#digital has been fun but i find i actually really miss the tangible feel of traditional art

[ask-missmargiezelle]

What are your thoughts on Miss Emily? I find she's a very kind lady, but she can be scarily stern at times...

“Dr. Dyer? Gosh, she looks so tired all the time… I s’pose the manor hardly leaves room for beauty sleep.”

“I guess I learned to avoid mentioning any ‘settling of debts’ after she patches me up — it always brings this guilty look on her face. Honestly, the doc surprises me! I can’t remember the last time anybody looked after me without expecting some form of… repayment.”

[tobesobri]

𝒯hank you for all the love on the first chapter, that was honestly the last thing I expected, and it really does mean the world to me that you guys like this story. I’m going to include the taglist at the end, but if you’d like to be added for future updates, go here and put in your tumblr URL. Okay, anyways, this chapter is very like,,, rocky and emotional so! Have fun reading :)

huge massive thank you to the incredible @youresogolden-h​ for editing ❤️

Chapter Two: Do It One More Time (3.8k)

Harry and Y/N are friends…. with benefits, but not the kinds you’re thinking of.

🥥MASTERLIST 🌃INSPO TAG 🌻ASK TAG 💃PLAYLIST 🛌

Sneaking Harry out had been the least of her worries. Him being on her mind constantly was a much bigger cause for concern. She had trouble sleeping at night, tossing and turning and even having to wash her entire bedspread to get rid of his scent. It had been no use, however. It was like her body got a taste of something very potent and wanted it now more than ever before. 

And it didn’t take long for her to get back into her routine. To soil the pillowcases in her tears because the emptiness inside her chest had only grown tenfold after what had happened with Harry. Her muscles literally ached and her sobs almost sent her to the bathroom to hurl up an empty stomach full of knots.

Her brain had finally gotten a reprieve from its loneliness. She finally felt what it was like to have someone, even if it wasn’t real. Even if it was a mistake and even if it was fleeting. Harry had filled whatever missing parts were within her and it hurt like hell to go back to normal again.

But she wasn’t the only one. He couldn’t sleep anymore either. His house felt massive and the silence between all the walls seemed to ring just a little bit louder. He found himself buying an unnecessary amount of pillows and setting them all up on his bed just to surround himself with something. He’d been here before though. After a breakup, his least favorite part was going back to sleeping alone. He hated not having someone to hold onto. It took him weeks to get used to it last time, and to get used to the cold spots on the other side of the bed. It only took four and a half hours with Y/N to fuck him all up again.

And he really shouldn’t be doing this, but he was desperate.

“Hello?” Even her voice was a breath of fresh air for him.

“Hey, it’s uh… Harry.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you had my number.”

“Will gave it to me a while ago… for emergencies.”

Y/N took a long pause, unsure why Harry was calling her on a Thursday afternoon, completely at random. It had been almost an entire week since their… incident. Why was he calling her right now?

“So… is this an emergency?”

“Um… well, no. It isn’t.”

“So why are you calling then?”

“I was wondering um… you can say no but um… I was wondering if you wanted to… sleep with me again.” He cringed at his last few words and the way they felt like knives cutting his throat to get out. He had no better way to phrase what he wanted other than being blunt about it and admitting he wanted her up against him. He wanted more than just lifeless pillows to cuddle up to at night. 

And something about Y/N had him losing his fucking mind the past week so asking her to sleep with him seemed low on his list of crazy.

“Sorry?”

“I mean… like we did last week. I was wondering if you wanted to come over tonight, just to sleep?”

“Why?” She asked, unsure why Harry fucking Styles was asking her that. Sure, they were somewhat friendly and she had thoughts about asking him the same exact thing, but it was an odd request coming from him. She was sure if he needed a cuddle buddy that he could easily find anyone else. 

But even the thought of him being like that with someone else gave her a horribly sick feeling in her stomach that she recognized immediately but could not for the life of her explain. She didn’t get jealous, ever.

He cleared his throat, “Um well… I have had a pretty hard time sleeping and then last Friday it was like… like the best sleep of my life. And this past week has been awful again. So I was just… we don’t have to if you don’t want to though. It’s fine. I probably shouldn’t have even called…”

“No.” She cut his spiraling off abruptly. “I mean… yes. I… can do that.”

He immediately let out a huge breath of air in relief but also couldn’t believe she had, yet again, agreed to another one of his stupid ideas. “I just want to let you know I’m not trying to like… get in your pants or anything. I genuinely just…” He stopped then, knowing a more believable story would be him wanting to get into her pants than what was actually going on with him.

“Just what?”

“I just need someone.” He admitted with his eyes closed tight as he laid back onto his couch. “And it’s not very easy asking people to just sleep with you.”

She let another moment of silence go by that just about tore him up. And right when he was about to ask if she was still there, he heard her voice again, as softly as ever.

“What time should I come over then?”

Harry’s house wasn’t easy to access. First, there was the entrance gate to just get into the neighborhood, which had an intimidatingly large security guard posted out front like an oversized bridge troll. Then she had to hand over her driver’s license and try to convince him she was there to see Harry, and that her name was supposed to be on his list of accepted guests. The whole thing wouldn’t seem so unbelievable to her if she wasn’t already trapped in a pit of nerves from being there in the first place.

By some miracle, however, the guard returned her ID along with a visitor’s pass and opened the gates for her. 

Then, of course, there was finding his house, which turned out to be a whole other task and a half on its own. Every house was so far from the main road due to oversized front lawns that she couldn’t read anyone’s house number unless she practically trespassed. He’d given her very vague instructions so she mostly had to rely on Google Maps. Which somehow got her to the house at the end of Spruce Street with the enormous pine tall trees and rose bushes surrounding it just like Harry had described.

She pulled into the short gap of driveway just before the tall, wooden privacy gates that hid most of his house from view. After rolling down her driver’s side window, she inputted the four-digit code he’d given her onto the pinpad. Within a few seconds the gates opened, and after a moment to ogle at his insanely beautiful house, she swallowed the pit in her throat and carefully drove onto his property as if it was made out of glass. She really did not belong there, not in her beat up 2005 Toyota, and she couldn’t afford to break anything. 

The moon was already prominent in the middle of the sky by the time she got to his front door and rang the bell. His house wasn’t at all what she expected. It was old-looking. Almost cottage-like with stone bricks and vines trickling down the architecture. She expected the most modern amenities known to man from him, but it turned out to be the polar opposite.

She stopped staring at his garden fortress of a house, with her jaw hung wide, when his door swung open. Because finally he was there, right in front of her, giving her proof that she didn’t accidentally show up at the wrong address, even though the code had worked and the house was as he described. Her anxiety was just a little extra prominent than normal.

“This is where you live?” She asked, before he even got the chance to invite her in.

He laughed, holding the door in one hand and gripping the frame with the other to keep his balance as he stood in the middle.

“Um,” he sighed, glancing up at the house, “yeah, but I’m trying to sell it soon. I bought it when I was young and impulsive.”

“Oh.” Was all she said, and he worried for a moment that he had completely lost her. That she was going to go back to never speaking a single word to him ever again. That he wasn’t anything like what she expected and it was a little too much for her to take in. 

Just like most of his previous attempts at friendships, once they got even the tiniest glimpse into his life, they either bolted or stuck around long enough to get what they wanted from him.

Instead, she met his eyes again and smiled, “Can I come in or what?”

The inside of his house, however, had been recently modernized and she wondered if Harry had made all the design decisions himself. Like if he picked out the big geometric crystal chandelier in the foyer or the white marble countertops in the kitchen. She liked it, though, it was open with tall ceilings and unlike any home she’d ever stepped foot in. Even though it reminded her what vastly different worlds she and Harry came from, she knew his personality didn’t match up to his big fancy house. 

When they settled into the kitchen, and when Harry began pouring two glasses of water for them, she set her things down on his island counter to give her shoulders a break from her heavy backpack. She knew she’d packed too much stuff, but if she was spending the night at Harry’s place, she needed her own familiar things to keep her company. 

“I was thinking…” she started, watching as he kicked the refrigerator door shut once he’d put the filtered water pitcher back on the top shelf and handed her one of the glasses. “That maybe it’s a good idea to not tell Will… or... anyone about this.”

He thought it over for a moment and then nodded in agreement, “Yeah, okay.” Averting his eyes, his mind thought of a million different things at once while he sipped on his own glass of water until another tangible question popped into his head. “So if we’re not telling them, then where do they think you are right now?”

“At a coworker’s place.”

He nodded again and for the first time around Harry, she felt so incredibly nervous. He’d made her nervous before but not like this. She’d always just avoided him and it worked her anxieties out, but there was absolutely no chance of avoiding him now. Maybe she should have just said no, but that also seemed like an implausible choice. 

“Is it alright if I like… get ready for bed? I just got off work.” 

He let out a small giggle around the brim of his glass and nodded, “Yeah, I’ll show you my room.”

And his bedroom did not, by any means, disappoint. Just the square footage of it was impressive, but her eyes were particularly drawn to his bed, and not for any other reason than the way it faced massive ceiling-to-floor windows that overlooked, as it seemed, the entirety of Hollywood; and she fell in love instantly. It was mesmerizing, and she could not fathom why on earth he planned on selling. Hell if he didn’t want the house anymore, she’d take it.

“Bathroom’s over there. Make yourself at home. I’m gonna set the alarm and turn off the lights. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Nodding, she waited for him to leave before she fully lost her mind about everything. Not only was she in the nicest house she’d ever laid foot in, but she was also about to crawl back into bed with him. His king sized, fluffy-looking bed she could imagine herself getting lost in. 

She knew what they were doing was slightly out of the norm for people their own age. Most people didn’t sleep in the same bed as their friends unless they were doing something friends probably shouldn’t be doing. But the benefits of their budding friendship were a little more innocent than that to the point where even the thought of Will finding out where she was right now, while she slipped into her strawberry patterned pajama pants in Harry’s ensuite, made her lightheaded. She’d almost feel better if Will found out they were actually hooking up instead, because at least that wasn’t so… weird.

With the amount of time she spent getting herself ready, most of it being wasted on psyching herself up enough to go through with all of this, she’d become very familiar with his bathroom. He had two sinks along one wall, and massive mirrors that all faced a shower that could fit an entire army inside. The tiles were either black or white except for the blue pops of color here and there. The best part of it was the massive soaker tub in the back underneath a window that overlooked his garden. It was like he plucked a bathroom straight out of Good Housekeeping.

And of course she couldn’t let his things go unnoticed. She’d make herself a space at the empty sink nearest the door, the one that didn’t have his stuff neatly stacked around it. She eyed his small selection of colognes on a tray between the sinks while she washed her face, and couldn’t help her curiosity from checking out what brand of toothpaste he used when she started brushing her own teeth. 

Other than the little touches of Harry scattered sparingly about, however, it was almost as if no one lived there at all. And she became very familiar with how cold it all was.

It wasn’t until she turned the sink off after splashing her face, again, with ice cold water, that she heard the soft hum of a guitar from just outside the bathroom door. She wasn’t sure if he was playing, or if he had turned music on. She wasn’t even sure if Harry Styles knew how to play the guitar. She couldn’t ever remember him playing any instruments whenever he came over to work with Will, but maybe she was just tragically unobservant.

And that seemed to be the case once she finished up and went back out to find him perched on what appeared to be his side of the bed with his guitar on his lap and a leather bound notebook open in front of him.

Though before she could make out a single melody, he immediately stopped playing the second she re-entered the room.

“Sorry, you can keep… doing what you’re doing.”

He let out an exasperated laugh while she crept towards the bed on the opposite side and made note of the way he quickly hid his journal from her and stashed it into a drawer at his bedside table. Maybe she was overanalyzing things, but it seemed like whatever he was writing down was for his eyes only, and she respected that.

“I was trying to write a song… hasn’t really been working out for me recently.” He leaned away from her to put his guitar down on the floor, setting it upright against the table, and she hated the way her eyes went straight to the small sliver of skin under his shirt that was exposed when he did so. 

“Writer’s block?” She asked, slowly making her way up under the covers next to him, still feeling like she didn’t belong even though this had all been Harry’s idea to begin with. He needed someone and so did she, even if he didn’t fully know to what extent. But it felt like somehow she had tricked him into thinking the someone he needed was her.

“Sucks,” he mumbled to himself mostly, still very obviously in his own little work bubble.

“I usually just try to stop doing whatever I’m struggling with, and do something else, something I wouldn’t normally do.”

“You mean with your art stuff?” He asked and she wasn’t sure how he knew about her hobby, if Will had brought it up before, but it made her heart flutter nonetheless, that he remembered that small detail about her.

“Yeah.” She finally looked over at him, only to find him already staring at her and it weirdly made her less anxious about her current position. In his bed. In her roommate’s best friend’s bed. “If you’re stuck, you should leave it alone and write something completely out of your comfort zone. Then when you go back to where the problem was, you have a new set of eyes on it.”

He was quiet, first just listening to her speak, and then really letting her advice sink in because it wasn’t something he’d ever thought about doing, but he made mental plans to give it a try.

“I’m sorry if this is really weird, Y/N,” he began, getting her attention when he changed the subject. “I know it’s hard to believe but I’m actually horrendously alone and I guess when we slept together I didn’t feel so much that way anymore.”

“I get it, Harry.” She sighed, never wanting to fully open up to him, but feeling like it was now or never to get him to stop making it more weird by apologizing. “Makes you feel like… empty.”

“Exactly,” Harry sighed and she glanced at him when he agreed so enthusiastically. “I haven’t been that close to someone in… months,” he rolled his eyes down to meet hers again, “and I guess I just didn’t want it to be like that again.”

