wait up for me.”

Before she could say anything you walked out the door, and took off in your car.

You arrived at Tom’s house about 30 minutes earlier than you were supposed to be there. You were going to call him but then remembered this was a dead zone in terms of phone signal. You parked your car in his driveway and went to knock on the front door. You heard footsteps, and suddenly a shirtless Tom with a towel wrapped around his waist opened the door. You’d seen him shirtless before, I mean you guys were in the pool late at night, but this time it really caught you off guard. You looked up at the ceiling and apologized.

“Shit sorry, I just uhh left my house a little earlier so I got here earlier and I was gonna call you but um- “

“Yeah no service, that’s fine. I was just getting out of the shower. Come on in.”

You walked behind him, still refusing to look at him. You were trying to hide how flustered you felt.

“Are you ok?”

You sat on the couch and looked at your feet.

“Yeah why?”

“You just haven’t looked at me,” he said laughing.

“I, uh, didn’t know if you wanted me to so.”

“I don’t mind.”

You looked at him as he stood there with a cheeky grin on his face.

“Go get ready Holland!” you said throwing a couch pillow at him.

“I’m just saying if you feel inclined to end the date early, be my guest.”

You gave him a fake shocked expression.

“You’d have to be lucky enough to get at least 4 or 5 dates before that Holland,” you said winking at him playfully.

“Oh look forward to it baby,” he said before disappearing up the stairs.

What a flirty little shit.

Taglist: @hollandlovely @greenarrowhead @justanotherfangirl2015 @oh-dear-tommy @marvelnerdxinfinity @lafayettes-baguettes-1 @hollandhugs @tiredofallthetroubles @marvel-ing-at-it-all @built4broadway @lostandafraiddepressedgirl @isisqueenoffandoms @for-my-mind @hbmoore1986 @dafnouche @justapotatonow @bellagrayson-wayne @marvelousspidey @chemiste @maryylea

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heartslogos · 3 years

Text

the declassified texts of the inquisition's elite [187]

(563): how soon in a friendship can you start calling them a motherfucker

“I take it that they’re getting along,” Josephine says.

“What makes you say that?” Leliana asks, tucking her phone back into her pocket.

“The expression on your face that says you’re not surprised by these turn of events but you also wish that it came out differently. Don’t forget, I’ve also worked with you for a long time. I can read you to an extent, when you let me,” Josephine smiles. “Sera and Daylen?"

Leliana sighs before confirming, “Sera and Daylen. In theory I knew they could get along. And that they probably would. They’re both abrasive enough that anything the other says will roll off and generate more back talk. They’re surprisingly similar for two people who, on paper, appear to come from opposite sides.”

“Sera happens to get along with several people who, on paper, would appear to be entirely contrary to her beliefs and general personal tastes,” Josephine points out. “She’s much more diplomatic than we give her credit for sometimes. It’s because she’s young, I suspect. And she’s very good at playing up her image when it suits her. Unfortunately it usually suits her to get out of work assignments. She could be an excellent asset for me and my people.”

“Lucky for all of us, she’d much rather work intelligence and weapons testing,” Leliana smiles. “I’d hate to lose such a fantastic chemist. Her reports are incredible -- or so I’m told. I must admit to being rather weak on the jargon of the field.”

“You? Admit to a weakness?” Josephine’s eyes sparkle with mirth, “Goodness. Who are you and where’s the real Leliana?”

Leliana resists the urge to roll her eyes. And then gives in because it’s Josie.

“Even I can’t be an expert in every field, isn’t that the point of gathering several other people who are under you?” Leliana replies. “I’m told delegation of tasks is key to leadership”

“So you listen to what you’re told now, do you?” Josephine shakes her head. “Never mind. Cullen is late. It’s unlike him. Do you think something happened?”

“We’d have heard about it by now if it was something serious,” Leliana says. “He could be waylaid. Now there’s a man who needs to learn how to delegate to his subordinates.”

Josephine shoots Leliana a fond but exasperated look. “He delegates better than you most of the time. He just has hard time saying no to small tasks.”

“So aren’t I better at it then? I’m very good at getting the small tasks pushed onto other people with much more time on their hands than I do.” Most people have more time on their hands than Leliana. She’d consider taking time off but everyone she’d want to spend time off with is here and Leliana might break into hives at the thought of passing over so many of her active projects to someone else to handle.

“It’s because they’re small tasks that he has such a hard time saying no,” Josephine mourns. “The next thing anyone knows he’s got an entire list of little things he agreed to do and they’re no longer so little. And you know Cullen, at that point he’d just square his jaw and dig into it rather than admit he should probably pass it onto someone else.”

“Too much responsibility.” Come a touch too late, but Leliana isn’t going to say that part out loud. She and Cullen have had their disagreements. And there are several things that neither of them will talk about. It’s for the best, really. And Leliana does have to concede that the man’s made progress in the past. He’s suffered for it, too. Or maybe because he’s suffered he’s made the progress he has.

is it cruel to think that the worst years of Cullen’s life were the shake he needed to see clearly?