The look on her face alone made it easy to tell everything he said resonated with her, like he was saying exactly what she was thinking too. It broke his heart to know that she, in any way, felt like he did, but it also made him glad someone finally understood what he was going through, even if in just the slightest.

“I understand, Harry. I guess I just don’t understand why you’re alone. Can’t you have anyone you want?”

He scrunched up his face, “It’s not that easy.” He huffed, “People aren’t all that interested in me as they are getting loads of likes on Instagram and having lots of money. I mean… I haven’t had a single relationship that didn’t end the same.”

“Still,” she mumbled begrudgingly. He was still Harry Styles. People still wanted him and, even if it hadn’t turned out so well, he’d still been not alone at some point in his life, unlike her.

He raised his eyebrows, a little irritated at this point. “Okay then, why are you alone? Can’t imagine it’s that hard for you.”

She rolled her eyes away from him and hung her head  to disguise the embarrassment on her face. There were two big reasons why she was alone, and she was not about to admit them to Harry at eleven o’clock on a Thursday night.

“So what is it then?” He talked for her when he grew irritated with her silence and her inability to see his perspective on things, “Your lack of ability to talk to people? Because you have these massive walls to keep literally everyone out, including me, for the past however many months we’ve known each other?”

She shook her head and sunk deeper and deeper inside herself. This was all a mistake. It had all gone wrong because she opened her mouth and said something insensitive. 

“I don’t want to talk about it, Harry.” She looked at him again finally, holding back the stupid tears trying to well up just from the mere thought of being even moderately yelled at, and especially by Harry who she’d never imagined being angry a day in his life. “But if we’re just going to sit here judge each other, I think I should go.”

“No.” He immediately reached across the king-sized space between them to grab her arm before she even considered leaving his bed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell like that.” They stared at each other silently for a moment before he continued, “You don’t want to talk about it and that’s fine.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then at his hand around her arm and just how good it felt to be touched. Just to have human contact, even just something as simple as that. And then she felt just as desperate as she had when she agreed to all of this in the first place.

“Can we just go to sleep? I’m tired.”

It started out like it had before. A gap of space between them after Harry had turned out the lamp beside him. After he spent an ungodly amount of time staring out his window and listening to her breathing, and she spent the same amount of time overthinking, they both realized something wasn’t working.

“Harry?” She whispered like she was throwing out a line into a vast ocean.

“Hmm?”

“You were right… about why I’m alone. But… it’s also that no one’s ever really shown any interest in me because, um... ” she struggled, trying her damndest not to cry in front of Harry. “I’m... ugly, you know… so that’s, um...” Her voice was just a whisper she could barely even make out, but it was still the first time she’d said that to anyone before. Sure, she wasn’t facing Harry when she said it and they were in complete darkness, but it was still hard, hard enough to make her hands shake and the tears fall.

He knew it too, the way her voice wavered like he’d never heard before. He twisted his head over his shoulder to look at her, eyebrows furrowed even deeper when he saw the shadow of her hand move across her face to wipe the tears away.  

And here she was; in Harry’s bed where she thought her problems would be temporarily solved, and yet she was still crying. 

“So that’s why… I feel like I don’t let people in because I don’t want anyone to have to be stuck with me.” She finished and he flipped himself onto his back, still staring at her head like he couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth, that she even thought that way about herself. He was sitting there in shock because, well… he had been wrong. He didn’t understand her at all. 

Without a single clue how to respond without sounding like a disingenuous asshole, he went another route rather than opening his mouth to give her unsolicited advice.

“Come ’ere.” He whispered, helping her until she was in his arms again just like before. He cradled the back of her head with one hand as she hid her face on his chest and wrapped his free arm around her shoulders. Slowly, she warmed up to him and tucked her own arm around his side as they fit themselves together like puzzle pieces all over again. Except this time, they were both consciously aware of it. 

They stayed like that for a while until Harry listened to her breathing even out, and he could hardly keep his eyes open any longer. He still wanted to say a million different things, but knew it might only make it worse because his head wasn’t clear enough to say the right things. So, he just held on tight and waited for morning.

taglist: @afterstylesmadeit @cxnyon-moon @and-im-not-okay-with-it @chrryblsms @whydontharry @harryinsweatersandbandanas @idkthisisjustforfanfic @teddysoldbird @shawnsblue @thurhomish @theasstour @hufflepuff-always-and-forever @staceystoleyourheart @granolagrannie @defineharry @iambabyharry @1142590m @ashtondene @smokeinherperfume @cherryyharryy

[sophisticated-creepy]

Daybreak was bright, crisp, and exhilarating, Lola feeling every fiber of her being humming with excitement as the brisk autumn sun kissed her face. She was inspired and playful, eager to attack the morning as she initiated day one of her research plans. The more she thought about the Hobblin’ Goblin for her story, the more she realized she didn’t know the essentials to his origins. She was completely attached to the idea of him being her “Mr. Goblin”, the imaginary friend and childhood companion, and never dove deeper into why he played his pranks, only that he did, and therefore, negated any notion for further investigation. He simply existed, and her imagination conceived the rest. Even Raphael, she discovered over breakfast, wasn’t fully aware of the iconic legend’s origins, and he was a history Professor.

“I guess I don’t know him as intimately as I thought,” she said, stunned to the awakening of her own ignorance regarding the goblin.

“Don’t feel badly,” Raphael had comforted. “I have no doubt you’ll turn this story of yours into an adventure yet.”

Taking her beloved’s advice to heart, Lola got into the proper mindset for delving into the task of research. Her deadline was fast approaching, and she wanted to make as much headway as possible in gathering her facts before putting pen to paper. Five hundred words held the capability to be irrevocably profound. This challenge was an opportunity to showcase depth instead of fluff, so today was all business, strictly pounding the streets for information, putting in the hard work of sleuthing, deducing, and discovering what exactly made the Hobblin’ Goblin tick.

Since the town was saturated in claims of the goblin’s mischief, Lola decided that she would first get as many personal testimonies from the victims of these pranks as possible. Then, upon more research, she would be able to see what connections in claims could help in unlocking the mystery of the Hobblin’ Goblin, allowing her assignment to look into the character of the people affected by the imp, and give her plot heart. Her own opinions were too biased in a light-hearted, flouncy sort of parody she perceived of the goblin’s personality, and while in some cases that may translate well in a fairytale aspect of playful misdemeanors, Lola wanted substance, something tangible to pull in the judges’ interests. As she gathered enough information, she would know in which direction to craft her words.

One such person she wanted to interview first was her former retail manager Stacy. Lola had spent a sizeable amount of time as an associate of the boutique Lotions and Potions, and had a few experiences of her own in her pocket to pull from if need be, but Stacy swore up and down that the place was actively haunted, sharing her stories daily of what went bump in the night. Stacy tended to lean on the side of over-exaggeration, but Lola wouldn’t discount any leads if the potential to find a nugget of inspiration rested somewhere in the spinning of a yarn, so onwards confidently she marched, notebook in one hand, coffee in the other, and entered the establishment filled with buttermilk and bubble bath.

The familiar chime sounding as she walked through the door brought a smile to her face, however, seeing Stacy on her hands and knees in front of a cabinet of decorative glass bottles had her frowning. A clumping of paper towels and a wastebasket at an elbow told Lola that, at least, nothing dire had happened.

“Do you need some help?” Lola asked, setting her belongings on the checkout counter as she fully entered the store. Stacy glanced up from her position, giving her head a slight shake, crookedly smiling at the former employee.

“You don’t work here anymore, Lola, it’s no longer your job to help clean up spills,” Stacy remarked, carefully scooping up a glob of lavender scented lotion mixed with glass shards.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t help out a friend.” Lola went to get the cleaning supplies on hand stowed in a nearby cabinet drawer for emergencies such as these. She handed the bottle of cleaner to Stacy while she herself took up a broom to gather fly away chunks of glass. “I didn’t mean to catch you at a bad time. What happened?”

“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary,” Stacy sighed, spraying down the ceramic tiled floor, cleaning up the last of the mess. “A bottle of lotion leapt off the shelf is all.”

“Really? That’s wonderful!” Lola grasped the broom tightly to her chest in delight, a beaming smile lighting up her eyes as she turned excitedly to the woman still crawling on the ground.

“Well, you don’t have to sound so excited about it,” Stacy informed. “I mean, product isn’t cheap, you know. I’ll be out of business if things keep flying off my shelves only to have them break on my floor.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Lola frantically apologized. “It’s just…I couldn’t ask for more perfect timing. May I record you?”

“Record me? What…?” Stacy watched flabbergasted as Lola rushed to her purse resting on the checkout counter, rummaging deep within the numerous confines before emerging with a portable tape recorder. Lola immediately rushed back over to her former manager, sliding to her knees, shoving the recorder up close to a bewildered Stacy’s face.

“How did the bottle fly off the shelf? Did you hear a noise prior to it falling, or after? Like, maybe a thumping, dragging sound? Was there an ominous presence before it happened? Did you see a shadow figure? Do you believe this was the work of the Hobblin’ Goblin?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Stacy laughed, rearing back on her haunches, straightening away from Lola’s tape recorder and barrage of strange questions. She couldn’t help but find humor in Lola’s exuberance. “Ease up there, gumshoe. Are you playing detective now, or something?”

“I’m in the middle of an investigation for the creative arts,” Lola declared seriously.

“Sounds important.” Stacy got to her feet, taking with her the wastebasket and cleaning implements, stowing the items behind the main counter, Lola a closely following shadow.

“So, about this incident with the lotion bottle…do you think it was a prank caused by the notoriously reputable Hobblin’ Goblin?” While leaning over the counter, Lola held her tape recorder out to Stacy. “Try to speak slowly and clearly. And enunciate,” she added, demonstrating her instructions in the same manner she wished her friend to speak.

“Why are you asking so many questions about the Hobblin’ Goblin? And why are you using a tape recorder? Do they even make tapes anymore? There is a thing called ‘digital’, you know.”

“First of all Stanley,” Lola began, indicating her tape recorder’s name, “has been with me since the beginning. He was there when I got scared by a bird that one time during an evening stakeout.”

“When did you---?”

“Secondly,” Lola interrupted, “I’m asking these questions because I’m working on a story about the Hobblin’ Goblin. Weird things happen in here all the time, and I wanted to get some of your stories and see if they line up with our local legend and his patterns for hauntings.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Stacy said with a smile. “I’d be glad to talk about the hauntings that happen here. I have plenty of stories to share.”

“Great!” Lola cheered. “Let’s get started with what happened right before I walked in.”

“Oh, that was nothing,” Stacy stated, waving her hand dismissively at the cabinet full of fancy lotions. “That was probably a case in gravity, if I’m honest. The truly weird things come about in the early mornings when I’m trying to get the store ready to open.”

“Tell me about these weird things.” Even with her recorder rolling, Lola still took handwritten notes to capture important details in the moment so as not to miss an idea that could be overlooked when reviewing the tape several hours later.

“For starters, it’s like I’m being watched,” Stacy described. “I can feel eyes on me, observing me, and it’s very unnerving. Sometimes I hear footsteps following behind me, and when I turn around to look, there’s no one there.”

“What kind of footsteps? Is there a limp? Are they heavy set? Quick?”

“More of a gentle shuffling,” Stacy clarified. Lola frowned while marking in her notebook.

“The Hobblin’ Goblin is supposed to walk with a crutch, so his step pattern should be different than ‘normal’ sounding footsteps,” Lola voiced her thought aloud. “Is there anything else out of the ordinary that you can think of? Maybe something that pertains to the goblin himself?”

Stacy thought hard, trying to recall occurrences of the abnormal befalling her boutique. “Sometimes I hear breathing,” she said at last. “And sometimes, things will fly off the shelves. I’ve had the record player cut off on me once or twice as well.”

All of Stacy’s stories sounded more of a casual haunt than specifically that of a trickster, the activity appearing more benign as opposed to mischievous. Lola wanted to stay as open minded and unbiased as possible as she asked her questions to help form her story, but she was honestly hoping for something more lively and extraordinary. “Can you tell me of anything…fun?”

“Fun?” repeated Stacy.

“I mean, has anything…I don’t know…silly…happened in the time you’ve experienced these haunts? The Hobblin’ Goblin is a light hearted trickster, he plays pranks. Do things go missing only to turn up in the most random places? Do the lights flicker as if to say ‘hello’?”

“I had a pen thrown at me,” Stacy shared. “I wouldn’t necessarily call that ‘fun’, but it was the most out of the ordinary incident to have happen to me.”

Lola perked up at hearing the news. “What were you doing when that happened?”

“Actually, I was talking with a customer about the Hobblin’ Goblin a few days ago,” Stacy recalled, the memory of the conversation returning to her mind. “When it happened, I just laughed, figuring he must not have appreciated what it was I had been saying.”

“What did you say?” Lola’s sparkle was back in her eyes as she eagerly listened to what Stacy had to tell.

“I said I thought that he was childish, and that there were a lot more scary things out in the world than an imp who merely liked to play tricks.”

“Oh, Stacy,” Lola admonished, clicking her tongue reprovingly. “That was cruel.”

“How was I being cruel?”

“You said his pranks were childish like it was a bad thing,” Lola pouted. “Goblins are generally mischievous, and you insulted him. I think you might even have gone as far as to hurt his feelings.”

Stacy laughed. “Why am I not surprised that you would defend the Hobblin’ Goblin?” The door chime announced a new arrival walking into the boutique as the friends were sharing a laugh. Stacy looked over Lola’s shoulder to greet the person, smiling friendly as she recognized the mail carrier. “Good morning, Joyce.”