Probably. But cruel is far from the worst thing Leliana has ever been called.

“Maybe he’s busy fetching a kite out of a tree,” Leliana muses, “Or doing a quick self defense demonstration for some of our newer recruits.”

Leliana pauses and then beams at Josephine. “Do you think Cassandra’s finally gotten him to join her book club?”

“It’s not Cassandra’s book club. Cassandra’s just the most…eager recruiter for the book club. Besides, you act like you aren’t in it also.”

“I never go to the meetings,” Leliana points out. “I’m surprised you haven’t joined.”

“Cassandra knows that there’s no amount of delegation I could do that would free me enough time to be able to read a book and then do any meaningful discussion about it,” Josephine says wryly. “Maybe if the rest of you would tone it down I wouldn’t have so many…pitfalls to navigate around or build bridges over and I could then join you all for book club.”

Leliana holds her hands up. “Am I being scolded right now?”

“Chided,” Josephine says after a moment, “Not scolded. Maybe being gently nudged towards something?”

“But not subtly.”

“Leliana, at this point I don’t think me subtly asking any of you to behave in public is going to get me anywhere that isn’t another emergency press conference.” Josephine shakes her head. “Honestly. It’s like our public relations seminars go flying right over your heads. I’ve seen all of you perform the most impressive feats of ingenuity. I’ve watched you all navigate some of the most tense, hostile, and perilous situations with finesse. And yet I’ve yet to get one of you to properly succeed in getting through a press conference or interview on your own. Even if I scripted it.”

Leliana watches Josephine press her thumb to her forehead.

“Somehow it goes even worse if I do get it scripted for you. I don’t know how that happens.”

“Don’t quit on us, Josie. You're literally the only one who could handle the job.”

“Sometimes I imagine what my life would be like if I didn't answer your phone call.”

“Terribly boring, I'm sure.”

“Leliana, I don’t think I’ve ever felt boredom in my life before. I wouldn’t recognize boredom if it came up to me right now and smacked me across the face.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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imagination-going-100 · 6 years

Text

Imagine // Those Who Have Nothing

Request: Would it be possible to ask for a Wells/Reader drabble where Reader saves him? (how this happens is up to you)? Tiny bit of angst if Wells doesn't know about the attempt? Details are entirely up to you.

Pairings: Wells x F!Reader, Wells x Clarke

Warnings: Swearing, confused teenager who don’t know how to deal with feelings, mentions of violence, general OOCness, angst, I think that covers it?

Word Count: 3887

I'm probably making a sequel to this. Enjoy!

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Fresh air and a storm of entirely new sounds drowned out every one of your coherent thoughts from a moment. The dropship’s door had opened and brought with it an explosion of new sensations. The smell, the sounds, the light breeze that drifted into the dropship, you struggled to commit it all to memory.

Octavia Blake, the girl they found hidden under the floor, was the first to exit. She stood on the door for a moment, simply taking it all in, before jumping down. Her feet hit the forest floor with a low thud. For a moment, a painstakingly long moment, you felt the anxiousness rise in you. What if it wasn’t safe? What if she and all the rest of you would be dead in mere seconds?

Octavia lifted her arms into the air. “We’re back, bitches!”

All fear disappeared as the other juveniles poured out of the dropship. Instead, all you could to was marvel at the sight. Soft greens covered every inch of your sight, no grey metal walls in sight.

You were on the ground. It was too much. Beneath you, your knees gave out. You stumbled a little, holding onto the doorframe of the dropship for support.

You were really on the ground.

“It’s so beautiful,” you whispered.

“It is, isn’t it?” Someone came up next to you. The voice was flat, and it was one you didn’t recognize. You looked over to see who the voice belonged to.

The Chancellor’s son, Wells Jaha, stood right next to you. Your brain couldn’t quite comprehend it. He had everything you didn’t. He was from Alpha station, you were from Factory. His friends were Alpha-born, yours were working class. His father was chancellor, his late mother a renowned chemist. Yours were, well, not.

And yet, here you both stood, the first people in over a century to set foot on the ground. Prisoners. Juveniles. Side by side. Wells had had everything, and suddenly he had nothing.

He clenched his jaw. With a steely expression he strode past you, out of the dropship, staring straight ahead.

No, he didn’t seem like someone who had just had his entire life turned upside down. Wells seemed to be in complete control.

You gripped the metal frame tighter, before straightening your back. This was the ground, and the Ark had left you to your own vices down here. Anything could be awaiting you out in the forest.

Following Wells’ example, you walked out of the dropship, staring straight ahead.

Though you tried your best, putting on a brave face wasn’t easy. Everything was so unusual here. Even the smallest thing would remind you how painfully out of your depth you were.