“Good morning, Stacy. Morning, Lola,” the mail woman greeted. “I haven’t seen you in a while, little miss. How’s tricks? Staying out of trouble?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Lola jest. “Hey, Joyce, do you have any stories of being pranked by the Hobblin’ Goblin?” Lola turned her recorder towards the mail woman, prepared to document the newest insights into her subject matter.

“I have no time to deal with pranks,” Joyce stated. “I deliver the mail, and go about my day peacefully. I don’t call upon the Hobblin’ Goblin to play his tricks on me.”

“Meaning, she’s afraid of him,” Stacy snidely commented good humoredly.

“I respect the spirits, Stacy,” Joyce quipped in return with a smile, no malice exchanging between the two friends. “Why are you asking?” she then asked Lola.

“I’m doing research for a story about the goblin, and I wanted him to have some authenticity to his character,” she answered.

“I see. Just be careful where you go poking around,” cautioned Joyce. “You don’t want to inadvertently stir up trouble.”

“Actually, I think she does,” Stacy teased.

“More or less,” Lola agreed. “Thank you for your concern, Joyce. I’ll make sure I’m careful,” she promised.

“You’ve got a good heart, Lola, I’m confident you’ll be safe.” Reaching into her mailbag, she passed a handful of envelopes and a newspaper to Stacy. “You be careful, too.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Stacy defended.

“Yet, but I know you also like to go looking for trouble. Have a nice day, ladies.” With a tip of her hat, and a wink of an eye, Joyce left the boutique.

“I should probably get going, too,” Lola sighed, shutting off her recorder and gathering her belongings. “I was going to see if maybe Mr. Jasons would be interested in sharing some of his stories next. Thanks for letting me bother you.”

“You weren’t bothering me in the slightest,” Stacy assured as she began filing through her mail. “Oh, hey, look at this,” she said, unfolding the newspaper to read. “The old train yard at the Miners Museum made the front page.”

“Neato,” Lola responded automatically, only half listening as she slung her purse over her shoulder, her mind already on her next objective.

“Oh, my God! Someone was attacked!”

“Wait, what?” Stacy’s declaration fully captured Lola’s attention. “What happened?”

Stacy’s eyes furiously scanned the front page, speed reading as much of the information as she could. “The police aren’t sure,” she shared after a breathless pause. “They say a security guard was pushed down while chasing away some kids during the middle of the nightshift rounds. He hit his head on the railway of the old mine train. He has a major concussion and a fractured skull.”

“That’s horrible,” Lola gasped.

“It continues to say that another guard found him in the train yard shortly after he fell. No evidence, however, of the kids, allegedly, playing around the site could be found,” Stacy concluded.

“Poor guy,” Lola sympathized. “Are they sure it was kids mucking about, and that he didn’t just accidently trip?”

“Looks like it,” she validated, continuing to rove the paper. “The second guard states the first guard, the victim, went to go chase away the kids playing by the mineshaft when they saw flashing lights from the security monitors. Here’s a picture of the scene.” Stacy turned the paper around for Lola to see the front page where a photo of the old steam engine and mine were pictured, and with it, just on the outer margins, was the backdrop of the Dead Forest. Lola felt a chill creep down her spine as she looked at the newspaper. Something ominous radiated from the main image, and she squinted critically at the photo, taking the paper to examine the image closer where a shadowed form blending into the tree line, a darker mass of shapes, hovered half-cropped out of frame. The anomaly warranted further investigation, and Lola knew just the person from whom she wanted a second opinion.

“Do you mind if I hang onto this?”

“You can keep it,” Stacy offered. “I don’t read much from the paper anymore.”

“Thanks,” Lola said distantly, her eyes glued on the blurry, pixelated blob. She began to turn and leave when Stacy summoned her back.

“Little witch,” she called. Lola blinked, focusing on Stacy. “Are you planning on flying out of here, or may I have my broom back?”

“Hmm? Oh! My bad,” Lola chuckled, embarrassed. “Sorry about that.” Lola leaned the broomstick she had been holding onto since helping clean up the broken bottle against a cabinet. “I didn’t even realize I’d still been holding it.”

“It’s hard for a witch to hide what comes naturally,” Stacy joked, giving Lola a look that spoke of amusement.

“Thanks for not blowing my cover,” Lola kidded back. “And thanks again for sharing your time and stories with me, I really do appreciate it.”

“Of course. Don’t be a stranger.” The two waved their goodbyes, and Lola stepped out onto the historic cobblestone, once more lost in the picture of her newspaper.

“There’s just something ‘off’ about this picture,” Lola murmured to herself. “I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m hoping Modesta can.” Folding the newspaper back into its original shape, Lola cradled the bundle into the crook of her arm along with her notebook, her coffee in one hand, and set her confident march towards her friend’s shop of Curios and Oddities.

~~~~~~~~~~

[wistfulcynic]

Their Way By Moonlight: Broken (Chapter 16)

In which the chapter title says it all, really. 

For @thisonesatellite​​ and @ohmightydevviepuu​​ and @katie-dub​​, YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID 😘😘😘 (and shoutout to @winterbythesea​​ for filling the gaping holes in my video game knowledge) 

SUMMARY: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time Emma is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from Henry and anyone else who might  help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Killian have the ability to share their dreams, and are working together in secret to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from a new and dangerous foe.

Rating: M

AO3

- 

Broken: 

All her life Emma had loved to sleep, but she wasn’t the biggest fan of naps. Sleep, to her, involved putting on comfy, loose clothing, making the room as dark as possible, burrowing into her pillows and blankets and letting oblivion wrap her in its soothing embrace for at least eight hours, preferably more. Obviously, those perfect conditions didn’t happen often, but still a girl could dream. 

Naps, she felt, were like fast food sleep. They met her most immediate needs but left her feeling heavy and groggy and a bit gross. Exactly the way she was feeling now. She peeled one sticky eyelid open and groped for her phone, groaning when she saw the time. Ten past six. She’d slept for over two hours, and Neal would be here in less than one. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, she tried to force her foggy mind to focus. 

A burst of triumphant laughter sounded from the living room, followed by a dramatic groan. 

“Right, you’ll pay for that,” snarled Killian’s voice. 

“Oh yeah?” Henry crowed in reply, “Who’s gonna make me?” 

Emma heaved herself up out of bed and went to the curtain that separated her and Killian’s bedroom area from the main part of the apartment. She peeked around it and grinned at the sight that met her eye. Henry and Killian were on the sofa, controllers in hand, playing what was apparently a very hotly contested game of Battlefront II. 

She thought back to when Killian had first begun attempting to play video games with Henry in New York, hampered by his missing hand and his general bafflement as to why anyone would want to sit for hours in front of a flickering screen, shooting imaginary bolts of light at each other. He seemed to have gotten over that in the past year, she thought, and now with his modern prosthetic he was able to manage the controller and navigate the game deftly enough that Emma had a sneaking suspicion he might be letting Henry win. 

Although, she thought, as Henry racked up another kill, pumping his fist as his character respawned into Han Solo and Killian’s eyebrows snapped together indignantly, maybe not.

She pushed aside the curtain and went to sit on the arm of the sofa next to Killian, who flashed her a brief smile before returning his attention to evading Henry’s digital assault on him. 

“Hey, guys,” she said, unable to resist letting her fingers sift through Killian’s hair. She still found it difficult to go too long without touching him. “Who’s winning?” 

“The lad has a temporary advantage,” Killian replied grudgingly. 

“Temporary my ass.” 

“Language,” Killian rebuked, and Henry snorted. 

“That’s rich coming from Mister oh bloody hell,” he retorted. 

“Perhaps, but when you swear in front of your mothers I get the blame.” 

Emma chuckled and Killian paused the game, looking up at her with the soft, adoring smile that never failed to make her weak. “How are you feeling, love?” he asked. “Rested?” 

“Yeah, I guess.” She shrugged. “Kinda groggy. Do you think I have time for a shower before Neal gets here?” 

“Aye, a quick one.”

“And you don’t need me to help with anything?” Emma looked around the apartment. It was as neat and tidy as ever, the way Killian always kept things.  

“No, everything’s prepared for dinner, it just needs cooking. Go have your shower, then Henry and I should probably freshen up too.” 

“What? I’m fresh!” 

“Your mouth is, perhaps,” said Killian, quick as a flash. “But as this is meant to be a nice meal, please indulge me by putting on a shirt that isn’t covered in dog hair.” 

“Ugh, fine.” Henry rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. Neither could Emma.

“What about that nice grey one I got you?” she suggested. 

“Mom, I outgrew that like six months ago.” 

“Oh.” The little flare of loss and regret was familiar now, but no less sharp. “Okay.” 

Killian squeezed her knee sympathetically. “It has been replaced by another nice grey one, however,” he said. “Which I happen to know is clean and ironed and hanging in your room. Wear that.” 

“Fine,” sighed Henry. “Can I finish kicking your arse at Battlefront first, though?” 

“You can try,” said Killian.

~

They were making dinner together. 

Mary Margaret knew it was happening, she was here, she was experiencing it. She could smell the rich aroma and hear the sizzle of frying onions, could hear the rhythmic sound of knives on a chopping board as she and David sliced mushrooms and minced carrots. Hell, she was the one doing the mincing. But she still couldn’t quite believe it. 

It had been David’s idea. When they finished their lunch at Granny’s that afternoon he’d walked with her back to her office, as slowly as they could get away with, then lingered even longer by the door. 

“This was fun,” he said. “I had fun. Did you?” 

The thread of uncertainty in the question squeezed Mary Margaret’s heart and set her mind racing. What if—she could barely entertain the thought—what if David felt as she did? What if he wanted the same things? What if he was just as unsure of her as she was of him? 

What if—this was the scariest what if of all—what if she actually told him what she wanted? That’t she’d like to give their marriage a real shot?  

What would happen then? 

“I did,” she replied, slightly breathlessly. “A lot of fun.” 

David’s smile widened. “We should do it again.” 

“We should,” she agreed, as her heart raced faster.  

“Like tonight.” 

“Tonight?” 

“Yeah.” David nodded eagerly. “Let’s eat together tonight. Let’s make dinner.” 

“Make dinner? I can’t cook!” 

“Me neither. It’ll be fun. Half raw and half burnt maybe, but, you know—” his eyes seemed to bore into her “—ours.” 

“Ours,” she repeated, wishing she could draw some air into her lungs. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” he echoed. 

She nodded. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” His smile was so soft, his eyes warm. “I’ll get some stuff. Ingredients and things, and I’ll—see you at home.” 

Home, thought Mary Margaret, letting her eyes caress his ass as he headed back down the street, then jerking them away when she realised what she was doing. Maybe they could actually have one. 

And so now here they were, standing next to each other in their kitchen, chopping vegetables and browning meat in an attempt to make spaghetti. 

“Shouldn’t be too hard, right?” said David, opening an old cookbook he’d unearthed from the back of a cupboard. “We just follow the instructions.” 

They browned their meat and added their veggies and a can of tomatoes, several pinches of herbs and a generous glug of wine. The aromas were amazing and the kitchen warm and steamy and Mary Margaret took off her cardigan, draping it over a chair, and when she turned back David was watching her, his gaze hot and almost tangible on her bare arms. She caught her breath and he seemed to catch himself, his eyes flying to hers, their gazes catching and holding, lingering as they began to move towards each other, slowly as if in a dream, drawn by the tug of attraction they could no longer ignore. David’s fingers gently traced her cheek and hers gripped his shoulders, and when their lips touched—so softly at first then harder, growing desperate—it felt right and natural and like coming home, and also sent the sharpest spike of lust through Mary Margaret’s belly that she could ever remember feeling. 

She couldn’t remember it, yet it was so familiar. This was familiar. David’s lips on hers, the silky slide of his hair between her fingers, the breadth of his shoulders, the firm comfort of his arms around her making her feel safe and  treasured. Loved. 

Then his hands slid over her hips to cup her ass and all she could feel was the frantic certainty that if she didn’t get him naked, right now, she would die. She sank her nails into his shoulders and rolled her hips against his, swallowing his moan and adding her own as he hoisted her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist and then—

“Wait—wait,” Mary Margaret gasped, tearing her mouth from his. She was still a sensible woman, no matter how lust-drenched she felt, and just enough of that sense remained to remind her not to burn the kitchen down. She leaned over and turned off the burner beneath the bubbling spaghetti sauce, then wrapped her arms tightly around David’s shoulders and kissed him fiercely, telling him with her lips what she couldn’t put into words. What she felt for him, and everything she hoped that they could be.  

When they broke apart he stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time, like she was his sun and moon and stars and everything in between. 

“Mary Margaret,” he breathed. “I want—” 

“Me too,” she gasped against his mouth. “Me too. Let’s—upstairs?” 

The icy blue of his eyes had never been so hot. “Fuck yes,” he said. 

~

That evening Archie returned to the small, draughty room he rented in the boarding house where most of the mine workers lived. His body felt as exhausted as it always did after a double shift, his mind as fallow. He collapsed onto the small sofa that doubled as his bed with a sigh and let his head fall into his hands and his eyes fall shut. 

The cushion beside him shifted and sagged as Pongo leapt onto it, his tail swishing across the threadbare cover. Archie looked down at the dog with a faint smile that grew wider as Pongo covered his chin with sloppy kisses then settled down to rest his head in Archie’s lap, gazing up at him with warm brown eyes full of trust. Trust, and love. Archie’s heart swelled in his chest and the worst of his exhaustion seemed to lift, lightened as all burdens are by the presence of a friend. Tears prickled behind his eyes as he stroked Pongo’s silky head. 

“Good boy, Pongo,” he said. “That’s my boy.” 

~

“Your love does not see them. He sees you.” 

Oisín’s words rang in Regina’s ears as she stood examining her reflection in the mirror in the loft’s small bathroom. Carefully she applied another coat of lipstick then brushed a tiny crumb of mascara from beneath her eye. She’d managed to resist the urge to put her glamour spell back on but not the one that had drawn her into the market on her way home from Emma and Killian’s to pick up a stash of land-without-magic cosmetics. It was all well and good to talk about trusting people with the truth of her appearance but did have standards, after all, and no intention of going on a date with nothing whatsoever on her face. 

She gave herself a final once-over just as a knock sounded at the door and took a deep breath to quell the butterflies in her belly. It didn’t work, not even a little, and they fluttered more frantically than ever as she went to open it. 

Robin—no, John, she reminded herself firmly—smiled when he saw her, a smile that had warmed and softened considerably over the past few weeks. 

You look lovely, Regina,” he said, producing a bouquet of wildflowers from behind his back and offering them to her, almost shyly. She caught her breath. He’d brought her flowers before, many times during their slow, cautious courtship, but always from the florist. Tasteful, professional arrangements that a banker would choose, nothing at all like this handful of blooms he’d clearly picked himself. 

“Where—where did you get these?” she asked, taking them from him and breathing deeply, barely stopping herself from burying her face in them. 

“Ah.” He looked a bit abashed. “From the woods. If you don’t like them—” He reached for the bouquet but she snatched it back, cradling it to her chest. 

“I love them,” she said. “They’re just… different from the ones you brought before.” 

“Indeed. It was the most peculiar thing,” he explained, stepping into the loft as she held the door for him and following her to the kitchen where she took out a vase and filled it with water. “Every morning I go for a run, as you know. Always around town, along the same route. But this morning—I don’t know what it was but I just felt the need to get out of civilisation, into nature.” He shook his head wryly. “I’d barely had that thought when I found myself jogging down the road that cuts through the forest on its way out of town. I was feeling brighter than I had in some time, lighter somehow, and then I noticed a footpath leading off the road and into the trees, and on a whim I followed it. It led through some dense trees and then opened into a little clearing with a tiny rock pool surrounded by the most stunning wildflowers.” He caught her eye and smiled. “They reminded me of you.” 

Regina flushed with pleasure at the casual sincerity of the compliment and returned her attention to her flowers, arranging them in the vase and admiring their colours in the fading glow of the evening light. 

“So I took note of the location and went back there just now to collect some for you,” he concluded. “Do you really like them?” 

“They’re beautiful,” she replied, looking up again to see he had moved closer to her—so close—close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek and hear the hitch in it, see his pupils dilate as he too became aware of just how close they were. 

They’d seen each other nearly every day since she’d asked him to lunch, sharing coffee and meals and conversation but only rarely touching. Touches between them when they did occur were gentle, restrained. Cautious. 

(“Regina,” said Emma, coming up behind her as she stood by Granny’s outer gate, watching Robin return to work after their first lunch date. “I’m really glad you’re happy. But… don’t forget he’s cursed, okay?” 

“As if I could,” snapped Regina. “It’s kind of obvious in the way he doesn’t remember me.”

“That’s not really what I meant.” Emma shuffled her feet, her face the picture of both deep discomfort and grim determination. 

“Well what did you mean?” 

“Just that he—he doesn’t have control of himself. He can’t make decisions like he would if he weren’t cursed.” 

Regina frowned. “Are you saying that un-cursed he wouldn’t be interested in me? Because I can assure you—” 

“No! That’s not—look—” Emma crossed her arms over her chest, clutching her jacket sleeves so hard her nails left grooves in the red leather. “Don’t sleep with him, okay?” she burst out, flushing at Regina’s outraged glare but barreling on. “I know it’s none of my business and believe me, I really don’t want to be talking about it, but just—don’t. Cursed people can’t consent, and—” she took a deep breath “—I know that’s something my parents had to deal with after the first curse.” 

Regina scowled, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the twinge of guilt that needled at her. She’d cursed Snow and Charming to those lives with full intent to hurt them as much as she could, and while she wasn’t precisely sorry for it her own recent experiences had given her a new perspective on what she’d put them through. 

Things between her and Robin hadn’t exactly been friendly when the curse struck the Enchanted Forest, and while she’d had a whole year to think about that he had not. She’d spent those moments of the past year that weren’t consumed with her fear for Henry’s safety thinking about Robin and the way she’d treated him, wondering what might have happened if she’d been less scared, if she hadn’t let that fear make her so snappish and bitchy to him. Emma was right. Un-cursed, Robin might not wish for her to touch him. 

That thought hurt far worse than she’d expected.)

But she wasn’t thinking about that now, not with him so close and leaning closer… not when her heart was pounding and her breath short… not when his lips touched hers and she just… melted into the kiss. Melted into him, unable to think of anything now but how right this felt, how right they felt, and how profoundly she wished she hadn’t fought against it for so long. She felt consumed by him, by them and by this moment, and neither Emma’s words of caution nor her own regret, nor even the ominous shifting and creaking of the magic in the air around them could pull her attention away from it. 

~

When Belle arrived home she carefully removed the books Killian had lent her from their bag and placed them on the small table in her living room, taking a moment to let her fingertips trail over them, across the cloth bindings and the leather ones, tracing the titles and the authors’ names, and the illustrations on their covers. They all looked so fascinating she couldn’t wait to dive in and lose herself in the tales they carried within their bindings. And she knew exactly where she would begin. 

(“It’s an adventure tale,” Killian explained as he handed the book to her, his eyes twinkling at the way hers widened and her hands trembled with eagerness. “A heroic quest to rescue a prince and reunite true loves.” 

“Ohhh,” Belle breathed. “That sounds wonderful.” 

“I figured you might like it,” Killian’s grin was warm. “I can tell already that you have excellent taste.”)

Belle made herself tea in her favourite cup, the one she saved for the most special occasions, and carried it carefully to her sofa, curling her legs beneath her and tucking a fluffy blanket around them, and a plump pillow behind her back. She sipped the brew with a contented sigh, and then she opened her book. 

~

Neal Cassidy was no stranger to disappointment. It was always there, clinging to him like the smell of stale cigarette smoke he carried home with him each night from the Rabbit Hole, harsh and acrid and never wholly gone even when his clothes were freshly washed. The disappointment was the same, ever present, hovering in a cloud around his head, wherever he was, for as long as he could remember. 

He’d had dreams once. At least, he thought he had. He must have, everyone did. He’d had dreams and he’d had a family—or at least he’d had a father, though he could barely remember the man, no more than a hazy impression of a hunched form and a plaintive voice. 

I love you, son. 