Clarke, as the others had called her, had left for Mount Weather a day ago. You had considered joining them, but in the end, you didn’t want to leave camp. Not that you could do much to stop it but leaving Bellamy in charge of everything seemed like a terrible idea. Mostly because his idea of being in charge was to not enforce any rules at all. If there was one thing your common sense told you, it was that letting a bunch of juvenile teenagers go wild without any repercussions whatsoever was, well, stupid.

To be frank, Bellamy’s attitude annoyed you. His hypocrisy was even worse. We do what we want, he said, but he still got to have the final word. You knew the other teens were excited to be here, but so excited they couldn’t tell that Bellamy was saying one thing, then doing the opposite? Things had gotten out of control. With no one else to lead, nothing got done, and at this rate, you’d all starve to death before any potential radiation got a chance to kill you. Something needed to be done, but what?

With clothes under one arm and a pair of shoes in his other hand, Wells limped up to the front of the dropship.

“Hey, where’d you get the clothes?” One of Bellamy’s henchmen stepped forward to confront him.

“I buried the two kids who died during the landing.” Wells’ voice was even, far less aggressive than you expected. The other guy wasn’t being particularly friendly. There was no doubt he had only stepped forward in an attempt to intimidate Wells.

“Smart. You know,” the lackey reached out to grab the shoes, “I’ll take it from here.”

With a grace you wouldn’t have expected from someone with a sprained ankle, Wells dodged and took a step back. “We share based on need. Just like back home.”

Your attention was pulled towards the dropship as Bellamy stepped out. “You still don’t get it, do you, Chancellor?” He was accompanied by a girl with no shirt. As the two of them kiss, you had to put an effort into rolling your eyes. Wells looked like he was fighting the same urge.

“This is home now,” Bellamy continued. His attitude was relaxed–which in and of itself was more intimidating than what his lackey had been going for–as he started walking towards Wells. “Your father’s rules don’t apply anymore.”

“Then what rules do apply?” You had had enough, finally stepping forward. “The ones you make up on the spot? The one that lets you say, ‘whatever the hell we want,’ but when Wells wants to share his things based on need, that’s suddenly not alright?”

Three pairs of eyes were now on you. Bellamy snorted, half a smile playing on his lips; he didn’t take you seriously at all. “And who, exactly, are you?”

“Someone who’s not buying into your bullcrap.”

His lackey took a step towards you. “Oh, this kitten has claws.”

But you refused to stand down. You walked right past him, making sure to crash your shoulder as hard as you could into him, before stopping in front of Bellamy, leaning as close into his personal space as you could. “You can wipe that shit-eating grin off of your face, because I swear to you, because that little power you think you have? It won’t last. You can’t run a country with fear without there eventually being some kind of reckoning.”

Bellamy wasn’t smiling anymore. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m saying that when people finally see through your hypocrisy and gather behind someone else, when all of your supporters have left you in the dust, then what will you have? A reputation as a bully? Anarchy does nothing but leave a power vacuum, and unless you intend to get your shit together and step up, I can guarantee that whoever else fills it won’t have patience for your idiocy.”

His jaw clenched, and he presented you with a forced smile. “Was that everything, kitten?”

“Y/N,” Wells’ hand was suddenly on your shoulder. It threw you off, just enough for the tension to break and for both you and Bellamy to take a couple of steps back. Neither of you said anything to each other, refusing to break eye contact.

“Wells is keeping the clothes.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Bellamy turned and walked off, still shirtless. His lackey followed behind.

Wells removed his hand from your shoulder. It dawned on you, now that Bellamy had walked off. You turned around in order to face Wells. “You know my name?”

“I, uh, yes?” he seemed to hesitate. “Should I not?”

“No, no, that’s not it, I just wasn’t expecting you to.” The atmosphere turned kind of awkward.

“Anyways,” Wells changed the subject, “thank you for jumping in.”

You shrugged. “Things can’t go on like this. If the next week is going to be anything like these last twenty-four hours, I don’t know how we’ll make it.” You smile at him. “Plus, it was kind of satisfying to knock him off his high horse.”

Wells laughed. “Kind of?”

“Alright,” you jokingly threw your hands up in the air, “it felt very satisfying to knock him off his high horse.”

“I can only imagine,” he nodded towards the dropship. The two of you began walking inside. “Where are you from?”

“Factory,” you grabbed the curtain, holding it open so that Wells could duck inside. “And you’re–”

“Alpha.”

“Yeah, I know. Chancellor’s son and all.”

“It feels so strange.”

You stopped in front of the ladder. “What does?”

“To have everyone know stuff about me.” He looked away from you.

“What, not enjoying the celebrity lifestyle?”

He snorted. “No, it’s just… When people know things about you, they also think they know you, you know? Because my dad’s the Chancellor, everyone here has an idea of what I’m like. But how many of them do you think has actually spent more than three minutes with me.”

“Clarke?”

Wells went quiet. He looked over to you, taking a deep breath while doing so. “With her, it’s… complicated.”

“How so? Or do you want me to stop asking questions?”

“I think it’s a conversation I won’t mind saving for another day.” He took a hold of the ladder. “I’m not going to get up here, I think. You mind?”

“Of course.” You were already two steps up the ladder before freezing. “And Wells?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not saying I know you, but I like what I’ve seen so far.” You turned around to look at him. “You’re a good person.”

“I… thank you, Y/N,” his cheeks had darkened a little. As the silence settled around you, the atmosphere grew kind of… you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. Awkward?

You cleared your throat. “I still need you to give me the clothes.”

“Oh, right.”

“No… No… Don’t! No! N—” she girl’s eyes opened, and she flinched, pulling herself away from your touch, fear marring her features.

“Hey, hey,” you kept your voice low, soothing, “it was just a nightmare, alright? It’s not real, you’re alright.”

“I know,” she croaked out. A single tear rolled down her cheek. Her hand quickly wiped it away. “I know. Clarke already talked to me. But…” her voice faded out into a sob that racked her entire body.

You didn’t say anything, instead just pulled her close. She couldn’t be much older than twelve, maybe thirteen. Sometimes, people didn’t need words, they just needed to let it out. Your hand stroked her neck, barely making contact, just a little something to make her feel grounded in reality.

Eventually her breathing evened out. You pulled back a little to give her some space. “What’s your name?”

Her voice was faint, tired. “Charlotte.”

“Hey, Charlotte, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Y/N.” Your eyes met, and you studied her face. “I’m going to be very blunt here. People deal with grief differently. Some want to be left alone, some want to talk about it, some want to distract themselves. I’m not a mind reader, and since I don’t know you, I’m just going to have to ask: What do you want me to do?”

She looked surprised. “I, uh, I’ve already talked about it, so maybe… distraction?”

“Alright, alright,” you thought for a second, “how about I tell you a story?”

A small smile broke out across her lips. She looked younger, then, when she got excited. “Really? What kind of story?”

“Are you too old for fairytales?”

“I mean,” she fidgeted with a small rock, “I’m not ten anymore, you know.”

“Right, right, of course, I can see that.” You leaned in towards her. “How about I tell you something that happened to me today?”

Charlotte perked up. “What?” She was whispering. It was amazing, in a way, to see how much younger she became when the pain was subsiding. It felt like a punch in the gut. She was just a child. You were all just children.

Spite welled up inside of you. And they had sent you down here to die. The Chancellor’s words echoed in your mind, one word in particular lingering. Frankly, you’re expendable.

“The guy I like blushed when I said I like him.” Was it rude to assume a twelve-year old would be really excited at the mention of romance? Perhaps it was, but as you watched Charlotte’s eyes widen, you knew you weren’t wrong.

“You confessed to him?” Charlotte blurted out. She got up to her knees and grabbed your arm, hard, with both hands.

You sputtered. “Ow!” Charlotte immediately removed her hands, as if she had been shocked. You held her gaze, and she seemed to hold her breath, before both of you broke out laughing.

“Well, if I wasn’t sure you weren’t ten anymore, now I am!” You went straight for her stomach. She half screamed, half laughed as you began tickling her. “You’re so strong, Charlotte!”

“Wait, nonono, that’s not fair!”

“Alright, alright,” you relented, “I’ll let you of with that.”

Charlotte’s cheeks were red, and her smile only grew wider, until she suddenly turned serious, sitting up straight. “But you didn’t finish the story.”

It was your turn to blush. “Well, I, uh, I didn’t exactly confess. It was more of a ‘I like you as a person’ and less of a ‘I want to be your girlfriend’ situation.”

“But you do ‘want to be his girlfriend’-like him?”

Did you? You hadn’t known him for very long–five days, to be exact–and you weren’t sure. “Maybe? I think I need to get to know him better first.”

A smug smile spread across Charlotte’s face. “You like him.”

You feigned indignation. “And when did you become such an expert?”

“I can tell. You like him.”

You shrug, exaggerating the motion. “I’ll take your word for it, then. Come,” you get up, “let’s get some breakfast.”

A never-ending stream of people suddenly started to fill the dropship. The air was filled with shouts: “The air is toxic!” “Close the windows, hurry!” “It burns!”

You were pushed towards the wall as the dropship became more and more crowded. You turned towards the person next to you. “What’s going on?” “Some sort of fog. It’s not breatha–” the girl broke down into a coughing fit.

“Are you alright?” She nodded. You started pushing your way through the crowd, panic surging within you; there was still people out there. The hunters, Clarke, Bellamy, Charlotte… Wells.

The dropship suddenly seemed fragile. You had no idea if it would keep this fog out, what destruction the fog was capable of wreaking. All around you, more and more voices joined the fray. No one seemed to stand still, shifting their weight, constantly moving. The ground seemed unsteady beneath your feet.

The tension was thick in the air, boiling just beneath the surface. Everyone in the room felt it. One small action would be enough to cause an explosion.

You couldn’t let things get out of control. Not at a time like this. The ladder was right in front of you, and you climbed up.