But that was a long time ago, impossibly long it sometimes felt, lifetimes ago. He was alone now, and had been for—well, for as long as he could remember. He worked as a janitor because he could do no other job, he drank alone because that’s what everyone did in Storybrooke. Each night the Rabbit Hole was silent but for the blaring music that was always on its speakers, patrons scattered throughout the dingy room, staring into their drinks and pretending the rest were somewhere else. Possibly pretending they were. 

He worked as a janitor at the town hall, every day the same, sweeping and mopping and scrubbing, always under the sharp eyes of Mayor Green. Eyes that watched him more closely than a mayor really ought to watch a janitor, and with a smug, triumphant gleam that made him itchy and uncomfortable. 

And then one day Mayor Green was gone, replaced by Mary Margaret Nolan. Deputy Mayor Nolan with tentative determination in her eyes, who greeted him with a kind smile and didn’t watch him as he worked, and who one astounding day had called him into her office to inform him that he owned the pawn shop. 

(“It belonged to your father, apparently,” she said, “and he left it to you. I’m sorry I only found the records yesterday, they must have gotten lost. But the pawn shop is yours, and if you’d like to open it again, well, more business in town wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“Um.” Neal’s head was spinning. He didn’t know the first thing about running a business. And yet… “Yeah, sure. I can try.” 

When he unlocked the pawn shop the next day it was dark and dusty, with that stale smell places get when they’ve gone too long without exposure to fresh air. Neal stood in the doorway feeling the full weight and scale of the task that lay before him and how very poorly equipped he was to tackle it. He was seriously considering locking the place back up and never thinking of it again when a voice spoke behind him. 

“Hi,” it said. “Are you gonna open this place?” 

Neal turned. He didn’t recognise the boy—not surprising as he didn’t recognise most people in town—but his bright, cheerful expression lightened Neal’s heart and gave it an odd twinge. 

“Uh, yeah,” he replied. “I’m gonna try. I guess.” 

“Cool!” exclaimed the boy. “Can I help?” 

Neal frowned. “Shouldn’t you be in school or something?” 

“It’s Saturday.” 

“Oh yeah.” Neal didn’t know much about kids but he was pretty sure this one was still a bit young to be going around talking to strangers. “Um, where are your parents?” he asked. 

“My dad’s at work,” the boy replied, like he was expecting just that question. “He owns a bookstore.” 

“He does?” 

“Yep. I helped him get it set up, so I know what needs to be done. I could help you too.” He shrugged. “You know, if you want.” 

Neal kind of did want. He wasn’t sure just how much help the kid could actually be, but just the idea of having someone around, of not having to do everything by himself, made the weight on his shoulders seem lighter. Still, a kid he didn’t know… “You sure your dad wouldn’t mind?” he hedged. 

“He won’t,” said the boy decisively. “But I can call him if you like, to be sure.” Again he sounded like he’d been expecting exactly this development. Neal’s frown deepened. He wondered if he was being played somehow, though he couldn’t imagine how or why. 

“Yeah, why don’t you do that,” he said. Let this play out, at least.  

The boy took out his phone and tapped on its screen, then held it to his ear. “Hey, Dad,” he said. “I’m at the pawn shop. Yep.” His eyes flitted to Neal’s face and then away. “There’s this guy who’s gonna get it open again and I offered to help him but he wanted to be sure it’s okay with you… uh huh… yeah… okay.” He looked up at Neal. “My dad wants to talk to you.” 

“Oh. Um, sure.” Neal took the phone from the boy. “Hello?”

“Hello,” said a voice, a deep, smooth, accented one that gave Neal another odd twinge, less pleasant than the one inspired by the boy. The voice was friendly, but it made Neal tense, his fingers flexing on the boy’s phone. “I hope my son isn’t troubling you,” it said. 

“No.” Neal had the oddest urge to contradict everything this voice said. “He’s not.” 

“Good. He sometimes lets his enthusiasm overwhelm his common sense. If he’s bothering you, feel free to send him away.” The voice was light and careless and Neal bristled at its lack of concern for the kid’s feelings. 

“He’s not bothering me.” Neal glanced at the boy, who was listening intently.“He offered to help, and actually I could probably use it.”

“Excellent.” There was a hint of amusement in the voice now that Neal found deeply objectionable. He scowled. “Well, let me know if he causes you any trouble,” the voice continued. 

“Sure thing,” said Neal shortly, and handed the phone back to the boy before he snapped and said something much longer. The boy took it back with a bright grin. “So I can stay?” he asked. He listened for a moment, then sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know. Okay. Okay, bye!” He ended the call and stuck the phone in his pocket. “I’m Henry,” he said, holding out his hand. “Henry Jones.” 

Neal took the hand, feeling that twinge again as the small fingers wrapped around his own. “Neal Cassidy.” 

“Nice to meet you, Mr Cassidy,” said Henry. “So, where do we start?”) 

Henry Jones turned out to be just as enthusiastic as the voice had warned, bright and cheerful and actually very knowledgeable about running a shop. As was his dad, Neal discovered, when the man arrived later that day to pick up his son. Neal had ignored the funny twist in his gut at the sight of them hugging and forced a smile as the man—Killian, as he introduced himself—cheerfully inspected their progress and answered a lot of the questions Henry hadn’t been able to, and even some Neal hadn’t thought of yet. And Neal found himself taking the man’s number, almost gratefully, and even calling it, just once or twice, whenever he hit a snag he hadn’t anticipated. 

Though he liked Henry very much Neal had weirdly mixed feelings about Killian Jones. He couldn’t seem to quell the hostility he felt deep in his gut whenever they met, the twisting anger and resentment that at most times simmered low but at others flared so high they licked right at the edge of hate. This despite the fact that the man was never anything but perfectly nice and helpful and by all appearances the kind of loving father Neal wished like hell he could remember. He tried to like Killian, he almost liked him. But that gut reaction was too troubling to ignore.  

And that was how he came to find himself at ten minutes before seven p.m. walking straight past the Rabbit Hole and towards the harbour, turning down the small street where he could see the sign for Jolly Roger Books hanging from a wrought iron hook above the shop’s wide doorway, swinging gently in the chilly evening breeze. 

Neal set his jaw and rang the bell, and a minute later Henry’s cheerful face appeared. “Come on in, Mr Cassidy!” he said, pulling the doors open. “You’re right on time.” 

~

It was a typical night at the Rabbit Hole. The bar’s interior was smoky and dark though the sun was still in the sky outside, adorned with neon signs in precisely the wrong colours and a ceaseless blare of music from the speakers. Not bad music, not exactly, but bleak and melancholy and a strain on the ears, and just loud enough to make conversation impossible, should anyone wish to converse. 

Generally, no one did. 

A handful of patrons sat at random around the dark and grimy room, staring into their drinks or off into space, not looking at each other, not so much as a civil nod. This was not the place for civility.  

It was a typical night and no one expected otherwise, none there hoped for any more or less from their drinking place or from their lives. 

And then the music stopped. 

It stopped abruptly, with no hiss of interference or record scratch, just silence that fell with the grace of an anvil and was in itself so deafening that it took a moment for those present even to register the change.

The town records clerk was first to notice, rousing from his reverie and frowning as he looked around, his eyes meeting the confused gaze of the librarian sitting one table over to his left. 

“What happened?” he asked. 

The librarian shrugged. “Maybe it’s broken?” 

“Wouldn’t be a bad thing if it was,” said the clerk, and the librarian snorted. 

“Maybe they’ll switch it for something good,” another voice chimed in, this one belonging to a man the clerk vaguely recognised. Did he work for the bank? No… the insurance company, maybe? 

“Let’s hope so,” the librarian agreed. 

“I hope so,” said a fourth voice from behind the clerk’s right shoulder. “If I never hear that whatever-stank again it will be too soon.” 

“Hoobastank,” supplied the librarian, and they all groaned. 

“Even the name’s bloody awful,” said the clerk, and the other men all nodded their agreement, sliding their chairs ever so slightly closer as they did, drawn by the unifying power of a shared grievance. 

On the other side of the bar a similar conversation was occurring. 

“Finally, I can hear myself think,” growled Leroy, still glaring at his beer like it had done him a personal wrong, but doing so in peace and quiet at least. 

The man down the bar to his left sneezed, startling the man down the bar to his right, who had been dozing into his mudslide. “What?” said the sleepy man. “Wha’s happ’nin?”

The sneezy man wiped his nose with an enormous handkerchief. “Something’s wrong with the music,” he said. 

“What music?” asked another man from further down the bar, blinking wide, guileless eyes. “Was there music?” 

“Of course there was music,” growled Leroy, glaring at the dopey man. 

“Loud music,” agreed the sneezy man. 

“Kept me awake,” muttered the sleepy man as his eyes drifted shut. Leroy snorted. 

They all turned to look as the door to the back room opened and another man entered, wringing his hands anxiously and blushing bright pink, the sweat on his forehead glistening beneath the neon glare of the bar lights. 

“Um,” he whispered, far too quietly to be heard over the faint buzz of conversation that now filled the bar. He tried again. “Um,” he said, slightly louder. 

Leroy felt a flare of anger oh his behalf. This bashful man was just trying to get their attention and no one was taking any notice. 

“HEY ALL OF YOU,” he shouted at the very top of his lungs, turning so that the men at the back of the room would be sure to hear him too. “THIS GUY HERE IS TRYING TO TELL US SOMETHING,” he continued, pairing his bellow with a nasty glare that killed every last conversation in the room. “WHY DON’T YOU JERKS SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO HIM?”

The bashful man was pinker than ever but he nodded gratefully at Leroy. “Um,” he said for a third time, and every ear in the place strained to hear him. “I—I’m so sorry, but the music seems, ah, to be, er, broken.” 

“What’s wrong with it?” called the clerk. 

“I don’t know,” the bashful man confessed. “I can get someone in to look at it tomorrow, but it’s too late to do anything tonight. I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” said the librarian. “I’d rather talk with this group of scoundrels than listen to another note of that shit.” 

A chorus of “ayes” and “huzzahs” rose from the men around him, the clerk and the insurance man, and several others who had gathered around them to raise a pint in merriment together. Men whose day jobs left them drained and hopeless and who now preened in delight at being referred to as “scoundrels,” knowing it was as far from the truth as anything could be and yet feeling that somehow, deep in a place they hadn’t known they possessed, that secret place that brought them dreams of forests and campfires and glad camaraderie, scoundrels they might actually be. 

“Doesn’t bother us—achoo!—either,” said the sneezy man, who had moved to sit next to the sleepy man and nudge him with a gentle elbow whenever he began to doze off. Leroy noted that the dopey man was now flanked by two companions, one white-whiskered with round, wire-rimmed glasses and the other wearing a broad grin that Leroy suspected ought to annoy him but instead made him feel like he’d found something long missing from his life. The happy man raised his glass to Leroy, and Leroy raised his in return.

“Doesn’t look like there’s a problem here,” he told the bashful man. “Why don’t you join us—” he’d meant to say join me, but the us he spoke instead felt far more right “—for a drink?”

The bashful man looked over at the group in the far corner, now laughing uproariously and toasting each other’s exploits, then back at Leroy. “Okay,” he said. “I’d like that, I think. Thanks.” He smiled shyly. “Thanks for everything.” 

“No trouble at all, brother,” replied Leroy. 

~

Neal followed as Henry raced up the winding staircase to the third floor and burst through the door to the apartment. Through it Neal could see Killian standing in the middle of an open-plan living space with his head bent towards that of a blonde woman, whispering in her ear. Their pose was unmistakably intimate, his hand curled around her waist and hers resting lightly on his chest, their heads touching. They turned when he entered the room and both smiled, strangely rigid smiles, Neal thought. 

The woman’s face he could swear he recognised, though he couldn’t place it, and vague recognition definitely shouldn’t make him feel so angry at the sight of them together, or cause a stab of jealousy to pierce his gut when Killian’s fingers tightened on her waist and he pulled her almost imperceptibly closer. 

So why did it? 

Neal forced his emotions down and returned their smiles in kind and Henry, seemingly oblivious to the odd tension in the room, said, “Mr Cassidy, this is my mom, Emma.” 

“Your mom!” Neal cried in astonishment, then wondered why he was astonished. 

“Yep!” Henry’s bright grin faded slightly at the look on his face and Neal attempted to smooth his features as Emma stepped forward and offered him her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. 

“And yo—” Neal began, when he realised in a flash of memory where he’d seen that face before. “Wait—did you say Emma? Emma… Swan? The sheriff?”

“That’s right.”

 He could place her now, sitting at the end of the table at the town council meetings, sighing and tapping her pen impatiently. Neal frowned again as he tried to remember what he knew about Emma Swan. It was… not much. He didn’t know much about anyone in Storybrooke, and for the first time that felt wrong. He stared at her as he strained to remember, watching as she toyed absent-mindedly with the chain around her neck, the ring on her wedding finger catching the light. 

“You’re married?” he shouted, and that gut feeling flared again when he saw her glance back at Killian, silently seeking support from her husband. 

“Yeah, we—” Emma began, but Neal interrupted her. 

“No,” he said, forcing the fury and jealousy down again and making an attempt to smile. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Of course you’re married. Henry’s parents.” 

“Yeah,” Emma smiled in relief and from the corner of his eye Neal could see the tension drain from Killian’s stance.  “Hey, don’t worry about it. Come in and sit down, Neal. It’s okay if I call you Neal?” 

“Sure.” 

“Do you want a beer or something?” 

“Yeah, thanks.” Neal was starting to think he needed a hell of a lot more than a beer, but it was better than nothing. His gut was roiling and his head felt stuffed with cotton balls, and there was a distant buzzing noise in the back of his mind, like white noise from a broken television. He tried to force himself to think, to remember more about Emma, about Killian, about all these things that seemed to be teasing at the edges of his mind, but the harder he tried the louder the buzzing grew. He gave his head a hard shake and then another, and ignored Emma’s surprised look when she returned from the kitchen in time to catch him doing it. She pasted on a smile and handed him a beer. 

“So Henry tells us you’re reopening the pawn shop,” she said, sitting next to him on the sofa and taking a pull from her own beer. She smelled like flowers, clean and sweet, and gods, he could swear it was familiar. Her scent slammed into him like a Mack truck, carrying memories of something he could feel but not touch, as powerful as they were indistinct. Why couldn’t he remember? 

He gulped his beer and tried to concentrate on her question. “Yeah. I guess,” he said. “Kinda sudden, I know. I just found out recently that the place used to belong to my father.” 

“Oh?” Emma’s voice rose a bit too high on the question. 

Neal frowned at her. “Uh huh. I don’t remember much about my papa—er, I mean my dad. So it was a pretty big surprise to find out about it. But Henry, he’s been a major help with everything. I probably couldn’t have done it without him.” He looked at Emma and warmth bloomed in his chest. “Thanks for letting him come by.” 

“Of course,” she said with a smile. “But you know, with Henry it’s sometimes hard to stop him.” 

“That’s what, um, Killian said.” 

“What did I say?” asked Killian, perching on the arm of the sofa next to Emma as Henry came to sit on the floor. 

“That sometimes when Henry decides he wants something there’s not much we can do to stop him,” Emma replied. 

“Aye, unquestionably,” said Killian. “The lad is a force of nature when he sets his mind on a thing.” 

There was so much pride in his voice as he said it, and so much pleasure in Henry’s answering grin, and so much love on Emma’s face as she looked between them and her fingertips absently traced patterns along Killian’s thigh as his played with the ends of her hair, and suddenly it was all just too much. They rose up and they choked him, all the feelings between these three people and the ones churning in himself, and it was too much and too strong and too confusing, and the buzzing in his head was so loud he could barely think straight. 

Blindly he set his beer down, hoping he managed to get it onto the coffee table, and lurched to his feet. 

“Is everything all right, mate?” Killian’s voice hovered just at the edge of his consciousness, and the mate made Neal want to punch him. 

“I’m fine,” he growled. “I’m just—not feeling very well. Think I should go.” 

“Oh.” Emma stood as well and approached him cautiously, taking him gently by the shoulders, her hands warm through the fabric of his t-shirt. She tried to catch his eye but he evaded her. 

“I’m really fine,” he said, stepping back. “I just gotta go. Maybe we can do this another time.” 

“Well, if you’re sure,” she said. 

“Are you sure?” Henry asked. He was clearly trying to be calm but his eyes were so disappointed, and again Neal felt a surge of emotion that was far too strong for the circumstances. He shouldn’t care about disappointing some kid he only met a few weeks ago. But he did. He did. 

“I just—I feel like—” he stammered, groping desperately for the words he needed to say, to explain. And then Henry stepped forward and hugged him. 

Henry hugged him, and Neal’s arms came around the boy in return, automatically, naturally, like they’d done it before. He looked down at Henry’s eyes, big and brown and so damned familiar, so different from the clear green and blue eyes of his parents. 

Was that even possible? 

“I—” he tried again, but Henry interrupted. 

“Please stay,” he said. “I don’t want you to go.” 

“I—damn it.” Neal snarled. He wanted to go, wanted to run, fast and far away from all of this mess and tangle of emotions hot as fire and memories thin as smoke. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear for Henry to be disappointed in him. 

“I’ll stay,” he said, and the world exploded. 

~

Sleeping curses broke elegantly, the Dark Curse dramatically, but this odd chimaera of a hybrid curse, cobbled together from odds of this and ends of that, bound by Oz magic and twisted through the mirror world… this curse shattered. It burst into shards like the very mirrors that made it possible and Emma, Regina, and Zelena gasped in unison as they sensed its fracture. There was no burst of light, no gasp of awakening, just a sharp shock and then memories and then…

The world blurred, shifted, settled, and then snapped back into focus. The colours and shapes and sounds of Storybrooke were themselves again, the breeze through the town was warm and welcoming and the trees in the forest tall and straight, their eerie menace wholly gone. 

Emma looked at Killian, eyes wide. 

“What is it, love?” he asked, reaching for her and pulling her close. “What was that?”

“I think…” Emma lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think the curse just broke.” 

“Really? How do you know?” 

“I—I felt it. I felt it shatter and its magic is… well, it’s everywhere.”

Neal was staring at Henry, blinking rapidly, then a huge grin split his face. “Henry?” he said, pulling his son in for a bone-cracking hug. “Oh my God, Henry. I’ve missed you.” 

“Um.” Henry was still reeling from what had felt like an earthquake. He looked past Neal to where Emma and Killian were standing with their arms around each other, whispering frantically, then his eyes lit up with triumph as the pieces fell into place. “Have you?” he said. 

“Yeah, kid.” Neal loosened his hold and ruffled Henry’s hair. “I did. I—wait.” The smile faded from his face, replaced with a scowl as he turned to Emma and Killian. “What’s going on here?” 

They exchanged a look. “What do you mean?” asked Emma. “You were cursed—” 

“Yeah, I know that, but I mean you—you two—” He gestured at them, his scowl deepening as they unconsciously drew closer to each other. “You aren’t actually—it was the curse for you too, right? All this is just the curse.” 

 “No, mate,” said Killian gently. “We weren’t cursed. Emma was briefly, sort of, but Henry and I never were.” 

“Then you’re really—” Something dark and angry flared in Neal’s eyes. 

“Yeah,” said Emma. “We’re married.” 

“You married him,” sputtered Neal, almost choking on the words. “The pirate? The one who fu—” he broke off with a glance at Henry “—who took my mother away. Him, of all people.” He stared at them, shaking his head, then gave a bitter, grating laugh. “So much for your word, huh Hook?” he said. “You remember, your word that you gave me, to back the hell off and give me a chance to be a family with my son and my—well, her.” 

“A lot has happened since I made that promise,” said Killian, as calmly as he could when the nasty curl of Neal’s lip was making him wish he was wearing his hook. “A lot has changed Bae.”

Neal hissed an angry breath. “Don’t call me that.” 

“Neal, then,” Killian amended. “As you like. We have much to discuss, lad, why don’t you—” 

“I’m not a lad,” snapped Neal. “I’m as old as you are in this realm, maybe older. I’m not that boy you knew.” 

“You’re right of course. I’m sorry.” Killian’s voice was genuinely contrite now, his expression sorrowful. “I do know that. Sometimes I just—forget.” 

Emma’s arm was still around his waist and she squeezed him reassuringly. “Look, I know there’s a lot we need to talk about,” she said. “And I promise you, Neal, we will explain everything. But right now the curse has just broken and people are going to be confused. So can we table all this, please, until we’ve had a chance to figure out what we have to do?” 

“Do for what?” asked Henry. “Isn’t the curse broken?” 

“Yeah it is.” Emma shivered at the sharp, dangerous feel of the magic that had come untethered by the shattering curse. “But that’s not necessarily the end of our problems.” 

“So what do we need to do?” asked Killian. 

“I’m not sure yet. Let’s start by finding Regina. And my parents.” 

-

@katie-dub​​​​ @kmomof4​​​​ @teamhook​​ @stahlop​​​​ @mariakov81​​​​ @snowbellewells​​​ @thejollyroger-writer​​ @jennjenn615​​ @tiganasummertree​​ @lfh1226-linda​​ @winterbaby89​​ @ultraluckycatnd​​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​

-

[scribblewriting65]

Top 5 YouTube Channels

Intro

Communication is a powerful and ever-changing force; especially with the rise of the Internet in recent decades. And no online service knows this better than YouTube. Hosting thousands of channels and millions of videos, no website has sucked away our free time quite like Big Red.

Today I would like to acknowledge 5 of the platform’s strongest creators, in my eyes. Whether it be for their intelligent content or the sheer fun they bring, to me, these guys are some of the best of the best; and proudly hold some of my greatest respect.

Quick disclaimers: This is my first writing like this, and as you know, opinions can change over time; so please lower your pitchforks and know that there are plenty of channels I love. Also, when writing this, I don’t have a particular order in mind (Except for #1). Whether you find your favorite on the bottom, top, or nowhere at all, know that these guys deserve a watch (if my digital mouth has any impact on your choices, that is).

Enough talk though. Onward, to appreciation!

#5: JT Music

Art is mankind’s most unique unifier, and no art brings people together quite like music. Whether it be country, funk, or rap in this pick’s case, you can look just about anywhere for a good time.  And while rock star NateWantstoBattle is a close second in this regard, no musician really does it for me quite like JT.

While most would look at the genre “Video Game Rap” with an upturned nose, those that stick around won’t find anything quite like what Skull and Pat bring to the table. Their weekly tunes always bring a fire to my subscription feed, whether they’re putting me into the role of a badass superhero, or dragging me into the darkest abyss, I can just about always have a good time nodding my head to the beat.

Not only is their work consistently fun, but it’s also wide in diversity, and constant in quality. Hits like Follow Father, No Hero, and Hungry for Another One capture their source material perfectly within a musical context. Even their cameo appearances in tracks like DAGames’ We Want Out and Zack Boucher’s Ultimate Super Smash Bros. Rap steal the show with their wild energy. I always find myself smiling when I find their newest song; getting a small amount of enjoyment even in my less liked tracks.

Consistent fun and passion can be felt in the notes, and I can’t help but rock my skull out when JT Music starts playing.

#4: GameXplain

Games offer a wide variety no matter where you look. No matter if you’re looking for a deep insight into 30 second clips, latest updates on a title, or general thoughts on an event, you can always find something, or someone, explaining the perspective for you.

I’m a funny guy, aren’t I?

GameXplain has certainly explored over the years. From Cool Bits and Missing In Action in the past, to their famous modern Analyses and Discussions, Andre and friends have always hosted an approachable place with a variety of outlooks from its diverse crew, like Andre’s obsession with Stunt Race FX and Ash’s knowledge and love of Mega Man.

Even if you aren’t super into any of their interests, you’ll still find a laid-back but insightful pool of content. Their discussions are a personal favorite of mine, bringing fun, thoughtful ideas to events or ideas occurring in the gaming industry. I can’t help but get caught up in their hype, especially for Nintendo Directs or the annual E3 Show.

Even if I don’t quite understand the excitement that something is receiving, I can always go to these guys for a solid explanation and platform to join the hype train.

#3: Mithzan

It seems that no matter where you go, Minecraft can be found there. Games, books, plushies, animations, even an entire convention; those familiar blocks pervade some space of modern culture. While this space has hosted some incredible creations, simplicity also has its own beauty.

Mithzan uses this simplicity to great effect. With his buddies Ross, Pooki, Jerry and frequent guests, Max is always there to give me a laugh. And while Minecraft holds a variety of fun games like Would You Rather and Never Have I Ever, Mithzan also offers experiences outside of the blocks, like Uno and Dead by Daylight.

Along with the wide content, the experiences and humor are also varied, sometimes employing puns or old-fashioned smack talk, to name a few. Even with the different conversations and games, the fun and heart are always there. Whether he’s playing a wacky or horrifying game, Mithzan is approachable and honest with his style of play.

#2: Mother’s Basement

Appearances can be deceiving, no matter where you look. Assumed bullies are victims themselves, ‘loner’ people are simply introverted, and the most stubborn ones find themselves lost in an unexpected niche. All it takes is a little looking around, and you’ll find a new lesson or friend more often than not.

And what better place to look for insight than in a Mother’s Basement?

While not all people can see the artistry that anime brings to the table, Mother’s Basement brings its potential to the limelight. With weekly insights and discussions on things like how animation enhances an atmosphere or what makes a fight extraordinary in Animelee, the ideas and thought put into these discussions is top-notch.

Along with this, Geoff (the host)’s voice is great support, staying calm but strong, adding great emphasis on major points. He even provides touches of comedy and actual life advice into his videos. I find myself especially entertained with his analyses on My Hero Academia and Fullmetal Alchemist, but Geoff also covers topics like best romantic partners and essential shows to watch (and avoid), and pointing out his reasons why. Even if anime isn’t your style, there are some videos dotted in discussing topics like the nuances of binge-watching in “Is Binge Watching Bad for Us? (Netflix vs. Disney+)” and other media like movies (“Spider-Verse: The Ultimate Spider-Man Movie”) and video games (“Insomniac’s Spider-Man is Truly Superior”).

While it took some time to grow on me, I’m glad to have been welcomed into Mother’s Basement. With plenty of insight and care put into each video, Geoff is just about always a good choice for fun education on how artistic Japanese animation can be.

#1:Fawful’s Minion

The world is full of stories; they’re simply part of human nature. Whether it be fantasy, drama, or comedy, all of us have the potential to weave tales that inspire. And none have inspired me on YouTube quite like Fawful’s Minion.

This mean bean gaming machine has the mouth of a divine artist. His videos always bring a bright smile and incredible awe to me for just how much quality and care goes into each video. Fawful’s Top 10’s have never let me down with their fun, reasons, and pure passion that is tangible in every project.

Not only are the videos fun, but they’re also inspiring too. Fawful’s linguistics is beyond captivating, even partially motivating how I speak and write. Along with constantly being a good time, I’m always inspired to write or gain a storytelling voice whenever I watch an FM video.

And the touches of insight into his personal life give Fawful an air of relatability. Now, I realize I may make him sound like some sort of Shakespearian poet, but he also dispels this through his more colorful language, bringing in modern terms (and curses) and joyful, nearly maniacal at times, laughter and emotion into his speech, making himself grounded and relatable.

Most of all, Fawful’s storytelling skills were, and still are, a big reason why I write and tell my own stories. I want to enrapture others with my words like Fawful does, so he gets a big thanks and respect in my book. Balancing fun, humor, emotion, and creativity, Fawful’s Minion has made a goon out of me, running towards the goal of becoming a true storyteller.

Outro

If you made it here, thanks for sticking around! I wanna maybe try these sorts of blog/list posts more often, so tell me what you think! If you like this and want to see more, feel free to check out my AO3 Page: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribbleWriting65. I hope you enjoyed this little list, and I’ll see you next time!

[letterboxd]

Most Picture.

There are many ways to predict how the Oscars will go. How much money is the studio spending on the campaign? How highly rated are the nominated films? How much work have nominees put in during the awards season? Is it simply their time?

For this 2019 horse race, we thought it would be fun to go for a different metric. A fool-proof statistical analysis to find not what is the Best Picture, but what is the Most. And with that, we set about investigating the stats on rewatches of the eight films nominated for Best Picture.

It turns out that plenty in the Letterboxd community have logged the Best Picture nominees more than once, and in some obsessive cases, well into double figures. We had a feeling, based on anecdotal mood and general noise, that A Star Is Born and Bohemian Rhapsody would be right up there in the stanning stakes. And they are (read on for our Q&A with Letterboxd’s most obsessive A Star Is Born fan). But also: The Favourite made the top three, and the film you have rewatched the most left the other seven in the dust.

Without further ado, Letterboxd presents the 2019 “Most” Picture Awards, ranked by the number of members who’ve watched the 2019 Academy Award Best Picture nominees two or more times (total in brackets, as of today).

Each film features a review from its greatest fan, i.e. the Letterboxd member who has logged the film more than any other (at the time of writing).

And the 2019 “Most” Picture Awards go to…

1. Black Panther (13,268)

“Would I see this movie a personal record high of seven times in theaters? For Wakanda? Without question.” —Krys (12 watches, seven in cinemas)

2. A Star Is Born (5,943)

“TIRED: discourse about whether or not the film hates pop music, all think pieces about whether the film thinks Ally is a sell out and what that means for feminism, discourse on whether Why Did You Do That? is a bop or not.

WIRED: discourse about whether or not Jackson Maine even had an ass good enough to inspire such pop perfection.” —Juliette (16 watches)

3. The Favourite (5,378)

“I miss this so much I dreamt it. Instead of riding, Sarah was doing cartwheels.” —CBotty (15 watches)

4. Bohemian Rhapsody (4,928)

“The critics can go fuck themselves. THIS IS THE BEST MOVIE I HAVE SEEN! (for the fifth time).” —Iain (16 watches)

5. Roma (4,270)

“Yes I’ve seen this twice today, yes i cried like a bitch both times, yes this is the only movie.” —Eve (7 watches)

“My feelings regarding Roma are complicated to say the least. It’s like dating the girl of your dreams, only to realize that you are completely incompatible, which ends in desperate clinginess for an ideal that was never true to begin with. It’s been a strange journey of love, disappointment, and eventual acceptance, where I’ve come to terms with my feelings. I still admire the hell out of it, and I hope it wins all the awards in the world.” —Orrin (7 watches, admittedly more times than they have actually seen it)

6. BlacKkKlansman (3,669)

“This movie is so fucking powerful, and I loved every second of it.” —Kota (6 watches)

7. Green Book (1,370)

“OK what a way to start the new year. I love this movie so much. Viggo Mortensen and Mahershala Ali are for sure going to get nominated (and it’s well deserved).” —Anthony (5 watches)

8. Vice (1,164)

“8.4/10” —Harrison (4 watches)

Unpacking the re-watchability of A Star Is Born.

“I just expect it to be exactly what it is and to be there.”

Of the eight Best Picture finalists, Black Panther has been out the longest, had the largest budget, and has done the rounds of the streaming services. It was always gonna take the top spot in a rewatch match. But to figure out the rewatchability of second-place-getter A Star Is Born, we went to the film’s hardest stanner, Juliette, to help us understand why fans keep coming back even though it’s a complicated watch.

While Juliette’s multiple reviews are meme-tastic, quippy, punctuation-free gems of observation, when we asked her to explain herself, she went remarkably deep. Her replies may just make you want to take another look at Ally and Jack. [Note: this interview contains spoilers for the film’s plot.]

How many times do you think you have seen A Star Is Born? Juliette: I think I have seen the film sixteen times? I know for certain I have seen it fourteen times in theaters, but I’m not sure how many times I’ve watched it in the comfort of my own home since it’s been released on digital. There’s just something about the energy in a theater while this film is being screened. It gives me chills just thinking about it!

What keeps you coming back to it? It's so hard to pinpoint what exactly it is that draws me back to this film time and time again. I love a good love story when properly executed! I’m kind of obsessed with celebrity culture! I love a great musical! And like many people, the subjects of this film: alcoholism, mental illness, suicide, self-doubt, the cultivation of the self, love, mentorship, and reconciliation of one’s experiences with a flawed parental figure are all things that have permeated my life. Some of these things, I understand and have a firm grasp on, they feel definitive and their impacts are a tangible output. Some of these things, I still grapple with daily. There is little definition, largely just confusion and sporadic outbursts of pain.

When I return to this film, which I often do, the thing I don’t expect it to give me is answers. I don’t expect the film to be able to define for me what I must come to define for myself. I don’t expect it to clarify my confusion. I don’t expect it to eradicate the pain. I just expect it to be exactly what it is and to be there.