“Everyone!” your voice cut through the noise, loud and clear. You had expected the buzzing to continue, but everyone went quiet as soon as you raised your voice. They were afraid, you realized, as afraid as you.

God, this was a first. You were Factory-born, a nobody, and now everyone was looking to you.

Suddenly, Bellamy’s moodiness and Clarke’s harsh voice seemed to make more sense. All of these people looked expectantly on you, but they relied on people like Bellamy and Clarke. On people like Wells.

And now, on you as well. If it would ease the burden for the others, you’d help. Someone needed to do it. “I want ten volunteers to do a headcount. We need to know how many people are not in this dropship.”

Silence.

“No one?”

“I’ll do it,” the girl who had coughed stepped forward.

“Yeah, me too.” The two became three, then four, then a crowd.

“Thank you,” you breathed, straightening your back. “Okay. Most of us will stay down here, but anyone willing to go up and take care of the hurt kid and the radio, do that.”

Three hands shot up and you gave them a nod.

“Everyone, get in line!” the girl shouted, voice hoarse.

“Hey, you, what are you doing?” Murphy grabbed your arm. His brows were furrowed. “Bellamy left me in charge.”

You ripped your arm loose. “Then you should have taken charge.”

“If you think you can–”

“Murphy!” you interrupted him. “This has to wait until we’re not stuck in the dropship anymore. Or it will cause a panic.”

He looked taken back. You held his gaze, and something that resembled an understanding passed between you. He cleared his throat. “Right.”

“They’re just scared.” You swallowed thickly. “I’m just scared.”

He shrugged, scratching himself under his nose, gave you one last look, and walked away.

You felt silly, but the jealousy churned away in your stomach. Whatever the feud between Clarke and Wells had been, she had forgiven him. You hadn’t meant to spot them, but seeing Clarke hug him, seeing how he looked at her…

He loved her. He was in love with her.

You wanted to scream. How could you ever think he would look at someone like you, when Clarke, the golden girl, from Alpha station, beautiful, charismatic, intelligent, and just perfect in every way, was right there? “Fuck!”

“Ah!”

You turned towards where the scream had come from, suddenly on edge. “Who’s there?! Show yourse–Charlotte?”

She stepped out of the shadows, small, fidgeting with something.

You felt your shoulders sag with relief. “Charlotte, what are you doing here?”

“I, uh, I was just going to…” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I was going to make the nightmares stop.”

“Oh, Charlotte,” you took a step towards her, then froze as she stepped away. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought you were someone else.”

“Charlotte,” your voice was sterner, “what’s wrong?” Your gaze dropped to what she was fidgeting with. “Is… Is that a knife?”

A sob escaped her lips, her face looked as white as a sheet.

“Charlotte, tell me what’s going on.”

“I was…” she looked down on the knife, “I was going to slay my demons.” You didn’t follow, and it was clearly written on your face, because Charlotte elaborated as soon as she saw your expression. “Bellamy told me the nightmares would stop if I could slay my demons.”

Realization dawned on you. “You’ve never told me what your nightmares are about.”

“My parents,” she took a deep breath, “they were executed. I see it, over and over, in my dreams.”

“Oh, Charlotte.”

“I just want to make it go away.” Her voice cracked. “I thought, if I could make the Chancellor go away…”

You grabbed onto her before you could think and pulled her towards you, into an embrace. She was shaking like a leaf. “How would you do that, Charlotte?”

“I was… I was going to slay the demon.”

The demon here had to be the Chancellor. You slowly caressed her cheek while she cried. Slay the Chancellor… with a knife… how would she–

Oh.

“You were going to kill Wells?” You didn’t sound angry, only numb.

She kept her face pressed into your chest, still shaking, her voice barely above a hiss as she answered: “I’m sorry.”

You were appalled, and confused, and scared, and angry. But Charlotte was just a child, young enough to easily misunderstand a metaphor like that. How could you fault her for this?

She should take responsibility for this, one half of you whispered. She hasn’t done anything yet, the other half retorted. She meant to. You stopped her. But did you change her mind?

“Give me the knife.” The anger in your voice wasn’t hidden as well as you had hoped it would be. Charlotte did, slow, as to not accidentally hurt you. Murphy’s knife, you realized. How the hell had she gotten her hands on that? “I won’t tell on you, alright? But you have to promise me two things first.”

She nodded vigorously.

“One, no more making decision like this by yourself. If you have a problem, come talk to me, no matter how small or big. Do you understand?”

She nodded again.

“Second, you have to learn that demons can’t be killed or slayed, but you can chase them away. Become Wells’ friend.”

“What?”

“Wells is not a demon. His father is not a demon. The demons are small and invisible, and they make you think that other people are the demons instead of them, so you can’t make them leave.” You pulled away from Charlotte and looked her straight into the eyes. “You need to look at these people and learn the difference. When the demons realize you’re smarter than them, they’ll slowly leave you alone and you’ll heal.”

“I–”

“Talk to them. Talk to me. And when the others come down, talk to a doctor. Killing won’t help you, only hurt you, alright?”