There’s a scene towards the end of this film where, while mourning the loss of his brother, Bobby explains how he heard one of Jackson’s songs performed at a bar. At first, it angers him. He feels like no one really knew Jackson. But then, something shifts and just hearing the song begins to soothe him. It reminds him that, in spite of their trauma and their turmoil, it isn’t all for nothing.

That’s what this film is for me. It soothes me. It reminds me that the facilitation of our healing can come through art. It reminds me that for people, who once felt broken and irreparable, it is possible to find love and happiness not just with another person, but within one’s self. It reminds me that our pain and our devastation can be met in equal measure with (and even maybe be overcome by) our brilliance, our triumph, and our devotion to one another.

What have you noticed with each rewatch? What I notice most with each subsequent rewatch of the film is what a massive undertaking the sound editing and mixing for this film must have been. I have such deep and profound respect and admiration for all the work that went into crafting the audio for this film! The film is such a visceral experience, one that truly engages all of the senses. I remember physically recoiling in the theater the first time I heard the sound of Jackson’s tinnitus. I remember feeling my entire seat shake in time with the music during the concert sequences.

I also have a sincere recommendation! Once you watch the film a few times, I really encourage you to watch the film just through the lens of watching Lukas Nelson & Promise of the Real in the background of the pivotal scenes. It adds so much dimension to scenes you thought you already knew!

What is the single greatest scene in this version of A Star Is Born? As clichéd or “basic” as it may seem to say, there is no denying that the greatest scene in this film is when Ally joins Jackson on stage and the two perform Shallow together. It’s a cataclysmic and mesmerizing moment.

It’s the way Jackson physically steps back and acquiesces his spotlight to new talent. It’s the combination of awe and support in Jackson’s eyes as he watches Ally assume center-stage. It’s the way Ally assumes her place at the mic for the first time. It’s how Ally—all at once terrified, shocked, overwhelmed, empowered, and free—finds a version of herself she had long thought impossible to access under the stage lights. The arc of which is punctuated by Gaga’s impeccable performance in this scene, most noticeably by the shift in her physicality, from her hands covering her eyes, unable to make eye contact, to grabbing the mic and belting her now patented cathartic wail.

It’s the way, two artists—no, two people—are separated physically on the stage singing into their individual microphones, but slowly find their way to meet in the middle and sing as one. In itself, this scene is the film in miniature. If this scene hadn’t worked, it’s very unlikely the rest of the film would have worked.

Not to mention, the scene is just absolutely stunning. Of course, the music is heavenly, that’s a given. In terms of the composition, I love how the camera moves around and captures each protagonist in different ways. And the color palette is gorgeous. The way that blue and red light dance around our protagonists throughout the sequence is just jaw-dropping. It’s the kind of high an artist, and in a turn a viewer, could spend their whole life chasing.

What do you wish haters understood about the film’s greatness? My first priority would be to tell the haters that Lady Gaga is not playing herself in A Star Is Born! Just because Gaga is a singer playing a singer, doesn’t mean she isn’t acting!

Furthermore, to me, it feels unfair that the power of her performance is sometimes diminished just because she sings in the film. Anyone can sing in a way that is technically proficient with enough training, but to tell a story through song? To act a song? To perform with every iota of your being musically? That’s a whole other skill and it is just as worthy of recognition and respect as any other leading performance this year.

Secondly, I would like to convey that just because something is a remake doesn’t mean that it lacks value or that it lacks something to say. I can’t pinpoint what exactly it is about this story that seems to capture the collective imagination every few decades, but I think it has something to do with how it presents ascension at the expense of descent, art as both artifice and freedom of authentic expression, and love in spite of sacrifice and self-destruction. There’s something about that cocktail that becomes the perfect receptacle for the expression and examination of our cultural anxieties.

Its malleable formula allows for questions to be asked about how we think about celebrity and fame, the self-identification process, and the value of art. In that sense, a remake of A Star Is Born is vital and refreshing, and certainly not tired and uninspired, and most importantly, it doesn’t lack something to say. It’s inherently reflective of the culture it was created in by its very nature. It allows us to ponder not just how Hollywood tells stories about itself, but also how we tell stories about ourselves. And if you ask me, there’s so much value in that.

What do you think should win Best Picture at this year’s Oscars? Well, I’m clearly biased towards A Star Is Born, but I would not be mad to see Roma or The Favourite walk off with the evening’s top prize!

What do you think will win Best Picture? My heart says Roma, my head says Green Book.

[lindsayeng206]

Final Exam

1. 

The first thing I learned was to not expect a happy ending. It is not happening. After I accepted the dystopic fate of each story, I learned how important rhetoric is. With everything that I write, I am writing with a purpose and the way in which I write it should show that. This means not just by stating the purpose, either. The diction I use, like word choice, and the rhetorical devices I include must always be done with the purpose and audience in mind. When I do this, my papers end up being so much more effective and well written.

I honestly found the assignments toward the start of the semester the most effective. These included “Understanding Rhetoric” and Bitzer’s “Rhetorical Situation.” In both, I learned about things that I could apply to other classes and beyond the end of this class. When it came down to what I enjoyed reading the most, though, “The Rhetoric of Flu Pandemics” comes in first. It helped explain a lot about what is happening today but also confirmed my belief that this virus has become political.

2.

I am not going to lie, it is kind of challenging. I actually miss printing out my papers and handing them to the professor in person. It gave me more of a sense of accomplishment because my finished work was tangible. I also had difficulties with the website creators. After trying three different formats and struggling to get my page past the loading symbol, I turned to tumblr.

Though, becoming more comfortable with multimodal composition is really important. In the business world, close to no papers are printed and stapled ready to pass into your boss. Especially in digital marketing, which is what I want to go into after college. The whole premise of digital marketing is to utilize multiple social media platforms and digital interfaces to get your message across. This helps build your audience and gain attraction. No doubt, posting to blogs was a good reminder that I need to keep in mind what makes it easier for your audience to find and read your content.

3.

Yes, but not by a lot. I wish I was able to take this class in person because then I feel like I would have seen a great difference in how I articulate my thoughts and arguments. I was also fortunate to take AP English Composition in my junior year of high school. That entire year, we focused on diction and ethos/pathos/logos for the sake of making arguments. This was more of a really good refresher with a dystopia-twist.

4.

I believe that style is the most important, today. Attention spans are so small these days and there are always a plethora of others things to read so the hook matters more than ever. By using style correctly, you can capture at least a couple more people to read your entire piece. Whereas, if your address to the audience is great and your ethos is in line, so many people will continue to scroll if your style is dry.

5. 

Oh, I hate it. I need a separate environment than where I sleep, eat, socialize, and live more than anything. It is so much harder to not only pay attention but to also absorb material when everything is done on a small laptop screen with iffy audio. 

An advantage, though, is logging on to class is a lot easier than showing up. Thanks to online learning, I have been able to pick up more hours at work. That is about it for advantages.

As for disadvantages, the distractions are far more--well--distracting. It takes me twice as long to complete assignments, it is also hard to keep track of how many things are due, I feel bad for the professors because no one turns on their cameras, and the fatigue from staring at a digital screen is insane.

Thankfully, I have been fortunate enough to not have contracted the virus, so far, making remote learning is the worst part of this quarantine.

What have you learned about yourself as a writer?  Were there any assignments that helped shape your own view as a writer and an individual?

6.

I learned that I love to be conversational when I write, which is hard because that contradicts a lot of rules for academic writing. I almost minored in journalism, and my favorite part was writing blog posts because of how straight-forward and personal I can get with the audience. I feel like that is what the majority of people like to read, too.

Absolutely, there were assignments that helped shape my own view as a writer. My favorite was the open letter. You were able to pick your topic, audience, rhetoric, and so on. That much freedom was so fun. 

[typetwofun]

Adventures in Learning with A Vintage Motorcycle

this post should take ~9 minutes to read

My first ride on a motorcycle on a public road was terrifying. After obtaining my license via a weekend class that took place entirely in a high school parking lot, I had purchased a Honda CB250 Nighthawk on Craigslist. Get License - check, purchase motorcycle - check. Next item on the list is to take this thing on the road...

During my maiden voyage I came face-to-face with the reality that these 2,000 pound death machines some people refer to as cars were trying to kill me at every turn. This was unsettling at first but after a couple miles I gained confidence and felt more comfortable maneuvering around my adversaries who seemed to have every intention of ending my life. I also started to have a lot of fun and understand the allure of the two-wheeler. Although I mainly purchased a motorcycle as an affordable way to get around Atlanta, I was beginning to get the idea that riding a motorcycle was going to now be a part of my life.

“When you let a motorcycle into your life you're changed forever.  The letters "MC" are stamped on your driver's license right next to your sex and height as if "motorcycle" was just another of your physical characteristics, or maybe a mental condition.”

"Season of the Bike" by Dave Karlotski

Fast Forward two years and I’m living in Brooklyn. I sold my Knighthawk before I moved and I was kicking around the idea of buying another motorcycle to allow myself some more freedom to explore NYC. In the year of learning how to ride in Atlanta I became attracted to vintage bikes. Every time I saw an old touring bike from the 60’s or 70’s I was envious and I had decided my next bike would be something from that era. After another period of scouring Craigslist and  a couple friends persistently coaxing me to get a bike, I became the owner of a burnt orange 1977 BMW R75/7.

I thought I was purchasing a classic motorcycle that would take me to the farthest reaches of the NYC metro area and beyond. I would get plenty of looks speeding around the city on this museum piece as old guys nodded their heads in approval. But what I actually purchased was more like a new puppy that constantly needed my attention. Purchasing this BMW began a two year crash course on the fundamentals of the /7 (pronounced “slash seven”) and the proper care and maintenance required to keep it on the road.

The reason I share this long back story is because I never intended to do significant work on my motorcycle. I might have romanced the thought of changing the oil and doing little projects here or there but I grossly underestimated the time investment becoming a useful mechanic requires. These series of fortunate or unfortunate events, depending on how you look at it, led me to buying a bike that was going to need a lot of work. I started off small projects like replacing the fuel lines and adjusted the timing which gave me the confidence to begin working on larger and larger projects. Eventually I was tearing the bike down to the engine block and more importantly putting it all back together correctly. As someone who lacks significant experience working on engines, this kind of undertaking required a great deal of effort and if I have gained anything while refurbishing this classic motorcycle, it is how to learn a new skill.

When Was The Last Time I Learned A New Skill?

Learning any new skill is especially difficult when you are quite literally getting your hands (and clothes) dirty and spending long hours of your precious weekend in the garage with nothing to show for it except frustration, fatigue, and an unquenchable thirst for cocktails. As time goes on you have fewer and fewer days filled with frustration and eventually have enough knowledge that you might be so bold to consider yourself “useful” which is a rather satisfying feeling.

When I sat back and thought about it I haven’t learned a completely new skill in a meaningful way since I graduated from college. Sure I have learned little things like how to shoot a rifle, brine a turkey and how to catch a wave on a surfboard. But learning how to tear apart an old engine and put it back together correctly is a rather large undertaking and seemed intimidating to an inexperienced mechanic.

Why Learn a New Skill, Anyways?

As I expressed earlier, my intention was never to learn how to rebuild old engines. When you leave the part of life where you quit asking “will this be on the test?” there does not seem to be a great incentive to learn new things other than to make more money or for leisure activities and enjoyment. This may be the prevailing wisdom, but through this process I have discovered there is quite a bit to be gained by doing my own motorcycle maintenance beyond having a bike that works (most of the time).

Confidence to Solve Other Problems - Demystifying the /7 has helped me gain confidence that I can most likely find a solution when confronted with other technical problems. Armed with an internet connection we are able to find an answer to many of the technical challenges life throws at us. Almost everything we encounter in our world is part of a system or is a product of some kind of process that we can figure out. Whether it’s how to play a Beatles song on a guitar or play a Beatles song from your phone in a rental car via the touch screen display while driving, the answer is out there and you can probably find it.

The Pleasure of Figuring Things Out - Nothing quite beats the dopamine hit after having a breakthrough on a problem you have been working on for hours or maybe even weeks. There have been times where I thought to myself that I need to sell my bike and get something more modern and reliable. Every time a problem made itself evident I hunkered down and attempted to fix it and up to this point I have been successful and finding the solution (knock on wood).

Oh, one more thing, the beer at the end of the day always tastes better after finding a solution to the day’s problem.

It’s Good to Be Uncomfortable - there were many times when I got to a point in a repair job and I became nearly paralyzed with doubt. What if I break this piece? What if when I’m done I realize I need to go back in and redo it? What if I do permanent damage to the bike? What if I get in over my head and I need to burden a friend with helping me or pay a mechanic? And on and on it goes.

I learned somewhere along the way that this unsettling feeling is actually where the magic happens. You are experiencing the fear of the unknown and the only way to rectify that is to figure it out. We have many great resources like YouTube, User Manuals and experts that we can reference but sometimes the only way out is through.

The more I experienced this sensation the more familiar I became with it and the less intimidating the fear of the unknown became. Every other time I was at a supposed dead end I found a way out. Especially with a low stakes hobbyist project, it’s not scary, it’s just part of the process.

Use Your Brain In A Different Way - Like most of you, I spend my work days in front of a computer. Computers are incredible and allow us to get many things done in a short amount of time, but after a long day in front of the screen, my brain also feels like a giant pile of mush. When I spend an afternoon in the garage I may be physically tired at the end of the day but my brain does not feel like it needs to shut down and watch TV for an hour or two before bed. The tangibility of your progress and the ability to physically deconstruct and later reconstruct something is quite rewarding.

Enjoying the Fruits of Your Labor - There is an indiescribale feeling when you begin the day with a machine that is not functioning properly or sometimes at all and ending the day riding that very machine with an understanding of what is happening beneath you to make you go. Similar feelings are closing your first sale in a business you started or presenting a dish you learned how to prepare at a dinner party.

How I learned

I was a lousy student when I was in school. For me, the studying techniques of rote memorization or sitting through lectures don’t usually deliver the desired results of truly understanding new information that I have been presented. I have found that I absorb information much better by watching someone demonstrate the proper way to do something and then I attempt to to try to replicate it. This style of learning lends itself much better to the hard sciences than for other disciplines such as history or sociology.

YouTube - It’s hard for me to imagine what it was like to fix motorcycles or an issue with any appliance before YouTube. The catalogue of high definition videos on any given topic never ceases to amaze me and some even provide enormous entertainment value (exhibit A and Exhibit B). Access to this information is perhaps humanity's greatest achievement (sorry wheel and alcohol). I have gained a new appreciation for YouTube’s utility throughout the rebuild of my bike and its applications which are seemingly limitless. There is no greater resource for learning how something should be done than having a more experienced human walk you through the process on demand for almost no cost.