“Alright.”

“Go back to the dropship now. Find Clarke or Bellamy if you don’t want to be alone. I’ll be right there.”

Charlotte seemed so small and tired. Her retreating back looked as if it might crumple any moment. And to think you had just been sulking about your crush.

It made you feel worse, to be honest.

You went further into the woods, until you found who Charlotte had originally been looking for. Wells turned to you and smiled from where he was sitting. “Hey.”

“Hey.” You smiled back. “May I sit?”

“Sure.”

A pause.

“Something good happened.”

“Oh?” You know what it was, but you feigned surprise anyway.

“Clarke and I, we’re not on bad terms anymore. She forgave me.”

“Wells! That’s great!” It was an awkward gesture, but you grabbed his arm anyways, tried to digest whatever butterflies were in your stomach.

He was blushing from just thinking about her, just from saying her name. God, you really didn’t stand a chance. The divide between you felt larger than it ever had, he seemed more unreachable than ever before. Even when you didn’t know him, he had felt closer to you than this.

Still, you forced a smile for his benefit. “I’m so happy for you, Wells.”

“Thanks, Y/N.”

Perhaps it made you a shitty person, but you didn’t want to listen to him praise Clarke anymore: “I’m so tired. I think I’ll head back to the dropship.”

“Wait, I really need to–”

“Talk to you later.” You got up and left, legs carrying you away from him as quickly as they could.

Fuck. Fuck it all. Fuck Wells. Fuck Clarke. Fuck Charlotte.

But mostly, fuck yourself. You were being petty, and you hated it. Why couldn’t you just be happy for him?

You had to stop feeling sorry for yourself.

The first day on the ground flashed before your eyes; you saw Wells, how he straightened his back and walked out of the dropship. The boy who had nothing, walking as if he could take on everything.

As bitter as it was, you followed his example and straightened your back.

You were the girl who had nothing. You were the girl who was really damn angry about that. You were the girl who would walk as if you had everything. And you were the girl who was going to take on the world and not stop for anything.

#The 100 #the 100 imagine #the 100 wells #the 100 wells jaha #wells jaha #the 100 wells imagine #wells imagine #wells jaha imagine #the 100 wells jaha imagine #imagine #the 100 imagines #ig100

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anythingstephenking · 6 years

Text

Multiverse Overload

It seems unreasonable to think I was finishing up Nightmares & Dreamscapes yesterday morning and a little over 24 hours later I am back, having just finished one of King’s longest novels, Insomnia, in one cycle of sleep. But here I am. Let’s get into it.

I suppose I wasn’t kidding that I was ready for a novel but I didn’t realize how hungry for this story it was. Or maybe call it boredom - 3 day weekends with 95+ degree temperatures don’t lend themselves to my pasty irish ass spending any time anywhere other than the couch.

I knew little of this story headed in. Actually a little embarrassed to say I thought it somehow related to the Christopher Nolan movie of the same name. Once I cracked the spine and read the teaser copy, I knew this was not true. Also, I was worried. Really, really worried. Exhibit A:

Ralph Roberts is seeing some strange happenings in Derry, Maine.

He sees auras around human beings that show him the horror threatening them.

He sees a nice young research chemist like Ed Deepneau turn into a savage wife beater.

He sees Charlie Pickering with blood in his eyes and a gleaming knife in his hand.

And he sees three little bald doctors in the homes of the dying - and he begins to suspect who they really are.

No wonder Ralph stays awake all night. You would too.

INSOMNIA

“JFC, if I’m stepping into another Tommyknockers I’m going to scream” I said to the cat, who was chasing a bug around the hotel room and has no fucking clue what the Tommyknockers are. Little bald men. Aliens for sure, right?

Well I was, thankfully, wrong in my assumptions. Making an ass outta u & me, or however that old saying goes. I’ve complained before about whoever is responsible for writing these teasers, deceiving readers into believing that Gerald’s Game was a spooky bedtime story, Pet Sematary scared King himself, or that Insomnia is about a dude with, well, insomnia.

In reality, this book is as close to a Dark Tower book as it could get without actually being one. I’d rack it against The Talisman in Dark Tower adjacency, and although not as an enthralling tale as The Tailsman, a good chapter in the mythology all the same.

Ralph Roberts, a senior citizen residing in our favorite vacation destination, Derry, Maine, loses his wife to cancer and spills into a depression as one would do when your companion of 45 years is snuffed out of the living. What begins as minor bouts of insomnia quickly evolves into an inability to catch more than 2 hours a night. As someone who has suffered from depression-induced insomnia and sleep paralysis, a terrifying phenomenon I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, I feel for Ralph. Sleep deprivation is no joke, even if you’re awake watching Arrested Development for the 400th time at 3am. Ralph’s understandably exhausted, and assumes his mind is going when he starts seeing brightly colored auras surrounding humans, objects, street lights, you name it.

(Side story: Once I went on a date with a guy who - after I expressed discomfort in discussing the difference between irony and paradox 5 minutes into our first date - told me I had an unclean aura. I told him to go fuck himself (certainly something someone who’s aura is a little dirty would say) and he gathered his coat and left without a word. Anytime someone mentions auras I can’t help think of this guy - do you think he ever found a gal with a nice looking aura and the ability to discern the difference between irony and paradox? We will never know.)

In any case, Ralph does find himself a lady by the name of Lois, who in fact, does have a real pretty aura. And turns out she’s caught the insomnia and can see the auras too, along with other things that most humans can’t process. Turns out insomnia in Derry can flip a switch to entering worlds that aren’t our own.

Without going too far down the rabbit hole that is the plot of this novel (which squarely lies in the top ten of longest King tomes - say that 10x fast), Ralph and Lois team up on a quest against evil, as so many of King’s protagonists do. I was obviously committed to learning how it ended as I stayed up past my bedtime last night and reached for my paperback copy before I had even poured myself a cup of coffee this morning.

The key conflict in Derry of 1994 revolves around a war between pro-lifers and pro-choicers over a feminist speaking in town about women’s rights. Probably the hardest part of this story to swallow - the realization that 25 years later we’re still having the same argument in America with similar violent and tragic results.

This book is not without it’s faults - King called it “stiff & trying too hard” which is pretty accurate. It is way too long. It reads like a first draft that probably needed a stronger editor hand (or two or three) before publication that it just did not get. King’s ability to paint a picture in your mind is, as always, on point; but the writing describing the aural states seem to clog up the storytelling every ten pages or so. The initial painting of these ethereal halos was beautiful; after the 15th or so description they were just in the way. The use of italics for dialogue was distracting; I had to work to keep my eyes from skimming to the dialogue lines and ignoring the rest of the text on the page.

But it also had so many of my favorite things. For one, the connections to other King stories was strong in this one. Like when I am watching Castle Rock, it makes me feel like an insider to notice the little things that connect King’s worlds together. Like a hipster that listens to a band “before they were cool” - don’t you hate those people? Yeah me too. But here we are.

Derry, and all it’s history covered in depth in the pages of IT is rehashed here. We have mentions of the sewers, the Black Spot Fire, the post-Pennywise storm of 1985. The darkness that hangs over this town lingers, even though we were hoping that the Loser’s Club vanquished the darkness in the mid 80s.

Because something else dark is connected to Derry. The Dark Tower lore sits squarely and open here; we see Roland in children’s drawings and travel between worlds like in The Drawing of The Three. We also are introduced to The Crimson King; the guardian of The Dark Tower, Roland’s adversary and ruler of the highest level. He appears here in our world first as Ralph’s dead mother then as a catfish. I mean, IT was a clown living in a macroverse created by a barfing turtle, so I guess that all makes sense. We also learn Ralph and Lois’s quest is to save a young boy named Patrick Danville, who we’re told is very important in the land-o-the-tower. God, I can’t wait to get to the fourth Dark Tower book.

Other than the obvious references to IT and the DT books, we get a quick mention of the untimely death of Gage Creed in Ludlow. There is also a mention of “Aunt Sadie” in Dallas, and my mind wandered to lovely Sadie Dunhill of 11/22/63. I don’t know if King had the foresight (or the initial manuscript) to reference a character that wouldn’t hit the bookstores for another 17 years, but if so, Bravo Mr. King. Bravo.

By far my favorite photo of King that I’ve randomly stumbled upon on the internet.

My remaining questions are really around the nature of Derry - how can Pennywise and The Crimson King exist (in whatever universe) in or around Derry, without bumping into each other? Why so much evil in this one little town? Are they somehow connected? Are they the same person? Like my friend that claimed my aura needed a good washing, we may never know.

7/10

First Line: No one - least of all Dr. Litchfield - came right out and told Ralph Roberts that his wife was going to die, but there came a time when Ralph understood without needing to be told.

Last Line: And she saw, the long white scar on his right forearm was gone.

Adaptations:

None to speak of - another one of King’s works that’s been discussed in depth but never pushed into any kind of actionable development. All the best I think - a movie version could very easily veer into LSD trip territory.

#insomnia novel #book review #stephen king

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mackarunes · 7 years

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@kas all the even numbers

I suppose my torment is endless, as are these walls of text. enjoy :)

KASELV

2. Their emotional/moral weak spots I’ve mentioned before selfish actions he’s taken in the past but that’s not entirely relevant now, although would be considered a moral weakness. Apart from that, Kas’ morals are rather typical, and he tries to stick to them. Emotionally he can get touchy overall, and when he’s strung out, he makes careless or foolish decisions. Kas can become flustered easily and allows things to stress him out, and while he remains collected most of the time, when his composure begins to dissolve because of those factors, it is quite obvious. Occasionally he will also say something to someone without considering their feelings, and therefore be hurtful, but the majority of this would be accidental for he is rather conscientious.