Mentorship - YouTube and internet forums are great for what they are, but when you’re really stuck there is still nothing that replaces a more experienced human to help you get unstuck. I have had the good fortune of making friends with several hobbyist mechanics who are far more experienced and knowledgeable than I am. Sometimes you can get yourself 90% of the way there, but it takes a “teacher” to uncover what you’re missing or to think of it in a different way.

The money you can invest in mentorship or lessons will return enormous dividends whether you’re learning how to fix a machine, downhill ski, or get that handicap into single digits. Especially for those of us who work 40+ hours a week your free time is invaluable and paying for access to an expert is almost always worth it.

Long Form Articles - Before I dive into a new project I like to read an overview that somebody else has written to give myself an idea of what kind of fun surprises I may be in for. Youtube videos are great as are forums surrounding a specific question. But in order to fully wrap my head around certain concepts nothing beats a well written long form article by an expert.

For instance, I wish I read this article before purchasing my Airhead.

Trial and Error - Despite all the tools, resources and knowledge we are surrounding with there are some questions the internet does not have answered in a 12 minute HD video. There are also days when nobody picks up the phone or your buddies aren’t able to help you. And for such occasions you have no choice but to figure it out.

There are several episodes in my mind's eye where I was floundering with bleeding my brakes, reassembling the throttle grip drive, or adjusting the points gap and on try number 50 something clicked and it worked and I now magically know how to do these things for the next time around.

Wrapping Up

Learning how to rebuild this motorcycle has provided me with satisfaction and enjoyment that have added an enormous amount of joy to my life. Undertaking the rebuild was never my primary intention and more or less a fortuitous accident. As Dan Gilbert outlines in his book “Stumbling on Happiness” humans are usually pretty bad at forecasting and we are particularly bad at predicting what will make us happy. I guess it should be to no one's surprise that my love of fixing motorcycles was serendipitous.  

If there was one thing I would tell my 20 year old self what I should do differently it would be to try new things and learn more new skills. Preferably something you can really get lost in like cooking or woodworking. It makes your brain work in different ways and think about the world through a new perspective. You will meet interesting people whom you wouldn’t normally cross paths with and you will also have a lot of fun doing it.

I hope you find my experience interesting enough to go out and stumble upon your own project or hobby that will make your Saturday afternoons that much more incredible. 

Trust me, it makes the beer taste better at the end of the day.

A view of the piston after the cylinder has been removed

Carburators, valves, valve covers, push rods, and nuts and bolts in a somewhat organized manner after removal

After several hours of soaking, scrubbing, and scraping she looks good as new!

First big ride of the summer after a long winter in the garage.

[ntrending]

You don't need an Xbox One X, but you'll probably like it

New Post has been published on https://nexcraft.co/you-dont-need-an-xbox-one-x-but-youll-probably-like-it/

You don't need an Xbox One X, but you'll probably like it

When the Xbox One X first arrived at my house, my TV was too crappy to allow me to really appreciate it. There I was, hooking up the “most world’s most powerful console” to a Sony TV I bought on Black Friday eight years ago. It seemed like a waste, so I made the jump into the world of 4K TV with HDR. I didn’t need the new screen, but once it was there, I could appreciate that it was actually better. And that pretty much sums up my Xbox One X experience overall.

What is it?

Microsoft set out to make the most powerful console ever—and it did, at least on paper, besting the PlayStation 4 Pro, which arrived earlier this year. It has a lot of impressive-sounding technical stats, like a 74-percent increase in processor speed and six teraflops of computing power (click here if you’re curious about what a teraflop actually is). In short, it’s a lot more powerful than its predecessors.

Testing

If you’re coming from a regular Xbox One, you’re going to notice a difference when watching UHD (ultra high-definition) content or playing games that have been enhanced for the One X. The colors are more impressive, and the graphics are sometimes so sharp that it’s unnerving. Do I really need to see every pore and scar on the face of my Gears of War character? Well, yeah, I do, actually.

UHD-enabled apps like Amazon and Netflix look similarly impressive, but that was the case with the Xbox One S, too. Load times for games are shorter on the One X, especially on legacy titles like Cuphead and Overwatch.

The entire Xbox experience feels pretty much the same, just slightly better.

What can I actually play on it?

Right now, the list of games optimized for Xbox One X is small. I mostly played Gears of War 4, because it’s full of dark shadows and bright explosions, which really hammer home the fancy visuals. The list of optimized games is growing all the time, but that’s where the Xbox platform runs into a bit of a hiccup.

While the Xbox One X is a new console, it’s not a new platform. Developers are encouraged to enhance games to take advantage of the full power, but it’s not a mandatory transition. Microsoft says optimized games will still look better, even on 1080p TVs, and it’s true, they do. This is because the One X uses a technique called super-sampling, which renders the visuals at full-resolution, then scales them down for the lower-res display. As a result, you still get improved shadows and crisper edges, but it’s not nearly as noticeable as it is on a UHD TV.

If you don’t have a really nice TV, the Xbox One X is total overkill, especially when you consider the roughly $220 premium it commands over the very capable Xbox One S.

It’s also worth noting that the games optimized for UHD play can take up more than 100GB of storage each. Both Forza 7 and Gears of War 4 were over the century mark, which means the 1 TB hard drive in the Xbox One X fills up quickly.

Is it a good streaming box?

According to Microsoft, Xbox users spend roughly 40 percent of their time doing things other than playing Xbox games. For its price, you can get the Xbox One S, and Apple TV 4K, and still have some money left over to buy a digital copy of Baby Driver (which is really good, if you haven’t seen it). For that price, it should be able to stand on its own as the only streaming box you need, but it’s not quite there yet.

The biggest quibble I have is navigating the Xbox menus. The latest update has actually made the Xbox interface a lot more intuitive, but using a controller as the primary input feels like an outdated way to do things. I’m used to having the option of an app to control things if I can’t find the remote and I really missed that here.

The content selection in the Xbox store when it comes to UHD content is lacking compared to others, especially iTunes. If you want to watch Wonder Woman through the Xbox Store, for instance, you’ll have to buy it for $20, as there’s no rental option. Other channels provide good alternatives, but it makes for a messier experience.

4K Blu-rays look rather amazing if your TV is set up to maximize the picture quality. In 2017, inserting discs to watch content feels downright archaic, but it’s worth the effort for the extra fidelity if you really want to appreciate something with impressive visuals.

Design

I’m breaking a gear writer commandment here and saying that I don’t care about the design of the Xbox One X. I put it in the cabinet below my TV and I haven’t seen it since. It’s unobtrusive, black, and relatively quiet. If you don’t like it, you could easily decorate it with a Sharpie or maybe some festive stickers, then go back to looking at the screen where the fun stuff lives.

The controller is the same streamlined design you’ll find packed with the Xbox One S. The changes in shape and texture are subtle, but pleasant. One plus for the One X is that some games will eventually support keyboard and mouse input for an experience that more closely mimics a PC.

Who is this thing for?

The Xbox One X is not for everyone, and Microsoft clearly knows that. It’s also not a true replacement for a high-end PC gaming rig—just ask any die-hard PC gamer and they will tell you all about it. But, it makes sense for people like me. I like shiny new things and the Xbox One X doesn’t feel like a console that will be woefully out of date in a year. The differences aren’t earth-shaking, but they are tangible, and it gets me close enough to PC performance without having to worry about building or buying a gaming machine.

The future of the Xbox One X also seems intriguing. There’s clearly enough power built into this thing to push a virtual reality experience like PlayStation currently offers, but we’ll have to wait and see if that comes to fruition. For now, buying an Xbox One X means not having to think about buying another console for a long time.

Written By Stan Horaczek

[iembd]

Data Science as an Art. May Student Highlight of the Month: Apos Mourouzis

Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/apostolos-mourouzis-465a3071/

Tell us a little about yourself. Where are you from, what languages do you speak, and what did you previously study?

I was born, raised and educated in Athens, Greece albeit in an international school, which exposed me to a diverse group of multicultural individuals from a young age. As my school was a British one, English became my native tongue, while Greek comes a close second (sorry Dad). I am also trying to come up to speed on both my Spanish and French, pero es muy deficil, n’est ce pas?

I was always intrigued by puzzles, so when I programmed for the first time in high school I found that this triggered my curiosity, as it was a very intricate, elaborate and constructive form of ‘puzzle solving’. In fact it’s quite funny because as a child I wanted to become a builder (I have no idea why), and I guess that programming is parallel to that, although with digital ‘building blocks’. I pursued this subject at university and studied Computer Science at Imperial College, which took the subject into a lot more depth than I had previously experienced. Following this degree, I wanted to compliment my technical skills with some business acumen so I took Masters in Management at Imperial Business School.

And to deviate from the more formal questions, my favorite colour is blue (I don’t think you have a choice when you grow up in Greece), I would always choose wine over beer and I have an antagonistic relationship with cheese!

Do you have any work experience? If yes, do tell us about it.

I have had the opportunity to work in several companies across different industries. My first internship was as a Software Developer with YossarianLives, a search engine that is solving the problems of the filter bubble by finding alternative results for search queries based on metaphorical connections with the search term. Following my Master’s degree I worked for another startup called Contadd which deals with embedded digital advertising.

Later I decided to move into a large corporation in order to understand exactly how things work behind the ‘veil’. While working for Shell, I worked as both a Risk Analyst and Change Analyst. I was lucky (or unlucky depending on the viewpoint) to be working as a Change Analyst during the oil crisis so I was involved in a lot of restructuring and cost reduction schemes which required constant tracking, managing and reporting to senior stakeholders, as it was one of the company’s priorities at the time.

What drew you to Big Data?

I was exposed to a lot of data while working as a Change Analyst in Shell, and although I managed to derive insights from this, I realized that with a proper skillset it would be possible to learn so much more than what I could extract with simple pivot tables and VBA.

More importantly, I feel that data - pure information - is the single most accurate representation of our world. In its raw form; it contains no bias, and this is the reason that data collection has always been the basis of science. Now with the vast quantities of data available from a huge array of mediums, it is very difficult to understand where causation truly lies. It is the role of the data scientist to cut through all the superfluous information and identify the truth of a situation.

And with data on human movement, behavior, likes, dislikes, weather, stocks, transactions all quantifiable and available, the insights that are possible by leveraging big data analytics would startle any historic scientist or philosopher (here’s to you Plato).

Are you pursuing any extra-curricular activity/activities? If yes, how does it help you as a Big Data student?

The Masters is my extra-curricular! But no, seriously – I think Madrid gives you endless activities to keep you entertained outside the degree, and for me this has included playing football with some of the other Big Data students (shout out to Los Pollos). However I also make sure to stay involved in activities that directly help in my progress as a Big Data student. Recently, this has been through the Venture Lab.

Following the second term’s Start Up Challenge, my team and I were accepted into the Venture Lab with our start-up idea. We now attend several workshops a week and are aiming to rapidly expand our concept in order to produce a MVP in the coming months. And what’s even more exciting is that the skills we learn daily in lectures can be applied directly to optimizing and tweaking our project.

Your LinkedIn profile mentions that you aspire to become a Data Artist. Can you tell us a little more about the “art” in this career.

Yes indeed! I find the term ‘scientist‘ implies a rigid, formulated methodology to deriving value, whereas I believe it is more important to creatively adapt your approach to uncover insights in big data. No two data sets are the same, and the best strategies require a unique blend of one's technical expertise and intuition. Data Analytics will give you the ability to sift through a whole ‘haystack’ to find the needle, but a data artist is someone who would say “Hey, how about this magnet…?”

It is an artist’s role to see things that others cannot, and then express them through a medium of their choice, be it through music, film, storytelling or any form of art. Big data requires not only this sense of perception, but also the ‘narration’ that comes with it. The inability to convey this in a clear format will negate the benefits of any insights.

For me it’s the creativity in Big Data that keeps me hooked, for example in a recent assignment aimed at understanding the status of water pumps in Tanzania, my team translated a seemingly useless column from Swahili to English to identify keywords that revealed additional clues about the location of the pumps. Over the next few years it will be the creative applications of this technology that will change the world we live in.

Plus being a “Data Artist” allows me to pretend I’m a suppressed and misunderstood creative. Cue application to Soho House.

What are your short and long-term professional goals after the Masters?

This is always a difficult question to answer and if you asked me three years ago I would have had a different answer, while in three years’ time I’m sure I will have yet another one. However one thing I am certain about is that I see myself always staying within technology, as it has been a central driver in all my decisions thus far.

In the short term, I would like to apply my data analytics skills to extract untapped value in the real world. Smart cities, art, the news and agriculture are areas that particularly interest me due to their constructive social value. Long term there are definitely unforeseen technological changes so I cannot accurately predict what I will be doing. But my curiosity will ensure that I stay at the forefront of these changes. At the later stages of my career I hope to do this with autonomy so I have the opportunity to travel and prioritize both my family and friends. I also want to keep strong ties with my home country, Greece, as it is a place with great potential that I would like to help see flourish again, as right now it seems to be having a domestic ‘mid-life’ crisis.

How would you define IE Master’s experience and what do you value most?

I find that the Master’s experience is quite similar to the experience of learning to cook a new cuisine – you’ve always been around the ingredients but you’re now learning to make a three-course meal from them. Yes, you may have the odd food poisoning but by the time you’re done you’ll have a line of customers waiting to try what you have on offer. If only I actually knew how to cook as well…

In regards to what I value the most, the fact that I have come from a working background makes me appreciate that I am now learning something new and tangible every day which can be applied to common problems in business. It’s always fun seeing the expression on my friends’ face when you can derive unexpected insights from their own company data.

And on top of it all, the lifestyle in Madrid is unparalleled, especially when coming from the rains of London. Leave your umbrellas behind.

What would be your advice for future students?

As potential Big Data Professionals you are taking on the mantle of digital explorers. A lot of the world’s hidden secrets will be available in the web of data you will learn to traverse. You will travel across unchartered (digital) territories and stumble upon (binary) treasures but it is important to maintain a sense of integrity throughout, as your ability to discover comes with the burden of responsibility. Do not twist the data to your or your employer’s advantage, as doing so will simply undermine your own profession.

And something else that has stayed with me since my time in Shell is that “perfect is the enemy of good”. Do not strive for perfection and miss the opportunity to deliver something good in the process.

But don’t forget, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy! Make sure to really get out into the city. As one of the most beautiful places in Europe you don’t want to miss out on everything Madrid has to offer.

And in the words of a famous sentient AI being…hasta la vista!