4. Best places to kiss on their body NSFW (marginally) so at the bottom/under the cut.

6. Their vices (physical or emotional) Honestly, Kas is clean on this, for the most part. He doesn’t act out physically but he will grow stern towards others, particularly his pupils, if they are misbehaving. Some harsh words are as far as he’ll go, which might momentarily crush a pupil’s hopes and dreams, but will likely soon be chased with an apology and constructive reassurance.

8. Bad memories/experiences Kas has plenty of these from when he was younger especially, but one in particular that hasn’t been mentioned before to focus on which had the greatest effect, both mental and physical, was early in his service to the Empire. While he was still in Intelligence training, Kas was new to the more dignified side of the Empire. Practicing his older, reckless habits brought him anguish when on a bet, he entered what he thought was just an empty office space around the Citadel, only to discover its resident, a Darth, return to catch him slicing a file onto the room’s holonetwork. Needless to say, this Sith believed heavily in discipline. Kas was reminded of this place, not only as an Imperial but also as an alien, in the Empire (according to this Sith) by having a shock collar fixed around his neck. A warning, it was said, but to him, it was only to the Darth’s sadistic glee as he was marched back to the Academy (which he later worked at), some level of voltage running through him the whole way. I don’t exactly want to turn this into the question about scars, but I believe that could be considered a bad memory. It is indeed the reason for the scars around his neck, because the Darth insisted that, even after treatment was given to the area to prevent further damage from the wounds caused by high voltage bolts, no synthskin or other cosmetic patchwork was done, leaving the mark so that he might “learn from his mistake.”

10. Fears/phobias Other than Sith? Actually, while Kas remains wary around Sith, he does not share as much a phobia of the afflicted as other Chiss might– instead the danger can, on occasion, draw him in much like an intimidating rollercoaster. Kas is, however, afraid of heights. His acrophobia is not from any event, merely something he was born with.

12. Grudges and vendettas Kas only holds one grudge, a particular individual who has belittled him and appeared a threat to his friends, but even this grudge is never expressed in his words or actions. Overall, Kas thinks grudges are senseless! He prefers a more direct approach of confrontation when others do him wrong, and if he is too afraid to do such, he lets the animosity go.

14. Ingrained habits/forces of habit Even though Kas’ hair isn’t incredibly long, he has grown it out and let it stay wavier than when it was regularly shorn, and so has developed a habit of tucking it behind his ear. Additionally he favors the right side of things, when there are two sides identical, for no real reason, just where his feet lead him. Finally he also uses his hands often, not to excess but still often, in conveying a point, or simply when speaking in general (not the same as actions he might do with his hands such as tug at his sleeves when placed in a nervous/uncomfortable environment).

16. Dark secrets/’skeletons in the closet’ Hmm. Kas keeps almost everything about his childhood a secret, even to those he bonds with and therefore opens up to, rather liking how this keeps it erased, as if it didn’t happen. This includes any criminal activities he was involved in, which demonstrated his proficiency with the duties of a chemist and Watcher agent, and his human stepfamily. Other than that, he has led a clean life, especially in Imperial standards.

18. Things they’ll never admit Kas will never admit to his human stepfamily (or if he does it will be with extreme reluctance and trust), but also will never admit he finds the haughtiness of many aspects of the Ascendency excessive. He favors the Ascendency because it /is/ the Chiss, but could do without some of the attitudes common in its people.

20. What-ifs/Alternate Timelines The biggest Alternate Timeline etc. for Kas is probably how he was originally intended to be developed as a character with more angst, played at an earlier age and focusing on his transition from his birthplace and the sins of Nar Shaddaa into the Empire. He was meant to be more of a Tough Guy and less of a softie, but that lifestyle didn’t really fit him, and so that was left in his past and subtler than originally considered. I guess sticking to his canon SWTOR position of Cipher Nine would count as another alternate, although he upholds the same attitudes in that position as he does as an Academy instructor, Colonel, ex- Watcher 47.

22. People who’ve influenced them greatly Kas’ impressionability around friends and colleagues only affects his life in minor ways. Superiors throughout his various careers also serve as motivation do succeed, impressing them and therefore finding pride in himself. However, one of the most influential figures– not a significant individual themselves but their relationship had a significant effect on Kas– would be another Chiss agent he was assigned as a partner to during his time with Intelligence. This Chiss was Ascendency born and on loan to the Empire, and their conversations about the true Chiss society were what drove him to pursue the path of rejoining with the Ascendency and his House, which he hadn’t previously known he had, filling in the gaps about the home he barely knew.

4. Best places to kiss on their body Neck neck neck neck neck. For a man who has experienced a shock collar, Kas sure likes sensual things around the neck. Lower down, he likes kisses all over the abdomen, especially in a descent, and he wouldn’t even have thought of it, but the perineum is a guilty pleasure to be kissed when gettin’ nasty. Nearly any kiss will make Kas blush, but these places make him blush the deepest purple.

#oc: kas #responses #//nsfw #//electricity #//shocking #character development #ebon hawk

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